Ending their alliance with the underworld, Pat Hobby and Superintendent Doolan walked down the corridor of the Administration Building. Outside the Dean’s office Doolan said: ‘As soon as I can, I’ll bring you in and introduce you.’ As an accredited representative neither of Jack Berners’ nor of the studio, Pat waited with a certain malaise. He did not look forward to confronting a group of highbrows but he remembered that he bore an humble but warming piece of merchandise in his threadbare overcoat. The Dean’s assistant had left her desk to take notes at the conference so he repleated his calories with a long, gagging draught.

In a moment, there was a responsive glow and he settled down in his chair, his eye fixed on the door marked:

SAMUEL K. WISKETH

DEAN OF THE STUDENT BODY

It might be a somewhat formidable encounter.

. . . but why? There were stuffed shirts — everybody knew that. They had college degrees but they could be bought. If they’d play ball with the studio they’d get a lot of good publicity for U.W.C. And that meant bigger salaries for them, didn’t it, and more jack?

The door to the conference room opened and closed tentatively. No one came out but Pat sat up and readied himself. Representing the fourth biggest industry in America, or almost representing it, he must not let a bunch of highbrows stare him down. He was not without an inside view of higher education — in his early youth he had once been the ‘Buttons’ in the DKE House at the University of Pennsylvania. And with encouraging chauvinism he assured himself that Pennsylvania had it over this pioneer enterprise like a tent.

The door opened — a flustered young man with beads of sweat on his forehead came tearing out, tore through — and disappeared. Mr Doolan stood calmly in the doorway.

‘All right, Mr Hobby,’ he said.

Nothing to be scared of. Memories of old college days continued to flood over Pat as he walked in. And instantaneously, as the juice of confidence flowed through his system, he had his idea . . .

‘ . . . it’s more of a realistic idea,’ he was saying five minutes later. ‘Understand?’

Dean Wiskith, a tall, pale man with an earphone, seemed to understand — if not exactly to approve. Pat hammered in his point again.

‘It’s up-to-the-minute,’ he said patiently, ‘what we call “a topical”. You admit that young squirt who went out of here was stealing watches, don’t you?’

The faculty committee, all except Doolan, exchanged glances, but no one interrupted.

‘There you are,’ went on Pat triumphantly. ‘You turn him in to the newspapers. But here’s the twist. In the Picture we make it turns out he steals the watches to support his young brother — and his young brother is the mainstay of the football team! He’s the climax runner. We probably try to borrow Tyrone Power but we use one of your players as a double.’

Pat paused, trying to think of everything.

‘— of course, we’ve got to release it in t............