“But this seems to be a very ingenious little machine,” said Bonaparte, seating himself on the antheap, and bending down over it with deep interest. “What is it for, my lad?”
“Shearing sheep.”
“It is a very nice little machine,” said Bonaparte. “How does it work, now? I have never seen anything so ingenious!”
There was never a parent who heard deception in the voice that praised his child—his first-born. Here was one who liked the thing that had been created in him. He forgot everything. He showed how the shears would work with a little guidance, how the sheep would be held, and the wool fall into the trough. A flush burst over his face as he spoke.
“I tell you what, my lad,” said Bonaparte emphatically, when the explanation was finished, “we must get you a patent. Your fortune is made. In three years’ time there’ll not be a farm in this colony where it isn’t working. You’re a genius, that’s what you are!” said Bonaparte, rising.
“If it were made larger,” said the boy, raising his eyes, “it would work more smoothly. Do you think there would be any one in this colony would be able to make it?”
“I’m sure they could,” said Bonaparte; “and if not, why I’ll do my best for you. I’ll send it to England. It must be done somehow. How long have you worked at it?”
“Nine months,” said the boy.
“Oh, it is such a nice little machine,” said Bonaparte, “one can’t help feeling an interest in it. There is only one little improvement, one very little improvement, I should like to make.”
Bonaparte put his foot on the machine and crushed it into the sand. The boy looked up into his face.