________________________________________________
_ When the Professor left Harviss's office, the manuscript remained
behind. He thought he had been taken by the huge irony of the
situation--by the enlarged circumference of the joke. In its
original form, as Harviss had said, the book would have addressed
itself to a very limited circle: now it would include the world. The
elect would understand; the crowd would not; and his work would thus
serve a double purpose. And, after all, nothing was changed in the
situation; not a word of the book was to be altered. The change was
merely in the publisher's point of view, and in the "tip" he was to
give the reviewers. The Professor had only to hold his tongue and
look serious.
These arguments found a strong reinforcement in the large premium
which expressed Harviss's sense of his opportunity. As a satire, the
book would have brought its author nothing; in fact, its cost would
have come out of his own pocket, since, as Harviss assured him, no
publisher would have risked taking it. But as a profession of faith,
as the recantation of an eminent biologist, whose leanings had
hitherto been supposed to be toward a cold determinism, it would
bring in a steady income to author and publisher. The offer found
the Professor in a moment of financial perplexity. His illness, his
unwonted holiday, the necessity of postponing a course of well-paid
lectures, had combined to diminish his resources; and when Harviss
offered him an advance of a thousand dollars the esoteric savour of
the joke became irresistible. It was still as a joke that he
persisted in regarding the transaction; and though he had pledged
himself not to betray the real intent of the book, he held _in
petto_ the notion of some day being able to take the public into his
confidence. As for the initiated, they would know at once: and
however long a face he pulled, his colleagues would see the tongue
in his cheek. Meanwhile it fortunately happened that, even if the
book should achieve the kind of triumph prophesied by Harviss, it
would not appreciably injure its author's professional standing.
Professor Linyard was known chiefly as a microscopist. On the
structure and habits of a certain class of coleoptera he was the
most distinguished living authority; but none save his intimate
friends knew what generalizations on the destiny of man he had drawn
from these special studies. He might have published a treatise on
the Filioque without disturbing the confidence of those on whose
approval his reputation rested; and moreover he was sustained by the
thought that one glance at his book would let them into its secret.
In fact, so sure was he of this that he wondered the astute Harviss
had cared to risk such speedy exposure. But Harviss had probably
reflected that even in this reverberating age the opinions of the
laboratory do not easily reach the street; and the Professor, at any
rate, was not bound to offer advice on this point.
The determining cause of his consent was the fact that the book was
already in press. The Professor knew little about the workings of
the press, but the phrase gave him a sense of finality, of having
been caught himself in the toils of that mysterious engine. If he
had had time to think the matter over, his scruples might have
dragged him back; but his conscience was eased by the futility of
resistance. _
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