Monson sucked the air in between his teeth, and went to the window. The stout iron columns carrying the elevated rails upon which the start of the machine was made rose up close by, and the machine was hidden by the upper edge of the window. Through the grove of iron pillars, red painted and ornate with rows of bolts, one had a glimpse of the pretty scenery towards Esher. A train went gliding noiselessly across the middle distance, its rattle 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 to indicate sympathy, and tapped his pencil-case on the table. Monson stared at him for a minute. "Oh, _damn_!" said Monson suddenly, and abruptly rushed out of the room. Woodhouse continued his sympathetic rigour for perhaps half a minute. Then he sighed and resumed the shading of the drawings. Something had evidently upset Monson. Nice chap, and generous, but difficult to get on with. It was the way with every amateur who had anything to do with engineering--wanted everything finished at once. But Monson had usually the patience of the expert. Odd he was so irritable. Nice and round that aluminium rod did look now! Woodhouse threw back his head, and put it, first this side and then that, to appreciate his bit of shading better. "Mr. Woodhouse," said Hooper, the foreman of the labourers, putting his head in at the door. "Hullo!" said Woodhouse, without turning round. "Nothing happened, sir?" said Hooper. "Happened?" said Woodhouse. "The governor just been up the rails swearing like a tornader." "_Oh!_" said Woodhouse. "It ain't like him, sir." "No?" "And I was thinking perhaps"--