Chemistry men at Harvard are creatures apart. All day long, they are withdrawn from the outside world into the mysterious Oxford Street workshop, and even when they emerge at dusk, it is to gather in groups and talk their strange, unintelligible jargon. And even then, their thoughts are in their test-tubes, for they have a passionate, all-consuming devotion to their work.

A short while ago, the tensely industrious quiet of a Mallinckrodt laboratory was broken by a dull explosion, and quickly the large rooms filled with dense, choking vapors. There was a horrified silence; then an impotent, gesticulating circle formed around a stiff figure with eyes wrinkled shut in agony, with face glistening from chemicals which had geysered up. The stricken one uttered low, meaningless cries,--obviously it was shock.

Ever-efficient section men quickly arrived, with true medical skill bathed the student's eyes, tenderly washed his face, and solicitously told him to lie down. Ten minutes later, he had recovered his faculties. Weakly turning to his faithful lab buddy who hovered nearby, as a haunted look came over his smarting face, he muttered, "Bill, do you think I can still get a good yield for the day?"