Horsesense Hank does his bit

by Nelson S. Bond

Hank just blushed and wriggled a bulldog-tipped shoe into the carpet. "Aw, that's all right, Mr. Grimper—"

But if he could take it like that, I couldn't. In a fury I stepped forward and shoved my nose into Grimper's pan.

"You may be an agent for Uncle Sam," I snarled, "and a joy to your loving mama—but you're a pain in the pants to me, Grimper! You've got one hell of a nerve. This man saved your life and MacDonald's plant after you fired him. And now you've got the almighty guts to wish him bon voyage! Well, I for one—"

But, surprisingly, it was Old Mac who stopped me.

"Now, take it easy, Blakeson," he said. "'Tisna the time to gripe and growse. Mr. Grimper kens his dooties as an agent o' Oncle Som. There's a cairtain amount o' accuracy in whut he says. There is no fitting place here for Hank's peecoolyar talents—"

"If not here," I howled, "then where on earth—?"

"Now, Jim!" begged Hank mildly.

But the answer came from Mr. Grimper. A smile split the lips of the scrawny little fighting-cock.

"Why, in Washington, of course," he said. "Like all humans, I make mistakes, Mr. Blakeson. But when I discovered I erred, I try to rectify my hastiness. Therefore I have today wired Washington that Mr. Cleaver is on his way. He will act as personal and confidential adviser to—the President. Mr. Cleaver, do you think you'll like that?"

But he got no answer from Horsesense Hank. For that gentleman had fainted dead away on the floor. And me? Well, I slumbered blissfully beside him. Where Hank goes ... I go....