"Like Reynolds—" repeated Mr. Massey after a time, on impulse—one immediately regretted.
"Like Reynolds, our great rough, fine-hearted Reynolds," said Mr. Procter, "the one whom you've had threatened with arrest because he harangued too freely on the street corner." He paused to finish impressively: "I see now that the man who throws away his spiritual birthright for a mess of pottage hates the one who keeps his in the face of all—poverty—misunderstanding—ridicule."
A silence dark as a cavern ensued. Mr. Massey at last got to his feet. He stood a long moment looking at the machine, then he glanced at the inventor, but when someone knocked softly at the door he started, revealing how far away from his immediate surroundings his thoughts had flown.
Suzanna entered. "Here's David, daddy," she said. "He wants to talk with you."
David entered. "I had some time," he said, "and I wanted to see the machine again."
"Glad to see you," said the inventor heartily. "Mr. Massey, this is my friend, David Ridgewood, Graham Woods Bartlett's gardener."
"How do you do, Mr. Massey," said David. "I've seen you before, of course. Heard of you often."
John Massey did not answer at once, since he was somewhat at a loss. He had not been in the habit of meeting socially his friends' gardeners. At last he blurted forth.
"How d' do. I've had a look at Procter's invention."
"Ah, yes, I supposed so," said David. Then: "Isn't the thought back of that machine wonderful?" Which ridiculous question quickened again all the Eagle Man's combativeness. He spoke with a fine candor.