And truth disclaiming both.'"
"The truth, in this case, is not yet known, of course," replied Milton Rhodes, "though I trust that you and I, Bill, are fated to learn it—some of it, I should say."
He smiled a queer, wan smile.
"Whether we are fated, also, to reveal it to the world, to our world—well, as for that, quién sabe?" he said.
"Then," I remarked, my fingers busy removing my ice-creepers, "what we read about the state of things in the interior of the earth—the temperature, the pressure, the density—then all that is pure theory?"
"Of course. How could it be anything else? All theory, save, that is, the mean density of the earth. And that mean density gives us something to think about, for it is just a little more than twice that of the surface materials. With all this enormous pressure that we hear so much about and the resultant increase of density with depth, the weight of the earth certainly ought to be more than only five and one half times that of a globe of equal size composed of nothing but water."[6]
"Kind of queer, all right," was my comment.
"It is queer, all right—as the old lady said when she kissed the cow. However, as old Dante has it, 'Son! our time asks thrifter using.'"
As the last words left his lips, I straightened up, the toothed shoes in my hand; and, as I did so, I started and cried:
"Hear that?"