"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. My husky room-mate
was in the seat beside me.

"What's the big idea?" I asked. "Big idea is right, Harry," he
grinned. "Just thought I would beat you to it. Had a dickens of a
time with Dan Clark, of the engineering department. Told him I
wanted to study philosophy. The old boy put up a beautiful holler.