"That's Hank," said the youngster. "He's the one. He's no astronomer, you understand. But he happened to stop around one night while I was charting. I started to explain something about cometary orbits, and after a while he said he 'lowed as how I ought to take a careful look in the region of Beta Draconis. I did, and--well, there it was. The new comet. He said he just figured as how there ought to be one there!" "Kid," I said solemnly, "something tells me the discovery of that comet was peanuts. Just peanuts. I'm going to get you that subsidy, anyway. And tomorrow morning I'm going back to have another talk with the guy who earned it for you." * * * * * So I did. I found Horse-sense Hank poking around in his south forty and told him what I wanted. He didn't answer for so long that I thought maybe the shock had killed him. I asked anxiously, "Well, Hank? What's the word?" "Turnips," he said mournfully, "is hell. It don't matter where you plant 'em or how careful. They never do what you expect. Oh, you mean about the University? Well, I don't guess it would do no harm. I'll go if you want me to." "I do," I told him with savage satisfaction. "All my life I've wanted to see what would happen when a man with plain, ordinary horse-sense crossed gray matter with a bunch of animated reference books. You're the party of the first part. Look, Hank--suppose you were out hunting with another guy. You see the flash of his gun; ten seconds later you hear the boom. How far away from him are you?" "A game, mebbe?" asked Hank. He pondered for a minute while I waited, wondering if I'd cleaned the machine the first time or if this were a perpetual jackpot. Then, "How cold is it?" asked Hank. I almost yelped with joy. "Say about sixty-eight," I said. Hank said, "Well, then, I reckon he'd be 'bout two mile off. Trifle more, mebbe." "Why?" I demanded. "How did you know?" Hank looked perplexed. He said, "Well, it seems as if. That's all." "And _that_," I told him, "is all I wanted to know! Come on, my friend. Let's go puzzle pedagogues!" * * * * * The only thing stuffier than the office of H. Logan MacDowell, Midland University's president, was H. Logan himself. Hank and I entered the outer office, ran a gantlet of upturned noses, and were finally informed by a pair of glinting pince-nez that "Dr. MacDowell will see you now, if you please." We pleased. Beauty and the Beast greeted us. H. Logan's daughter might be a chippie off the old blockhead, but they look as much alike as me and my passport picture. She smiled at us as we entered, and life was all sugar and Santa Claus. Our pal the prexy lurched and wobbled in the depths of his swivel-chair, gave it up as a bad job, motioned us to seats and _hrrumphed_! "Well, Blakeson, might I interrogate as to the reason for this unexpected visitation?"