Cool was I and logical. Keen, calculating, perspicacious, acute and astute—I was all of these.
My brain was as powerful as a dynamo, precise as a chemist’s scales, as penetrating as a
scalpel. And—think of it!—I only eighteen.
It is not often that one so young has such a giant intellect. Take, for example, Petey Bellows,
my roommate at the university. Same age, same background, but dumb as an ox. A nice
enough fellow, you understand, but nothing upstairs. Emotional type. Unstable.
Impressionable. Worst of all, a faddist. Fads, I submit, are the very negation of reason. To be
swept up in every new craze that comes along, to surrender oneself to idiocy just because
everybody else is doing it—this, to me, is the acme of mindlessness. Not, however, to Petey.
One afternoon I found Petey lying on his bed with an expression of such distress on his face
that I immediately diagnosed appendicitis. “Don’t move,” I said, “Don’t take a laxative. I’ll
get a doctor.”
“Raccoon,” he mumbled thickly.
“Raccoon?” I said, pausing in my flight.
“I want a raccoon coat,” he wailed.
I perceived that his trouble was not physical, but mental. “Why do you want a raccoon coat?”
“I should have known it,” he cried, pounding his temples. “I should have known they’d come
back when the Charleston came back. Like a fool I spent all my money for textbooks, and
now I can’t get a raccoon coat.”
“Can you mean,” I said incredulously, “that people are actually wearing raccoon coats again?”
“All the Big Men on Campus are wearing them. Where’ve you been?”
“In the library,” I said, naming a place not frequented by Big Men on Campus.
He leaped from the bed and paced the room. “I’ve got to have a raccoon coat,” he said
passionately. “I’ve got to!”
“Petey, why? Look at it rationally. Raccoon coats are unsanitary. They shed. They smell bad.
They weigh too much. They’re unsightly. They—”
“You don’t understand,” he interrupted impatiently. “It’s the thing to do. Don’t you want to
be in the swim?”
“No,” I said truthfully.
“Well, I do,” he declared. “I’d give anything for a raccoon coat. Anything!”
My brain, that precision instrument, slipped into high gear. “Anything?” I asked, looking at
him narrowly.
“Anything,” he affirmed in ringing tones.
I stroked my chin thoughtfully. It so happened that I knew where to get my hands on a
raccoon coat. My father had had one in his undergraduate days; it lay now in a trunk in the
attic back home. It also happened that Petey had something I wanted. He didn’t have it
exactly, but at least he had first rights on it. I refer to his girl, Polly Espy.
I had long coveted Polly Espy. Let me emphasize that my desire for this young woman was
not emotional in nature. She was, to be sure, a girl who excited the emotions, but I was not
one to let my heart rule my head. I wanted Polly for a shrewdly calculated, entirely cerebral
reason.
I was a freshman in law school. In a few years I would be out in practice. I was well aware of
the importance of the right kind of wife in furthering a lawyer’s career. The successful
lawyers I had observed were, almost without exception, married to beautiful, gracious,
intelligent women. With one omission, Polly fitted these specifications perfectly.
Beautiful she was. She was not yet of pin-up proportions, but I felt that time would supply the
lack. She already had the makings.
Gracious she was. By gracious I mean full of graces. She had an erectness of carriage, an ease
of bearing, a poise that clearly indicated the best of breeding. At table her manners were
exquisite. I had seen her at the Kozy Kampus Korner eating the specialty of the house—a
sandwich that contained scraps of pot roast, gravy, chopped nuts, and a dipper of sauerkraut—
without even getting her fingers moist.
Intelligent she was not. In fact, she veered in the opposite direction. But I believed that under
my guidance she would smarten up. At any rate, it was worth a try. It is, after all, easier to
make a beautiful dumb girl smart than to make an ugly smart girl beautiful.
“Petey,” I said, “are you in love with Polly Espy?”
“I think she’s a keen kid,” he replied, “but I don’t know if you’d call it love. Why?”
“Do you,” I asked, “have any kind of formal arrangement with her? I mean are you going
steady or anything like that?”
“No. We see each other quite a bit, but we both have other dates. Why?”
“Is there,” I asked, “any other man for whom she has a particular fondness?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
I nodded with satisfaction. “In other words, if you were out of the picture, the field would be
open. Is that right?”
“I guess so. What are you getting at?”
“Nothing , nothing,” I said innocently, and took my suitcase out the closet.
“Where are you going?” asked Petey.
“Home for weekend.” I threw a few things into the bag.
“Listen,” he said, clutching my arm eagerly, “while you’re home, you couldn’t get some
money from your old man, could you, and lend it to me so I can buy a raccoon coat?”
“I may do better than that,” I said with a mysterious wink and closed my bag and left.
“Look,” I said to Petey when I got back Monday morning. I threw open the suitcase and
revealed the huge, hairy, gamy object that my father had worn in his Stutz Bearcat in 1925.
“Holy Toledo!” said Petey reverently. He plunged his hands into the raccoon coat and then his
face. “Holy Toledo!” he repeated fifteen or twenty times.
“Would you like it?” I asked.
“Oh yes!” he cried, clutching the greasy pelt to him. Then a canny look came into his eyes.
“What do you want for it?”
“Your girl.” I said, mincing no words.
“Polly?” he said in a horrified whisper. “You want Polly?”
“That’s right.”
He flung the coat from him. “Never,” he said stoutly.
I shrugged. “Okay. If you don’t want to be in the swim, I guess it’s your business.”
I sat down in a chair and pretended to read a book, but out of the corner of my eye I kept
watching Petey. He was a torn man. First he looked at the coat with the expression of a waif at
a bakery window. Then he turned away and set his jaw resolutely. Then he looked back at the
coat, with even more longing in his face. Then he turned away, but with not so much
resolution this time. Back and forth his head swiveled, desire waxing, resolution waning.
Finally he didn’t turn away at all; he just stood and stared with mad lust at the coat.
“It isn’t as though I was in love with Polly,” he said thickly. “Or going steady or anything like
that.”
“That’s right,” I murmured.
“What’s Polly to me, or me to Polly?”
“Not a thing,” said I.
“It’s just been a casual kick—just a few laughs, that’s all.”
“Try on the coat,” said I.
He complied. The coat bunched high over his ears and dropped all the way down to his shoe
tops. He looked like a mound of dead raccoons. “Fits fine,” he said happily.
I rose from my chair. “Is it a deal?” I asked, extending my hand.
He swallowed. “It’s a deal,” he said and shook my hand.
I had my first date with Polly the following evening. This was in the nature of a survey; I
wanted to find out just how much work I had to do to get her mind up to the standard I
required. I took her first to dinner. “Gee, that was a delish dinner,” she said as we left the
restaurant. Then I took her to a movie. “Gee, that was a marvy movie,” she said as we left the
theatre. And then I took her home. “Gee, I had a sensaysh time,” she said as she bade me good
night.
I went back to my room with a heavy heart. I had gravely underestimated the size of my task.
This girl’s lack of information was terrifying. Nor would it be enough merely to supply her
with information. First she had to be taught to think. This loomed as a project of no small
dimensions, and at first I was tempted to give her back to Petey. But then I got to thinking
about her abundant physical charms and about the way she entered a room and the way she
handled a knife and fork, and I decided to make an effort.
I went about it, as in all things, systematically. I gave her a course in logic. It happened that I,
as a law student, was taking a course in logic myself, so I had all the facts at my fingertips.
“Poll’,” I said to her when I picked her up on our next date, “tonight we are going over to the
Knoll and talk.”
“Oo, terrif,” she replied. One thing I will say for this girl: you would go far to find another so
agreeable.
We went to the Knoll, the campus trysting place, and we sat down under an old oak, and she
looked at me expectantly. “What are we going to talk about?” she asked.
“Logic.”
She thought this over for a minute and decided she liked it. “Magnif,” she said.
“Logic,” I said, clearing my throat, “is the science of thinking. Before we can think correctly,
we must first learn to recognize the common fallacies of logic. These we will take up
tonight.”
“Wow-dow!” she cried, clapping her hands delightedly.
I winced, but went bravely on. “First let us examine the fallacy called Dicto Simpliciter.”
“By all means,” she urged, batting her lashes eagerly.
“Dicto Simpliciter means an argument based on an unqualified generalization. For example:
Exercise is good. Therefore everybody should exercise.”
“I agree,” said Polly earnestly. “I mean exercise is wonderful. I mean it builds the body and
everything.”
“Polly,” I said gently, “the argument is a fallacy. Exercise is good is an unqualified
generalization. For instance, if you have heart disease, exercise is bad, not good. Many people
are ordered by their doctors not to exercise. You must qualify the generalization. You must
say exercise is usually good, or exercise is good for most people. Otherwise you have
committed a Dicto Simpliciter. Do you see?”
“No,” she confessed. “But this is marvy. Do more! Do more!”
“It will be better if you stop tugging at my sleeve,” I told her, and when she desisted, I
continued. “Next we take up a fallacy called Hasty Generalization. Listen carefully: You can’t
speak French. Petey Bellows can’t speak French. I must therefore conclude that nobody at the
University of Minnesota can speak French.”
“Really?” said Polly, amazed. “Nobody?”
I hid my exasperation. “Polly, it’s a fallacy. The generalization is reached too hastily. There
are too few instances to support such a conclusion.”
“Know any more fallacies?” she asked breathlessly. “This is more fun than dancing even.”
I fought off a wave of despair. I was getting nowhere with this girl, absolutely nowhere. Still,
I am nothing if not persistent. I continued. “Next comes Post Hoc. Listen to this: Let’s not
take Bill on our picnic. Every time we take him out with us, it rains.”
“I know somebody just like that,” she exclaimed. “A girl back home—Eula Becker, her name
- It never fails. Every single time we take her on a picnic—”
“Polly,” I said sharply, “it’s a fallacy. Eula Becker doesn’t cause the rain. She has no
connection with the rain. You are guilty of Post Hoc if you blame Eula Becker.”
“I’ll never do it again,” she promised contritely. “Are you mad at me?”
I sighed. “No, Polly, I’m not mad.”
“Then tell me some more fallacies.”
“All right. Let’s try Contradictory Premises.”
“Yes, let’s,” she chirped, blinking her eyes happily.
I frowned, but plunged ahead. “Here’s an example of Contradictory Premises: If God can do
anything, can He make a stone so heavy that He won’t be able to lift it?”
“Of course,” she replied promptly.
“But if He can do anything, He can lift the stone,” I pointed out.
“Yeah,” she said thoughtfully. “Well, then I guess He can’t make the stone.”
“But He can do anything,” I reminded her.
She scratched her pretty, empty head. “I’m all confused,” she admitted.
“Of course you are. Because when the premises of an argument contradict each other, there
can be no argument. If there is an irresistible force, there can be no immovable object. If there
is an immovable object, there can be no irresistible force. Get it?”
“Tell me more of this keen stuff,” she said eagerly.
I consulted my watch. “I think we’d better call it a night. I’ll take you home now, and you go
over all the things you’ve learned. We’ll have another session tomorrow night.”
I deposited her at the girls’ dormitory, where she assured me that she had had a perfectly terrif
evening, and I went glumly home to my room. Petey lay snoring in his bed, the raccoon coat
huddled like a great hairy beast at his feet. For a moment I considered waking him and telling
him that he could have his girl back. It seemed clear that my project was doomed to failure.
The girl simply had a logic-proof head.
But then I reconsidered. I had wasted one evening; I might as well waste another. Who knew?
Maybe somewhere in the extinct crater of her mind a few members still smoldered. Maybe
somehow I could fan them into flame. Admittedly it was not a prospect fraught with hope, but
I decided to give it one more try.
Seated under the oak the next evening I said, “Our first fallacy tonight is called Ad
Misericordiam.”
She quivered with delight.
“Listen closely,” I said. “A man applies for a job. When the boss asks him what his
qualifications are, he replies that he has a wife and six children at home, the wife is a helpless
cripple, the children have nothing to eat, no clothes to wear, no shoes on their feet, there are
no beds in the house, no coal in the cellar, and winter is coming.”
A tear rolled down each of Polly’s pink cheeks. “Oh, this is awful, awful,” she sobbed.
“Yes, it’s awful,” I agreed, “but it’s no argument. The man never answered the boss’s
question about his qualifications. Instead he appealed to the boss’s sympathy. He committed
the fallacy of Ad Misericordiam. Do you understand?”
“Have you got a handkerchief?” she blubbered.
I handed her a handkerchief and tried to keep from screaming while she wiped her eyes.
“Next,” I said in a carefully controlled tone, “we will discuss False Analogy. Here is an
example: Students should be allowed to look at their textbooks during examinations. After all,
surgeons have X-rays to guide them during an operation, lawyers have briefs to guide them
during a trial, carpenters have blueprints to guide them when they are building a house. Why,
then, shouldn’t students be allowed to look at their textbooks during an examination?”
“There now,” she said enthusiastically, “is the most marvy idea I’ve heard in years.”
“Polly,” I said testily, “the argument is all wrong. Doctors, lawyers, and carpenters aren’t
taking a test to see how much they have learned, but students are. The situations are altogether
different, and you can’t make an analogy between them.”
“I still think it’s a good idea,” said Polly.
“Nuts,” I muttered. Doggedly I pressed on. “Next we’ll try Hypothesis Contrary to Fact.”
“Sounds yummy,” was Polly’s reaction.
“Listen: If Madame Curie had not happened to leave a photographic plate in a drawer with a
chunk of pitchblende, the world today would not know about radium.”
“True, true,” said Polly, nodding her head “Did you see the movie? Oh, it just knocked me
out. That Walter Pidgeon is so dreamy. I mean he fractures me.”
“If you can forget Mr. Pidgeon for a moment,” I said coldly, “I would like to point out that
statement is a fallacy. Maybe Madame Curie would have discovered radium at some later
date. Maybe somebody else would have discovered it. Maybe any number of things would
have happened. You can’t start with a hypothesis that is not true and then draw any
supportable conclusions from it.”
“They ought to put Walter Pidgeon in more pictures,” said Polly, “I hardly ever see him any
more.”
One more chance, I decided. But just one more. There is a limit to what flesh and blood can
bear. “The next fallacy is called Poisoning the Well.”
“How cute!” she gurgled.
“Two men are having a debate. The first one gets up and says, ‘My opponent is a notorious
liar. You can’t believe a word that he is going to say.’ … Now, Polly, think. Think hard.
What’s wrong?”
I watched her closely as she knit her creamy brow in concentration. Suddenly a glimmer of
intelligence—the first I had seen—came into her eyes. “It’s not fair,” she said with
indignation. “It’s not a bit fair. What chance has the second man got if the first man calls him
a liar before he even begins talking?”
“Right!” I cried exultantly. “One hundred per cent right. It’s not fair. The first man
has poisoned the well before anybody could drink from it. He has hamstrung his opponent
before he could even start … Polly, I’m proud of you.”
“Pshaws,” she murmured, blushing with pleasure.
“You see, my dear, these things aren’t so hard. All you have to do is concentrate. Think—
examine—evaluate. Come now, let’s review everything we have learned.”
“Fire away,” she said with an airy wave of her hand.
Heartened by the knowledge that Polly was not altogether a cretin, I began a long, patient
review of all I had told her. Over and over and over again I cited instances, pointed out flaws,
kept hammering away without letup. It was like digging a tunnel. At first, everything was
work, sweat, and darkness. I had no idea when I would reach the light, or even if I would. But
I persisted. I pounded and clawed and scraped, and finally I was rewarded. I saw a chink of
light. And then the chink got bigger and the sun came pouring in and all was bright.
Five grueling nights with this took, but it was worth it. I had made a logician out of Polly; I
had taught her to think. My job was done. She was worthy of me, at last. She was a fit wife
for me, a proper hostess for my many mansions, a suitable mother for my well-heeled
children.
It must not be thought that I was without love for this girl. Quite the contrary. Just as
Pygmalion loved the perfect woman he had fashioned, so I loved mine. I decided to acquaint
her with my feelings at our very next meeting. The time had come to change our relationship
from academic to romantic.
“Polly,” I said when next we sat beneath our oak, “tonight we will not discuss fallacies.”
“Aw, gee,” she said, disappointed.
“My dear,” I said, favoring her with a smile, “we have now spent five evenings together. We
have gotten along splendidly. It is clear that we are well matched.”
“Hasty Generalization,” said Polly brightly.
“I beg your pardon,” said I.
“Hasty Generalization,” she repeated. “How can you say that we are well matched on the
basis of only five dates?”
I chuckled with amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons well. “My dear,” I said,
patting her hand in a tolerant manner, “five dates is plenty. After all, you don’t have to eat a
whole cake to know that it’s good.”
“False Analogy,” said Polly promptly. “I’m not a cake. I’m a girl.”
I chuckled with somewhat less amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons perhaps too
well. I decided to change tactics. Obviously the best approach was a simple, strong, direct
declaration of love. I paused for a moment while my massive brain chose the proper word.
Then I began:
“Polly, I love you. You are the whole world to me, the moon and the stars and the
constellations of outer space. Please, my darling, say that you will go steady with me, for if
you will not, life will be meaningless. I will languish. I will refuse my meals. I will wander
the face of the earth, a shambling, hollow-eyed hulk.”
There, I thought, folding my arms, that ought to do it.
“Ad Misericordiam,” said Polly.
I ground my teeth. I was not Pygmalion; I was Frankenstein, and my monster had me by the
throat. Frantically I fought back the tide of panic surging through me; at all costs I had to keep
cool.
“Well, Polly,” I said, forcing a smile, “you certainly have learned your fallacies.”
“You’re darn right,” she said with a vigorous nod.
“And who taught them to you, Polly?”
“You did.”
“That’s right. So you do owe me something, don’t you, my dear? If I hadn’t come along you
never would have learned about fallacies.”
“Hypothesis Contrary to Fact,” she said instantly.
I dashed perspiration from my brow. “Polly,” I croaked, “you mustn’t take all these things so
literally. I mean this is just classroom stuff. You know that the things you learn in school
don’t have anything to do with life.”
“Dicto Simpliciter,” she said, wagging her finger at me playfully.
That did it. I leaped to my feet, bellowing like a bull. “Will you or will you not go steady with
me?”
“I will not,” she replied.
“Why not?” I demanded.
“Because this afternoon I promised Petey Bellows that I would go steady with him.”
I reeled back, overcome with the infamy of it. After he promised, after he made a deal, after
he shook my hand! “The rat!” I shrieked, kicking up great chunks of turf. “You can’t go with
him, Polly. He’s a liar. He’s a cheat. He’s a rat.”
“Poisoning the Well ,” said Polly, “and stop shouting. I think shouting must be a fallacy too.”
With an immense effort of will, I modulated my voice. “All right,” I said. “You’re a logician.
Let’s look at this thing logically. How could you choose Petey Bellows over me? Look at
me—a brilliant student, a tremendous intellectual, a man with an assured future. Look at
Petey—a knothead, a jitterbug, a guy who’ll never know where his next meal is coming from.
Can you give me one logical reason why you should go steady with Petey Bellows?”
“I certainly can,” declared Polly. “He’s got a raccoon coat.”