"No, no, nothing like that. Look, there must be a school or some kind of place for learning here."
"Shore thing. We gotta school."
"Isn't there a professor teaching there, maybe?"
"Nope. But we got old Mrs. Henshaw. Husband died about six years ago. Old bag. I think she's been running around lately with some tourist from Iowa. Now if you're just lookin' for any old professor, then—"
"That's right," I said, grasping at a straw. "Any old professor. Is there one in town?"
"Professor Klugelmeyer. Used to teach at some eastern college. Kind of dopey, though, I think. Funny old gaffer. Believes in flyin' saucers. Can you imagine?"
"Where do I reach him?"
"He's stayin' at Mrs. Kirpatrick's roomin' house. Poor Mrs. Kirpatrick. Got a bad case of food poisoning. She ate—"
I ran out of the building and inquired for the rooming house. I found it and Professor Klugelmeyer.
"What? What? Hard to believe—Hard to believe. Once heard the same story from Professor Dickson. The poor fellow was put away. You must be mistaken, old man. You must be. Take my advice. Give up drinking. Bad for the liver, too, you know."