"Take him away!" he pleaded. "A lifetime of study, and—Get him out of my sight, Jim Blakeson! Oooooh!"
The last I saw of him, he was ripping the diplomas off his office walls, tearing them into shreds of despair.
So that was that. But Horse-sense Hank didn't go back to his turnip patch. Because Helen MacDowell followed us from the office, her eyes glowing. She said, "He's marvelous, Jim. Marvelous! What are you going to do now?"
"I was thinking," I told her gloomily, "of trying a perfect crime with your old man as 'X-marks-the-spot.' Any objections?"
She said thoughtfully, "You might wait till I get next month's allowance. Daddy's not bad when you get used to him, Jim. But I mean about Mr. Cleaver. Is he planning to stay here in town?"
Hank shuffled his feet. "Seems if I oughta go on back to my turnips," he opined. "Durn things'll go to seed if I don't."
Helen turned it on, and what I mean, when she did it really went on. Her smile wasn't even directed my way, but I caught the backwash and made next year's New Year resolutions ten months in advance.
"But how disappointing, Mr. Cleaver! I was hoping we might have dinner somewhere and talk a little while—"
"Great idea!" I said. "I'll call Tony's—"