"I am afraid, Whacko, that I have to go," said Hose as we sat down to our breakfast one morning.

"Go? Why didn't you go before you came to breakfast?"

"Because the train doesn't leave until nine," Hose retorted. "See, here it is in Shadbraws . . . train to Darkmoor, King's Pieland, nine o'clock!"

"Well, you'd best go at the station before the train leaves," I told him.

I was not surprised to hear that Sunblock Hose had been called to King's Pieland. For a whole week my companion had loitered about Scotland Yard with his chin upon Inspector Lestadt's desk, looking up at the inspector like a gray-eyed urchin on a black velvet painting. There was only one case before Scotland Yard that week, and every detective in London was looking to stimulate his or her mental faculties. That case was that of the strange disappearance of the favorite for the Whitesox Cup, and the horrible murder of its veterinarian, a specialist known for his while-you-wait tendon trimming.

"I should be most happy to house-sit for you while you're away," said I.

"My dear Whacko, I would not dream of depriving you of the chance to hunt horse with me. Do you have a horse-rifle?"

"No, but I'm sure we can get a trap at the station."

Hose shook his head, "No, no, no. The last time I got a trap at the station it already had a horse in it from the last user. I have a pony-pistol that you may use . . . it may take a few shots to bring the bigger beast down, but will be effective nonetheless."

Within the hour, we found ourselves ensconced in a fourth-class freight car flying along en route for Darkmoor, while Sunblock Hose counted telegraph posts.

"Our present distance from London is 364 telegraph posts," said he at last.

"Amazing, Hose!" I gasped. "How many posts are we away from Darkmoor?"

"The calculation is a simple one," he replied. "Simply subtract 364 from the total number of telegraph posts between here and Dark moor, and you have the answer!"

"Astounding!" I replied. I wasn't nearly out of the "A" section of the dictionary, and we were almost to Darkmoor. My supply of complimentary adjectives seemed well in hand for this adventure. Hose's next deduction would surely rate an "Atomic!" or perhaps an "Awe-inspiring!" I had learned the trick from Haybiz Wiltin, our client in the famous adventure of the Reb-Headed League, wherein Wilson had been tricked into studying words beginning with "K," "K," or "K" by a man who paid him in orange pips.

"Jump, Whacko, or we'll swing for it!" Hose shouted as we passed the King's Pieland station at a high rate of speed. Once more, I flung myself into the hands of destiny . . . .

WILL DESTINY CATCH DR. WHACKO?

WILL SUNBLOCK HOSE BAG A HORSE THIS HORSE SEASON?