.

''Look,'' I exclaimed to Pete when I got back to our room, first thing, Monday morning. I threw open my suitcase to reveal the huge, hairy, gamy object that my father had worn in his Stutz Bearcat in 1925.

''Holy Toledo!'' shrieked Pete reverently. He plunged his hands into the raccoon coat, and then his face. ''Holy Toledo!'' He repeated at least fifteen, or twenty, times.

Innocently, I asked, ''Would you like it?''

''Oh, yes!'' he cried, clutching that greasy pelt to him. Then a canny look came into his eyes. he asked, ''what do you want for it?''

''Your girl,'' I said, mincing no words.

''Polly?'' he asked in a horrified whisper. ''You want Polly?''

''That's right,'' I smiled.

He flung the coat away from him. ''Never,'' he said stoutly.

I shrugged, ''Okay. If you don't want to be in the swim of things, I guess that 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 Pete. 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 he head swiveled, desire waxing; resolution waning. Finally, he didn't turn away at all; he just stood there and stared with mad lust at the coat.

''It isn't as though I was in love with Polly,'' he mumbled thickly. ''Or going steady, or anything like that.''

''That's right,'' I murmured.

''What's Polly to me?'' He continued, ''Or me to Polly?''

''Not a thing,'' I suggested.

''It's just been a casual kick -- just a few laughs, that's all,'' he rationalized.

''Try on the coat,'' I offered.

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 muttered ecstatically.

I rose from my chair. ''Is it a deal?'' I asked, extending my hand?

He swallowed hard. ''It's a deal,'' he said, and he shook my hand.

I had my first date with Polly the following evening. This outing was to be 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 standards 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 theater. 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 to merely supply her with information. First she must be taught to think. This loomed as a project of no small dimensions and, at first, I was tempted to give her back to Pete. But then I got to thinking about her abundant physical charms, about the way she entered a room, and about the way she handled a knife and fork. I decided to make the effort.

I went about it, as I do all things, systematically. I would give her a course in logic. It just so happened that I, as a law student, was taking a course in logic myself, so I had all of the facts at my finger tips. ''Polly,'' I said when I picked her up for our next date, ''tonight, let's go over to the Knoll and talk.''

''Oo, terrif,'' she replied. One thing I will say for this girl: you would go a long way before you find another so agreeable.

We went to the Knoll, the campus trysting place, and we sat down under an old oak tree, and she looked up at me expectantly. She asked, ''what are we going to talk about?''

''Logic,'' I replied.

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 eyelashes eagerly.

Dicto Simpliciter means an argument based on an unqualified generalization. For example: 'Exercise is good. Therefore everyone should exercise.'''

''I agree,'' said Polly earnestly. ''I mean, exercise is wonderful. 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 would be better if you would please stop tugging at my sleeve,'' I told her, and when she desisted, I continued. ''Next we will take up a fallacy called Hasty Generalization. Listen carefully: You can't speak French. I can't speak French. Pete Bellows can't speak French. I must therefore conclude that nobody at the University of Minnesota can speak French.''

''Really?'' asked Polly, amazed. ''Nobody?''

I tried to hide my exasperation. ''Polly, it's a fallacy. The generalization is reached too hastily. There are too few instances to support such a conclusion.''

She breathlessly asked, ''know any more fallacies? This is more fun than dancing, even.''

I fought off a wave of despair. I was getting nowhere with this girl, absolutely nowhere. Still, if nothing else, I am persistent. I continued. ''Next comes Post Hoc. Listen to this: Let's not take Bill on our picnic. Everytime we take him out with us, it rains.''

''I know somebody just like that,'' she exclaimed. ''A girl back home -- her name is Eula Becker. it never fails. Every single time we take her on a picnic-----''

''Polly,'' I cut her off 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.''

''Oh, I'll never do it again,'' she promised contritely. ''Are you mad at me?''

I sighed, ''No, Polly, I'm not mad at you.''

''Then tell me some more neat fallacies,'' she beamed.

''All right. Let's try Contradictory Premises.''

''Yes, let's,'' she chirped, batting her eyes happily.

I frowned, but went 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 instantly.

''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 your 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 demanded eagerly.

I consulted my watch. ''I think we'd better call it a night. I'll take you home now, and we'll go over the things you've learned. We'll have another session tomorrow night.''

I deposited her back at the girl's dormitory, where she assured me that she had had a ''perfectly terrif'' evening, and I went glumly back to my room. Pete 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. This 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 embers still smoldered. Maybe somehow I could fan them into a flame. Admittedly, this was not a prospect fraught with great hope, but I decided to give it one more try.

Seated under our old oak tree the next evening, I said, ''Our first fallacy tonight is called Ad Misercordiam.''

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, 'I have a wife and six children at home. My wife is a helpless cripple. The children have nothing to eat. They have 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 on.'''

A tear rolls 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 Misercordiam. Do you understand?''

''Have you got a handerchief?'' she blubbered.

I handed her my handerchief 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 assist them during a trial, and carpenters have blueprints to help them when they are building a house. Why, then, shouldn't students be allowed to look at their textbooks during an exam?''

''There, now,'' Polly replied enthusiastically. ''That 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 cannot make a valid analogy between them.''

''I still think it's a good idea,'' pouted 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 really fractures me.''

''If you could please forget Mr. Pidgeon for a moment,'' I said coldly, ''I would like to point out that the statement is a fallacy. Maybe Madame Curie would have discovered radium at some later date. Maybe someone else would have discovered it. Maybe any number of things would have happened. You can't start with an hypothesis that is not true and then draw a supportable conclusions from it.''

''Thery 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 man gets up and says, 'Ladies and Gentlemen, my opponent is a notorious liar. You can't believe a word that he is going to say to you ....' 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 begins to talk?''

''Right!'' I exclaimed. ''One hundred percent right! It's not fair. The first man has poisoned the well before anybody could drink from it. He hamstrung his opponent before he could even start. Polly, I'm proud of you.''

''Pshaw,'' 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,'' Polly 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 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 that chink got bigger, and bigger. Finally, the sunshine came pouring in, and all was bright.

Five grueling nights 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 would now be 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 dear girl. Quite the contrary was true. Just as Pygmalion loved the perfect woman he had fashioned, so I loved mine. I decided to acquaint her with my feelings at our next meeting. The time had come to change our relationship from academic to romantic.

''Polly,'' I said when next we sat beneath our old oak tree, ''tonight we'll not talk about fallacies.''

''Aw, gee,'' she said disappointedly.

''My dear,'' I said, favoring her with a smile, ''we have now spent five evenings together. We've gotten along splendidly. It is clear that we are well matched for each other.''

''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 the 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 much less amusement. The dear child had learned her lesson, 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 words. Then I began:

''Polly, I love you. You are the whole world to me, and 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 within me. At all costs, I had to keep my cool.

''Well, Polly,'' I said, forcing a smile, ''you certainly have learned your fallacies.''

''You're darn right,'' she concurred 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? After all, if I hadn't come along you would have never learned about fallacies.''

''Hypothesis Contrary to Fact,'' she said instantly.

I splashed perspiration from my brow. ''Polly,'' I croaked, ''you must not take all of 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 real life.''

''Dicto Simpliciter,'' she said, wagging her finger at me playfully.

That did it. I lept to my feet, bellowing like a bull. ''Will you, or will you not, go steady with me?''

''I will not,'' she calmly replied.

''Why not?'' I demanded.

''Because this afternoon I promised Pete Bellows that I would so steady with him.''

I reeled back, overcome by the infamy of it all. 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 steady with him, Polly. He's a liar. He's a cheat. He's a rat!''

''Poisoning The Well,'' said Polly softly, ''and stop shouting. I think shouting should 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 can you choose Pete Bellows over me? Look at me -- a brilliant student, a tremendous intellectual, a man with an assured future. Then look at Pete -- 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 Pete Bellow and not me? Just one?''