"Philosophy is a fool, Knowlton," I exclaimed gaily, "as you recall Hamlet long ago pointed out to Horatio, not in just these words. Nor does a peripeteia necessarily carry with it a tragic catastrophe, Aristotle notwithstanding."
"You crazy idiot," remarked Knowlton, "I'm not going to send you to any more parties if you come back with a hangover. You certainly have a hell of a classic education for a chemist," he added, "and how you like to show it off! What was that word you used—perry what?"
"Peripeteia, you mean," I condescended. "It is a reversal of fortune, marking the turning point of a Greek tragedy."
"Well, I'll show you a first-class American tragedy if you don't go back to your lab and work," he grinned. "I don't admire the influence of the female sex upon you, Ted."
"You are generalizing from a single example," I flung back as I left the room.
It was Tuesday, and Thursday seemed further away than does the week-end viewed from Monday morning. Knowlton pursued me remorselessly, trying to make me confess who my new friend was. All his cross-examinations were in vain. I took delight in hugging my happiness to myself, and in answering Knowlton's questions in the most extravagant and flambuoyant language I could think of. In the end I could not tell whether he was amused or annoyed. I worked night and day in the laboratory to pass the time. My hopes were soaring so high that I trembled for fear that Reason's sunbeams would melt the wax of their wings and send us crashing down. And with my work Knowlton was content. Industry was the sure pass to his favour.
On Thursday at the noon hour, however, Knowlton exploded a bombshell.
"We are going to work the plant twenty-four hours a day, Ted," he announced, "and I've put you in charge of the night-shift, beginning tonight."
My throat went dry. Which of the seven devils of hell had led him to choose this night of all nights?