The spirit jumped off the desk and started for the six imps, pausing when he almost bumped into me.

‘‘Who are you? What do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy now?’’

He brushed past me and took a spot next to the closest imp. ‘‘Right foot, do you see? This one is the right foot. Now you all lift yours. Well, that’s two of you. On the count of four you start forward on this foot. Honestly, it’s like trying to discuss brain surgery with tapioca.’’

This last bit was directed toward me. I figured since the spirit had already seen me, I might as well deshadow. ‘‘This may sound a little odd, but what exactly are you doing?’’ I asked.

‘‘Two by two! What did I just get done telling you? You march two by two toward Dorothy.’’

One imp—I was relieved to note they were the benign Australian house imps rather than the rowdier (and potentially dangerous) European variety—eeked in distress a couple of times.

‘‘Well, I’m going to sound angry when I’ve told you and told you how to do this scene! This is the pivotal moment when Dorothy meets you. She’s your savior, the one who has come to free you from the bondage that has held you in its steely grip for centuries. You march toward her two by two, bow, and go into the jazz number. Do you all have that?’’

The unhappy imp he was addressing suddenly burst into tears, the other five huddling around it in poses of abject misery.

‘‘Oh, for the sake of the sovereign’s ten blessed toes . . . take five! Go back to your dressing room and collect yourselves!’’

The imps bolted for a large cardboard box that sat next to the wooden desk. I looked from the box to the spirit. ‘‘Do I want to know why you’re evidently drilling imps to play parts from The Wizard of Oz?’’ I asked him.

He crossed his arms and adopted an extremely put-upon expression. ‘‘It’s not The Wizard of Oz. You’ve heard of that musical about the Wicked Witch? Well, this is my version of the Oz story, told from the perspective of the Munchkins, a much-persecuted and maligned people.’’

‘‘With imps.’’

‘‘Well . . . they are all I have. It’s not easy being a vault attendant, you know,’’ he said with a sniff, returning to his desk. ‘‘Not allowed to bring in guests, not allowed out for more than one day a week, hardly anyone ever comes here, and there’s not even any Internet access. I would have gone insane long, long ago if it wasn’t for my musical comedy troupe. We bring life to old classics—that’s our motto. Snappy, don’t you think?’’

‘‘Er . . . very.’’