When I awoke the next morning, Sunblock Hose was standing over me, and for a moment I thought that I was back in our Laker Street rooms. Then I felt the morning dew giving me a chill in the absence of my clothes and realized that I was laying on the ground somewhere in Darkmoor.

"Ah, he's alive!" Hose exclaimed casually. It was worth lying naked on the moor -- it was worth many nights lying naked on the moor -- to know the depth of Hose's regard for my life. For that one and only time I caught a glimpse of a swelled heart as well as of a swelled head. As for Hose, he caught more than a glimpse of many of my body parts that morning, but as a gentleman he with-held his pawky Lilliput humor until after Scotland Yard had left the scene.

"We thought we had another naked corpse on our hands, Dr. Whacko!" Inspector Allen replied. "Interrogating the widow, were we?"

I was about to protest my innocence when a large gentleman in sporting apparel interrupted our conversation.

"Good morning," he said. "My name's Ohboy J. Simpson, O.J. for short."

"You're one of those damned touts!" Colonel Rossi shouted and waved his riding crop in the air.

"No! No!" Simpson protested. "I'm out here looking for a bloody knife. I swear I will not rest until I find the murderer!"

"But Streaker was killed by a great horseshoe-shaped blunt object, not a knife," Sunblock Hose retorted.

"I wear a size fourteen horseshoe," Simpson protested. "The horseshoe that killed Streaker wouldn't fit me . . . want me to try it on?"

It was soon after this comment that Inspector Allen decided to arrest Simpson, and using the arrest as a distraction, I quickly made myself a furze coat out of nearby furze bushes to cover my nakedness. My attempts at clothing did not, however, go unseen.

"That furze-man is tampering with the evidence!" Simpson shouted. "Furze-man is a tout-hating bigot!"

Inspector Allen dragged the protesting Ohboy Simpson away.

"Well, Colonel Rossi," Hose told our client. "I think it's about time for the horse-hunt to begin. Whacko, do you have that pony-pistol in your pocket or are you just happy to . . . oh, excuse me, Whacko, I forgot. Let us go back for some clothes for Dr. Whacko, Colonel, and then we'll begin the hunt!"

After a hot bath and the refusal of breakfast prepared by Mrs. Streaker, Hose and I armed ourselves and set off to hunt horse.

"If you can't find Modesty Blaze, I hear there are plenty of horses around Stapleton Mables," Colonel Rossi called after us as we set out in the dog-cart he provided for us. The dogs pulling the cart were hot on the scent of something large and equine, and pulled us steadily across Darkmoor until they ran up to the large garbage bin behind a local inn called "McDonald's."

"Curse those Big Macs!" Hose cried and reined the dogs back toward the moor. Soon they were soon hot on the scent once more, and we found ourselves at Stapleton Mables, the farm of Slyass Ballgown, surrounded by a herd of large-nosed deer with long-haired tails.

"These dogs are worthless, Hose!" I remarked, just as a leaded riding-crop whizzed past my ear.

"Crop-gun!" Hose shouted and we dove for the ground.

WILL WHACKO HIT THE FIELD BEFORE THE CROPS COME IN?

WHICH HAS WANDERED FURTHER, THE HORSE OR THIS STORY?