"Make a fine garbage disposal unit," suggested the senator.
"Could be. I imagine so. Also a swell way to get rid of old razor blades. But every item that goes through this trap is registered—and that bolt will cost the firm two cents. It can't tell the difference between a bolt and a mouse."
"Hm-m-m. Good thing that tunnel is long and small. People would be poking all manner of things into them. But where do they go?"
"They're trying to find out. So far they don't know. It's said that one of the founders of the Better Mousetrap Company dropped a tag through with name and address and the offer of a reward. It hasn't been returned. Maybe the mail is irregular from Mars, huh?"
"Mars?"
The clerk shrugged. "I wouldn't know where," he said doubtfully.
The senator nodded. "Despite the population of the country—of the world—there are places where men seldom go," he said. "That tag may be lying in the rough at Bonnie Dundee Golf Course for all we know."
Miss Agatha Merrit placed her pince-nez firmly on her nose. "Good morning, class," she said primly and with perfect diction.
"Good morning, teacher," responded forty third-grade voices.