And he worked for a while, but his fine dancing togs
Got bedraggled—he’d fallen asprawl in the flood,
Where he floundered around in the water and mud,
Till they grappled him out. Oh! it seemed such a shame!
He looked at his raiment, he spoke of his fame;
He declared he just knew he looked worse than the hound
That had gone with the barn from the acre of ground.
Then ev’ry one felt they had lost their last chance,
Whilst the “Oracle” stood like a man in a trance—
He had lost his fine book of dance-calls, with its verses,