to give a bad half-hour even to Patrick O'Mahoney, the new Irish sergeant of police, who was kept in continuous training by encounters with victory-flushed members of the University football team.
Professor Barker Harrison became so used to his fantastic thoughts that finally they seemed more to him than mere projections of his racial conscious ness run amuck. They whirled about his mind with a magnificent thunder of action, filling him, somehow, with deep, primitive longings which were oddly at variance with his chosen work and his day-by-day life.
Not that he disliked his life work. He took a massive pride in it; and in the small New England university, famed for its exact, scholastic accomplishments and its minute research work, his name was not the least known. He was an authority in Slavonic languages and literature.
But there came moments, after he had explained for the thousandth time the baroque mazes of the Cyrillic alphabet, after he had explained for the thousandth time that the Russian guttural K has the spirantal value of the German word Dach, when a certain impatience took him by the forelock and shook him … quite gently.
