My mother took me by the hand and drew me away.
“He is a rascal, Mrs. Fenton, and has a temper like sin; but he will
tell the truth, thank goodness.”
I am telling this not for the mere relation, but by way of introduction.
It was my first meeting with Hobart Fenton. It is necessary that you
know us both and our characters. Our lives are so entwined and so
related that without it you could not get the gist of the story. In
the afternoon I came across the street to play with Hobart. He met me
smiling. It was not in his healthy little soul to hold resentment. I was
either all smiles or anger. I forgot as quickly as I battled. That night
there were two happy youngsters tucked into the bed and covers.
So we grew up; one with the other. We played as children do and fought
as boys have done from the beginning. I shall say right now that the
fights were mostly my fault. I started them one and all; and if every
battle had the same beginning it likewise had the same ending. The first
fight was but the forerunner of all the others.
Please do not think hardly of Hobart. He is the kindest soul in the
world; there never was a truer lad nor a kinder heart. He was strong,
healthy, fat, and, like fat boys, forever laughing. He followed me
into trouble and when I was retreating he valiantly defended the rear.
Stronger, sturdier, and slower, he has been a sort of protector from the
beginning. I have called him the Rear Guard; and he does not resent it.
I have always been in mischief, restless, and eager for anything that
would bring quick action; and when I got into deep water Hobart would
come along, pluck me out and pull me to shore and safety. Did you ever
see a great mastiff and a fox terrier running together? It is a homely
illustration; but an apt one.
We were boys together, with our delights and troubles, joys and sorrows.
I thought so much of Hobart that I did not shirk stooping to help him
take care of his baby sister. That is about the supreme sacrifice of
a boy's devotion. In after years, of course, he has laughed at me and
swears I did it on purpose. I do not know, but I am willing to admit
that I think a whole lot of that sister.
Side by side we grew up and into manhood. We went to school and
into college. Even as we were at odds in our physical builds and our
dispositions, so were we in our studies. From the beginning Hobart has
had a mania for screws, bolts, nuts, and pistons. He is practical; he
likes mathematics; he can talk to you from the binomial theorem up
into Calculus; he is never so happy as when the air is buzzing with
a conversation charged with induction coils, alternating currents,
or atomic energy. The whole swing and force of popular science is his
kingdom. I will say for Hobart that he is just about in line to be king
of it all. Today he is in South America, one of our greatest engineers.
He is bringing the water down from the Andes; and it is just about like
those strong shoulders and that good head to restore the land of the
Incas.
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.
“What's the big idea?” I asked. “Big idea is right, Harry,” he grinned.
“Just thought I would beat you to it. Had a dickens of a time with
Dan Clark, of the engineering department. Told him I wanted to study
philosophy. The old boy put up a beautiful holler. Couldn't understand
what an engineer would want with psychology or ethics. Neither could I
until I got to thinking last night when I went to roost. Because a thing
has never been done is no reason why it never will be; is it, Harry?”
“Certainly not. I don't know just what you are driving at. Perhaps you
intend to take your notes over to the machine shop and hammer out the
Secret of the Absolute.”
He grinned.
“Pretty wise head at that, Harry. What did you call it? The Secret of
the Absolute. Will remember that. I'm not much on phrases; but I'm sure
the strong boy with the hammer. You don't object to my sitting here
beside you; so that I, too, may drink in the little drops of wisdom?”
It was in this way that Hobart entered into the study of philosophy.
When the class was over and we were going down the steps he patted me on
the shoulder.
“That's not so bad, Harry. Not so bad. The old doctor is there; he's got
them going. Likewise little Hobart has got a big idea.”
Now it happened that this was just about six weeks before Dr. Holcomb
announced his great lecture on the Blind Spot. It was not more than a
week after registration. In the time ensuing Fenton became just as
great an enthusiast as myself. His idea, of course, was chimerical and
a blind; his main purpose was to get in with me where he could argue me
out of my folly.
He wound up by being a convert of the professor.
Then came the great day. The night of the announcement we had a long
discussion. It was a deep question. For all of my faith in the professor
I was hardly prepared for a thing like this. Strange to say I was the
sceptic; and stranger still, it was Hobart who took the side of the
doctor.
“Why not?” he said. “It merely comes down to this: you grant that a
thing is possible and then you deny the possibility of a proof--outside
of your abstract. That's good paradox, Harry; but almighty poor logic.
If it is so it certainly can be proven. There's not one reason in the
world why we can't have something concrete. The professor is right. I am
with him. He's the only professor in all the ages.”
Well, it turned out as it did. It was a terrible blow to us all. Most
of the world took it as a great murder or an equally great case of
abduction. There were but few, even in the university, who embraced the
side of the doctor. It was a case of villainy, of a couple of remarkably
clever rogues and a trusting scholar.
But there was one whose faith was not diminished. He had been one of
the last to come under the influence of the doctor. He was practical and
concrete, and not at all attuned to philosophy; he had not the training
for deep dry thinking. He would not recede one whit. One day I caught
him sitting down with his head between his hands. I touched him on the
shoulder.
“What's the deep study?” I asked him.
He looked up. By his eyes I could see that his thoughts had been far
away.
“What's the deep study?” I repeated.
“I was just thinking, Harry; just thinking.”
“What?”
“I was just thinking, Harry, that I would like to have about one hundred
thousand dollars and about ten years' leisure.”
“That's a nice thought,” I answered; “I could think that myself. What
would you do with it?”
“Do? Why, there is just one thing that I would do if I had that much
money. I would solve the Blind Spot.”
This happened years ago while we were still in college. Many things have
occurred since then. I am writing this on the verge of disaster. How
little do we know! What was the idea that buzzed in the head of Hobart
Fenton? He is concrete, physical, fearless. He is in South America. I
have cabled to him and expect him as fast as steam can bring him. The
great idea and discovery of the professor is a fact, not fiction. What
is it? That I cannot answer. I have found it and I am a witness to its
potency.
Some law has been missed through the ages. It is inexorable and
insidious; it is concrete. Out of the unknown comes terror. Through the
love for the great professor I have pitted myself against it. From the
beginning it has been almost hopeless. I remember that last digression
in ethics. “The mystery of the occult may be solved. We are five-sensed.
When we bring the thing down to the concrete we may understand.”
Sometimes I wonder at the Rhamda. Is he a man or a phantom? Does he
control the Blind Spot? Is he the substance and the proof that was
promised by Dr. Holcomb? Through what process and what laws did the
professor acquire even his partial control over the phenomena? Where
did the Rhamda and his beautiful companion come from? Who are they? And
lastly--what was the idea that buzzed in the head of Hobart Fenton?
When I look back now I wonder. I have never believed in fate. I do not
believe in it now. Man is the master of his own destiny. We are cowards
else. Whatever is to be known we should know it. One's duty is ever to
one's fellows. Heads up and onward. I am not a brave man, perhaps, under
close analysis; but once I have given my word I shall keep it. I have
done my bit; my simple duty. Perhaps I have failed. In holding myself
against the Blind Spot I have done no more than would have been done by
a million others. I have only one regret. Failure is seldom rewarded. I
had hoped that my life would be the last; I have a dim hope still. If I
fail in the end, there must be still one more to follow.
Understand I do not expect to die. It is the unknown that I am afraid
of. I who thought that we knew so much have found it still so little.
There are so many laws in the weave of Cosmos that are still unguessed.
What is this death that we are afraid of? What is life? Can we solve it?
Is it permissible? What is the Blind Spot? If Hobart Fenton is right it
has nothing to do with death. If so, what is it?
My pen is weak. I am weary. I am waiting for Hobart. Perhaps I shall not
last. When he comes I want him to know my story. What he knows already
will not hurt repeating. It is well that man shall have it; it may be
that we shall both fail-there is no telling; but if we do the world can
profit by our blunders and guide itself--perhaps to the mastery of the
phenomenon that controls the Blind Spot.
I ask you to bear with me. If I make a few mistakes or I am a bit loose,
remember the stress under which I am writing. I shall try to be plain so
that all may follow.