The note of weak obstinacy which was in his voice when he first spoke had died out of it. He was pleading with his brother as a child might beg for something from a grown-up man.
“That’s exactly what I do see,” said Gorman.
“Then why won’t you let me perfect it? It doesn’t matter—sure, you know yourself, Michael, that it doesn’t matter what happens if only I get it right.”
I thought for a moment that the boy was going to cry. He pulled himself together with a sort of choked sob and then suddenly flashed into a rage.
“I will ask Ascher for the money,” he said. “I will, I will. Damn you, Michael! I’ll give it all to Ascher, everything I have. Everything I ever invent. I’ll tell him all I’ve found out. I’ll make it his.”
Then with another swift change of mood the boy turned to me and began to plead again.
“Tell him to give me the money,” he said. “Or make him let me ask Ascher for it. He’ll do it if you speak to him. I don’t want to quarrel with Michael. I don’t want to do anything he says is wrong. But I must have that money. Don’t you see I must? I can’t get on without it?”
“Listen to me, Tim,” I said; “if I give you the £100 you want——”
“I could manage with £100,” said Tim. “But it would be much better if I had £150.”
“A hundred,” I said, “and no more. If I give it to you, will you promise to bring that apparatus of yours up to London and exhibit your results to a few friends of mine there?”