When I would come home with some dry
tome and would lose myself in it by the hour he could not
understand it. I was preparing for the law. He could see no
advantage to be derived from this digging into speculation. He was
practical and unless he could drive a nail into a thing or at
least dig into its chemical elements it was hard to get him
interested.
"Of what use is it, Harry? Why waste your brains? These old fogies
have been pounding on the question for three thousand years. What
have they got? You could read all their literature from the
pyramids down to the present sky-scrapers and you wouldn't get
enough practical wisdom to drive a dump-cart."
"That's just it," I answered. "I'm not hankering for a dump-cart.
You have an idea that all the wisdom in the world is locked up in
the concrete; unless a thing has wheels, pistons, some sort of
combustion, or a chemical action you are not interested. What
gives you the control over your machinery? Brains! But what makes
the mind go?"
Hobart blinked. "Fine," he answered. "Go on."
"Well," I answered, "that's what I am after."
He laughed. "Great. Well, keep at it. It's your funeral, Harry.
When you have found, it let me know and I'll beat you to the
patent."
With that he turned to his desk and dug into one of his
everlasting formulas. Just the same, next day when I entered
Holcomb's lecture-room I was in for a surprise.
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