“Oh, no,” said Hallett, who was annoyed. “I—that is—it is a portion of a little contrivance of mine.”
“Oho!” exclaimed Mr Jabez, “I’ve found you out, have I, Master Hallett! Why, you were always making sketches of machinery at the office.”
“How do you know that?” said Hallett sharply, while my heart sank, for I felt that our attempt would be a failure.
“Old Grim told me. That young scoundrel, Jem Smith, used to carry him scraps of paper upon which you had been drawing.”
Hallett’s brow grew more cloudy, but he brightened up directly, saying frankly:
“Well, yes, Mr Rowle, I am engaged upon a little invention.”
“That’s right,” said the old man warmly; “that’s right; I wish I had begun something of the kind when I was young. It takes the mind away from the daily mill-horse work. But somehow, Hallett, I never could drag my mind away from it, but used to amuse myself reading proofs at home. Grace,” he continued, turning to me, “why don’t you take to something? You being an engineer, now, you ought to do something, say, in our line. There’s plenty of chances there. I know one man,” he said, taking up his thin leg and nursing it, “who has been trying for years to perfect a machine.”
“Oh, Mr Jabez,” I thought, “you have spoiled all!” for Hallett darted a quick glance at me.
“The idea occurred to him,” continued Mr Jabez, tapping his snuff-box thoughtfully, as if it contained the machine, “that he could make a contrivance that would do away with the necessity for setting type.”
“Indeed?” said Hallett, who drew a long breath of relief.