We were boys together, with our delights and troubles, joys and sorrows. I thought so much of Hobart that I did not shirk stooping to help him take care of his baby sister. That is about the supreme sacrifice of a boy's devotion. In after years, of course, he has laughed at me and swears I did it on purpose. I do not know, but I am willing to admit that I think a whole lot of that sister.
Side by side we grew up and into manhood. We went to school and into college. Even as we were at odds in our physical builds and our dispositions, so were we in our studies. From the beginning Hobart has had a mania for screws, bolts, nuts, and pistons. He is practical; he likes mathematics; he can talk to you from the binomial theorem up into Calculus; he is never so happy as when the air is buzzing with a conversation charged with induction coils, alternating currents, or atomic energy. The whole swing and force of popular science is his kingdom. I will say for Hobart that he is just about in line to be king of it all. Today he is in South America, one of our greatest engineers. He is bringing the water down from the Andes; and it is just about like those strong shoulders and that good head to restore the land of the Incas.
About myself? I went into the law. I enjoy an atmosphere of strife and contention. I liked books and discussion and I thought that I would like the law. On the advice of my elders I entered law college, and in due time was admitted to practice. It was while studying to qualify that I first ran into philosophy. I was a lad to enjoy quick, pithy, epigrammatic statements. I have always favoured a man who hits from the shoulder. Professor Holcomb was a man of terse, heavy thinking; he spoke what he thought and he did not quibble. He favoured no one.
I must confess that the old white-haired professor left his stamp upon me. I loved him like all the rest; though I was not above playing a trick on the old fellow occasionally. Still he had a wit of his own and seldom came out second best, and when he lost out he could laugh like the next one. I was deeply impressed by him. As I took course after course under him I was convinced that for all of his dry philosophy the old fellow had a trick up his sleeve; he had a way of expounding that was rather startling; likewise, he had a scarcely concealed contempt for some of the demigods of our old philosophy.
What this trick was I could never uncover. I hung on and dug into great tomes of wisdom. I became interested and gradually took up with his speculation; for all my love of action I found that I had a strong subcurrent for the philosophical.
Now I roomed with Hobart. When I would come home with some dry tome and would lose myself in it by the hour he could not understand it. I was preparing for the law. He could see no advantage to be derived from this digging into speculation. He was practical and unless he could drive a nail into a thing or at least dig into its chemical elements it was hard to get him interested.
“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.”