THE absurd notion that people whose daily horizon is bounded by booklined walls are devoid of human sentiments, and that the thrills they experience in the course of exciting research work differ in kind from those felt by the intrepid airman or explorer, can scarcely be substantiated. In nine cases out of ten highly adventurous people who scale the blue air or plunge through leagues of bush in search of white tapirs or giant sloths receive their first inspiration from books, and after many years of research in many subjects I confess I cannot discern much psychological difference between breaking a lance in imagination in the company of Montalvo's Amadis and going after tiger. The result is the same—that sudden joyous uprising of the heart and tingling of the nerves which red‐blooded people in all ages have so persistently sought.
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