About myself?  I went into the law.  I enjoy an atmosphere of strife and contention.  I liked books and discussion and I thought that I would like the law.  On the advice of my elders I entered law college, and in due time was admitted to practice.  It was while studying to qualify that I first ran into philosophy.  I was a lad to enjoy quick, pithy, epigrammatic statements.  I have always favoured a man who hits from the shoulder.  Professor Holcomb was a man of terse, heavy thinking; he spoke what he thought and he did not quibble.  He favoured no one.

I must confess that the old white-haired professor left his stamp upon me.  I loved him like all the rest; though I was not above playing a trick on the old fellow occasionally.  Still he had a wit of his own and seldom came out second best, and when he lost out he could laugh like the next one.  I was deeply impressed by him.  As I took course after course under him I was convinced that for all of his dry philosophy the old fellow had a trick up his sleeve; he had a way of expounding that was rather startling; likewise, he had a scarcely concealed contempt for some of the demigods of our old philosophy.

What this trick was I could never uncover.  I hung on and dug into great tomes of wisdom.  I became interested and gradually took up with his speculation; for all my love of action I found that I had a strong subcurrent for the philosophical.

Now I roomed with Hobart.  When I would come home with some dry tome and would lose myself in it by the hour he could not understand it.  I was preparing for the law.  He could see no advantage to be derived from this digging into speculation.  He was practical and unless he could drive a nail into a thing or at least dig into its chemical elements it was hard to get him interested.

“Of what use is it, Harry?  Why waste your brains?  These old fogies have been pounding on the question for three thousand years.  What have they got?  You could read all their literature from the pyramids down to the present sky-scrapers and you wouldn’t get enough practical wisdom to drive a dump-cart.”

“That’s just it,” I answered.  “I’m not hankering for a dump-cart.  You have an idea that all the wisdom in the world is locked up in the concrete; unless a thing has wheels, pistons, some sort of combustion, or a chemical action you are not interested.  What gives you the control over your machinery?  Brains!  But what makes the mind go?”

Hobart blinked.  “Fine,” he answered.  “Go on.”

“Well,” I answered, “that’s what I am after.”

He laughed.  “Great.  Well, keep at it.  It’s your funeral, Harry.  When you have found, it let me know and I’ll beat you to the patent.”

With that he turned to his desk and dug into one of his everlasting formulas.  Just the same, next day when I entered Holcomb’s lecture-room I was in for a surprise.  My husky room-mate was in the seat beside me.