“Granted. But that is only one weight; how are you to get the denominations—the pounds and ounces?”
“On the beam I should construct I would balance my body against a lot of stones. I should then divide the stones into two lots, and balance these against one another. I should thus get the half weight of my body—a known quantity, you will recollect. By again equally dividing one of the lots I should find a standard of smaller dimensions; and so on, till I had got a weight as small as might be needed. By this process I can find a pound, an ounce, or any amount required.”
“Very true, brother,” replied Caspar, “and very ingenious of you. No doubt your plan would do—but for one little circumstance, which you seem to have overlooked.”
“What is that?”
“Are your data quite correct?” naïvely inquired Caspar.
“My data!”
“Yes—the original standard from which you propose to start, and on which you would base your calculations. I mean the weight of your body. Do you know that?”
“Certainly,” said Karl; “I am just 140 pounds weight—to an ounce.”
“Ah, brother,” replied Caspar, with a shake of the head, expressive of doubt, “you were 140 pounds in London—I know that myself—and so was I nearly as much; but you forget that the fret and worry of this miserable existence has reduced both of us. Indeed, dear brother, I can see that you are much thinner since we set out from Calcutta; and no doubt you can perceive the like change in me. Is it not so?”
Karl was forced to give an affirmative reply to the question, at the same time that he acknowledged the truth of his brother’s statement. His data were not correct. The weight of his body—which, not being a constant quantity, is at all times an unsafe standard—would not serve in the present instance. The calculation they desired to make was of too important a character to be based upon such an untrustworthy foundation. Karl perceived this plainly enough; but it did not discourage him from prosecuting his purpose to make the attempt he had proposed.