One day--oh, well, Jack, we'll keep
that story for another occasion. . . . The long and short was, he
found he had a gift--uncanny to me--of dealing with animals in a
rage, and raising or lowering their angry passions at will.
He switched off bugs, their cause and cure, and on to this new track.
He started experimenting, made observations, took records. He's been
at it now--how many years, Jack? He'll play on a dog-fight better
than you can on a penny-whistle: as soon as he chooses they're
sitting one on each side of the gramophone, listening to Their
Master's Voice. Vivisection?--Farrell's an ass. The only inhuman
thing I've ever known Jack do was to domesticate a wild-cat and
restore her to the woods unprotected by her natural amenities.
These people hear a shindy going on in the laboratory in `--` Street,
and conclude that he's holding the wrong sort of tea-party. Now, if
he'd had an ounce of practical wisdom to-night, he'd have arisen
quietly, invited Farrell to drop in at 4.30 to-morrow, arranged a
moderate dog-fight, and given that upholsterer ten minutes of
glorious life.
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