In a tempestuous tantrum, I was made to cross town on a trolley with Mother. We had an appointment to dine in formal splendor with a stiff relative who wore a little black band around her neck to restrain her excess chinnage. The prospect didn't send me into rapturous ecstasy. On such feeble threads hung one of the most important events of my life.

The trolley was crowded. I sat in a glum pout on the open platform and Mother sat inside, glaring at me. Another trolley rider, who also proved to be a refugee from a temperamental automobile, pushed himself through the mob and hung onto a strap directly in front of Mother. When a seat became vacant next to her, he took it. Finally, with a good deal of diffidence, he opened fire.

"Is the little girl on crutches your daughter?" he whispered quietly.

He didn't quite fit the role, but Mother too promptly tagged him. He was, she assumed, an artificial-leg salesman. They frequently nailed her in public places when she was unwise enough to be seen with me. Their approach, however, usually had a certain slither to it. You almost expected them to whip out a card with an address on it and breathe in your ear, "Slip around some night, knock three times, and ask for Joe."

With understandable reluctance, considering how brattishly I was behaving at the moment, Mother confessed her maternity. She didn't warm up to the stranger. In spite of his charm, for he had a lot of it, Mother resisted him. When she discovered he wasn't a salesman, I think her next assumption was that he was a fugitive from an insane asylum for he said to her, "Your daughter charms me." Such a mad sentiment, reasonably enough, made Mother wary. And then he continued, "I wonder if you would be willing to allow my wife and me to call and get acquainted with her? We are very much interested in girls who use crutches."

Mother was not one to pass out our phone number promiscuously. Although she insisted later that she trusted the gentleman on sight, she made no exception in his case. she gave him a polite quick freeze, in-tended to make Birds Eye spinach out of him. I marvel that the poor man ever thawed sufficiently to do his detective work.

But he evidently had a sharp Sherlock mind and a couple of handy Watsons. In a mere matter of three days, anyway, an impeccable professional colleague of Father's telephoned and said that a very dear old friend of his was eager to meet our family. He brought him around to Father's office. It was Mama's "insane leg salesman." He turned out to be a prominent and highly esteemed Los Angeles professional man, the president of the Harvard Club, the president of the University Club, and a good Episcopalian - the latter being godly enough convoy to satisfy even Mother. He was also, I am personally convinced, the most thoroughly kind and gentle man who ever lived. Moreover, he and his equally lovable wife - strange as it seemed at the time - were minor collectors of one-legged girls. I say "minor" because I have since encountered several curators of much vaster collections of such curiosa. This collecting may sound like a form of madness - but if it is, the quite harmless syndrome invariably afflicts exceedingly nice people.

Mr. and Mrs. Fultz were a childless couple who first became interested in one-legged girls when one such served them very efficiently as a private secretary. Also they were influenced by a charming little tale published in book form in 1912, called The Girl with the Rosewood Crutches. This was a touching first-person account, anonymously signed, of a young woman's triumphant victory over the handicap of a right leg amputation. She was properly modest about herself, of course, since she was a perfect lady. Nevertheless, she didn't let the fact escape her readers for a moment that she was just about the most tantalizingly beautiful, and at the same time chaste, package that ever titillated a susceptible male. She walked like a queen, dressed like Mrs. Harrison Williams, sang like head bird at the Met, and had a brilliant career, as well as a devoted lover whom she coyly referred to as "The Boy."

My new friends gave me the book to read, and I too was greatly impressed by the romantic girl's autobiography. I even decided that if I ever got a sweetheart, I would call him "The Boy." I yearned to meet the author, even though I knew that time was afleeting and she was probably now a faded, doddering old crone of at least thirty.

Several years later, by one of those coincidences that make life so entertaining for a person on crutches, I did meet "her." The book proved to be the bastard brain child of a big and bouncing and very jolly New York businessman and writer. He does use crutches, having a pair of unreliable knees, and he also possesses one of the country's most impressive collections of unipeds. But he is definitely not a fascinating little feminine hopper. Although he admits openly to a new legitimate book every year or so, he never confesses his paternity to The Girl with the Rosewood Crutches, that poor love child of his careless youth.

I don't know the chemistry of rapport. But whatever the element is that prompts strangers to recognize kinship with each other, it was bubbling to the point of bursting its beaker when I met Mr. and Mrs. Fultz. I loved them immediately - and more remarkable they loved me. They became almost an extra pair of parents to me.

So to roam back to my original premise, because I used crutches and because Father's ancient Buick balked at precisely the right time, a couple of angels on lend-lease to the Earth gave me a trip to Europe for a graduation present.

This was a willing contribution to my happiness, however, compared to the priceless one - the subtle contribution of influencing my attitude of mind - that they handed me on the installment plan over the years. Mr. Fultz gave me a healthy transfusion of his own rich imagination. He taught me how to use my crutches as tools for having a perfectly hell-raising good time.

He began, mildly enough, by attempting to put some artistry into my crutches. He presented me with my first pair of stylish sticks - beautiful rosewoods on which I strutted forth to claim my high school diploma. Prior to that I hadn't given anything but the most practical consideration to what sort of crutches I wore. I wanted them lightweight for ease in handling, and strong because I frequently broke them. I didn't care what they looked like. I even let my friends carve their initials all over them.

I was very cautious about the rubber tips worn on the ends, however. There are a great variety of these available, and I learned that the bigger and bulkier they were and the redder the rubber that went into them, the better. I always had spares on hand so that I could replace them promptly when one wore out. A crutch end protruding through a wornout rubber tip is as dangerous as a planted banana peel on the sidewalk, and works precisely the same havoc. Giving up the big red suction-bottom safety crutch tips, and using substitute black synthetic ones, constituted the greatest commodity sacrifice I was called upon to make for the war effort. I'd rather have a car with no tires than crutches with inferior tips.

Mr. Fultz didn't settle back satisfied after giving me the rosewood crutches. He turned out to have a hidden talent. He became a sort of Adrian to the Handicapped. It occurred to him, like an inspiration, that crutches should be regarded as smart accessories to a costume. He suggested that with my chocolate-colored rosewoods, I should wear a brown suede pump, purse, and gloves, and a brown felt hat. That was all the guidance I needed. In a few years, I had a crutch wardrobe: black, blue, brown, green, etc. Crutches don't come in gay colors but any good enamel works the enhancing transformation. I am now just as likely to complain, "I haven't got a crutch I'd wear to a dog fight," as I am to say, "I haven't got a decent dress to my name."

Others beside Mr. Fult:z made contributions to the chic individuality of my crutch wardrobe, but it was he who first made me style-conscious. I have never possessed a really close friend who didn't take a tremendous critical interest in my crutches.

The "Father" of The Girl with the Rosewood Crutches gave me a very spritely pair of red ones. My brother-in-law, an engineer, really put some science into his improvement of my walking gear. He designed, cast saddle and handle connectives, and made me some beautiful slender crutches out of hollow Duralumin tubing. This material is magnificently suitable since it is light and very strong, and takes a neat baked enamel finish. These custom-built Duralumins are now my prime favorites for dress crutches. They have the virtue of almost perpetual life; they don't get creaky with age; and they can be sent off for a new bake job to eradicate the ravages of rough use or to comply with current color schemes. Once, I even had a gilt-colored pair to match my gold evening slippers.

Another friend designed crutch cases for me. He had them custom-made to match my luggage. I can now conveniently carry two extra pairs along when I travel. These crutch carriers resemble gun cases and frequently on trains people ask me if I'm going hunting. I always say, "Yes, I'm a big-game hunter and have a den at home that is absolutely haunted with glassy-eyed heads."

Mr. Fultz's ideas, however, were not only aesthetic and practical, but lighthearted. Ingeniously, he carved out a little secret cache cabinet under the saddle of one of my wooden crutches. He said, "This will come in handy if you decide to be a diamond smuggler when you grow up, or an international spy who has to conceal the plan for the bomb sight." In the mean-time, while I was still treading the paths of virtue, he suggested that I could always carry a dollar bill in it for mad money.

He, probably more than anyone I ever knew, embedded the conviction in my mind that there was nothing I couldn't do on crutches. He even whipped out Webster and gave me a consoling definition for handicap; "Handicap: A race or contest in which, in order to equalize chances of winning, an artificial disadvantage is imposed on a superior contestant." To prove Webster's point, he promptly set about disproving any limitation I admitted.

He taught me to drive a car, dance on one crutch, and how to master surf swimming. Many were the dollars he invested in encouraging my passion for horseback riding. More deviously, he infused into my consciousness recognition of my unique personal opportunity for adventure in living. He almost had me sorry for two-leggers.

Probably his greatest single inspiration in the gay spirit was the question and answer game which he dubbed "Ham and Legs." This is an entertaining indoor and outdoor sport from which ordinary people are barred because of the handicap of their normalcy. Occasionally friends of mine have opportunity to indulge in the game but only in the role of middleman.

Everyone who has walked-on crutches knows thoroughly the great streak of curiosity that seems to be part and parcel of the American character. From the time I hobbled forth on my first pair of crutches at eight, right up to yesterday, perfect strangers not only have stared at me as if I were a bearded lady from the circus, but they have stopped me on the street, nailed me down in railroad cars, accosted me in stations and stores, and questioned me.

I have become very adept at recognizing the precise type of individual who will pose this $64 question, "My poor young lady, whatever happened to you?" In my mature dignity - such as it is - I have also developed a frigid unapproachable mien with which, when I choose to, I can freeze the question unasked in almost any throat.

But for many years, while I was younger and more defenseless, I could scarcely walk a city block without having someone pounce upon me and demand all the bloody details of my accident from the moment of collision right up to the fee extracted by my surgeon This used to cause me acute embarrassment. I didn't have the necessary defiance to say, "It's none of your damn business." Besides, Mother didn't allow me to swear. I always paused and politely related my unimpressive little bicycle-meets-automobile fray.

It was Mr. Fultz who conceived of putting drama into this situation. Drama was, in fact, the essence of the game. I always had a mildly wistful regret that I couldn't take up acting, at least as a hobby. However there are few roles that are suitable for a one-legged Thespian - Sarah Bernhardt's advanced years on the stage as a Sniped notwithstanding.

"This is your chance to do a little acting," Mr. Fultz told me. "Moreover you won't have to run through all the minor maid's roles before getting a chance to star. You can play the lead every time. You see, these people aren't really interested in you personally. They are merely starved for excitement. They pry, in the hope of uncovering a lurid hair-raising tale. I'm sure most of them are pretty well blasted by the commonplace truth. So, why not hand them precisely what they want? They're asking for it."

The game, Ham and Legs, provided all the answers. For a couple of evenings Mr. and Mrs. Fultz and I went into hysterics planning my attacks.

In the beginning I wasn't very adroit. I felt a soap-in-the-mouth guilt the first time I explained to a nosy old bat that I was the unfortunate offspring of a circus clown and a lion tamer and that I lost my leg by falling off a high tightrope where as a child I habitually played with my dolls.

Like most sinners, of course, I eventually became quite cavalier about my personal wickedness. The Ham came juicier and juicier with the Legs. Even the dizziest legends didn't give me the mildest prick of conscience. I suffered not a qualm but only the greatest pleasure from my premeditated prevarication.

There is apparently only one trait in human nature which is stronger than curiosity. It is credulity. The things people will believe are unbelievable.

One of my choicest little epics was the heroic account of a swooping venture on skis. Down a precipitous mountainside I slalomed, a sick baby in my arms, only to collapse at the doctor's door, the infant saved, but my poor right leg frozen stiff as a poker. It was so completely refrigerated, in fact, that the doctor, without administering so much as a whiff of anesthetic, chipped it off with an ice pick.

Even unrehearsed repartee came easily. The flapping-eared recipient of the latter fancy cheerfully swallowed the hook, and was all agape for the line and sinker. How did it happen that my left leg was so providentially spared, she wanted to know, not satisfied with what I already regarded as a very generous slice of my imagination.

"Well, I've been educated about weather," I said. "Me, I'm a Norska from Oslo. I was smart enough to anticipate chilblains. I decided I'd preserve at least one leg. Owed it to myself, I figured. I skied on only one foot, after pinning up my spare in a blanket."

"Well, I do declare!" The hypnotized listener didn't bat an eyelash.

In this little intellectual sport one has to carefully evaluate the proponents and the circumstances of play. For instance, the above choice item is best peddled in a sunny clime, where a general ignorance about skiing prevails. I recommend it as highly suitable to Los Angeles, California, but not quite so effective in Hanover, New Hampshire. It's fairly good training in psychology to estimate at a glance just how tall a tale each individual sucker will reach for. In general, the vocally inquisitive aren't mental giants. Sometimes, however, I have to content myself with something simple like leprosy or an encounter with an ill-mannered shark off the coast of Florida.

There is another important complication to the game with special laws of honor. Mr. Fultz was a very kindly man and he wrote these specifications into the rule book at the very beginning. An ethical player must distinguish between the idly inquisitive who deserve to have their ears pinned back and the genuinely interested who frequently have a heartfelt reason for inquiry. Often I am approached by someone who has a similarly handicapped member in his family. Strangely enough, these querists are a breed apart. They look different and their approach is much gentler. There is a certain softness of eye in contrast to the glittering rapaciousness of the sensation-seeker's leer.

"I hope you'll forgive me for speaking to you, but I have a son -" That is almost a standard opener for these questioners.

Then the game is no longer Ham. "Lets sit down some place where we can talk", I suggest. In exchange for my own genuine but rather mundane autobiography, I hear someone else's story. Frequently these are heroic histories that make me apologetic for the happy simplicity of my own life.

Of course, the game is dangerous if played too close to home. My legends occasionally fly back to nest in my hair.

According to a rumor that I have reason to credit, the world's a small place. Even in New York City, where the chances are you'll never meet your next-door neighbor socially even if you flit from party to party for a lifetime, I had one of my stories return and lay a double-yolked egg on me.

In a beauty salon where I sat under a noisy drier, a similarly trapped customer next to me, apparently obsessed with her curiosity, screamed, "What happened to you?" Anyone who is nosy in a high cackle deserves the chopping block.

"Parachutists!" I yelled back. "Stunt flyers!" I threw up my hands as if the very thought of the horrible details pained me beyond further speech.

She passed a frail white manicured hand across her cheek, elevated her bosom in a sympathetic sigh, and shook her hot head. That was the extent of our girlish confidences.

Three days later I went to a cocktail party in the apartment of a close friend. I believe there are some eight million people in New York City. Only about fifteen of them were at the party, but - all fancy with her new permanent - there was Milady of the Drier. I probably wouldn't even have recognized her except that when I came tripping in on my crutches, I heard her gasp to our hostess, "Elaine, darling, you never told me you knew that perfectly fascinating parachutist."

Elaine who immediately recognized one of my way-ward flights of fancy gave me a cynical diabolical smile. "Oh, didn't I tell you - dear?" answered Elaine. "Sad, wasn't it? And losing her teeth, too." She paused to click her tongue sympathetically. "Did she tell you about that? I think the dentist did a rather neat job on her double dentures though. But you should see her when they're out. Is she a sight!" There was nothing I could do at that point but show my allegedly false biters in a horrible smile.

The only questioners who really ruffle me are children. "Mama, where's that lady's leg?" Junior invariably points his finger at me. Very promptly, -and as firmly as if he'd just taken the name of the Lord in vain, he is silenced by Mama.

Sometimes the child asks me directly, however. "Where's your leg, lady?"

Then I'm almost as tongue-tied and twice as embarrassed as a young thing out on her first date. Usually I say, "It's all gone," and run like hell. If the dear little inquiring mind belongs to a child old enough to digest a good moral tale, I often pause and deliver. With that hearty cheerfulness that is so unbecoming to an adult talking to the very young, I croak, "When I was a little girl like you, I didn't mind my mother when she told me I mustn't play in the street and I got very badly hurt."

"A car hit you and your leg broke off, huh?" Children brought up on the bloody adventures of current so-called "comics" can take a mere loss of leg with unflinching calm. But I can't hand it out with similar detachment.

That's right," I agree and hotfoot it for cover.

I like my adversaries to be of voting age. Then they get no quarter. In this game there are some very special gambits. My favorite is the death-dealing Fool's Mate. This is only applicable when some hopelessly snoopy old biddy is stupid enough to leave herself wide open."

"My poor girl, I see you've lost your leg."