Joseph Scribbin (55) is a lone man, an example of the species. As a child, I imagine, he must have towered over boys and masters alike. Possibly, he had not the strength to match his height, since the height would incline to sap it away. One may imagine the gangling Scribbin tormented by smaller youths, tripped up, knocked over, sworn at by his mentors, who would expect of so high a fellow intelligence to match. He was the sort of boy, I would guess, whose beard grew early, who wore for years on his chin and upper lip a thick mat of down on which food of all descriptions left generous debris. He works today in some position where his body takes sedentary form, since this to Scribbin is an essential thing. I have ceaselessly attempted to cheer him out of his obsession, to offer him, in fact, practical tips as I offered Major Eele, though naturally of a different nature. I have suggested that he should walk with a slouch, affecting a crablike motion. In this way, I claim, he inordinate height would pass unnoticed, though of course the crablike motion might not. He takes no heed of me in any case, just looks dumb and goes away to play his gramophone. I weep when I think of Joseph Scribbin’s life, and the emptiness thereof.