[Footnote 1: The two fundamental principles usually termed Mendelian are: (1) that of alternative inheritance, viz., that of two corresponding but contrasted pairs of characters of the parents, only one appears in the offspring. This is known as the dominant character; the character not appearing is the recessive character. (2) The law of segregation of characters, according to which both dominant and recessive characters reappear pure in 25% each of the offspring of hybrids.--Ed.] President MacDowell shuddered violently. He fell back into his chair, covered his eyes with shaking fingers. "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--" "--just the two of us," she continued, "alone." Hank swallowed with difficulty. And stayed. Who wouldn't? So I put him up at my apartment. At first he demurred. "I don't wanta be no expense to you, Jim," he protested. But he wasn't. Because one night I took him to the College Clubbe, a gambling joint on the outskirts of town. He looked awful in a rented dinner jacket; the smartly garbed croupiers laughed when he walked into the casino. But he who laughs last, laughs last. We moved to the roulette table and watched for a few minutes. Finally red came up three times running. So when the croupier called for bets, I laid a couple chips on the black. Hank frowned. As the white ball rattled around in its groove he reached out suddenly, moved my chips to the other side of the board, to the red. I said, "Hey, wait a minute, guy! Don't be a--" Then the ball stopped rolling and the attendant purred, "Twenty-one red, _passé!_" and raked to my little bet an equal number of chips. I pointed at the neat, even rows of chips and bills stacked before the croupier.