But alas, the invaders had razed the stump to the ground, apparently out of wanton malice, for they had made no use of it.  All over and around it were strewn plus-signs, minus-signs, and other weapons; and Sara noticed that the dots from the divided-by signs were rolling about everywhere on the withered grass.  Manifestly, Schlorge could not get upon the fallen stump, through such a thicket of debris, and he dared not move them nor step on them; besides, it is doubtful if he could have told Sara about it unless the stump were right side up.

At this juncture, however, Pirlaps stepped boldly forward and once more offered Schlorge his step.  Schlorge sprang upon it without noticing the chocolate, but he was so agitated that he put his left hand into his bosom and his right behind his back, instead of the other way around.  However, it was in a loud, firm voice, with fierce, defiant looks at the invaders, that he informed Sara: 

“The Fractions came down like a wolf on the fold: 
Their ears are acute but their noses are cold. 
They know nothing of poetry, music or art—­
So why in Sam Hill should they think they’re so smart?”

“Why in Zeelup?” corrected the Teacup, from above, in a tremulous, weeping voice; but even had it been louder it would have been drowned in the clamor that rose from the tables.

“Silence, impudent clown!” roared the fat, fierce-looking Multiplicand.  “Ignoramus! nothing of music!  Why, you don’t know Common Time!”

Sara quaked; only yesterday she had got all tangled up trying to tell the difference between three-four time and two-four time; and she knew Schlorge was wrong and the dreadful creature was right.  But Schlorge was beside himself with fury and beyond the reach of fear or reason.

“Oh, go on!” he shouted fiercely.  “You don’t know nothing about the insides of music—­that’s only the outsides!  Besides, what time does a bird sing by?  That’s music, ain’t it?”

But before the Multiplicand could answer, his henchman, the Multiplier, called out, “And what do you know of art, Oaf?  Don’t you know that modern art is colored geometry?”

“And poetry?” squeaked the Quotient, fiercely, “Don’t poets have to count their feet to write poems?”

But at that juncture they were all electrified to see Avrillia stepping forward, looking so beautiful and so queenly and so transfigured by righteous indignation that even the invaders merely blinked.  “Not modern poets,” she said, with an icy authority that sent a hostile shiver up and down the multiplication tables.  “They do not count anything—­not even the cost.”

It was not so much what Avrillia said, as the way she said it, and the way she looked, that cowed even the all-powerful invaders for a moment.  Pirlaps, at her side, said, “Good for you, Avrillia!” under his breath; and Schlorge glared at the Fractions with triumphant scorn and continued,