He lays his
top-hat on the table, and makes it a receptacle for reams of notes and
volumes of projected essays. In a word, he is a human storm.
Well, in he came with his grey hair streaming over his forehead, and
his eyes aflame. I knew in a moment that repose in his presence was
out of the question, though I still sat on, hoping against hope.
First, the Doctor bounded to the fire-place, seized the poker, and
began to rummage the fire. It was a good fire, and had done nothing
to deserve this punishment. I shifted on my seat; the two other
philosophers opened their eyes and frowned, and still Dr. FUSSELL
continued to rummage. Now I knew, not only that that fire was being
poked on an entirely wrong principle, but that I alone knew how it
ought to be poked. My fingers itched, my whole body tingled with
excitement. At last Dr. FUSSELL ceased. In a moment I was out of my
seat and making a bee-line for the poker. I just managed to beat the
other two by a short head, seized the poker, and relieved my soul
by stirring the fire on strictly scientific principles.
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