Then a stout effort would be required to send the
thing back where it belonged, to those lower, decently hidden levels
of the mind--life.
And the dragon was cunning. From hour to hour, growing more restive,
it employed devices of craft and subtlety. As when Merton Gill,
carefree to the best of his knowledge, strolling lightly to another
point of interest, graciously receptive to the pleasant life about
him, would suddenly discover that a part of his mind without
superintendence had for some moments been composing a letter,
something that ran in effect:
"Mr. Gashwiler, dear sir, I have made certain changes in my plans
since I first came to sunny California and getting quite a little
homesick for good old Simsbury and I thought I would write you about
taking back my old job in the emporium, and now about the money for
the ticket back to Simsbury, the railroad fare is--"
He was truly amazed when he found this sort of thing going on in
that part of his mind he didn't watch. It was scandalous. He would
indignantly snatch the half-finished letter and tear it up each time
he found it unaccountably under way.
Pages:
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275