night."

"And this fellow Wimpole--" began Drummond with indignation.

"This fellow Wimpole," said Basil Grant, smiling, "will not be an
intellectual rival in the future. He had some fine things, elegance
and silvered hair, and so on. But the intellect is with our friend
on the floor."

"That fellow," cried Drummond furiously, "that fellow ought to be
in gaol."

"Not at all," said Basil indulgently; "he ought to be in the Club
of Queer Trades."



Chapter 3

The Awful Reason of the Vicar's Visit

The revolt of Matter against Man (which I believe to exist) has now
been reduced to a singular condition. It is the small things rather
than the large things which make war against us and, I may add,
beat us. The bones of the last mammoth have long ago decayed, a
mighty wreck; the tempests no longer devour our navies, nor the
mountains with hearts of fire heap hell over our cities. But we are
engaged in a bitter and eternal war with small things; chiefly with
microbes and with collar studs. The stud with which I was engaged
(on fierce and equal terms) as I made the above reflections, was