Desperate months were May, June, and July for the little Doctor. In all
this time he never once put his own pencil to his own paper. Manuscript
and Schedule lay locked together in a drawer, toward which he could
never bear to glance. Thirteen hours a day he gave to the science of
editorial writing; two hours a day to the science of physical culture;
one hour a day (computed average) to the science of Human Intercourse;
but to the Science of Sciences never an hour on never a day. The rest
was food and sleep. Such was his life for three months; a life that
would have been too horrible to contemplate, had it not been that in all
of his new sciences he uncovered a growing personal interest which kept
him constantly astonished at himself.
By the end of June he found it safe to give less and less time to the
study of editorial paradigms, for he had the technique at his fingers'
ends; and so he gave more and more time to the amassment of material.
For he had made a magnificent boast, and he never had much idea of
permitting it to turn out empty, for all his nights of torturing
misgivings.
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