He laid bare as much of it as he could without permanently damaging it, and pored over it for hours at a stretch.
To what good?
None.
Now this limb was the work of no common artificer.
It was the work of a hand of rare cunning.
A master spirit had invented it, and its mystery was far too deep to be penetrated by a common bungler.
Hunston was at last so tortured that, disguising himself, he one day left the mountains, and sought the advice of a surgeon.
"The man who planned this arm," said the surgeon to whom Hunston submitted it for examination, "must have devoted a lifetime to the manufacture and perfecting of this mechanical limb."
Hunston smiled.
He knew too well how little time the wretched man Emmerson gave to any thing like industrial pursuits.