“I do, and am much struck by what you say.”
“In that case,” said he, with a nudge of his elbow against my side,—“in that case you might as well have not come down to watch me?—eh?”
I protested stoutly against this mistake, but I could plainly perceive with very little success.
“Let it be, let it be,” said he, with a shake of the head. “As I said before, if you saw the thing done before your eyes you 'd make nothing of it. I 'm not afraid of you, or all the men in Europe! There now, there's a challenge to the whole of ye! Sit down every man of ye, with the problem before ye, and see what you 'll make of it.”
“Ah,” thought I, “this is madness. Here is a poor monomaniac led away into the land of wild thoughts and fancies by one dominating caprice; who knows whether out of the realm of this delusion he may not be a man acute and sensible.”
“No, no,” muttered he, half aloud; “there are, maybe, half a million of men this moment manufacturing steam-engines; but it took one head, just one head, to set them all working, and if it was n't for old Watt, the world at this day would n't be five miles in advance of what it was a century back. I see,” added he, after a moment, “you don't take much interest in these sort of things. Your line of parts is the walking gentleman, eh? Well, bear in mind it don't pay; no, sir, it don't pay! Here, this is my way; my lodging is down this lane. I'll not ask you to come further; thank you for your help, and good-bye.”
“Let us not part here; come up to the inn and dine with me,” said I, affecting his own blunt and abrupt manner.
“Why should I dine with you?” asked he, roughly.
“I can't exactly say,” stammered I, “except out of good-fellowship, just as, for instance, I accepted your invitation t' other morning to breakfast.”
“Ah, yes, to be sure, so you did. Well, I 'll come. We shall be all alone, I suppose?”