It was then about nine o’clock, and putting aside reading for that evening, I helped him to fit together the various parts. The framework had been set up and taken down and altered a score of times, for, as may be supposed in such a contrivance as this, with all its complications, it was impossible to make every part at first in its right proportions. In fact, I found out that for quite a couple of years past Hallett had been slowly and painfully toiling on, altering, re-making, and re-modelling his plans. It was always the same. No sooner had he by patient enterprise nearly finished, as he thought, than he would find out that some trifle spoiled the unity of the whole machine, and he had had to begin nearly all over again.
“There, Antony,” he said, on the night in question, as he laid down the last wheel, one that he had had specially made for the purpose, “I have got to the end of my thinking to-night. I have looked at the model in every direction; I have tried it from every point of view, and if it is not a success now, and will not work, I shall throw it aside and try no more. What are you smiling at, boy?”
“Only at you,” I said, laughing outright, for we were now, when at his house, on the most familiar terms.
“And why?” he said, half amused, half annoyed.
“I was thinking of what you so often say to me when I am discouraged and can’t get on.”
“What do you mean?”
“‘Never say die!’” I replied, laughing. “I know you’ll try again, and again, till you get the thing right and make it go.”
“Should you?” he said, looking at me curiously.
“Of course I would,” I cried, with my cheeks flushing. “I never would give up with a puzzle at home, and this is only a big puzzle. It seems, too, as if we always get a little bit nearer to success.”
“Yes,” he said, nipping his lips together; “that’s what makes it so enticing. It seems to lure me on and on, like a will-o’-the-wisp in a marsh. You’re right, Antony, my lad; never say die! I must and will succeed.”