“The very man I want to soothe me at odd times:  they rile me so with their suicidal folly.  Now, look here, old fellow, if you don’t come to me, I’ll give you a good hiding.”

“Oh! well, sooner than you should break the peace—.  Mrs. Little, I’d rather be with him at two guineas a week, than with any other master at three.”

When he had got this honest fellow to look after his interests, young Little gave more way than ever to his natural bent for invention, and he was often locked up for twelve hours at a stretch, in a room he called his studio.  Indeed, such was his ardor, that he sometimes left home after dinner, and came back to the works, and then the fitful fire of his forge might be seen, and the blows of his hammer heard, long after midnight.

Dr. Amboyne encouraged him in this, and was, indeed, the only person admitted to his said studio.  There the Democritus of Hillsborough often sat and smoked his cigar, and watched the progress toward perfection of projected inventions great and small.

One day the doctor called and asked Bayne whether Henry was in his studio.  Bayne said no; he thought he had seen him in the saw-grinders’ hull.  “And that struck me; for it is not often his lordship condescends to go there now.”

“Let us see what ‘his lordship’ is at.”

They approached stealthily, and, looking through a window, saw the inventor standing with his arms folded, and his eyes bent on a grinder at his work:  the man was pressing down a six-feet saw on a grindstone with all his might and Little was looking on, with a face compounded of pity, contempt, and lofty contemplation.

“That is the game now, sir,” whispered Bayne:  “always in the clouds, or else above ’em.  A penny for your thoughts, sir!”

Henry started, as men do who are roused from deep contemplation; however, he soon recovered himself, and, with a sort of rude wit of his own, he held out his hand for the penny.

Amboyne fumbled in his pocket, and gave him a stamp.

Little seized it, and delivered himself as follows:  “My thoughts, gentlemen, were general and particular.  I was making a reflection how contented people are to go bungling on, doing a thing the wrong way, when the right way is obvious:  and my particular observation was—­that these long saws are ground in a way which offends the grammar of mechanics.  Here’s a piece of steel six feet long, but not so wide as the grindstone:—­what can be plainer than that such a strip ought to be ground lengthwise? then the whole saw would receive the grindstone in a few seconds.  Instead of that, on they go, year after year, grinding them obliquely, and with a violent exertion that horrifies a fellow like me, who goes in for economy of labor, and have done all my life.  Look at that fellow working.  What a waste of muscle!  Now, if you will come to my studio, I think I can show you how long saws will be ground in the days of civilization.”