But he turned out to be a perfect bust, and I don't mean the Venus de Milo. He said, "Hank Cleaver? No, Jim, I haven't seen him for--oh, several days. I don't know where he is. But why do you want him? What's the matter? Is anything wrong?" "Is anything," I countered, "right? Look, Hawkins, take a run out to his farm. Find Hank and tell him I've got to see him immedi--Who's there?" "Nobody," said Hawkins querulously, "but our party-line subscribers. They're always listening in. What's ailing you, Jim?" "I wasn't talking to you. There's somebody at the door of my apartment. Who's there?" I bawled again. No answer. So I said to Hawkins, "Well--do what I say. Find Cleaver. Tell him I've got to see him immediately, if not sooner. And let me know the minute you find him. So long--Oh, _wait_ a minute, can't you?" I hung up and stormed to the door, my foot itching to bury itself in the southern exposure of a salesman facing north. I flung it open, yelled, "No, I don't want some! Go peddle your damn junk somewhere else--" And then my jaw hit the top button of my vest. "Hank!" "Hyah, Jim!" said Horse-sense Hank. * * * * * Big as life and twice as natural. There's only one Horse-sense Hank Cleaver. When they poured him, they laughed so hard they dropped the mold and broke it. Tall and gangly, so thin of cheek that the cud which constantly caresses his bicuspids sticks out like a cue-ball; tow-colored ravelings of hair waving experimentally in all directions; raw-boned of wrist; eyes mild and incurious as those of a heifer--that is my pal, Hank Cleaver. I clapped him on the back and dragged him, by main force, into my apartment. "Golly, guy, I'm glad to see you! You're looking a million. Do you know, I've been slaving like a census-taker to find you? I've called Westville, and--" "I figgered," said Hank mildly, "as how you might be." The wind whooshed out of my sails. "You," I gulped, "did?" "Mmm-hmm. Heard a feller say as how there'd been funny goin's-on down thisaway. Thought to myself, 'Well, now, Hank, 'pears like fust thing you know, ol' Jim'll be needin' a mite o' help, so you better hump along an' give him a lift. So I come, and--" He beamed. "Here I am!" "Yes," I said weakly. "Here you are." Dammit, I don't know why I should have been surprised. Especially after having lived under the same roof as this gawky genius for three solid months. But as ever, it utterly confounded me to realize that Hank's thought processes were so simple, so altogether down-to-earth and natural, that he invariably did the right thing at the right time. I said, "And a mighty good thing you came, too. But your turnips, Hank? How--" He shook his head dolefully. Turnip growing was Hank's one and only obsession.