The Descent of Man Other Stories | Page 7

a bigger sensation. It was so deucedly
unexpected--and, my dear fellow, you've brought it so exactly to the
right shop."
"I'm glad to hear you say so," said the Professor modestly.
Harviss laughed in rich appreciation. "I don't suppose you had a doubt
of it; but of course I was quite unprepared. And it's so extraordinarily
out of your line--"
The Professor took off his glasses and rubbed them with a slow smile.
"Would you have thought it so--at college?"
Harviss stared. "At college?--Why, you were the most iconoclastic
devil--"
There was a perceptible pause. The Professor restored his glasses and
looked at his friend. "Well--?" he said simply.
"Well--?" echoed the other, still staring. "Ah--I see; you mean that
that's what explains it. The swing of the pendulum, and so forth. Well, I
admit it's not an uncommon phenomenon. I've conformed myself, for
example; most of our crowd have, I believe; but somehow I hadn't
expected it of you."
The close observer might have detected a faint sadness under the
official congratulation of his tone; but the Professor was too amazed to
have an ear for such fine shades.
"Expected it of me? Expected what of me?" he gasped. "What in
heaven do you think this thing is?" And he struck his fist on the
manuscript which lay between them.
Harviss had recovered his optimistic creases. He rested a benevolent
eye on the document.
"Why, your apologia--your confession of faith, I should call it. You
surely must have seen which way you were going? You can't have
written it in your sleep?"
"Oh, no, I was wide awake enough," said the Professor faintly.
"Well, then, why are you staring at me as if I were _not?"_ Harviss
leaned forward to lay a reassuring hand on his visitor's worn
coat-sleeve. "Don't mistake me, my dear Linyard. Don't fancy there was
the least unkindness in my allusion to your change of front. What is

growth but the shifting of the stand-point? Why should a man be
expected to look at life with the same eyes at twenty and at--our age? It
never occurred to me that you could feel the least delicacy in admitting
that you have come round a little--have fallen into line, so to speak."
But the Professor had sprung up as if to give his lungs more room to
expand; and from them there issued a laugh which shook the editorial
rafters.
"Oh, Lord, oh Lord--is it really as good as that?" he gasped.
Harviss had glanced instinctively toward the electric bell on his desk; it
was evident that he was prepared for an emergency.
"My dear fellow--" he began in a soothing tone.
"Oh, let me have my laugh out, do," implored the Professor. "I'll--I'll
quiet down in a minute; you needn't ring for the young man." He
dropped into his chair again, and grasped its arms to steady his shaking.
"This is the best laugh I've had since college," he brought out between
his paroxysms. And then, suddenly, he sat up with a groan. "But if it's
as good as that it's a failure!" he exclaimed.
Harviss, stiffening a little, examined the tip of his cigar. "My dear
Linyard," he said at length, "I don't understand a word you're saying."
The Professor succumbed to a fresh access, from the vortex of which he
managed to fling out--"But that's the very core of the joke!"
Harviss looked at him resignedly. "What is?"
"Why, your not seeing--your not understanding--"
"Not understanding _what?"_
"Why, what the book is meant to be." His laughter subsided again and
he sat gazing thoughtfully at the publisher. "Unless it means," he
wound up, "that I've over-shot the mark."
"If I am the mark, you certainly have," said Harviss, with a glance at
the clock.
The Professor caught the glance and interpreted it. "The book is a skit,"
he said, rising.
The other stared. "A skit? It's not serious, you mean?"
"Not to me--but it seems you've taken it so."
"You never told me--" began the publisher in a ruffled tone.
"No, I never told you," said the Professor.
Harviss sat staring at the manuscript between them. "I don't pretend to
be up in such recondite forms of humour," he said, still stiffly. "Of

course you address yourself to a very small class of readers."
"Oh, infinitely small," admitted the Professor, extending his hand
toward the manuscript.
Harviss appeared to be pursuing his own train of thought. "That is," he
continued, "if you insist on an ironical interpretation."
"If I insist on it--what do you mean?"
The publisher smiled faintly. "Well--isn't the book susceptible of
another? If I read it without seeing--"
"Well?" murmured the other, fascinated.--"why shouldn't the rest of the
world?" declared Harviss boldly. "I represent the Average
Reader--that's my business, that's what I've