"Keep going, guy. You're hot as a firecracker."
"Well, seems like everything in motion makes an equal motion like
itself, an' it don't matter whether what it acts on is still or movin'.
An' if there's anything else actin' along with it, both movements is
goin' to have a say in the showdown."
* * * * *
Me, I'm a publicity man, not a physicist. It was all a deep fog in my
mind, but MacDowell's eyes were bulging.
"Go on!" he ordered grimly.
"Lastwise," drawled Hank, "'Pears like whenever there's a movement one
way, there ought to be an equal kick-back 'tother way." He hesitated
for a long moment. Then he shrugged. "Reckon that's all I can think of
offhand."
MacDowell repeated numbly, "That's all he can think of--offhand!" and
staggered to his chair. He tottered for seconds, then dropped into it.
"The product of a genius' thoughts for years. And he solves it in five
minutes!"
Then he snapped out of it, and was he sore!
"You, Blakeson!" he yelled.
"Yeah?"
"This is one of your tricks! What do you mean by this outrageous
imposter? You can't deceive _me_! This man has studied physics. He
knows--"
"Physics?" interrupted Hank eagerly. "Say, you're darn tootin' I've
studied physics. An' take it from me, all these here now drugstore
things ain't no good. You get you a batch of fresh wild-cherry
saplings, bile 'em in water for a half hour, an' add--"
"Quiet," I pleaded, "is requested for the sake of those who are asleep.
Dr. MacDowell, I give you my word of honor Hank is just what he appears
to be. A man of the soil, gifted with great talents. Or rather, _one_
great talent--that of common sense."
"A--a moment!" MacDowell silenced me with an uplifted palm. "Mr.
Cleaver, are you acquainted with the principles of Mendel?"
"Nup!" acknowledged Hank cheerfully.
"Perhaps, then, you'd be kind enough to derive an answer for this
question? A man has a black dog and a white one. He mates them. The
female whelps four puppies. Of the four, how many will you expect to be
black, how many white?"
Horse-sense Hank cast a sidelong glance at Helen, and blushed. But he
didn't bat an eyelash.
"This here now black hound, what color was his old man an' woman?"
"They were also black."
"An' 'tother one's mammy an' pappy was white?"
"We will," said Dr. MacDowell weakly "assume that to be so." He knew he
had lost again. And so he had. For Hank's answer was bland simplicity.
"Why, then, them there pups would just natcherally hafta be all black."
"H-how do you know?" demanded MacDowell faintly.
"Just seems as if," said Hank. He scratched his head. "'Course," he
said cautiously, "them there wouldn't be good show dogs, them pups.
They wouldn't breed true wuth a damn. Next time they was mated,
their pups would be mixed colors. I'd say 'bout three to one for the
blacks."[1]
[Footnote 1: The two fundamental principles usually termed Mendelian
are: (1) that of alternative inheritance, viz., that of two
corresponding but contrasted pairs of characters of the parents, only
one appears in the offspring. This is known as the dominant character;
the character not appearing is the recessive character. (2) The law
of segregation of characters, according to which both dominant and
recessive characters reappear pure in 25% each of the offspring of
hybrids.--Ed.]
President MacDowell shuddered violently. He fell back into his chair,
covered his eyes with shaking fingers.
"Take him away!" he pleaded. "A lifetime of study, and--Get him out of
my sight, Jim Blakeson! _Oooooh!_"
The last I saw of him, he was ripping the diplomas off his office
walls, tearing them into shreds of despair.
* * * * *
So that was that. But Horse-sense Hank didn't go back to his turnip
patch. Because Helen MacDowell followed us from the office, her eyes
glowing. She said, "He's marvelous, Jim. Marvelous! What are you going
to do now?"
"I was thinking," I told her gloomily, "of trying a perfect crime with
your old man as 'X-marks-the-spot.' Any objections?"
She said thoughtfully, "You might wait till I get next month's
allowance. Daddy's not bad when you get used to him, Jim. But I mean
about Mr. Cleaver. Is he planning to stay here in town?"
Hank shuffled his feet. "Seems if I oughta go on back to my turnips,"
he opined. "Durn things'll go to seed if I don't."
Helen turned it on, and what I mean, when she did it really went on.
Her smile wasn't even directed my way, but I caught the backwash and
made next year's New Year resolutions ten months in advance.
"But how disappointing, Mr. Cleaver! I was hoping we might have dinner
somewhere and talk a little while--"
"Great idea!" I said. "I'll call Tony's--"
"--just the two of us," she continued, "alone."
Hank swallowed with difficulty. And stayed. Who wouldn't?
So I put him up at my apartment. At first he demurred.
"I don't wanta be no expense to you, Jim," he protested.
But he wasn't. Because one night I took him to the College Clubbe, a
gambling joint on the outskirts of town. He looked awful in a rented
dinner jacket; the smartly garbed croupiers laughed when he walked
into the casino. But he who laughs last, laughs last. We moved to the
roulette table and watched for a few minutes.
Finally red came up three times running. So when the croupier called
for bets, I laid a couple chips on the black. Hank frowned. As the
white ball rattled around in its groove he reached out suddenly, moved
my chips to the other side of the board, to the red.