“And will your machine do more?” I asked.
“Antony,” he cried, catching my arm in his—and his face lit up as we stood by that attic window—“if my machine succeeds it will be the greatest invention of the age. Look, boy; do you see what I mean to do?”
“N-no,” I said; “not yet.”
“No; of course not,” he cried. “It has been the work of years to think it out, and you cannot grasp it yet. It has grown month by month, my boy, till it has assumed so great a magnitude that I shrink at times, half crushed by my own offspring. There seems to be too much—that I attempt to climb too high—and when I give up almost in despair it lures me on—beckons me in my dreams, and points to the success that might be achieved.”
I looked at him wonderingly; he seemed to be so transformed.
“I began with quite a small idea, Antony,” he continued. “I will show you. My idea was this. You see now, my boy, that with the present machine the type is laid on a table, and it goes backwards and forwards under a great iron cylinder or roller, grinding continually, and being worn out.”
“Yes, I know; the type gets thick and blurred in its fine upstrokes.”
“Exactly,” he said, smiling. “Well, Antony, I tried to invent a simple process of making a mould or seal, when the type was ready, and then—”
“Making a solid block of fresh type in the big mould. I know,” I cried.
“Right, my boy, right,” he cried; “and I have done it!”