“Now for your theory,” he cried, as soon as he had recovered his breath.
“I can’t talk whilst you laugh so,” said Thud.
“Come, I’ve had my laugh out; I want to hear your original views regarding our satellite,” said Pinfold.
“Some philosophers declare that the moon has no atmosphere,” began Thud, as if commencing a lecture.
“That is, I believe, pretty generally acknowledged,” observed Coldstream. “Most powerful telescopes have been brought to bear upon the moon, and no trace of atmosphere has been discovered.”
“Not on the surface, I grant you,” said Thud sententiously. “What I maintain is that the atmosphere is under the surface, so that no telescope can reveal it. I have an idea,” Thud glanced up towards the ceiling, as if the idea were floating somewhere above the heads of his hearers—“I’ve a notion that the moon is full of air, something like a balloon, and that as that air expands by the action of heat, or contracts, the moon assumes the shape of the orb or crescent.”
Again the doctor gave way to his mirth. “You would make out the queen of night to be a kind of big bladder-ball! O Thucydides Thorn, when will you leave off playing at ninepins! You put up your wooden theories to let us have the fun of knocking them down.”
“It is I who knock down old wooden theories like ninepins,” said Thud, blinking like an offended owl. “I am aiming after something original and new. We learnby finding out the mistakes of our elders. Every generation stands on the heads of the last.”
The doctor threw himself back on his chair, half convulsed with laughter. “A difficult kind of intellectual gymnastics,” he cried. “Of course, at the top of the philosophical pyramid will stand—Mr. Thucydides Thorn.” The doctor glanced at Io, expecting to see her join in his mirth, but her grave, pale face reflected no spark of amusement.
“I say, Coldstream, you’ll have to put your wife under my care,” said the doctor abruptly; “she has neither appetite for her food nor spirit for a joke.”