notes and
volumes of projected essays. In a word, he is a human storm.

Well, in he came with his grey hair streaming over his forehead, and
his eyes aflame. I knew in a moment that repose in his presence was
out of the question, though I still sat on, hoping against hope.
First, the Doctor bounded to the fire-place, seized the poker, and
began to rummage the fire. It was a good fire, and had done nothing
to deserve this punishment. I shifted on my seat; the two other
philosophers opened their eyes and frowned, and still Dr. FUSSELL
continued to rummage. Now I knew, not only that that fire was being
poked on an entirely wrong principle, but that I alone knew how it
ought to be poked. My fingers itched, my whole body tingled with
excitement. At last Dr. FUSSELL ceased. In a moment I was out of my
seat and making a bee-line for the poker. I just managed to beat the
other two by a short head, seized the poker, and relieved my soul
by stirring the fire on strictly scientific principles. The others
watched me hungrily. When I had finished, each of them took a short
turn with the poker, and then we all returned, more or less appeased,
to our seats.

But we had not done with the ineffable FUSSELL. By this time he was on
the top of a step-ladder. Slowly he selected six tomes, and began his
perilous descent. Our eyes were riveted upon him. Crash, bang! His
arms were empty, and the unconscionable books fluttered and clattered
to the floor. Slowly and ruefully did FUSSELL descend into the cloud
of dust and gather his bruised treasures from the carpet. At last he
heaped them on his table, and began to write. We hoped for peace,
but it was not to be. A sudden thought struck him. He would sew his
scattered leaves of MS. together. With dreadful deliberation he took
needle and cotton from a little pocket housewife that he carried with
him; and then began one of the most maddening performances I have
ever watched. Carefully he held the needle to the light, carefully he
wetted and trimmed his cotton to a point. And for ten stricken minutes
we saw him miss the eye of the needle, sometimes by an inch, sometimes
by a hair's breadth. It was a thrilling contest between obstinacy and
evasiveness. I was fascinated by it. Every time, as the cotton neared
the eye, my heart slowly ascended into my mouth, only to drop with a
fatal swiftness into my boots as the triumphant needle scored another
victory. I began to imitate FUSSELL's every movement.