. "What is all this?"

"Are you Henderson?" the larger policeman asked.

"I am indeed," I said, and a flash bulb went off. A young lady grasped
my arm.

"Oh, please, Mr. Henderson, come outside where it's quieter and tell me
all about it."

"Perhaps," I countered, "somebody should tell me."

"You mean you don't know, honestly? Oh, it's fabulous. Best story I've
had for ages. It'll make the city papers." She led me around the corner
of the barn to a spot of comparative quiet.

"You didn't know that one of your junior whatsisnames poured detergent
in the Memorial Fountain basin last night?"

I shook my head numbly.

"It was priceless. Just before rush hour. Suds built up in the basin
and overflowed, and down the library steps and covered the whole street.
And the funniest part was they kept right on coming. You couldn't
imagine so much suds coming from that little pool of water. There was a
three-block traffic jam and Harry got us some marvelous pictures--men
rolling up their trousers to wade across the street. And this morning,"
she chortled, "somebody phoned in an anonymous tip to the police--of
course it was the same boy that did it--Tommy--Miller?--and so here we
are. And we just saw a demonstration of that fabulous kite and saw all
those simply captivating mice."

"Mice?"

"Yes, of course. Who would ever have thought you could breed mice with
those cute furry tails?"

* * *

Well, after a while things quieted down. They had to. The police left
after sobering up long enough to give me a serious warning against
letting such a thing happen again. Mr. Miller, who had come home to see
what all the excitement was, went back to work and Mrs. Miller went back
to the house and the reporter and photographer drifted off to file their
story, or whatever it is they do. Tommy was jubilant.

"Did you hear what she said? It'll make the city papers. I wish we had a
thousand kites. Ten thousand. Oh boy, selling is fun. Hilary, when can
you make some more of that stuff? And Doris, how many mice do you
have?"

Those mice! I have always kept my enthusiasm for rodents within bounds,
but I must admit they were charming little beasts, with tails as bushy
as miniature squirrels.

"How many generations?" I asked Doris.

"Seventeen. No, eighteen, now. Want to see the genetic charts?"

I won't try to explain it as she did to me, but it was quite evident
that the new mice were breeding true. Presently we