I have a way of telling stories
backwards to you, which is natural enough when you
consider that I always sit down to write under the
influence of the last impressions which have come upon
me. All this talk about the soul and the brain arises
simply from the fact that I have been spending the last
few weeks with a lunatic. And how it came about I will
tell you as clearly as I can.
You remember that in my last I explained to you how
restive I had been getting at home, and how my idiotic
mistake had annoyed my father and had made my
position here very uncomfortable. Then I mentioned, I
think, that I had received a letter from Christie &
Howden, the lawyers. Well, I brushed up my Sunday hat,
and my mother stood on a chair and landed me twice on the
ear with a clothes brush, under the impression that she
was making the collar of my overcoat look more
presentable. With which accolade out I sallied into the
world, the dear soul standing on the steps, peering after
me and waving me success.
Well, I was in considerable trepidation when I
reached the office, for I am a much more nervous person
than any of my friends will ever credit me with being.
However, I was shown in at once to Mr. James Christie, a
wiry, sharp, thin-lipped kind of man, with an abrupt
manner, and that sort of Scotch precision of speech which
gives the impression of clearness of thought behind it.
"I understand from Professor Maxwell that you have
been looking about for an opening, Mr.
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