Old MacDowell had a fit—ee-eye-ee-eye-oh! But it did him no good. His mood was one of kill and boo, but Helen's was one of bill and coo. It got so every time I saw Hank and Helen together they looked a reproduction of the Laocoön[2] group.
And then the ripples in the path of true love began to straighten out. The Isaminder Research Fund heard about Hank and granted him a five thousand dollar fellowship, and Dr. MacDowell snorted,
"Preposterous! They must be crazy!"
Then the Lowell Observatory made him an honorary member for his great help in unveiling the mystery of white dwarf stars, and MacDowell said,
"What do you think of that?"
Then the Advisory Council of Midwestern U. went over our prexy's head and offered Hank the chair of General & Practical Sciences, and MacDowell, bug-eyed, told me hopefully,
"You know, Jim, the first time I saw that young man I said he'd go places!"
And when the Nobel Committee voted to Hank Cleaver the annual awards for outstanding work in the fields of physics, astronomy and psychology, MacDowell capitulated completely. He rubbed his hands together, beamed like an April morning, and said,
"God bless you, my children! Would you like block letters or script on the announcements? Anything at all to please your little hearts!"
So it was arranged. A big church wedding for Helen and Hank, and of course I was to be best man. And Hank should have been the happiest guy alive. But was he? No. As the days narrowed toward the fateful one, he began to grow moody and thoughtful. Several times I caught him sitting by himself, pondering and shaking his head. Once I heard him mutter in a low under-tone,