it open in the middle and break the back of the binding--he does it
instinctively.

There are other symptoms of the born novel reader to be observed in him.
If he reads at night he is careful to so place his chair that the light
will fall on the page from a direction that will ultimately ruin the
eyes--but it does not interfere with the light. He humps himself over
the open volume and begins to display that unerring curvalinearity of
the spine that compels his mother to study braces and to fear that he
will develop consumption. Yet you can study the world's health records
and never find a line to prove that any man with "occupation or
profession--novel reading" is recorded as dying of consumption. The
humped-over attitude promotes compression of the lungs, telescoping of
the diaphragm, atrophy of the abdominal abracadabra and other
things (see Physiological Slush, p. 179, et seq.); but--it--never--
hurts--the--boy!

To a novel reading boy the position is one of instinct, like that of
the bicycle racer. His eyes are strained, his nerves and muscles at
tension--everything ready for excitement--and the book, lying open,
leaves his hands perfectly free to drum on the sides of the chair, slap
his legs and knees, fumble in his pockets or even scratch his head as
emotion or interest demand. Does anybody deny that the highest proof of
special genius is the possession of the instinct to adapt itself to the
matter in hand? Nothing more need be said.

* * * * *

Now, if you will observe carefully such a boy when he comes to a certain
point in "Robinson Crusoe" you may recognize the stroke of fate in his