“Servant be hanged!” said Little. “THAT for a friend who does not speak his mind.”
“Well, then, gentlemen, it is the most simple and beautiful contrivance I ever saw. And there's only one thing to be done with it.”
“Patent it?”
“No; hide it; lock it up in your own breast, and try and forget it. Your life won't be worth a week's purchase, if you set up that machine in Hillsborough.”
“Hillsborough is not all the world. I can take it to some free country—America or—Russia; there's a fortune in it. Stop; suppose I was to patent it at home and abroad, and then work it in the United States and the Canadas. That would force the invention upon this country, by degrees.”
“Yes, and then, if you sell the English patent and insure the purchaser's life, you may turn a few thousands, and keep a whole skin yourself.”
Little assured Bayne he had no intention of running his head against the Saw-grinders' Union. “We are very comfortable as it is, and I value my life more than I used to do.”
“I think I know why,” said Dr. Amboyne. “But, whatever you do, patent your invention. Patent them all.”
Henry promised he would; but soon forgot his promise, and, having tasted blood, so to speak, was soon deep in a far more intricate puzzle, viz., how to grind large circular saws by machinery. This problem, and his steel railway clip, which was to displace the present system of fastening down the rails, absorbed him so, that he became abstracted in the very streets, and did not see his friends when they passed.
One day, when he was deeply engaged in his studio, Bayne tapped at the door, and asked to speak to him.