 Time once again for another comedy episode of All-Miss Brooks. All-Miss, many women are faced with the problem of either buying a new coat or making last year's due. All-Miss Brooks, who teaches English at Madison High School, is rather lucky in this respect, as her winter coat is right in style this year. It certainly is. Of course I must admit that there were times in the past ten years when I doubted that the coat would ever be in style again. But after all the wear it's taken, it's pretty much of a wreck. And last week I decided that somehow I had to get myself a new one. I discussed the problem at breakfast Wednesday morning with my landlady. Why don't you try Sherry's department store, Connie? They've got a lovely coat department. They've got lovely prices too, Mrs. Davis. Well, there must be something you can afford that'll keep you warm. Oh, there is. It's just that I don't like to go to school wearing a surplus army blanket. I wish I could help you, dear, but with the holidays to close and all right. Oh, please, Mrs. Davis. I wouldn't think of borrowing from you. Why, if I just had the money I owe you for back rent, I could buy two coats. I wish you wouldn't talk that way, Connie. It makes me feel guilty. I guess you'll just have to make sure. Your old winter coat? Excuse me. Have you seen the old gray thing lately, Mrs. Davis? No, dear, but you keep it. I left it draped over a living room chair last night to air out. If it hasn't rejoined the wolf pack, it's still there. All for heaven's sake. Was that your coat? I'll bring it right in off the clothesline. Off the clothesline? Yes, I mistook it for an old rug this morning. Why, I must have beat that thing for 20 minutes. Well, good. It deserves it. Let's let it hang there until after breakfast. So that's your coat. While I was quacking away, I said to myself, why am I quacking away? This thing isn't really good enough to step on anyway. Now I know I need a new coat. Say, maybe if I wrote my folks a letter explaining my predicament, oh, no, that wouldn't work. Why not? They'd write me explaining theirs. Oh, I'm glad you mentioned letters here. I meant to return a letter to the postman that came three days ago. What kind of a letter? It was addressed to a Mr. Luther Snead in care of Margaret Davis. Now, I know that Margaret Davis lives here because I'm Margaret Davis. But there's certainly no Luther Snead. Oh, but there is, Mrs. Davis. I'm Luther Snead. Oh, maybe I'm going to get you a glass of water, do you? Oh, there's nothing wrong with me, Mrs. Davis. Where's the letter? Right here on the sideboard. I've got to see what it says. Mrs. Davis, I've won. I've won the contest. Good. I always knew you had to do new Luther. Thank you for contest. Did you win? Last Saturday's football contest in the morning just passed. Really? But you get for winning. A gift certificate at Cherry Store for a $75 man's suit. That's nice. Very good health care. You don't understand, Mrs. Davis. The football contest was open only to men. That's why I had to enter under an assumed name. Oh, I didn't think you were so interested in football. Well, I'm not. But Mr. Boyden has been needling me lately about my lack of knowledge of the sport. So to keep him quiet, I decided to prove I knew as much as anybody. Well, he certainly proves it all right. However, did you manage to pick all those winners with a good thick blindfold and your hat pin? Isn't it wonderful, Mrs. Davis? Now I can sell this certificate at the bargain rate to some man and get enough for a down payment on a new winter coat. Of course you can. You can sell it to somebody at school, a teacher, perhaps. Oh, I couldn't afford to sell at that cheese. No, Mrs. Davis. You know, the only one at school who might be able to buy it is Mr. Conklin. Yes, all I'll have to do is to convince him that he needs a new suit badly and I'm sure I can make a deal. I hope so, dear. Would you like some more coffee? No, thanks. I haven't got time. Walter Denton isn't picking me up this morning, so I'd better get going. What's the matter with Walter? Nothing's the matter with him. It's his car. He had a little trouble with a wheel yesterday. A wheel? Yes, it's rolled down the sewer. Is there any position to you? After all, he is the editor of the Madison Monitor. He's a lame-brained dunce. That's what he is. Met. Wanting to start a football contest in the school paper. I'm unalterably opposed to contests of any kind. I consider them a corrupted influence, eroding the minds of young and older-like and distracting people from more useful pursuit. But what was that cheek you were studying last night, Daddy, for when you tore out of the newspaper? I don't know what you're talking about. Don't you remember? It had the names of a lot of colleges on it with numbers after them. Numbers? Yes. It said Illinois by 10 point over Northwestern and Stanford minus 6 over California. Er, the discussion is terminated. I was only perusing that column in an effort to fathom what people saw in such context. Now, I'm quite busy, Harriet, so I'll appreciate it if you'll just go... Come in! ...leave my office at once. My visits are getting shorter all the time. I was speaking to my daughter, Miss Brooks, to you later, sir. All right, Daddy. Goodbye, Miss Brooks. Hello, Harriet. Why, but you're looking well, Mr. Conker. I don't know how you managed to do it, but you always look so chipper in the morning. Thank you. Now, if you'll tell me what it is... I think your suit has a lot to do with it. If you don't mind my saying so, sir, it's my favorite one. In fact, it has been for some time. I'm glad you like it. Now, if... Oh, I'm not alone in the opinion, Miss Conker. Every teacher at Madison who has an ounce of sentiment likes that suit. Sentiment? Yes, sir. You know, there are certain things that we teachers look forward to each day. The old cracked brick walk out front, the old ivy clinging to the old walls, the old initial taps into the old desk, and your suit. Well, I admit, Miss Brooks, that this suit isn't new, but it just so happens that my wife is crazy about it. She told me, and in other times, how much she likes to see me in it. Oh, so do we all, Mr. Conker, and we love to see you in it. And we like to see ourselves in it, too. Many of the time, I've followed you down the hall, powdering my nose. That will do, Miss Brooks. If this suit seems a bit shiny to you, it's only because of the nature of the garment itself. You see, it's a fact. Ain't it the truth? Isn't it? But, after all, why should you care how you look? You're just a hard-working principal of a high school. Not some wealthy plumber. Information, Miss Brooks, I care a great deal about my appearance. In fact, I was on my way downtown yesterday to see about a new outfit. Oh, now that is a coincidence, Mr. Conker. It just happened. I never got there, of course. Thanks to the involved discussion I got into with Madison's idiotic editor, Walter Denton, imagine that oath wanting to hold a football contest in the monitor. Well, he knows where I stand on such coal-duggery now. Coal-duggery? I consider contests of all types of nothing but a low form of gambling, and newspapers or anyone else who sponsors them are accessories to the delinquency of the community. Moreover, anyone under my jurisdiction, teacher or student who is caught participating will have to answer to me. Now then, why did you stop by my office, Miss Brooks? I just wanted the power of my nose. I thought you might want to tell me about something, some extra words I could do for you. Stop percolating and speak. Oh, what's the certificate you're touching in your hand? What certificate? Oh, let's see there. Hmm, a $75 gift order on the men's clothing department of Sherrys from the morning dispatch and made out to Luther Snead. Miss Brooks, what are you doing with Luther Snead's certificate? Nothing, Mr. Constance. You see, I'm Luther Snead. Yes, sir, that's me, Luther Snead in the flesh. You're not a well-warmer. I don't know how or when, but maybe you've been working too hard? No, sir, it's just a non-depluse. I see. And this gift order, is this some sort of a prize, Miss Brooks? A prize for participating in some obnoxious contest or other? Me? Enter a contest knowing how you feel about it? You did, didn't you? Why are you jumping to conclusions, Mr. Constance? Don't you conceive it is possible that I could receive this gift order for sending in the best poem of the week? Well, it is possible. It is? I mean, of course it is. But that's what I did. Naturally, I was a little shy about my first writing effort, so I took him of the name. But why a man's name? Well, lots of women have written under men's name. There was George Elliott, George Sand, Edgar Allan Poe. Edgar Allan Poe? His real name was Edna. Now, it's all right with you, sir. I'm still very suspicious of your connection with this certificate, Miss Brooks. But, sir, the only reason I came in here this morning was to sell it as a bargain prize. If you receive this award for anything other than the writing for poems, say, for having entered one of those degrading and nefarious... You want to sell it as a bargain? Yes, sir. Would you give me fifty dollars for it? Are you suggesting that your principal become a party to some underhanded and evil practice? Some insidious and distasteful affair? Some character-destroying temptation? I'll give you thirty. What is the worth of me? You wouldn't want to arouse my suspicions again, would you? Now, now, here's the money. And let's keep this little transaction strictly to ourselves. Is that understood? Yes, sir. Good day, Miss Brooks. Just fair, Mr. Concom. A deal like that is enough to make you grow straight. Thirty dollars for an award that... We're using for interrupting, Miss Brooks, but hello. Oh, hello, Walder. Get down to Mr. Concom's office, won't you? I could tell by the way you were talking to yourself. Yes. Well, I've got to get to class, Walder. He's on a big anti-contest kick, isn't he? So I've heard. Gee, every guy in school enters those dispatch contests. I hope nobody around here won this past week, though. Why? Well, because I was down to Sherry's yesterday to get some sneakers. And it's a photographer there from the dispatch. A photographer? Yes, ma'am. He's there to take a picture of the winner when he shows up to cash his gift certificate. See, the picture will probably land on the front page. And, Miss Brooks, what's the matter if you look pale? Are you going to faint? That's the best idea I've heard all morning. Move over. Next time came, I met Mr. Boynton in the school cafeteria and poured out my miserable story. He listened attentively. And after careful consideration, Mr. Boynton came through with one of his customary, clear-headed and sympathetic statements. I sure hate to be in your shoes. It would be a little crowded at that. But that's hardly an answer to my problem, Mr. Boynton. Vera, I'm so upset I can't even eat. Nothing should be that upsetting, Miss Brooks. Now, let's see if I've got this thing straight. You won this football contest under an assumed name, right? Right, Luther Smith. And then you sold the gift certificate calling for a man's suit to Mr. Conklin after telling him you received it for sending in a poem, right? Right. You promised to keep the transaction a secret. And now, knowing Mr. Conklin is violently opposed to giveaway games, you learn that a photographer is waiting to take a picture when he goes down to cash in the prize, right? Right. You know something, Miss Brooks? What? Now I can't eat either. Oh, if only I didn't sell the certificate to him. It's my feeling exactly. Well, certainly you could have thought of some faculty member who might need a new suit. Didn't it occur to you that I might be open to a suggestion? Right. After four years, no. That is, I didn't think you'd want to spend the money. Well, as I see it, there's only one way out for you, Miss Brooks. All right. You hold the steak knife and I'll call on it. No, no, no. You've got to get the certificate back from Mr. Conklin. He's just starting his lunch over by the window. But he thinks he got a great bargain at $30. He'll never sell it back to me. There are other ways of getting things, Miss Brooks. Let's see. He's probably got the slip in his inside coat pocket. All you've got to do is get it out of there without his knowledge, and your worries are over. At least for five years, so my parole comes up. You can return his money later. Meanwhile, you have your prize back. Yes, but if I go down to Sherry's and get my picture taken, you'll know I lied about the poem. And if I don't go down, I'm out of $30. Well, not necessarily. I'll take the certificate off your hands. You will, Mr. Martin? Well, certainly. I'll be happy to give you $20 for it. But we haven't time for financial details. You've got to get your hands on Mr. Coughlin's coat. Yes, but how? Well, right in front of him is a plate of food, cup of coffee, and so forth. If something accidentally spilled on him, one could volunteer to have his coat cleaned for him. Couldn't one? One could do the best cleaning job one ever saw. Mr. Martin, your period of indoctrination is over. You've made the varsity. Now wait here and keep your fingers crossed. Good luck, Miss Brooks. Good afternoon, Mr. Coughlin. Are you enjoying your lunch? So far. Have you and Mr. Martin finished yours? Oh, did you see us all the way across the room? I did. Your conspiratorial hubble was unmistakable. Conspiratorial? It looked like a meeting of the underground. That's a hot one, Mr. Coughlin. May I sit down? You may sit down on one condition, Mr. Coughlin. What's that? That you do not spill anything on my coat and then offer to clean it in a feeble attempt to regain the certificate you sold me this morning because you can get more money for it elsewhere. Yeah. Well, bye. What are we doing in Sherry's department store? We're here to carry out a last-ditch scheme called Operation Get Rid of Photography. Now if Mr. Coughlin comes down here and his picture appears in the...wait a minute. That must be the man from the dispatch over by the clothing dummy. Which one? He's the one with the camera. Look, Mr. Martin, I'll go over first. All you have to do is give me a short time to get the old charm working, and then you stroll over. But, Miss Brooks, what do I do when I... Just react normally, Mr. Martin, and leave the rest to me. See you in a few moments. Mr. Martin, pardon me, but could you tell me where I can find the lady's coast department? You handsome dog you. Shuffle up, lady. I'm married. Oh, I see you have a camera with you. You must be a newspaper photographer. I can't think of anything more fascinating than being a newspaper photographer. I've been married for 18 years. It's such interesting work. I've got three kids. You know, I've always wanted to learn something about photography. I bet a sweet, patient, intelligent person like yourself could teach me plenty. Two of them are bigger than I am. Look, lady, I'm here to take a picture for the dispatch. That's my job, and that's all I can do. Mr. Boynton, thank heavens you got here in time to protect me. To protect you from what? From this masher, that's what. Masher? Masher? This bus next slide to get fresh with me. Fresh? Fresh? Let's not stand around like the Andrews sisters. Stranger made advances, Mr. Boynton. What did he do, Miss Brooks? He asked me for my phone number. He did? I did. If he did, Mr. Boynton, can I just stand there doing nothing? I'm sorry. I'm sorry. The number is Ridgeview 844. Phone number? Are you going to stand idly by and let these insults go on event? Don't you think you ought to ask this man to go out in the back with you for a while, Mr. Boynton? Out in the back? Yes. If you don't want to trash him within an inch of his life, you could at least break his camera. But that's the way he makes his living. Oh. Well, if you don't want to defend my honor, I'll just have to defend it myself. Come on, fresh guy. Let's go out in the back of the store. Not me. You've got the rich on me. Miss Brooks and Mr. Boynton. Hello, Harriet. How are you, Mr. Conklin? Fine, thanks, Morton. How do you, Mr. Brooks? Harriet is going to help me select the suit that's coming to me on this gift certificate that I just... Mr. Conklin, I'd like you to meet the photographer from the Morning Dispatch. Photographer from the Morning Dispatch, Mr. Conklin, principal of Madison High School. Mr. Conklin, principal of Madison High School, the photographer from the Morning Dispatch. How do you do? Oh, Mr. Conklin. Could you tell me who this lady is? Lady? Oh! Oh, Miss Brooks. She's a teacher at Madison High. No wonder I'm glad I never got past grammar school. Mr. Conklin, I'm supposed to get the picture of the winner of last week's football contest. If you've got a certificate... I do not participate in any moronic contest, young man. This certificate happens to be made out to Luther Snead. Yes, and I'm Luther Snead. You could have formed me. But I'm not here to take Luther Snead's picture. You're not? No, that's the name that got a duplicate prize. He, she, or it was the only one in the history of the contest who ever picked every single game wrong. Wrong? I knew that hat pin was crooked. I mean, there must be some mistake. When I wrote my poem... And let's stop this gibberish, if you please. Tell me, Mr. Photographer, who was the actual winner of last week's football contest? A guy named Geronimo Crowninchield. Geronimo Crowninchield? But that's the name on the letter that came to our house. Where is it, child? Let's have it handed over. Hand it over quick. Well, here it is, Daddy. Will you give it to the postman? Don't bet on it. I'll just hang on to this for a while, Harriet. You never know when Geronimo will return to our house. Return? Certainly. He was that friend of mine from out where. Friend? Don't you remember with all those scouts dangling from his belt? He was the one who spent the week in our spare room, Harriet. But, Daddy, I've been sleeping in our spare room for months now. I meant the spare room over the garage. I'd like to get this straightened out. One minute, please. Daddy, there's no spare room over the garage. Here is, in particular, where he sleeps. Are you Geronimo? I said, are you Geronimo? Oh! Why did you kick my ankle, Miss Brooke? Oh, what's a little kick to a big Indian chief like you? Oh, Geronimo, you had his letter. You mean Mr. Boynton? No, Geronimo Crowninchield is Mr. Boynton. He just teaches under that name. Now just a moment. Another Geronimo Crowninchield, Mr. Conklin. Now, may I remind you that the photographer is waiting to take a picture of the winner of the football contest. And if your picture is snapped with him, it will not only appear on the front page of the dispatch, but will be reprinted in the Madison Monitor. And anyone who has come out so violently against contest... Enough! Harriet, hand Geronimo his letter. Yes, Daddy. If you will all excuse me now, I'd like to have a little chat with my daughter. Goodbye, Harriet. Goodbye, Mr. Boynton. Come along, you dear, dear... This is anything less of you. Now about this picture... Look, lady, I'm confused. Luther Snead is a woman. There are a minimum of two Geronimo Crowninchields, and I almost got clobbered for just getting out of bed today. If my editor wants any pictures in this joint, he can get them himself. But I'd like to explain it. Don't bother. Just wear your certificate in good health. Go along, brown eyes. It's just as well as no publicity, Mr. Boynton. It would only inflame Geronimo Conklin. Well, I still don't know exactly what happened, but the certificate called for a $75 suit, Miss Brooks, and since I owe it all to your effort, I'm going to give you $25 in cash. $25? Yes, and honestly, Miss Brooks, I could kiss you for what you've done. You could kiss me and give me $25? Of course. Well, better kiss me first. You may have change coming.