thought was numbered 18, was
actually 81. I had inadvertently glanced at it upside down. Had the
Roman numeral system been used, as I have long advocated, this
unfortunate accident could not have occurred: a XVIII cannot be mistaken
for LXXXI no matter which way it is turned!

Be that as it may, number 18 flashed on the board in a surprisingly
short time and I hastened to obtain the book from the extremely harried
young lady behind the counter. I returned to my chair at one of the long
reading tables. When I opened the book, which was of a disturbing blue
color, I was highly irritated to learn that this was not a biography of
Publilius Syrus; furthermore it was not even in Latin. I removed my
glasses to make certain (someday I shall simply _have_ to get bifocals)
and saw that it was a foreign cookbook.

Annoyed, I snatched the book from the table and started to return to the
counter. As I did so, a green slip of paper fluttered from between the
pages. I glanced at it idly. There was an address on it, scrawled in
almost illegible block letters. "432 West 28th Street." Being of a tidy
nature, I slipped the bit of paper into my pocket and turned, only to
find my way blocked by a rather large man wearing a trench coat with
upturned collar. He tapped the book significantly and whispered,
"Eight-thirty tonight. You know the place."

With that he strode rapidly from the room, giving me no chance to ask
him what he was talking about. Irritated, I returned to the counter
where a smallish man, wearing a loud-checked suit was arguing with the
young lady. He was holding a number card.

"But I tell you," said the harassed young lady, "number 18 was flashed
on the board and the book was picked up."

The little man clucked impatiently and waved the card. "But I have
number 18," he said shrilly, "and I must have the book!"

Normally I am not a fast thinker. Years of teaching Roman history to
classes of dozing students, interested only in easy credits, are not
reckoned to sharpen one's wits. However, I instantly realized what must
have happened. I tapped the little man on the shoulder.

"Pardon me, sir," I whispered, "is this your book?" He whirled around
violently. He had a thin, sharp-pointed face with deep-set eyes, heavy
brow and a receding chin that terminated in a little scrub of a beard.
Rudely he snatched the book from my hand and began leafing through it
with shaking fingers.

I started to say, "If Roman numerals had