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and president of our institute of (alleged) learning, came to me
about it! He came on the run. That is, he came at a brisk, lurching
shamble. Which is, to him, the equivalent of a Cunningham four-minute
mile. He collapsed on my studio couch, gasped and panted like the White
King for a minute, then wheezed out a strangled plea.
"Blakeson, you you've got to do something!"
I looked at his gaping mouth and bulging eyes, and nodded.
"Right!" I remembered. "I've got to rewind my bass rod and see that the
reel is oiled. They'll be running in a week or so."
"No, you impertinent young snippet! I mean, you've got to do something
about these mysterious disappearances."
I laughed right out loud. I bared my arms frankly.
I said, "Grab a look, Prexy! Nothing up the right sleeve; nothing up
the left sleeve. I didn't snatch your pedagogues. After all, just
because certain members of the faculty find it expedient to take a
powder "
"A what?"
"Powder," I repeated. "Can't you understand plain English? To lift
one's feet. Scram. Blow. Take it on the lam. Sweet whistleberries, Doc,
I'm not something from the 'FOLLOW THAT MAN!' advertisements. I'm just
the publicity expert for this football-team-with-a-campus. If you want
to learn what happened to Hallowell and Tomkins, why don't you get a
dick?"
His jowls sagged to his breastbone. He said in an anguished tone,
"I suppose that means a detective? I did hire one."
"Well? And what did he find out? Aside from the well-known facts that
Hallowell was carrying the torch for a red-headed senior, and Tomkins
was up to his zipper in debt? Did he dig up any clues? Footprints?
Blunt instruments, or ashes with rare cigarettes dangling on the end of
them?"
"He didn't," said H. Logan in a hollow voice, "find anything, Blakeson.
He disappeared, too!"
I said, "Oh-oh!" Which was inadequate, but it was all I could think of
at the moment. "That's bad. It must be contagious. But where do I fit
into the picture? Why ask me to do something?"
H. Logan wrestled with his scruples for a long and difficult moment.
Then, suddenly,
"Cleaver!" he blurted. "Where is that man?"
Merely saying the name cost him an effort. And why not? Hank Cleaver
was the one soul whose amiable meanderings, crossing the life-path of
H. Logan MacDowell, had interrupted the smooth flow of traffic along
that broad highway, torn up the roadbed, and sprinkled tar and gravel
along the right-of-way.
The common-sense genius of Hank Cleaver had made MacDowell look like a
cross between a baboon and a stuffed shirt, with the baboon getting the
worst of the bargain.
Then, to cap the climax, Hank had handed Prexy's daughter the jilt,
leaving sweet Helen high and dry at the altar when he returned to his
beloved cabbage patch on his farm.
To say that MacDowell was unfond of Cleaver would be like saying that
nice people disapprove of Herr Hitler.
About the campus it was commonly rumored that the president of Midland
had a little China doll into which, each midnight, he jabbed many red
hot needles.
The plaything wore coveralls and bulldog shoes, just like Hank Cleaver!
I said, "So you're going to call in 'Horse-sense' Hank."[1]
[Footnote 1: Horse-sense Hank Cleaver, one of the best-known characters
in modern science fiction. Hank, a dirt farmer never subjected to
education, has an amazing ability to fix things of a mechanical nature
when they go wrong, make infinitely accurate mathematical calculations
and, above all, foretell the future in his own homely and intimate
fashion. Ed.]
"Don't talk about him!" growled MacDowell savagely. "Find him! If we
don't solve this mystery soon, we're going to have F.B.I. men romping
all over our campus. The reputation of glorious Midland will be ruined.
Our noble banners, heretofore untouched by the faintest breath of
scandal "
"Okay!" I said hastily. "Save that for the Alumni Banquet. I'll see
what I can do, Doc."
He left, making noises like a sizzling steak. And I got on the phone.
But the results were strictly stinko. I grabbed a blank on my first