"It's only a small detail," he said eagerly, pacing up and down. "When
the grass is wet, it sticks between the steel fingers above the shears
and accumulates there and gets in the way. It's the devil and all that
I never thought of testing it myself in wet weather. But once I've got
that right, my girl, the thing will be a world-success."
Once more the machine was set up in his workshop, and he walked around
it, watching, spying, thinking, racking his brain to find the little
device that should make all well. All else was finished, all was
right, but he still lacked the single happy thought, the flash of
inspiration--that given, a moment's work would be enough to give this
thing of steel life, and wings with which to fly out over the wide
world.
It might come at any moment, that happy thought. And he tramped round
and round his machine, clenching his fists in desperation because it was
so slow in coming.
The last touch only, the dot upon an i, was wanting. A slight change in
the shape or position of the fingers, or the length of the shears--what
was it he wanted? How could he sleep that night?
He felt that he stood face to face with a difficulty that could have
been easily solved had he come fresh to the work, but that his tortured
brain was too worn out to overcome.
But when an Arab horse is ready to drop with fatigue, then is the time
when it breaks into a gallop.
He could not wait. There were the faces at the window again, staring and
asking: "Not finished yet?" Merle, the children, Uthoug and his wife,
the Bank Manager.
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