"So there is. Well, what shall it be? Mechanics? Fine opening for an inventive genius there—but you must be up and doing, as the poet says."
"You had all the chances when you were my age," replied Moriarty bitterly.
"I'm too late arriving. Everything's invented now."
"True," I observed. "I hadn't thought of that objection. Then why not take up some interesting study, and work it out from post to finish? Political Economy, for instance?"
"Anybody could do that," replied the young fellow contemptuously.
"I want to distinguish myself."
"Then I'll tell you what you'll do, Moriarty. Take a narrow branch of some scientific study, and restrict yourself to that. Say you devote your life to some special division of the Formicae?"
"The what?"
"Formicae. The name is plural. It embraces all the different species of ants."
"Why, there's only about three species of ants altogether; and there's nothing to learn about them except that they make different kinds of hills, and give different kinds of bites. That sort of study would about suit you. Fat lot of distinction a person could get out of ants."
"Still, every avenue to distinction is not closed," I urged. "We're knocking at the gates of Futurity for the Australian pioneer of poetry—fiction—philosophy—what not? You've got all the working plant ready in your office. There you are!"
"No use, Collins," he replied hopelessly. "I've got the talent, right enough, but I haven't got the patience. In fact, I'm too dash lazy."