As a good many men told him, HE
undoubtedly had no soul, because he was so young, but it did not follow that
his seniors were equally undeveloped; and, whether there was another world or
not, a man still wanted to read his papers in this. "But that is not the
point--that is not the point!" Aurelian used to say. Then men threw sofa-
cushions at him and told him to go to any particular place he might believe
in. They christened him the "Blastoderm"--he said he came from a family of
that name somewhere, in the pre-historic ages--and, by insult and laughter,
strove to choke him dumb, for he was an unmitigated nuisance at the Club;
besides being an offence to the older men. His Deputy Commissioner, who was
working on the Frontier when Aurelian was rolling on a bed-quilt, told him
that, for a clever boy, Aurelian was a very big idiot. And, you know, if he
had gone on with his work, he would have been caught up to the Secretariat in
a few years. He was just the type that goes there--all head, no physique and a
hundred theories. Not a soul was interested in McGoggin's soul. He might have
had two, or none, or somebody's else's. His business was to obey orders and
keep abreast of his files instead of devastating the Club with "isms.
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