drowned by the hammering of the workmen overhead. Monson could imagine the grinning faces at the windows of the carriages. He swore savagely under his breath, and dabbed viciously at a blowfly that suddenly became noisy on the window-pane.
"What's up?" said Woodhouse, staring in surprise at his employer.
"I'm about sick of this."
Woodhouse scratched his cheek. "Oh!" he said, after an assimilating pause. He pushed the drawing away from him.
"Here these fools . . . I'm trying to conquer a new element—trying to do a thing that will revolutionise life. And instead of taking an intelligent interest, they grin and make their stupid jokes, and call me and my appliances names."
"Asses!" said Woodhouse, letting his eye fall again on the drawing.
The epithet, curiously enough, made Monson wince. "I'm about sick of it, Woodhouse, anyhow," he said, after a pause.
Woodhouse shrugged his shoulders.
"There's nothing for it but patience, I suppose," said Monson, sticking his hands in his pockets. "I've started. I've made my bed, and I've got to lie on it. I can't go back. I'll see it through, and spend every penny I have and every penny I can borrow. But I tell you, Woodhouse, I'm infernally sick of it, all the same. If I'd paid a tenth part of the money towards some political greaser's expenses—I'd have been a baronet before this."
Monson paused. Woodhouse stared in front of him with a blank expression he always employed
