"No; not yet," I said, leaning my elbows on the table. "Wheels, a brass table, a roller. Why, it looks something like a mangle." I looked at him, and he nodded. "But you wouldn't try to make a mangle," I said. "It might do to grind things in. May I move it?" "No; it is out of gear. Well, do you give it up?" He rose as he spoke, and opened the attic window to let in the pleasant, cool night air, and then leaned against the sloping ceiling gazing back at me. "I know what it would do for," I said eagerly, as the idea came to me like a flash. "What?" "Why, it is--it is," I cried, clapping my hands, as he leaned towards me; "it's a printing machine." "You're right, Antony," he said; "quite right. It is the model of a printing machine." "Yes," I said, with all a boy's excitement; "and it's to do quickly what the men do now so slowly in the presses, sheet by sheet." "Yes, and in the present machines," he said. "Have you noticed how the machines work?" "Oh, yes!" I said; "often. The type runs backwards and forwards, and the paper is laid on by boys and is drawn round the big roller and comes out printed." "Exactly," he said. "Well, Antony, you have seen the men working at the presses?" "Yes." "It is hard work, and they print about two hundred or two hundred and fifty sheets an hour, do they not?" "Yes; I believe so." "And the great clumsy machines print six or seven hundred an hour. Some a thousand." "And will your machine do more?" I asked. "Antony," he cried, catching my arm in his--and his face lit up as we stood by that attic window--"if my machine succeeds it will be the greatest invention of the age. Look, boy; do you see what I mean to do?" "N-no," I said; "not yet." "No; of course not," he cried. "It has been the work of years to think it out, and you cannot grasp it yet. It has grown month by month, my boy, till it has assumed so great a magnitude that I shrink at times, half crushed by my own offspring. There seems to be too much--that I attempt to climb too high--and when I give up almost in despair it lures me on--beckons me in my dreams, and points to the success that might be achieved." I looked at him wonderingly; he seemed to be so transformed. "I began with quite a small idea, Antony," he continued. "I will show you. My idea was this. You see now, my boy, that with the present machine the type is laid on a table, and it goes backwards and forwards under a great iron cylinder or roller, grinding continually, and being worn out." "Yes, I know; the type gets thick and blurred in its fine upstrokes." "Exactly," he said, smiling. "Well, Antony, I tried to invent a simple process of making a mould or seal, when the type was ready, and then--" "Making a solid block of fresh type in the big mould. I know," I cried. "Right, my boy, right," he cried; "and I have done it!" "But does it want a machine like that?"