“It was five years ago to-day that we began,” he said to Woodhouse suddenly.
“Is it?” said Woodhouse.
“It’s the alterations play the devil with us,” said Monson, biting a paper-fastener.
The drawings for the new vans to the hinder screw lay on the table before him as he spoke. He pitched the mutilated brass paper-fastener into the waste-paper basket and drummed with his fingers. “These alterations! Will the mathematicians ever be clever enough to save us all this patching and experimenting. Five years—learning by rule of thumb, when one might think that it was possible to calculate the whole thing out beforehand. The cost of it! I might have hired three senior wranglers for life. But they’d only have developed some beautifully useless theorems in pneumatics. What a time it has been, Woodhouse!”
“These mouldings will take three weeks,” said Woodhouse. “At special prices.”
“Three weeks!” said Monson, and sat drumming.
“Three weeks certain,” said Woodhouse, an excellent engineer, but no good as a comforter. He drew the sheets towards him and began shading a bar.
Monson stopped drumming and began to bite his finger-nails, staring the while at Woodhouse’s head.
“How long have they been calling this Monson’s Folly?” he said suddenly.
“Oh! Year or so,” said Woodhouse, carelessly, without looking up.