wide eyes. Then he got out note-book
and algebra and lost himself in quadratic equations, while the hours
slipped by, and the stars dimmed, and the gray of dawn flooded against
his window.

CHAPTER XIII

It was the knot of wordy socialists and working-class philosophers that
held forth in the City Hall Park on warm afternoons that was responsible
for the great discovery. Once or twice in the month, while riding
through the park on his way to the library, Martin dismounted from his
wheel and listened to the arguments, and each time he tore himself away
reluctantly. The tone of discussion was much lower than at Mr. Morse's
table. The men were not grave and dignified. They lost their tempers
easily and called one another names, while oaths and obscene allusions
were frequent on their lips. Once or twice he had seen them come to
blows. And yet, he knew not why, there seemed something vital about the
stuff of these men's thoughts. Their logomachy was far more stimulating
to his intellect than the reserved and quiet dogmatism of Mr. Morse.
These men, who slaughtered English, gesticulated like lunatics, and
fought one another's ideas with primitive anger, seemed somehow to be
more alive than Mr. Morse and his crony, Mr. Butler.

Martin had heard Herbert Spencer quoted several times in the park, but
one afternoon a disciple of Spencer's appeared, a seedy tramp with a
dirty coat buttoned tightly at the throat to conceal the absence of a
shirt. Battle royal was waged, amid the smoking of many cigarettes and
the expectoration of much tobacco-juice, wherein the tramp successfully
held his own, even when a socialist workman sneered, "There is no god but
the Unknowable, and Herbert Spencer is his prophet." Martin was puzzled
as to what the discussion was about, but when he rode on to the library
he carried with him a new-born interest in Herbert Spencer, and because
of the frequency with which the tramp had mentioned "First Principles,"
Martin drew out that volume.

So the great discovery began. Once before he had tried Spencer, and
choosing the "Principles of Psychology" to begin with, he had failed as
abjectly as he had failed with Madam Blavatsky. There had been no
understanding the book, and he had returned it unread. But this night,
after algebra and physics, and an attempt at a sonnet, he got into bed
and opened "First Principles." Morning found him still reading. It was
impossible for him to sleep.