After all， those other fellows who took high places in the College examinations and were the professor's model boys haven't done so amazingly. Some are professors themselves， some technical experts； not one can show things done such as I， following my own interest， have achieved. For I have built boats that smack across the water like whiplashes； no one ever dreamt of such boats until I built them； and I have surprised three secrets that are more than technical discoveries， in the unexpected hiding-places of Nature. I have come nearer flying than any man has done. Could I have done as much if I had had a turn for obeying those rather mediocre professors at the college who proposed to train my mind？ If I had been trained in research--that ridiculous contradiction in terms--should I have done more than produce additions to the existing store of little papers with blunted conclusions， of which there are already too many？ I see no sense in mock modesty upon this matter. Even by the standards of worldly success I am， by the side of my fellow-students， no failure. I had my F.R.S. by the time I was thirty-seven， and if I am not very wealthy poverty is as far from me as the Spanish Inquisition. Suppose I had stamped down on the head of my wandering curiosity， locked my imagination in a box just when it wanted to grow out to things， worked by so-and-so's excellent method and so-and-so's indications， where should I be now？
I may be all wrong in this. It may be I should be a far more efficient man than I am if I had cut off all those divergent expenditures of energy， plugged up my curiosity about society with more currently acceptable rubbish or other， abandoned Ewart， evaded Marion instead of pursuing her， concentrated. But I don't believe it！
However， I certainly believed it completely and was filled with remorse on that afternoon when I sat dejectedly in Kensington Gardens and reviewed， in the light of the Registrar's pertinent questions my first two years in London.
第一章CHAPTER THE SECOND THE DAWN COMES， AND MY UNCLE APPEARS IN A NEW SILK HAT
I
Throughout my student days I had not seen my uncle. I refrained from going to him in spite of an occasional regret that in this way I estranged myself from my aunt Susan， and I maintained a sulky attitude of mind towards him. And I don't think that once in all that time I gave a thought to that mystic word of his that was to alter all the world for us. Yet I had not altogether forgotten it. It was with a touch of memory， dim transient perplexity if no more--why did this thing seem in some way personal？--that I read a new inscription upon the hoardings：
THE SECRET OF VIGOUR， TONO-BUNGAY.
That was all. It was simple and yet in some way arresting. I found myself repeating the word after I had passed； it roused one's attention like the sound of distant guns. "Tono"--what's that？ and deep， rich， unhurrying；--"BUN--gay！"
Then came my uncle's amazing telegram， his answer to my hostile note： "Come to me at once you are wanted three hundred a year certain tono-bungay."
"By Jove！" I cried， "of course！
"It's something--. A patent-medicine！ I wonder what he wants with me."
In his Napoleonic way my uncle had omitted to give an address.
His telegram had been handed in at Farringdon Road， and after complex meditations I replied to Ponderevo， Farringdon Road， trusting to the rarity of our surname to reach him.
"Where are you？" I asked.
His reply came promptly：
"192A， Raggett Street， E.C."
The next day I took an unsanctioned holiday after the morning's lecture. I discovered my uncle in a wonderfully new silk hat--oh， a splendid hat！ with a rolling brim that went beyond the common fashion. It was decidedly too big for him--that was its only fault. It was stuck on the back of his head， and he was in a white waistcoat and shirt sleeves. He welcomed me with a forgetfulness of my bitter satire and my hostile abstinence that was almost divine. His glasses fell off at the sight of me. His round inexpressive eyes shone brightly. He held out his plump short hand.
"Here we are， George！ What did I tell you？ Needn't whisper it now， my boy. Shout it--LOUD！ spread it about！ Tell every one！
Tono--TONO--， TONO-BUNGAY！"
Raggett Street， you must understand， was a thoroughfare over which some one had distributed large quantities of cabbage stumps and leaves. It opened out of the upper end of Farringdon Street， and 192A was a shop with the plate-glass front coloured chocolate， on which several of the same bills I had read upon the hoardings had been stuck. The floor was covered by street mud that had been brought in on dirty boots， and three energetic young men of the hooligan type， in neck-wraps and caps， were packing wooden cases with papered-up bottles， amidst much straw and confusion. The counter was littered with these same swathed bottles， of a pattern then novel but now amazingly familiar in the world， the blue paper with the coruscating figure of a genially nude giant， and the printed directions of how under practically all circumstances to take Tono-Bungay. Beyond the counter on one side opened a staircase down which I seem to remember a girl descending with a further consignment of bottles， and the rest of the background was a high partition， also chocolate， with "Temporary Laboratory" inscribed upon it in white letters， and over a door that pierced it， "Office." Here I rapped， inaudible amid much hammering， and then entered unanswered to find my uncle， dressed as I have described， one hand gripping a sheath of letters， and the other scratching his head as he dictated to one of three toiling typewriter girls.
