om the Professor's face.

Tim Price took the colonel to one side mysteriously, and whispered, "I
took keer uv the Perfessor my own self: he guv me a power uv trouble,
though. Shell I hitch him now, er let him run loose?"

"We'll turn him loose now, Tim; but if he takes to turning somersets,
catch him, loosen his collar, take off his boots, and throw him into the
river," was the colonel's sober reply.

Scientists nowadays set up Energy as the ancestor of everything, measure
the value of its descendants by the quantity they possess of the family
trait, and spend their time in showing how to utilize it for the good of
mankind in general. Professor Yarren was an apostle of Energy: it
absorbed him, filled him. From the weight of the sun to boiled potatoes,
from the spring of a tiger to the jump of a flea, from the might of
chemical disembodiment to opening an oyster, he calculated, advised, and
dilated upon it. He himself, was the epitome of Energy: in his size he
economized space, in his diet he ate for power, not quantity. To him
eating and sleeping were Energy's warehousemen; idleness was dry-rot,
moth, and mildew; laughing, talking, whistling, singing, somersets, and
fishing, never-to-be-neglected and in-constant-use safety-valves. He
regarded himself as an assimilator of everything that went into him, be
it food, sight, sound, or scent, and his perfection as such in exact
ratio to the product he derived from them. So when next morning he said
"Come on" to the Doctor, and Colonel Bangem, Mrs. Colonel Bangem, Bess
Bangem, and Martha, the mountain-maid, who were all standing in front of
the camp rigged for a day's fishing, he meant that one of Energy's
safety-valves was ready to blow off, and that further delay might be
dangerous to him.

In the Doctor, Energy was stored in bond as it were, subject to duties,
and only to be issued on certificate that it was wanted for use and
everything ready for it: therefore at the Professor's "Come on" he
calmly sat down on a log, filled his pipe, leisurely lighted it, and
good-humoredly remarked, "I am confident that one-half of what we call
life is spent in undoing what we have done, in lamenting the lack of
what we have forgotten, or going back after it: therefore I make it a
rule when everything seems ready for a start--especially when going
fishing--to sit five minutes in calm communion with my pipe, thinking
matters over. It insures against much discomfort from treacherous
mem