“Jes’ so,” shouted old Bobbet louder than before. “Jes’ so, so they did, I’ve always said so.”
“And if we are content to moulder out our existence, like fibrous, veticulated, polypus, clingin’ to the crustaceous courts of custom, if we cling not like soarin’ prytanes to the phantoms that lower thier sceptres down through the murky waves of retrogression, endeavorin’ to lure us upward in the scale of progressive bein’—in what degree do we differ from the accolphia?”
“Jes’ so,” says old Bobbet, lookin’ defiantly round on the audience. “There he has got you, how can they?”
Prof. Todd stopped again, looked doun on Bobbet, and put his hand to his brow in a wild kind of a way, for a minute, and then went on.
“Let us, noble brethren in the broad field of humanity, let us rise, let us prove that mind is superior to matter, let us prove ourselves superior to the acalphia—”
“Yes, less,” says old Bobbet, “less prove ourselves.”
“Let us shame the actinia,” said the Professor.
“Yes, jes’ so!” shouted old Bobbet, “less shame him!” and in his enthusiasm he got up and hollered agin, “Less shame him.”
Prof. Todd stopped stone still, his face red as blood, he drinked several swallows of water, and then he whispered a few words to the Editer of the Gimlet who immegiately come forward and said—