“I’m no astrologer,” Jawn explained, “but I have eyes in my head. Now, anyone can see how mystical and sonorous is the number seventy-seven. If you multiply the first digit by the second digit you get forty-nine; and if you divide immediately by the second digit you get the golden number seven. If you add the first digit to the second digit you get fourteen, which divided by the number of digits, two you get back your golden number seven. And there you have four golden number sevens dancing before you like a bunch of four-leaf clover.”
“And if you subtract the first digit from the second digit,” Richard suggested, “you get nothing.”
“Precisely!” cried Jawn. “And in the occult language of figurology any novice would read, ‘Here endeth the list of heart-broken maidens; behold! there will be no more!’”
“Jawn,” said Richard, “I think I know the reason why you always fail.”
“Fail!” Jawn exploded. “I never fail. The sad part of the business is that I always succeed. Scattered over the eastern and middle-western United States are seventy-six forlorn women of all years who are now hopelessly married to men they must hate. For why? When Lazarus came back from the gates of Paradise do you suppose he ever again took delight in the left-overs from Dives’ table? No more they. But what could I do? Unbidden the amorous passion came and swift and unbidden it went. So what could I do but write their names in a book, add the date of their amorous demise——”
“Which always corresponded to the date of their wedding!”
“Exactly. You wouldn’t have me getting mixed up with the unwritten laws of the land, would you? I simply write their names and add a touching obituary limerick.”
Richard suggested that the seventy-seventh limerick—since Jawn was so assured that it would be the last—should end the series, and that the collection be published.
“It would add to your fame as a poet,” Richard argued, “immortalize the ladies in everlasting verse and bring you a financial heart-balm.”
Jawn mused over the possible titles. “‘The Seventy-seven Amours,’” he tried out one. “Sounds too much like a history of Chicago.... ‘Love Limericks.’ No. There’s a female touch to that that I don’t like.... Ah! I have it! ‘Love Limericks of a Left-tenant.’ It’s thoroughly male and gives the proper Irish picture of a forcible eviction!”