“The fact is that you are surfeited with wonders,” retorted Hooper. “It is a common failing of the species. Think what a supreme genius was the first pithecoid man who invented a wheel, who used fire, who fashioned a bow! How we ought to grovel at the mere mention of the great unknown who perceived that the other beasts were created to serve mankind!” I rang for a waiter. Lager beer alone could quench this young sage’s enthusiasm. Perhaps Grier had exhausted some accumulation of nervous force, perhaps the supply cells of the electric waves which carried sight and sound across the Atlantic were unequal just then to sustained calls on their resources, but, whatever the reason, it is certain that he was untroubled by visions, waking or asleep, during several days. I prolonged my visit to Oxford, passing all the available time in Karl’s company, and, more often than not, Hooper was with us. The latter tried every artifice, especially during the undisturbed eventide, to induce in his companion that which he considered the fitting conditions for a telegnomic trance. “Guess Maggie’s feelin’ fine an’ dandy by this time,” he would say, after alluding to the “sickening monotony” of the first days at sea. Or again: “Wonder if Steindal is going to Delmonico’s to-night? It’s a sure thing he’ll give the other place a distant nod of recognition for some time to come.” But it was of no avail. Once there was a chance of success. We were talking of the uselessness of certain lines of thought, and I instanced as an example of fallacious reasoning the famous problem of John of Salisbury: “When a hog is driven to market with a rope round his neck does the man or the rope take him?” “I read Plato a good deal,” said Hooper, “and there are times when I more than half suspect him of asking a question akin to that with his tongue in his check.” “That is because you have a small head, Frank,” said Karl. “Plato was a broad man. Indeed, his proper name was Aristocles, and he was called Platon, the broad-shouldered one, as a nickname. Hence, I should credit him with a big head, and big-headed men lead in intellect. Observe, _I_ have a big head. My size in hats is seven and a quarter. My natural modesty prevents me from drawing further conclusions.” “That fellow Constantine has a small head, I fancy?” murmured Hooper, with a quick sidelong glance at me. “Yes, I think so. Oh, yes, I am sure. It is hatchet-shaped, with the animal propensities dominant and yet a certain intellectuality of forehead, aided, perhaps, by the large, dark eyes.... But Steindal! He has a head modelled like an egg, a type curiously capable of the highest and most debased attributes.” He was silent after that. Hooper signalled to me to remain stolid as a Red Indian. But Karl soon moved restlessly.