make a note of that.” And Jarvis took out a notebook to make an entry.
“You have the notebook habit?” snorted the Professor.
“Yes, I can’t afford to waste ideas, suggestions, thoughts.”
“Bah! A most offensive habit.”
“I gather, from your general attitude,” Jarvis began again, “that you dislike me.”
“I neither like nor dislike you. I don’t know you.”
“You never will know me, at this rate.”
“I am not sure that I care to.”
“Why not? What have you against me?”
“You are not practical.”
“Do you consider yourself practical?”
“I do. I am the acme of practical. I am mathematical.”
He slew another bug.
“How can you do that?” cried Jarvis, his concern in his face. “That slug has a right to life. Why don’t you get the point of view of the slug?”
“He kills my roses,” justified the Professor. “He’s a murderer. Society has a right to extinguish him.”
“The old fallacy, a tooth for a tooth?”
“You’d sacrifice my roses to save this insect?”
