Frankly, Vag was up a tree. Four thousand romantic souls were crowded around the "Greeting Card" counter in most unromantic proximity, and there was an imminent danger that the riot squad would have to be called out to resuscitate an aggressive little lady rapidly languishing in the midst of the press. Four determined looking Radcliffe girls were badgering a defenseless and bewildered football player into a neutral corner. And Vag doggedly circled the outskirts of the mob, looking for a weak spot to assail. Around him reared the walls of the edifice Mr. Woolworth had built of all the little nickels and times.

Finally, a burly policeman who could not stand the gaff, passed out with a loud expiration, and Vag leaped over his prostrate body to grab a handful of Valentine cards--frilly ones with Cupids and lace, uproarious ones with embarrassed beans, and sentimental ones with honey sayings. Wrapping one arm around a leg of the counter, in order to retain his locus, he tried to decide what kind of a Valentine an athletic girl with blend hair and a tremendous appetite for expensive Scotch would like. Despairing of any rational choice, Vag grabbed the nearest "billet doux," threw a dime to the girl with the pasty smile, and releasing his hold on the counter leg, flew through the swinging door on a single bounce.

Once outside, Vag found envelopes were a nickel extra at the far end of the aforementioned counter. The prospect of another struggle with the tender-hearted seemed completely appalling, and yet it was certain that Uncle Sam would not deliver his heartfelt sentiments in their present undressed condition. Driven to desperation by the necessity to express the innermost feelings of his soul, Vag ran to the nearest postoffice and inscribed his touching message on a penny postcard: "Give, Baby, this is leap year."