Watt had again to encounter the lack of competent, sober workmen to run engines. The Highland blood led him at last into severe measures, and he insisted upon discharging two or three of the most drunken. Here Boulton had great difficulty in restraining him. Much had to be endured, and occasional bouts of drunkenness overlooked, although serious accidents resulted. At last two men appeared whose services proved invaluable--Murdoch, already mentioned, and Law--one of whom became famous. Watt was absent when the former called and asked Boulton for employment. The young Scot was the son of a well-known millwright near Ayr who had made several improvements. His famous son worked with him, but being ambitious and hearing of the fame of Boulton and Watt, he determined to seek entrance to Soho works and learn the highest order of handicraft. Boulton had told him that there was at present no place open, but noticing the strange cap the awkward young man had been dangling in his hands, he asked what it was made of. "Timmer," said the lad. "What, out of wood?" "Yes." "_How_ was it made?" "I turned it mysel' in a bit lathey o' my own making." This was enough for that rare judge of men. Here was a natural-born mechanic, certain. The young man was promptly engaged for two years at fifteen shillings per week when in shop, seventeen shillings when abroad, and eighteen shillings when in London. His history is the usual march upward until he became his employers' most trusted manager in all their mechanical operations. While engaged upon one critical job, where the engine had defied previous attempts to put it to rights, the people in the house where Murdoch lodged were awakened one night by heavy tramping in his room over-head. Upon entering, Murdoch was seen in his bed clothes heaving away at the bed post in his sleep, calling out "Now she goes, lads, now she goes." His heart was in his work. He had a mission, and only one--to make that engine go.