"Perhaps, then, you'd be kind enough to derive an answer for this question? A man has a black dog and a white one. He mates them. The female whelps four puppies. Of the four, how many will you expect to be black, how many white?"
Horse-sense Hank cast a sidelong glance at Helen, and blushed. But he didn't bat an eyelash.
"This here now black hound, what color was his old man an' woman?"
"They were also black."
"An' 'tother one's mammy an' pappy was white?"
"We will," said Dr. MacDowell weakly "assume that to be so." He knew he had lost again. And so he had. For Hank's answer was bland simplicity.
"Why, then, them there pups would just natcherally hafta be all black."
"H-how do you know?" demanded MacDowell faintly.
"Just seems as if," said Hank. He scratched his head. "'Course," he said cautiously, "them there wouldn't be good show dogs, them pups. They wouldn't breed true wuth a damn. Next time they was mated, their pups would be mixed colors. I'd say 'bout three to one for the blacks."[1]
President MacDowell shuddered violently. He fell back into his chair, covered his eyes with shaking fingers.