As he limped through the door, Diogenes hurried to meet him, held up his
lantern, peered hopefully into the battered face and shook his
disappointed head. "Stung again!" muttered Diogenes.

Jeff lisped in numbers which fully verified the cynic's misgiving.
"7--11--4--11--44!" he announced jerkily. This was strictly in character
and also excused him from entangling talk, leaving him free to search
the whirl of dancers.

A bulky Rough Rider volunteered his help. He fixed a gleaming eyeglass
on his nose and politely offered Jeff a Big Stick by way of a crutch.
"Hit the line hard!" he barked. He bit the words off with a
prize-bulldog effect. He had fine teeth.

Jeff waved him off. "16--2--1!" he proclaimed controversially. He felt
his spirits sinking, with a growing doubt of his ability to identify the
Only One, and was impatient of interruption. He kept his slow and
watchful way down the floor.

Topsy broke away from her partner and stopped Jeff's crippled progress.
Her short hair, braided to a dozen tight and tiny pigtails, bristled
away in all directions.

"Laws, young marsta', you suhtenly does look puny!" she said. Then she
clutched at her knee. "_Aie!_" she tittered, as a loose red stocking
dropped flappingly to her ankle. Pray do not be shocked. The effect was
startling; but a black stocking, decorously tight and smooth, was
beneath the red one. Jeff's mathematics were not equal to the strain of
adequate comment. Topsy dived to the rescue. "Got a string?" she
giggled, as she hitched the fallen stocking back to place. "I cain't fix
this good nohow!"

Jeff jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Man over there with an
eyeglass cord--maybe you can get that. What makes you act so?" He looked
cold disapproval; nevertheless, he looked.

Topsy hung her head, still clutching at the stocking-top. "Dunno. I
spec's it's 'cause Ise so wicked!" Finger in mouth, she looked after
Jeff as he hobbled away.

A slender witch bounced from a chair and barred his way with a broom.
Her eyes were brimming sorcery; her lips looked saucy challenge; she
leaned close for a whispered word in his ear: "How would you like to
tackle me?"

Poor Jeff! "10, 2--10, 2!" he promised huskily. Yet he ducked beneath
the broom.

"But," said the little witch plaintively, "you're going away!" She
dropped her broom and wept.

"8, 2--8, 2--8, 2!" said Jeff, almost in tears himself, and again fell
back upon English. "Mere figures or mere words can't