The Wrong House The night was dark. And the house was dark. Dark-and silent. The two men ran toward it quietly. They slipped quickly through the dark bushes which surrounded the house. They reached the porch, ran up the steps, and knelt down, breathing heavily, in the dark shadows. They waited, listening. Silence. Perfect silence. Then--- out of the blackness---a whisper: “ We can’t stay out here… Take this suitcase…Let me try those keys. We’ve got to get in!” Ten…twenty…thirty seconds. With one of the keys, the first man opened the door. Silently, the two men entered the house, closed the door behind them, and locked it. Whispering, they discussed the situation. They wondered if they had awakened anyone in the house. “Let’s have a look at this place. Careful, Hy. I hope there isn’t anybody awake!” And the soft rays of a flashlight swept the room. It was a large room. A living room. Rugs, carefully rolled, lay piled on one side. The furniture---chairs, tables, couches---was covered by sheets. Dust lay like a light snow over everything. The man who held the flashlight spoke first. “Well, Blackie,” he said, “we’re in luck. Looks as if the family’s away.” “Yeah, gone for the summer, I guess. We better make sure, though.” Together they searched the house. They went on tiptoe through every room. There could be no doubt about it, the family was away. Had been away for weeks. Yes, Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns were in luck. Only once in the past ten days had their luck failed them. It had been with them when they made their big robbery---their truly magnificent robbery---on the Coast. It had been with them during their thousand-mile trip eastward, by car. It had been with them every moment---but one. That moment had come just one hour before. It came when Blackie, driving the car, ran over a policeman. And Blackie, thinking of the suitcase at Hy’s feet, had driven away. Swiftly. There had been a chase, of course. A wild, crazy chase. And when a bullet had punctured the gasoline tank, they had had to abandon the car. But luck or no luck, here they were. Alone, and without a car, in a completely strange town. But safe and sound---with the suitcase. The suitcase lay in the center of the table, in the center of the room. In it, neat little package on neat little package, lay nearly three hundred thousand dollars. “Listen,” said Hogan. “We have to get a car. Quick, too. and we can’t steal one: It’s too dangerous. We have to buy one. That means that we have to wait until the lots open. That will be about eight o’clock in this town.” “But what are we going to do with that?” Burns pointed to the suitcase. “Hide it right here. Sure! Why not? It’s much safer here than with us---until we get a car.” And so they hid the suitcase. They carried it down to the basement and buried it in an unfinished corner where no cement had been laid. Just before dawn, they slipped out. As they were walking down the street, Hogan remarked that a Samuel W. Rogers lived in the house they had just left. “How do you know?” “Saw the name on some of the library books. The guy’s really got a lot of books. Looks like a library in there.” The used car lots opened at eight, as they had supposed. Shortly before nine, Hogan and Burns had a car. A nice little car. Very quiet. Very inconspicuous. Very speedy. They arranged fro temporary plates and drove off. There blocks from the house, they stopped. Hogan got out. Walked toward the house. He’d just go around to the rear, he thought, and slip in. Fifty yards from the house, he stopped. Stared, swore softly. The front door was open. The window shades were up. The family had returned! Well, what bad luck! And what could they do? Break into the cellar that night, and pick up the suitcase? No---too dangerous, Hogan would have to think of something. “Leave it to me, kid.” He told Burns. “You drive the car. I’ll do the special brain work. Let’s find a telephone. Quick!” Ten minutes later, Hogan was consulting a telephone directory. Yes, there it was---Samuel W. Rogers, 555-6329. A moment later he was talking to the surprised Mr. Rogers. “Hello,” he began. “is his Mr. Rogers---Mr. Samuel Rogers?” “Yes, this is Mr. Rogers.” Hogan cleared his throat. “Mr. Rogers,” he said---and his tone was sharp, official, impressive---“this is Headquarters, Police Headquarters, talking. I am Simpson. Sergeant Simpson, of the detective division…” “Yes, yes!” came over the wire. “The Chief---the Chief of Police, you know,” here Hogan lowered his voice a little---“has ordered me to get in touch with you. He’s sending me out with one of our men to see you.” “Am I in trouble of some kind?” asked Mr. Rogers. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. But I have something of great importance to talk to you about.” “Very well,” came the voice of Mr. Rogers. “I’ll wait for you.” “And, Mr. Rogers,” Hogan cautioned, “please keep quiet about this. Don’t say anything to anybody. You’ll understand why when I see you.” On the way back to the house, Hogan explained his idea to Burns. Within ten minutes, “Sergeant Simpson” and “Detective Johnson” were conversing with the surprised Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers was a small man. Rather insignificant. He had pale blue eyes. Not much of a chin. A funny little face. He was nervous---a badly frightened man. Hogan told the whole story. Somewhat changed, of course. Mr. Rogers was surprised, but he was delighted to be able to help the police. He accompanied Hy Hogan to the cellar. And together they dug up the suitcase. Took it to the living room, opened it, saw that it had not been touched---that it really did hold a small fortune. Bills, bills, bills! Hogan closed the suitcase. “And now, Mr. Rogers,” he announced, in his best official manner, “Johnson and I must run along. The Chief wants a report---quick. We have to catch to rest of the robbers. I’ll keep in touch with you.” He picked up the suitcase and rose. Burns also rose. Mr. Rogers also rose. The trio walked to the door. Mr. Rogers opened it. “ Come on in, boys,” he said pleasantly---and in walked three men. Large men. Strong men. Men in police uniforms who, without fear, stared at Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns. “What does this mean, Mr. Rogers?” asked Hogan. “It’s quite simple,” said Mr. Rogers. “It just happens that I am the Chief of Police!” 4. What was in the suitcase? Where and how did Hogan and Burns get it?

The Wrong House The night was dark. And the house was dark. Dark-and silent. The two men ran toward it quietly. They slipped quickly through the dark bushes which surrounded the house. They reached the porch, ran up the steps, and knelt down, breathing heavily, in the dark shadows. They waited, listening. Silence. Perfect silence. Then--- out of the blackness---a whisper: “ We can’t stay out here… Take this suitcase…Let me try those keys. We’ve got to get in!” Ten…twenty…thirty seconds. With one of the keys, the first man opened the door. Silently, the two men entered the house, closed the door behind them, and locked it. Whispering, they discussed the situation. They wondered if they had awakened anyone in the house. “Let’s have a look at this place. Careful, Hy. I hope there isn’t anybody awake!” And the soft rays of a flashlight swept the room. It was a large room. A living room. Rugs, carefully rolled, lay piled on one side. The furniture---chairs, tables, couches---was covered by sheets. Dust lay like a light snow over everything. The man who held the flashlight spoke first. “Well, Blackie,” he said, “we’re in luck. Looks as if the family’s away.” “Yeah, gone for the summer, I guess. We better make sure, though.” Together they searched the house. They went on tiptoe through every room. There could be no doubt about it, the family was away. Had been away for weeks. Yes, Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns were in luck. Only once in the past ten days had their luck failed them. It had been with them when they made their big robbery---their truly magnificent robbery---on the Coast. It had been with them during their thousand-mile trip eastward, by car. It had been with them every moment---but one. That moment had come just one hour before. It came when Blackie, driving the car, ran over a policeman. And Blackie, thinking of the suitcase at Hy’s feet, had driven away. Swiftly. There had been a chase, of course. A wild, crazy chase. And when a bullet had punctured the gasoline tank, they had had to abandon the car. But luck or no luck, here they were. Alone, and without a car, in a completely strange town. But safe and sound---with the suitcase. The suitcase lay in the center of the table, in the center of the room. In it, neat little package on neat little package, lay nearly three hundred thousand dollars. “Listen,” said Hogan. “We have to get a car. Quick, too. and we can’t steal one: It’s too dangerous. We have to buy one. That means that we have to wait until the lots open. That will be about eight o’clock in this town.” “But what are we going to do with that?” Burns pointed to the suitcase. “Hide it right here. Sure! Why not? It’s much safer here than with us---until we get a car.” And so they hid the suitcase. They carried it down to the basement and buried it in an unfinished corner where no cement had been laid. Just before dawn, they slipped out. As they were walking down the street, Hogan remarked that a Samuel W. Rogers lived in the house they had just left. “How do you know?” “Saw the name on some of the library books. The guy’s really got a lot of books. Looks like a library in there.” The used car lots opened at eight, as they had supposed. Shortly before nine, Hogan and Burns had a car. A nice little car. Very quiet. Very inconspicuous. Very speedy. They arranged fro temporary plates and drove off. There blocks from the house, they stopped. Hogan got out. Walked toward the house. He’d just go around to the rear, he thought, and slip in. Fifty yards from the house, he stopped. Stared, swore softly. The front door was open. The window shades were up. The family had returned! Well, what bad luck! And what could they do? Break into the cellar that night, and pick up the suitcase? No---too dangerous, Hogan would have to think of something. “Leave it to me, kid.” He told Burns. “You drive the car. I’ll do the special brain work. Let’s find a telephone. Quick!” Ten minutes later, Hogan was consulting a telephone directory. Yes, there it was---Samuel W. Rogers, 555-6329. A moment later he was talking to the surprised Mr. Rogers. “Hello,” he began. “is his Mr. Rogers---Mr. Samuel Rogers?” “Yes, this is Mr. Rogers.” Hogan cleared his throat. “Mr. Rogers,” he said---and his tone was sharp, official, impressive---“this is Headquarters, Police Headquarters, talking. I am Simpson. Sergeant Simpson, of the detective division…” “Yes, yes!” came over the wire. “The Chief---the Chief of Police, you know,” here Hogan lowered his voice a little---“has ordered me to get in touch with you. He’s sending me out with one of our men to see you.” “Am I in trouble of some kind?” asked Mr. Rogers. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. But I have something of great importance to talk to you about.” “Very well,” came the voice of Mr. Rogers. “I’ll wait for you.” “And, Mr. Rogers,” Hogan cautioned, “please keep quiet about this. Don’t say anything to anybody. You’ll understand why when I see you.” On the way back to the house, Hogan explained his idea to Burns. Within ten minutes, “Sergeant Simpson” and “Detective Johnson” were conversing with the surprised Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers was a small man. Rather insignificant. He had pale blue eyes. Not much of a chin. A funny little face. He was nervous---a badly frightened man. Hogan told the whole story. Somewhat changed, of course. Mr. Rogers was surprised, but he was delighted to be able to help the police. He accompanied Hy Hogan to the cellar. And together they dug up the suitcase. Took it to the living room, opened it, saw that it had not been touched---that it really did hold a small fortune. Bills, bills, bills! Hogan closed the suitcase. “And now, Mr. Rogers,” he announced, in his best official manner, “Johnson and I must run along. The Chief wants a report---quick. We have to catch to rest of the robbers. I’ll keep in touch with you.” He picked up the suitcase and rose. Burns also rose. Mr. Rogers also rose. The trio walked to the door. Mr. Rogers opened it. “ Come on in, boys,” he said pleasantly---and in walked three men. Large men. Strong men. Men in police uniforms who, without fear, stared at Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns. “What does this mean, Mr. Rogers?” asked Hogan. “It’s quite simple,” said Mr. Rogers. “It just happens that I am the Chief of Police!” 5. Where did they decide to hide the suitcase?

The Wrong House The night was dark. And the house was dark. Dark-and silent. The two men ran toward it quietly. They slipped quickly through the dark bushes which surrounded the house. They reached the porch, ran up the steps, and knelt down, breathing heavily, in the dark shadows. They waited, listening. Silence. Perfect silence. Then--- out of the blackness---a whisper: “ We can’t stay out here… Take this suitcase…Let me try those keys. We’ve got to get in!” Ten…twenty…thirty seconds. With one of the keys, the first man opened the door. Silently, the two men entered the house, closed the door behind them, and locked it. Whispering, they discussed the situation. They wondered if they had awakened anyone in the house. “Let’s have a look at this place. Careful, Hy. I hope there isn’t anybody awake!” And the soft rays of a flashlight swept the room. It was a large room. A living room. Rugs, carefully rolled, lay piled on one side. The furniture---chairs, tables, couches---was covered by sheets. Dust lay like a light snow over everything. The man who held the flashlight spoke first. “Well, Blackie,” he said, “we’re in luck. Looks as if the family’s away.” “Yeah, gone for the summer, I guess. We better make sure, though.” Together they searched the house. They went on tiptoe through every room. There could be no doubt about it, the family was away. Had been away for weeks. Yes, Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns were in luck. Only once in the past ten days had their luck failed them. It had been with them when they made their big robbery---their truly magnificent robbery---on the Coast. It had been with them during their thousand-mile trip eastward, by car. It had been with them every moment---but one. That moment had come just one hour before. It came when Blackie, driving the car, ran over a policeman. And Blackie, thinking of the suitcase at Hy’s feet, had driven away. Swiftly. There had been a chase, of course. A wild, crazy chase. And when a bullet had punctured the gasoline tank, they had had to abandon the car. But luck or no luck, here they were. Alone, and without a car, in a completely strange town. But safe and sound---with the suitcase. The suitcase lay in the center of the table, in the center of the room. In it, neat little package on neat little package, lay nearly three hundred thousand dollars. “Listen,” said Hogan. “We have to get a car. Quick, too. and we can’t steal one: It’s too dangerous. We have to buy one. That means that we have to wait until the lots open. That will be about eight o’clock in this town.” “But what are we going to do with that?” Burns pointed to the suitcase. “Hide it right here. Sure! Why not? It’s much safer here than with us---until we get a car.” And so they hid the suitcase. They carried it down to the basement and buried it in an unfinished corner where no cement had been laid. Just before dawn, they slipped out. As they were walking down the street, Hogan remarked that a Samuel W. Rogers lived in the house they had just left. “How do you know?” “Saw the name on some of the library books. The guy’s really got a lot of books. Looks like a library in there.” The used car lots opened at eight, as they had supposed. Shortly before nine, Hogan and Burns had a car. A nice little car. Very quiet. Very inconspicuous. Very speedy. They arranged fro temporary plates and drove off. There blocks from the house, they stopped. Hogan got out. Walked toward the house. He’d just go around to the rear, he thought, and slip in. Fifty yards from the house, he stopped. Stared, swore softly. The front door was open. The window shades were up. The family had returned! Well, what bad luck! And what could they do? Break into the cellar that night, and pick up the suitcase? No---too dangerous, Hogan would have to think of something. “Leave it to me, kid.” He told Burns. “You drive the car. I’ll do the special brain work. Let’s find a telephone. Quick!” Ten minutes later, Hogan was consulting a telephone directory. Yes, there it was---Samuel W. Rogers, 555-6329. A moment later he was talking to the surprised Mr. Rogers. “Hello,” he began. “is his Mr. Rogers---Mr. Samuel Rogers?” “Yes, this is Mr. Rogers.” Hogan cleared his throat. “Mr. Rogers,” he said---and his tone was sharp, official, impressive---“this is Headquarters, Police Headquarters, talking. I am Simpson. Sergeant Simpson, of the detective division…” “Yes, yes!” came over the wire. “The Chief---the Chief of Police, you know,” here Hogan lowered his voice a little---“has ordered me to get in touch with you. He’s sending me out with one of our men to see you.” “Am I in trouble of some kind?” asked Mr. Rogers. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. But I have something of great importance to talk to you about.” “Very well,” came the voice of Mr. Rogers. “I’ll wait for you.” “And, Mr. Rogers,” Hogan cautioned, “please keep quiet about this. Don’t say anything to anybody. You’ll understand why when I see you.” On the way back to the house, Hogan explained his idea to Burns. Within ten minutes, “Sergeant Simpson” and “Detective Johnson” were conversing with the surprised Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers was a small man. Rather insignificant. He had pale blue eyes. Not much of a chin. A funny little face. He was nervous---a badly frightened man. Hogan told the whole story. Somewhat changed, of course. Mr. Rogers was surprised, but he was delighted to be able to help the police. He accompanied Hy Hogan to the cellar. And together they dug up the suitcase. Took it to the living room, opened it, saw that it had not been touched---that it really did hold a small fortune. Bills, bills, bills! Hogan closed the suitcase. “And now, Mr. Rogers,” he announced, in his best official manner, “Johnson and I must run along. The Chief wants a report---quick. We have to catch to rest of the robbers. I’ll keep in touch with you.” He picked up the suitcase and rose. Burns also rose. Mr. Rogers also rose. The trio walked to the door. Mr. Rogers opened it. “ Come on in, boys,” he said pleasantly---and in walked three men. Large men. Strong men. Men in police uniforms who, without fear, stared at Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns. “What does this mean, Mr. Rogers?” asked Hogan. “It’s quite simple,” said Mr. Rogers. “It just happens that I am the Chief of Police!” 6. When did they buy a car? Where? What was it like?

The Wrong House The night was dark. And the house was dark. Dark-and silent. The two men ran toward it quietly. They slipped quickly through the dark bushes which surrounded the house. They reached the porch, ran up the steps, and knelt down, breathing heavily, in the dark shadows. They waited, listening. Silence. Perfect silence. Then--- out of the blackness---a whisper: “ We can’t stay out here… Take this suitcase…Let me try those keys. We’ve got to get in!” Ten…twenty…thirty seconds. With one of the keys, the first man opened the door. Silently, the two men entered the house, closed the door behind them, and locked it. Whispering, they discussed the situation. They wondered if they had awakened anyone in the house. “Let’s have a look at this place. Careful, Hy. I hope there isn’t anybody awake!” And the soft rays of a flashlight swept the room. It was a large room. A living room. Rugs, carefully rolled, lay piled on one side. The furniture---chairs, tables, couches---was covered by sheets. Dust lay like a light snow over everything. The man who held the flashlight spoke first. “Well, Blackie,” he said, “we’re in luck. Looks as if the family’s away.” “Yeah, gone for the summer, I guess. We better make sure, though.” Together they searched the house. They went on tiptoe through every room. There could be no doubt about it, the family was away. Had been away for weeks. Yes, Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns were in luck. Only once in the past ten days had their luck failed them. It had been with them when they made their big robbery---their truly magnificent robbery---on the Coast. It had been with them during their thousand-mile trip eastward, by car. It had been with them every moment---but one. That moment had come just one hour before. It came when Blackie, driving the car, ran over a policeman. And Blackie, thinking of the suitcase at Hy’s feet, had driven away. Swiftly. There had been a chase, of course. A wild, crazy chase. And when a bullet had punctured the gasoline tank, they had had to abandon the car. But luck or no luck, here they were. Alone, and without a car, in a completely strange town. But safe and sound---with the suitcase. The suitcase lay in the center of the table, in the center of the room. In it, neat little package on neat little package, lay nearly three hundred thousand dollars. “Listen,” said Hogan. “We have to get a car. Quick, too. and we can’t steal one: It’s too dangerous. We have to buy one. That means that we have to wait until the lots open. That will be about eight o’clock in this town.” “But what are we going to do with that?” Burns pointed to the suitcase. “Hide it right here. Sure! Why not? It’s much safer here than with us---until we get a car.” And so they hid the suitcase. They carried it down to the basement and buried it in an unfinished corner where no cement had been laid. Just before dawn, they slipped out. As they were walking down the street, Hogan remarked that a Samuel W. Rogers lived in the house they had just left. “How do you know?” “Saw the name on some of the library books. The guy’s really got a lot of books. Looks like a library in there.” The used car lots opened at eight, as they had supposed. Shortly before nine, Hogan and Burns had a car. A nice little car. Very quiet. Very inconspicuous. Very speedy. They arranged fro temporary plates and drove off. There blocks from the house, they stopped. Hogan got out. Walked toward the house. He’d just go around to the rear, he thought, and slip in. Fifty yards from the house, he stopped. Stared, swore softly. The front door was open. The window shades were up. The family had returned! Well, what bad luck! And what could they do? Break into the cellar that night, and pick up the suitcase? No---too dangerous, Hogan would have to think of something. “Leave it to me, kid.” He told Burns. “You drive the car. I’ll do the special brain work. Let’s find a telephone. Quick!” Ten minutes later, Hogan was consulting a telephone directory. Yes, there it was---Samuel W. Rogers, 555-6329. A moment later he was talking to the surprised Mr. Rogers. “Hello,” he began. “is his Mr. Rogers---Mr. Samuel Rogers?” “Yes, this is Mr. Rogers.” Hogan cleared his throat. “Mr. Rogers,” he said---and his tone was sharp, official, impressive---“this is Headquarters, Police Headquarters, talking. I am Simpson. Sergeant Simpson, of the detective division…” “Yes, yes!” came over the wire. “The Chief---the Chief of Police, you know,” here Hogan lowered his voice a little---“has ordered me to get in touch with you. He’s sending me out with one of our men to see you.” “Am I in trouble of some kind?” asked Mr. Rogers. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. But I have something of great importance to talk to you about.” “Very well,” came the voice of Mr. Rogers. “I’ll wait for you.” “And, Mr. Rogers,” Hogan cautioned, “please keep quiet about this. Don’t say anything to anybody. You’ll understand why when I see you.” On the way back to the house, Hogan explained his idea to Burns. Within ten minutes, “Sergeant Simpson” and “Detective Johnson” were conversing with the surprised Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers was a small man. Rather insignificant. He had pale blue eyes. Not much of a chin. A funny little face. He was nervous---a badly frightened man. Hogan told the whole story. Somewhat changed, of course. Mr. Rogers was surprised, but he was delighted to be able to help the police. He accompanied Hy Hogan to the cellar. And together they dug up the suitcase. Took it to the living room, opened it, saw that it had not been touched---that it really did hold a small fortune. Bills, bills, bills! Hogan closed the suitcase. “And now, Mr. Rogers,” he announced, in his best official manner, “Johnson and I must run along. The Chief wants a report---quick. We have to catch to rest of the robbers. I’ll keep in touch with you.” He picked up the suitcase and rose. Burns also rose. Mr. Rogers also rose. The trio walked to the door. Mr. Rogers opened it. “ Come on in, boys,” he said pleasantly---and in walked three men. Large men. Strong men. Men in police uniforms who, without fear, stared at Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns. “What does this mean, Mr. Rogers?” asked Hogan. “It’s quite simple,” said Mr. Rogers. “It just happens that I am the Chief of Police!” 7. What did they discover when they returned to the house?

The Wrong House The night was dark. And the house was dark. Dark-and silent. The two men ran toward it quietly. They slipped quickly through the dark bushes which surrounded the house. They reached the porch, ran up the steps, and knelt down, breathing heavily, in the dark shadows. They waited, listening. Silence. Perfect silence. Then--- out of the blackness---a whisper: “ We can’t stay out here… Take this suitcase…Let me try those keys. We’ve got to get in!” Ten…twenty…thirty seconds. With one of the keys, the first man opened the door. Silently, the two men entered the house, closed the door behind them, and locked it. Whispering, they discussed the situation. They wondered if they had awakened anyone in the house. “Let’s have a look at this place. Careful, Hy. I hope there isn’t anybody awake!” And the soft rays of a flashlight swept the room. It was a large room. A living room. Rugs, carefully rolled, lay piled on one side. The furniture---chairs, tables, couches---was covered by sheets. Dust lay like a light snow over everything. The man who held the flashlight spoke first. “Well, Blackie,” he said, “we’re in luck. Looks as if the family’s away.” “Yeah, gone for the summer, I guess. We better make sure, though.” Together they searched the house. They went on tiptoe through every room. There could be no doubt about it, the family was away. Had been away for weeks. Yes, Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns were in luck. Only once in the past ten days had their luck failed them. It had been with them when they made their big robbery---their truly magnificent robbery---on the Coast. It had been with them during their thousand-mile trip eastward, by car. It had been with them every moment---but one. That moment had come just one hour before. It came when Blackie, driving the car, ran over a policeman. And Blackie, thinking of the suitcase at Hy’s feet, had driven away. Swiftly. There had been a chase, of course. A wild, crazy chase. And when a bullet had punctured the gasoline tank, they had had to abandon the car. But luck or no luck, here they were. Alone, and without a car, in a completely strange town. But safe and sound---with the suitcase. The suitcase lay in the center of the table, in the center of the room. In it, neat little package on neat little package, lay nearly three hundred thousand dollars. “Listen,” said Hogan. “We have to get a car. Quick, too. and we can’t steal one: It’s too dangerous. We have to buy one. That means that we have to wait until the lots open. That will be about eight o’clock in this town.” “But what are we going to do with that?” Burns pointed to the suitcase. “Hide it right here. Sure! Why not? It’s much safer here than with us---until we get a car.” And so they hid the suitcase. They carried it down to the basement and buried it in an unfinished corner where no cement had been laid. Just before dawn, they slipped out. As they were walking down the street, Hogan remarked that a Samuel W. Rogers lived in the house they had just left. “How do you know?” “Saw the name on some of the library books. The guy’s really got a lot of books. Looks like a library in there.” The used car lots opened at eight, as they had supposed. Shortly before nine, Hogan and Burns had a car. A nice little car. Very quiet. Very inconspicuous. Very speedy. They arranged fro temporary plates and drove off. There blocks from the house, they stopped. Hogan got out. Walked toward the house. He’d just go around to the rear, he thought, and slip in. Fifty yards from the house, he stopped. Stared, swore softly. The front door was open. The window shades were up. The family had returned! Well, what bad luck! And what could they do? Break into the cellar that night, and pick up the suitcase? No---too dangerous, Hogan would have to think of something. “Leave it to me, kid.” He told Burns. “You drive the car. I’ll do the special brain work. Let’s find a telephone. Quick!” Ten minutes later, Hogan was consulting a telephone directory. Yes, there it was---Samuel W. Rogers, 555-6329. A moment later he was talking to the surprised Mr. Rogers. “Hello,” he began. “is his Mr. Rogers---Mr. Samuel Rogers?” “Yes, this is Mr. Rogers.” Hogan cleared his throat. “Mr. Rogers,” he said---and his tone was sharp, official, impressive---“this is Headquarters, Police Headquarters, talking. I am Simpson. Sergeant Simpson, of the detective division…” “Yes, yes!” came over the wire. “The Chief---the Chief of Police, you know,” here Hogan lowered his voice a little---“has ordered me to get in touch with you. He’s sending me out with one of our men to see you.” “Am I in trouble of some kind?” asked Mr. Rogers. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. But I have something of great importance to talk to you about.” “Very well,” came the voice of Mr. Rogers. “I’ll wait for you.” “And, Mr. Rogers,” Hogan cautioned, “please keep quiet about this. Don’t say anything to anybody. You’ll understand why when I see you.” On the way back to the house, Hogan explained his idea to Burns. Within ten minutes, “Sergeant Simpson” and “Detective Johnson” were conversing with the surprised Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers was a small man. Rather insignificant. He had pale blue eyes. Not much of a chin. A funny little face. He was nervous---a badly frightened man. Hogan told the whole story. Somewhat changed, of course. Mr. Rogers was surprised, but he was delighted to be able to help the police. He accompanied Hy Hogan to the cellar. And together they dug up the suitcase. Took it to the living room, opened it, saw that it had not been touched---that it really did hold a small fortune. Bills, bills, bills! Hogan closed the suitcase. “And now, Mr. Rogers,” he announced, in his best official manner, “Johnson and I must run along. The Chief wants a report---quick. We have to catch to rest of the robbers. I’ll keep in touch with you.” He picked up the suitcase and rose. Burns also rose. Mr. Rogers also rose. The trio walked to the door. Mr. Rogers opened it. “ Come on in, boys,” he said pleasantly---and in walked three men. Large men. Strong men. Men in police uniforms who, without fear, stared at Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns. “What does this mean, Mr. Rogers?” asked Hogan. “It’s quite simple,” said Mr. Rogers. “It just happens that I am the Chief of Police!” 8. Explain Hogan's plan to get the money back.

The Wrong House The night was dark. And the house was dark. Dark-and silent. The two men ran toward it quietly. They slipped quickly through the dark bushes which surrounded the house. They reached the porch, ran up the steps, and knelt down, breathing heavily, in the dark shadows. They waited, listening. Silence. Perfect silence. Then--- out of the blackness---a whisper: “ We can’t stay out here… Take this suitcase…Let me try those keys. We’ve got to get in!” Ten…twenty…thirty seconds. With one of the keys, the first man opened the door. Silently, the two men entered the house, closed the door behind them, and locked it. Whispering, they discussed the situation. They wondered if they had awakened anyone in the house. “Let’s have a look at this place. Careful, Hy. I hope there isn’t anybody awake!” And the soft rays of a flashlight swept the room. It was a large room. A living room. Rugs, carefully rolled, lay piled on one side. The furniture---chairs, tables, couches---was covered by sheets. Dust lay like a light snow over everything. The man who held the flashlight spoke first. “Well, Blackie,” he said, “we’re in luck. Looks as if the family’s away.” “Yeah, gone for the summer, I guess. We better make sure, though.” Together they searched the house. They went on tiptoe through every room. There could be no doubt about it, the family was away. Had been away for weeks. Yes, Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns were in luck. Only once in the past ten days had their luck failed them. It had been with them when they made their big robbery---their truly magnificent robbery---on the Coast. It had been with them during their thousand-mile trip eastward, by car. It had been with them every moment---but one. That moment had come just one hour before. It came when Blackie, driving the car, ran over a policeman. And Blackie, thinking of the suitcase at Hy’s feet, had driven away. Swiftly. There had been a chase, of course. A wild, crazy chase. And when a bullet had punctured the gasoline tank, they had had to abandon the car. But luck or no luck, here they were. Alone, and without a car, in a completely strange town. But safe and sound---with the suitcase. The suitcase lay in the center of the table, in the center of the room. In it, neat little package on neat little package, lay nearly three hundred thousand dollars. “Listen,” said Hogan. “We have to get a car. Quick, too. and we can’t steal one: It’s too dangerous. We have to buy one. That means that we have to wait until the lots open. That will be about eight o’clock in this town.” “But what are we going to do with that?” Burns pointed to the suitcase. “Hide it right here. Sure! Why not? It’s much safer here than with us---until we get a car.” And so they hid the suitcase. They carried it down to the basement and buried it in an unfinished corner where no cement had been laid. Just before dawn, they slipped out. As they were walking down the street, Hogan remarked that a Samuel W. Rogers lived in the house they had just left. “How do you know?” “Saw the name on some of the library books. The guy’s really got a lot of books. Looks like a library in there.” The used car lots opened at eight, as they had supposed. Shortly before nine, Hogan and Burns had a car. A nice little car. Very quiet. Very inconspicuous. Very speedy. They arranged fro temporary plates and drove off. There blocks from the house, they stopped. Hogan got out. Walked toward the house. He’d just go around to the rear, he thought, and slip in. Fifty yards from the house, he stopped. Stared, swore softly. The front door was open. The window shades were up. The family had returned! Well, what bad luck! And what could they do? Break into the cellar that night, and pick up the suitcase? No---too dangerous, Hogan would have to think of something. “Leave it to me, kid.” He told Burns. “You drive the car. I’ll do the special brain work. Let’s find a telephone. Quick!” Ten minutes later, Hogan was consulting a telephone directory. Yes, there it was---Samuel W. Rogers, 555-6329. A moment later he was talking to the surprised Mr. Rogers. “Hello,” he began. “is his Mr. Rogers---Mr. Samuel Rogers?” “Yes, this is Mr. Rogers.” Hogan cleared his throat. “Mr. Rogers,” he said---and his tone was sharp, official, impressive---“this is Headquarters, Police Headquarters, talking. I am Simpson. Sergeant Simpson, of the detective division…” “Yes, yes!” came over the wire. “The Chief---the Chief of Police, you know,” here Hogan lowered his voice a little---“has ordered me to get in touch with you. He’s sending me out with one of our men to see you.” “Am I in trouble of some kind?” asked Mr. Rogers. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. But I have something of great importance to talk to you about.” “Very well,” came the voice of Mr. Rogers. “I’ll wait for you.” “And, Mr. Rogers,” Hogan cautioned, “please keep quiet about this. Don’t say anything to anybody. You’ll understand why when I see you.” On the way back to the house, Hogan explained his idea to Burns. Within ten minutes, “Sergeant Simpson” and “Detective Johnson” were conversing with the surprised Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers was a small man. Rather insignificant. He had pale blue eyes. Not much of a chin. A funny little face. He was nervous---a badly frightened man. Hogan told the whole story. Somewhat changed, of course. Mr. Rogers was surprised, but he was delighted to be able to help the police. He accompanied Hy Hogan to the cellar. And together they dug up the suitcase. Took it to the living room, opened it, saw that it had not been touched---that it really did hold a small fortune. Bills, bills, bills! Hogan closed the suitcase. “And now, Mr. Rogers,” he announced, in his best official manner, “Johnson and I must run along. The Chief wants a report---quick. We have to catch to rest of the robbers. I’ll keep in touch with you.” He picked up the suitcase and rose. Burns also rose. Mr. Rogers also rose. The trio walked to the door. Mr. Rogers opened it. “ Come on in, boys,” he said pleasantly---and in walked three men. Large men. Strong men. Men in police uniforms who, without fear, stared at Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns. “What does this mean, Mr. Rogers?” asked Hogan. “It’s quite simple,” said Mr. Rogers. “It just happens that I am the Chief of Police!” 9. What did Hogan and Burns do when they got the suitcase back upstairs?

The Wrong House The night was dark. And the house was dark. Dark-and silent. The two men ran toward it quietly. They slipped quickly through the dark bushes which surrounded the house. They reached the porch, ran up the steps, and knelt down, breathing heavily, in the dark shadows. They waited, listening. Silence. Perfect silence. Then--- out of the blackness---a whisper: “ We can’t stay out here… Take this suitcase…Let me try those keys. We’ve got to get in!” Ten…twenty…thirty seconds. With one of the keys, the first man opened the door. Silently, the two men entered the house, closed the door behind them, and locked it. Whispering, they discussed the situation. They wondered if they had awakened anyone in the house. “Let’s have a look at this place. Careful, Hy. I hope there isn’t anybody awake!” And the soft rays of a flashlight swept the room. It was a large room. A living room. Rugs, carefully rolled, lay piled on one side. The furniture---chairs, tables, couches---was covered by sheets. Dust lay like a light snow over everything. The man who held the flashlight spoke first. “Well, Blackie,” he said, “we’re in luck. Looks as if the family’s away.” “Yeah, gone for the summer, I guess. We better make sure, though.” Together they searched the house. They went on tiptoe through every room. There could be no doubt about it, the family was away. Had been away for weeks. Yes, Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns were in luck. Only once in the past ten days had their luck failed them. It had been with them when they made their big robbery---their truly magnificent robbery---on the Coast. It had been with them during their thousand-mile trip eastward, by car. It had been with them every moment---but one. That moment had come just one hour before. It came when Blackie, driving the car, ran over a policeman. And Blackie, thinking of the suitcase at Hy’s feet, had driven away. Swiftly. There had been a chase, of course. A wild, crazy chase. And when a bullet had punctured the gasoline tank, they had had to abandon the car. But luck or no luck, here they were. Alone, and without a car, in a completely strange town. But safe and sound---with the suitcase. The suitcase lay in the center of the table, in the center of the room. In it, neat little package on neat little package, lay nearly three hundred thousand dollars. “Listen,” said Hogan. “We have to get a car. Quick, too. and we can’t steal one: It’s too dangerous. We have to buy one. That means that we have to wait until the lots open. That will be about eight o’clock in this town.” “But what are we going to do with that?” Burns pointed to the suitcase. “Hide it right here. Sure! Why not? It’s much safer here than with us---until we get a car.” And so they hid the suitcase. They carried it down to the basement and buried it in an unfinished corner where no cement had been laid. Just before dawn, they slipped out. As they were walking down the street, Hogan remarked that a Samuel W. Rogers lived in the house they had just left. “How do you know?” “Saw the name on some of the library books. The guy’s really got a lot of books. Looks like a library in there.” The used car lots opened at eight, as they had supposed. Shortly before nine, Hogan and Burns had a car. A nice little car. Very quiet. Very inconspicuous. Very speedy. They arranged fro temporary plates and drove off. There blocks from the house, they stopped. Hogan got out. Walked toward the house. He’d just go around to the rear, he thought, and slip in. Fifty yards from the house, he stopped. Stared, swore softly. The front door was open. The window shades were up. The family had returned! Well, what bad luck! And what could they do? Break into the cellar that night, and pick up the suitcase? No---too dangerous, Hogan would have to think of something. “Leave it to me, kid.” He told Burns. “You drive the car. I’ll do the special brain work. Let’s find a telephone. Quick!” Ten minutes later, Hogan was consulting a telephone directory. Yes, there it was---Samuel W. Rogers, 555-6329. A moment later he was talking to the surprised Mr. Rogers. “Hello,” he began. “is his Mr. Rogers---Mr. Samuel Rogers?” “Yes, this is Mr. Rogers.” Hogan cleared his throat. “Mr. Rogers,” he said---and his tone was sharp, official, impressive---“this is Headquarters, Police Headquarters, talking. I am Simpson. Sergeant Simpson, of the detective division…” “Yes, yes!” came over the wire. “The Chief---the Chief of Police, you know,” here Hogan lowered his voice a little---“has ordered me to get in touch with you. He’s sending me out with one of our men to see you.” “Am I in trouble of some kind?” asked Mr. Rogers. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. But I have something of great importance to talk to you about.” “Very well,” came the voice of Mr. Rogers. “I’ll wait for you.” “And, Mr. Rogers,” Hogan cautioned, “please keep quiet about this. Don’t say anything to anybody. You’ll understand why when I see you.” On the way back to the house, Hogan explained his idea to Burns. Within ten minutes, “Sergeant Simpson” and “Detective Johnson” were conversing with the surprised Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers was a small man. Rather insignificant. He had pale blue eyes. Not much of a chin. A funny little face. He was nervous---a badly frightened man. Hogan told the whole story. Somewhat changed, of course. Mr. Rogers was surprised, but he was delighted to be able to help the police. He accompanied Hy Hogan to the cellar. And together they dug up the suitcase. Took it to the living room, opened it, saw that it had not been touched---that it really did hold a small fortune. Bills, bills, bills! Hogan closed the suitcase. “And now, Mr. Rogers,” he announced, in his best official manner, “Johnson and I must run along. The Chief wants a report---quick. We have to catch to rest of the robbers. I’ll keep in touch with you.” He picked up the suitcase and rose. Burns also rose. Mr. Rogers also rose. The trio walked to the door. Mr. Rogers opened it. “ Come on in, boys,” he said pleasantly---and in walked three men. Large men. Strong men. Men in police uniforms who, without fear, stared at Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns. “What does this mean, Mr. Rogers?” asked Hogan. “It’s quite simple,” said Mr. Rogers. “It just happens that I am the Chief of Police!” 10. Why didn't their plan succeed?

Art for Heart’s Sake Keith Koppel, private duty nurse to the extraordinarily wealthy Collis P. Ellsworth, was glad to leave his patient’s room to answer the door. He had had a tiring morning trying to get Ellsworth to cooperate in his own recovery. As soon as Koppel discovered that the caller was Ellsworth’s doctor, he began to complain. “I can’t do a thing with him,” he told Dr.Caswell. “He won’t take his juice. He doesn’t want me to read to him. He hates listening to the radio or watching TV. He doesn’t like anything.” Actually, he did like something: his business. The problem was that while he was still a fabulously wealthy man, he had recently begun to make big mistakes. He insisted on buying companies at very high prices, only to watch them fail or go bankrupt. Ellsworth was in pretty good shape for a 76-year-old , but his business failures were ruinous to his health. He had suffered his last. Heart attack after his disastrous purchase of a small railroad in Iowa. The health problem he suffered before that came about because of excitement over the failure of a chain of grocery stores, stores which he had purchases had to be liquidated at a great sacrifice to both his pocketbook and his health. They were beginning to have serious effects. Dr. Caswell had done his homework, however. He realized that he needed to interest the old man in something which would take his mind off his problem and redirect his energies. His answer was art. The doctor entered his patient’s room. “I hear that you haven’t been obeying orders,” the doctor said. “Who’s giving me orders at my time of life?” The doctor drew up his chair and sat down close to the old man. “I’ve got a suggestion for you,” he said quietly. Old Ellsworth looked suspiciously over his eyeglasses. “What is it, more medicine, more automobile rides, more foolishness to keep me away form my office? “How would you like to take up art?” The doctor had his stethoscope ready in case the suddenness of the suggestion proved too much for the patient’s heart. But the old man’s answer was a strong “foolishness!” ‘I don’t mean seriously,” said the doctor, relieved that nothing had happened. “Just play around with chald and crayons. It’ll be fun.” But after several more scowls, which were met with gentle persuasion by the wise doctor, Ellsworth gave in. he would, at least, try it for a while. Caswell went to his friend Judson Livingston, head of the Atlantic Art Institute, and explained the situation. Livingston introduced Frank Swain. Swain was an 18-year-old art student, quite good; who needed money to continue his education. He would tutor Ellsworth one afternoon a week for ten dollars an hour. Their first lesson was on the next afternoon. It was less than an overwhelming success. Swain began by arranging some paper and crayons on the table. “Let’s try to draw that vase over there,” he suggested. “What for?” It’s only a bowl with some blue stains on it. Or are they green?” “Try it, Mr. Ellsworth, please.” “Umph!” The old man took a piece of crayon in a shaky hand and drew several lines. He drew several more and then connected these crudely. “There it is, young man,” he said with a tone of satisfaction. “Such foolishness!” Frank Swain was patient. He needed the ten dollars. “If you want to draw, you will have to look at what you’re drawing, sir.” Ellsworth looked. “Gosh, it’s rather pretty. I never noticed it before.” Koppel came in with the announcement that his patient had done enough for the first lesson. “Oh, it’s pineapple juice again,” Ellsworth said. Swain left, not sure if he would be invited back. When the art student came the following week, there was a drawing on the table that had a slight resemblance to a vase. The wrinkles deepened at the corners of the old gentleman’s eyes as he asked. “Well, what do you think of it?” “Not bad, sir,” answered Swain. “But it’s not quite straight.” “Gosh,” old Ellsworth smiled, “I see. The halves don’t match.” He added a few lines with a shaking hand and colored the open spaces blue, like a child playing with a picture book. Then he looked towards the door. “Listen, young man,” he whispered, “I want to ask you something before old Pineapple Juice comes back.” “Yes, sir,” answered Swain politely. “I was thinking--- do you have the time to come twice a week, or perhaps three times?” As the weeks went by, Swain’s visits grew more frequent. When Dr. Caswell called, Ellsworth would talk about the graceful lines of the chimney or the rich variety of color in a bowl of fruit. The treatment was working perfectly. No more trips downtown to his office for the purpose of buying some business that was to fail later. No more crazy financial plans to try the strength of his tired old heart. Art was a complete cure for him. The doctor thought it safe to allow Ellsworth to visit the Metropolitan Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, and other exhibitions with Swain. An entirely new word opened up its mysteries to him. The old man showed a tremendous curiosity in the art galleries and in the painters who exhibited in them. How were the galleries run? Who selected the pictures for the exhibitions? An idea was forming in is brain. When the late spring began to cover the fields and gardens with color, Ellsworth painted a simply horrible picture which he called “Trees Dressed in White”. Then he made a surprising announcement. He was going to exhibit the picture in the summer show at the Lathrop Gallery. The summer show at the Lathrop Gallery was the biggest art exhibition of the year---in quality, if not in size. The lifetime dream of every important artist in the United States was a prize from this exhibition. Among the paintings of this distinguished group of artists, Ellsworth was now going to place his “Trees Dressed in White”, which resembled a handful of salad dressing thrown violently against the side of a house. “If the newspapers hear about this, everyone in town will be laughing at Mr. Ellsworth. We’ve got to stop him,” said Koppel. “No,” warned the doctor. “We can’t interfere with him now and take a chance of running down all the good work which we have done.” To the complete surprise of al three--- and especially Swain--- “Trees Dressed in White” was accepted for the Lathrop show. Not only was Mr. Ellsworth crazy, thought Koppel, but the Lathrop Gallery was crazy, too. Fortunately, the painting was hung in an inconspicuous place, where it did not draw any special notice or comment. During the curse of the exhibition, the old man kept on taking lessons, seldom mentioning his picture. He was unusually cheerful. Every time Swain entered the room, he found Ellsworth laughing to himself. Maybe Koppel was right. The old man was crazy. But it seemed equally strange that the Lathrop committee should encourage his craziness by accepting his picture. Two days before the close of the exhibition, a special messenger brought a long, official-looking envelope to Mr. Ellsworth while Swain, Koppel, and the doctor were in the room. “Read it to me,” said the old man. “My eyes are tired from painting.” It gives the Lathrop Gallery great pleasure to announce that the First Prize of $1000 has been awarded to Collis P. Ellsworth for his painting “Trees Dressed in White”. Swain and Koppel were so surprised that they could not say a word. Dr. Caswell, exercising his professional self-control with a supreme effort, I didn’t expect such great news. But, but---well, now, you’ll have to admit that art is much more satisfying than business.” “Art has nothing to do with it,” said the old man sharply. “I bought the Lathrop Gallery last month.” 1. Who was Keith Koppel? What was his complaint about his patient?

Art for Heart’s Sake Keith Koppel, private duty nurse to the extraordinarily wealthy Collis P. Ellsworth, was glad to leave his patient’s room to answer the door. He had had a tiring morning trying to get Ellsworth to cooperate in his own recovery. As soon as Koppel discovered that the caller was Ellsworth’s doctor, he began to complain. “I can’t do a thing with him,” he told Dr.Caswell. “He won’t take his juice. He doesn’t want me to read to him. He hates listening to the radio or watching TV. He doesn’t like anything.” Actually, he did like something: his business. The problem was that while he was still a fabulously wealthy man, he had recently begun to make big mistakes. He insisted on buying companies at very high prices, only to watch them fail or go bankrupt. Ellsworth was in pretty good shape for a 76-year-old , but his business failures were ruinous to his health. He had suffered his last. Heart attack after his disastrous purchase of a small railroad in Iowa. The health problem he suffered before that came about because of excitement over the failure of a chain of grocery stores, stores which he had purchases had to be liquidated at a great sacrifice to both his pocketbook and his health. They were beginning to have serious effects. Dr. Caswell had done his homework, however. He realized that he needed to interest the old man in something which would take his mind off his problem and redirect his energies. His answer was art. The doctor entered his patient’s room. “I hear that you haven’t been obeying orders,” the doctor said. “Who’s giving me orders at my time of life?” The doctor drew up his chair and sat down close to the old man. “I’ve got a suggestion for you,” he said quietly. Old Ellsworth looked suspiciously over his eyeglasses. “What is it, more medicine, more automobile rides, more foolishness to keep me away form my office? “How would you like to take up art?” The doctor had his stethoscope ready in case the suddenness of the suggestion proved too much for the patient’s heart. But the old man’s answer was a strong “foolishness!” ‘I don’t mean seriously,” said the doctor, relieved that nothing had happened. “Just play around with chald and crayons. It’ll be fun.” But after several more scowls, which were met with gentle persuasion by the wise doctor, Ellsworth gave in. he would, at least, try it for a while. Caswell went to his friend Judson Livingston, head of the Atlantic Art Institute, and explained the situation. Livingston introduced Frank Swain. Swain was an 18-year-old art student, quite good; who needed money to continue his education. He would tutor Ellsworth one afternoon a week for ten dollars an hour. Their first lesson was on the next afternoon. It was less than an overwhelming success. Swain began by arranging some paper and crayons on the table. “Let’s try to draw that vase over there,” he suggested. “What for?” It’s only a bowl with some blue stains on it. Or are they green?” “Try it, Mr. Ellsworth, please.” “Umph!” The old man took a piece of crayon in a shaky hand and drew several lines. He drew several more and then connected these crudely. “There it is, young man,” he said with a tone of satisfaction. “Such foolishness!” Frank Swain was patient. He needed the ten dollars. “If you want to draw, you will have to look at what you’re drawing, sir.” Ellsworth looked. “Gosh, it’s rather pretty. I never noticed it before.” Koppel came in with the announcement that his patient had done enough for the first lesson. “Oh, it’s pineapple juice again,” Ellsworth said. Swain left, not sure if he would be invited back. When the art student came the following week, there was a drawing on the table that had a slight resemblance to a vase. The wrinkles deepened at the corners of the old gentleman’s eyes as he asked. “Well, what do you think of it?” “Not bad, sir,” answered Swain. “But it’s not quite straight.” “Gosh,” old Ellsworth smiled, “I see. The halves don’t match.” He added a few lines with a shaking hand and colored the open spaces blue, like a child playing with a picture book. Then he looked towards the door. “Listen, young man,” he whispered, “I want to ask you something before old Pineapple Juice comes back.” “Yes, sir,” answered Swain politely. “I was thinking--- do you have the time to come twice a week, or perhaps three times?” As the weeks went by, Swain’s visits grew more frequent. When Dr. Caswell called, Ellsworth would talk about the graceful lines of the chimney or the rich variety of color in a bowl of fruit. The treatment was working perfectly. No more trips downtown to his office for the purpose of buying some business that was to fail later. No more crazy financial plans to try the strength of his tired old heart. Art was a complete cure for him. The doctor thought it safe to allow Ellsworth to visit the Metropolitan Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, and other exhibitions with Swain. An entirely new word opened up its mysteries to him. The old man showed a tremendous curiosity in the art galleries and in the painters who exhibited in them. How were the galleries run? Who selected the pictures for the exhibitions? An idea was forming in is brain. When the late spring began to cover the fields and gardens with color, Ellsworth painted a simply horrible picture which he called “Trees Dressed in White”. Then he made a surprising announcement. He was going to exhibit the picture in the summer show at the Lathrop Gallery. The summer show at the Lathrop Gallery was the biggest art exhibition of the year---in quality, if not in size. The lifetime dream of every important artist in the United States was a prize from this exhibition. Among the paintings of this distinguished group of artists, Ellsworth was now going to place his “Trees Dressed in White”, which resembled a handful of salad dressing thrown violently against the side of a house. “If the newspapers hear about this, everyone in town will be laughing at Mr. Ellsworth. We’ve got to stop him,” said Koppel. “No,” warned the doctor. “We can’t interfere with him now and take a chance of running down all the good work which we have done.” To the complete surprise of al three--- and especially Swain--- “Trees Dressed in White” was accepted for the Lathrop show. Not only was Mr. Ellsworth crazy, thought Koppel, but the Lathrop Gallery was crazy, too. Fortunately, the painting was hung in an inconspicuous place, where it did not draw any special notice or comment. During the curse of the exhibition, the old man kept on taking lessons, seldom mentioning his picture. He was unusually cheerful. Every time Swain entered the room, he found Ellsworth laughing to himself. Maybe Koppel was right. The old man was crazy. But it seemed equally strange that the Lathrop committee should encourage his craziness by accepting his picture. Two days before the close of the exhibition, a special messenger brought a long, official-looking envelope to Mr. Ellsworth while Swain, Koppel, and the doctor were in the room. “Read it to me,” said the old man. “My eyes are tired from painting.” It gives the Lathrop Gallery great pleasure to announce that the First Prize of $1000 has been awarded to Collis P. Ellsworth for his painting “Trees Dressed in White”. Swain and Koppel were so surprised that they could not say a word. Dr. Caswell, exercising his professional self-control with a supreme effort, I didn’t expect such great news. But, but---well, now, you’ll have to admit that art is much more satisfying than business.” “Art has nothing to do with it,” said the old man sharply. “I bought the Lathrop Gallery last month.” 2. What had Collis P. Ellsworth started doing recently that made his doctor worried?

Art for Heart’s Sake Keith Koppel, private duty nurse to the extraordinarily wealthy Collis P. Ellsworth, was glad to leave his patient’s room to answer the door. He had had a tiring morning trying to get Ellsworth to cooperate in his own recovery. As soon as Koppel discovered that the caller was Ellsworth’s doctor, he began to complain. “I can’t do a thing with him,” he told Dr.Caswell. “He won’t take his juice. He doesn’t want me to read to him. He hates listening to the radio or watching TV. He doesn’t like anything.” Actually, he did like something: his business. The problem was that while he was still a fabulously wealthy man, he had recently begun to make big mistakes. He insisted on buying companies at very high prices, only to watch them fail or go bankrupt. Ellsworth was in pretty good shape for a 76-year-old , but his business failures were ruinous to his health. He had suffered his last. Heart attack after his disastrous purchase of a small railroad in Iowa. The health problem he suffered before that came about because of excitement over the failure of a chain of grocery stores, stores which he had purchases had to be liquidated at a great sacrifice to both his pocketbook and his health. They were beginning to have serious effects. Dr. Caswell had done his homework, however. He realized that he needed to interest the old man in something which would take his mind off his problem and redirect his energies. His answer was art. The doctor entered his patient’s room. “I hear that you haven’t been obeying orders,” the doctor said. “Who’s giving me orders at my time of life?” The doctor drew up his chair and sat down close to the old man. “I’ve got a suggestion for you,” he said quietly. Old Ellsworth looked suspiciously over his eyeglasses. “What is it, more medicine, more automobile rides, more foolishness to keep me away form my office? “How would you like to take up art?” The doctor had his stethoscope ready in case the suddenness of the suggestion proved too much for the patient’s heart. But the old man’s answer was a strong “foolishness!” ‘I don’t mean seriously,” said the doctor, relieved that nothing had happened. “Just play around with chald and crayons. It’ll be fun.” But after several more scowls, which were met with gentle persuasion by the wise doctor, Ellsworth gave in. he would, at least, try it for a while. Caswell went to his friend Judson Livingston, head of the Atlantic Art Institute, and explained the situation. Livingston introduced Frank Swain. Swain was an 18-year-old art student, quite good; who needed money to continue his education. He would tutor Ellsworth one afternoon a week for ten dollars an hour. Their first lesson was on the next afternoon. It was less than an overwhelming success. Swain began by arranging some paper and crayons on the table. “Let’s try to draw that vase over there,” he suggested. “What for?” It’s only a bowl with some blue stains on it. Or are they green?” “Try it, Mr. Ellsworth, please.” “Umph!” The old man took a piece of crayon in a shaky hand and drew several lines. He drew several more and then connected these crudely. “There it is, young man,” he said with a tone of satisfaction. “Such foolishness!” Frank Swain was patient. He needed the ten dollars. “If you want to draw, you will have to look at what you’re drawing, sir.” Ellsworth looked. “Gosh, it’s rather pretty. I never noticed it before.” Koppel came in with the announcement that his patient had done enough for the first lesson. “Oh, it’s pineapple juice again,” Ellsworth said. Swain left, not sure if he would be invited back. When the art student came the following week, there was a drawing on the table that had a slight resemblance to a vase. The wrinkles deepened at the corners of the old gentleman’s eyes as he asked. “Well, what do you think of it?” “Not bad, sir,” answered Swain. “But it’s not quite straight.” “Gosh,” old Ellsworth smiled, “I see. The halves don’t match.” He added a few lines with a shaking hand and colored the open spaces blue, like a child playing with a picture book. Then he looked towards the door. “Listen, young man,” he whispered, “I want to ask you something before old Pineapple Juice comes back.” “Yes, sir,” answered Swain politely. “I was thinking--- do you have the time to come twice a week, or perhaps three times?” As the weeks went by, Swain’s visits grew more frequent. When Dr. Caswell called, Ellsworth would talk about the graceful lines of the chimney or the rich variety of color in a bowl of fruit. The treatment was working perfectly. No more trips downtown to his office for the purpose of buying some business that was to fail later. No more crazy financial plans to try the strength of his tired old heart. Art was a complete cure for him. The doctor thought it safe to allow Ellsworth to visit the Metropolitan Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, and other exhibitions with Swain. An entirely new word opened up its mysteries to him. The old man showed a tremendous curiosity in the art galleries and in the painters who exhibited in them. How were the galleries run? Who selected the pictures for the exhibitions? An idea was forming in is brain. When the late spring began to cover the fields and gardens with color, Ellsworth painted a simply horrible picture which he called “Trees Dressed in White”. Then he made a surprising announcement. He was going to exhibit the picture in the summer show at the Lathrop Gallery. The summer show at the Lathrop Gallery was the biggest art exhibition of the year---in quality, if not in size. The lifetime dream of every important artist in the United States was a prize from this exhibition. Among the paintings of this distinguished group of artists, Ellsworth was now going to place his “Trees Dressed in White”, which resembled a handful of salad dressing thrown violently against the side of a house. “If the newspapers hear about this, everyone in town will be laughing at Mr. Ellsworth. We’ve got to stop him,” said Koppel. “No,” warned the doctor. “We can’t interfere with him now and take a chance of running down all the good work which we have done.” To the complete surprise of al three--- and especially Swain--- “Trees Dressed in White” was accepted for the Lathrop show. Not only was Mr. Ellsworth crazy, thought Koppel, but the Lathrop Gallery was crazy, too. Fortunately, the painting was hung in an inconspicuous place, where it did not draw any special notice or comment. During the curse of the exhibition, the old man kept on taking lessons, seldom mentioning his picture. He was unusually cheerful. Every time Swain entered the room, he found Ellsworth laughing to himself. Maybe Koppel was right. The old man was crazy. But it seemed equally strange that the Lathrop committee should encourage his craziness by accepting his picture. Two days before the close of the exhibition, a special messenger brought a long, official-looking envelope to Mr. Ellsworth while Swain, Koppel, and the doctor were in the room. “Read it to me,” said the old man. “My eyes are tired from painting.” It gives the Lathrop Gallery great pleasure to announce that the First Prize of $1000 has been awarded to Collis P. Ellsworth for his painting “Trees Dressed in White”. Swain and Koppel were so surprised that they could not say a word. Dr. Caswell, exercising his professional self-control with a supreme effort, I didn’t expect such great news. But, but---well, now, you’ll have to admit that art is much more satisfying than business.” “Art has nothing to do with it,” said the old man sharply. “I bought the Lathrop Gallery last month.” 3. What did Dr. Caswell prescribe in order to help his patient avoid further health problems?