To say that MacDowell was unfond of Cleaver would be like saying that nice people disapprove of Herr Hitler.
About the campus it was commonly rumored that the president of Midland had a little China doll into which, each midnight, he jabbed many red hot needles.
The plaything wore coveralls and bulldog shoes, just like Hank Cleaver!
I said, "So you're going to call in 'Horse-sense' Hank."[1]
"Don't talk about him!" growled MacDowell savagely. "Find him! If we don't solve this mystery soon, we're going to have F.B.I. men romping all over our campus. The reputation of glorious Midland will be ruined. Our noble banners, heretofore untouched by the faintest breath of scandal—"
"Okay!" I said hastily. "Save that for the Alumni Banquet. I'll see what I can do, Doc."
He left, making noises like a sizzling steak. And I got on the phone.
But the results were strictly stinko. I grabbed a blank on my first call. The local operator at Westville intoned,
"No, puh-lease! Sor-ree, puh-lease! There is no telephone listed under the name of 'Gleeber'—"
"Back up," I snorted, "and start over. Look, Sis! 'C' as in cuckoo; 'l' as in lunkhead, 'e' as in—"