For answer he seized the ice bucket, now empty of its soda bottles, trickled in a few drops from the bottle and swished the contents. Foam mounted to the rim and spilled over. "And that's our best grade of Ridgeville water," he pointed out. "Hardest in the country."
The third event of Wednesday came to my ears on Thursday morning.
I was a little late arriving at the barn, and was taken a bit aback to find the roadway leading to it rather full of parked automobiles, and the barn itself rather full of people, including two policemen. Our Ridgeville police are quite young men, but in uniform they still look ominous and I was relieved to see that they were laughing and evidently enjoying themselves.
"Well, now," I demanded, in my best classroom voice. "What is all this?"
"Are you Henderson?" the larger policeman asked.
"I am indeed," I said, and a flash bulb went off. A young lady grasped my arm.
"Oh, please, Mr. Henderson, come outside where it's quieter and tell me all about it."
"Perhaps," I countered, "somebody should tell me."
"You mean you don't know, honestly? Oh, it's fabulous. Best story I've had for ages. It'll make the city papers." She led me around the corner of the barn to a spot of comparative quiet.
"You didn't know that one of your junior whatsisnames poured detergent in the Memorial Fountain basin last night?"