“‘Mechanism does not escape this trope and rhapsody, being indeed their most conspicuous illustration, since its fundamental principle is that of leverage, whereby there is libration or oscillation, as of a scale or a pendulum, or circular motion as of a wheel. In celestial mechanism the material fulcrum disappears, and there is the invisible centre of motion, of light and return, through tendencies which seem to balance each other, giving the motion the orbital form.’” “And here’s your old Manhattan Mummy come home to roost.” “Henrymillsalden, second chapter and fifth verse.” “Congregation sing.” Alonzo Leffingwell bowed his head. He pressed his hand to his solar plexus and then faintly did he murmur--“Then there is nothing that will melt or soften you--nothing?” “Oh, ring off. D’ye take me for the ice man? Well, I’m not. I’m pig-iron, pipe-clay and steel filings; and what’s worse, the more I _remember_ the madder I _get_.” “And then--and then--there is nothing that I can do--or can say?--” “Once--and--for--all,--NOPE, my gay Gnani of Gingalee, for the last time, you’re up against it.” * * * * * And there was silence in the cellar for the space of about eight minutes. * * * * * And then,--“It is not, O William, simply for myself I plead. I am thinking also of you, and of the Karmic consequences of this Act. Had you,--had you--been illuminated--” “I’d a hoisted you out of my house a year ago,”--interrupted Bill fiercely. “But I wasn’t illuminated. My aura wasn’t anything but fuzz. Wasn’t lit up. I was in the gloaming. But I’m not there now. I’m out of the woods. And I’ve got a pink halo of forty-four horse power. D’ye hear me?” and the materialist grinned away his scowl. Waving his hand outward in the glaring atmosphere, he continued,--“I’m getting there. If this ain’t illumination I don’t know light when I see it. Oh, yes, I’m a small incandescent myself. But see here”--and Bill suddenly closed the conversation and his jaws with a snap. “What are you up to anyway? You’re trying to josh me out of this experiment. I don’t mean to let you buzz the vitality out of this dynamo. You’re slick enough to weaken the coils of any old machine if you’re not watched. Anyway, we’ve had enough monkeying, and I’ve got other fish to fry. The Board meets at eight and I’m punctual.” Bill Vanderhook now consulted his watch. “Holy Mother of Mud!”--he shouted. “It’s seven o’clock, and no dinner, and this is Saturday night, and the barber shops crowded. Now, see here”--to the silent, despairing culprits,--“I don’t want any more back talk. I’m going to wind up this business instanter. For this whole mess has to be out of the way in just fif--teen--minutes.”