He rose as he spoke, and there was a silence no one cared to break, as he looked at the wreck of his machine.
“Another failure, Mr Rowle,” he said sadly; and he took the old man’s hand, as if he were the one who needed all the sympathy. “I am very, very sorry—for your sake. I cannot say more now.”
“One word, Mr Hallett,” said the great engineer. “Do you know that this is all through malice?”
“Malice? No.”
“Some scoundrel has been here and thrust in this bar of iron. Gentlemen,” he said, looking round, “this is an unfortunate affair; but I speak to you as leading members of the printing business, and I tell you that Mr Hallett’s invention here means success, and a revolution in the trade,—This is a case of wanton destruction, the act of some contemptible scoundrel. You have seen the ruin here of something built up by immense labour, but I pledge you my word—my reputation—that before six months are past another and a better machine shall be running before you—perfect.”
There was a faint cheer, and quite a little crowd gathered round the wreck while Mr Girtley turned to speak to Hallett.
“Thank you,” said the latter, smiling; “you will excuse me now; I feel rather faint and giddy, and I will get off home.”
“I’ll go with you, Hallett,” I cried.
“No, no: I shall be all right,” he said, with a sad smile. “I’ll take a cab at the corner on the strength of my success. Come to me after you leave.”
“I would rather go with you,” I said.