fight.... A conger eel in a boat will rage—dangerously.”
“A vertebrate. Yes. But even among the vertebrata; who has ever seen a furious rabbit?”
“Don’t the bucks fight?” questioned Sir Richmond.
Dr. Martineau admitted the point.
“I’ve always had these fits of passion. As far back as I can remember. I was a kicking, screaming child. I threw things. I once threw a fork at my elder brother and it stuck in his forehead, doing no serious damage—happily. There were whole days of wrath—days, as I remember them. Perhaps they were only hours.... I’ve never thought before what a peculiar thing all this raging is in the world. Why do we rage? They used to say it was the devil. If it isn’t the devil, then what the devil is it?
“After all,” he went on as the doctor was about to answer his question; “as you pointed out, it isn’t the lowlier things that rage. It’s the higher things and us.”
“The devil nowadays,” the doctor reflected after a pause, “so far as man is concerned, is understood to be the ancestral ape. And more particularly the old male ape.”
But Sir Richmond was away on another line of thought. “Life itself, flaring out. Brooking no contradiction.” He came round suddenly to
