But this sounds silliest. H. Logan MacDowell, fat, fifty, feverish, 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,