Then a stout effort would be required to send the thing back where it belonged, to those lower, decently hidden levels of the mind--life.
And the dragon was cunning.

From hour to hour, growing more restive, it employed devices of craft and subtlety.

As when Merton Gill, carefree to the best of his knowledge, strolling lightly to another point of interest, graciously receptive to the pleasant life about him, would suddenly discover that a part of his mind without superintendence had for some moments been composing a letter, something that ran in effect: "Mr.Gashwiler, dear sir, I have made certain changes in my plans since I first came to sunny California and getting quite a little homesick for good old Simsbury and I thought I would write you about taking back my old job in the emporium, and now about the money for the ticket back to Simsbury, the railroad fare is--" He was truly amazed when he found this sort of thing going on in that part of his mind he didn't watch.

It was scandalous.

He would indignantly snatch the half-finished letter and tear it up each time he found it unaccountably under way.
It was surely funny the way your mind would keep doing things you didn't want it to do.