"That was just grand, John, but I was thinking along a path varying a bit from that. You know that Man's brain is actually all of him. All parts of his body, as you follow down from his brain, act simply as aids to it. His nostrils bring him air; his mouth is for masticating his food; his hands and limbs furnish ability for manipulation and locomotion; and his lungs, stomach and all inward organs function only for that brain. If you look at a crowd you say that you saw lots of folks: but if you look at a man bathing in a pond; and if that man sank until only that part from his brow upward was in sight, you might say that you saw nobody; only a man's scalp. But you actually saw a man, for a man is only as big as that part still in sight. Now a child's skull, naturally, is not so big as a man's; so its brain has no room for all that vast mass of thoughts which adult brains contain. It is, so to say, in a small room. But, as days and months go by, that room will push its walls outward, and that young brain gradually fill up all that additional room. So, looking for calm, cool thinking in a child is as silly as looking for big, juicy plums amongst frail spring blossoms. Why, oh, why don't folks think of that? You know what foolish sounding things Julius was always asking, as a child. 'How can just rubbing a match light it?' 'Why is it dark at night?' 'Why can't a baby talk?' But, you and I, John, didn't laugh at him. No, not for an instant. And now look at our Julius and our Kathlyn; both famous, just through all that asking; and our aid. John, God could put Man into this world, full-grown. But God don't do so; for God knows that, without a tiny hand to hold, a tiny foot to pat, tiny lips to kiss, and a tiny, warm, wriggling body to hug, Man would know nothing but work."
Gadsby sat smoking for a bit, finally saying:—
"Darling, that pair of robins up in that big oak with four young, and you and I in this big building, also with four, know all about what you just said; and, and,—hmmm! It's almost midnight." And His Honor's mansion was soon dark; bathing in soft moonlight.
XXXIX
Practically all Branton Hills was talking about Councilman Simpkins; for Councilman Simpkins just didn't look natural; and Councilman Simpkins didn't act natural. In fact, Councilman Simpkins was crawling out of his old cocoon; and, though an ugly, snarling dowdy worm had lain for so long, shut up in that tight mass of wrappings around his brain, now a gay, smiling moth was coming out; for Councilman Simpkins was "dolling up!"
If Bill Gadsby was known as a "tailor-shop's outdoor part," Old Bill was not a part. No, Old Bill was that tailor shop—outdoor, indoor, or without a door. In fact, Councilman Simpkins now had "it," such as our films talk about so much today.
But Simpkins' outfit was not flashy or "loud." Suits of good cloth, hats of stylish form, always a bright carnation "just south of his chin," boots always glossy, and a smart, springy walk, had all Broadway gasping as this Apollo-vision swung jauntily along. Nancy, happy, giggling Nancy, was "all of a grin" about this magic transformation; and, with that old, inborn instinct of womanhood, told Lucy:—
"You just watch, and mark my word. A woman is in this pudding! Old Bill just couldn't boom out in such a way without having a goal in sight; and I'll put up a dollar on it."
And Lucy, also a woman, said smilingly:—
"And I'll put up a dollar and a half!"