Do you think there would be any one in this colony would be
able to make it?"
"I'm sure they could," said Bonaparte; "and if not, why I'll do my best for
you. I'll send it to England. It must be done somehow. How long have you
worked at it?"
"Nine months," said the boy.
"Oh, it is such a nice little machine," said Bonaparte, "one can't help
feeling an interest in it. There is only one little improvement, one very
little improvement, I should like to make."
Bonaparte put his foot on the machine and crushed it into the sand. The
boy looked up into his face.
"Looks better now," said Bonaparte, "doesn't it? If we can't have it made
in England we'll send it to America. Good-bye; ta-ta," he added. "You're
a great genius, a born genius, my dear boy, there's no doubt about it."
He mounted the grey mare and rode off. The dog watched his retreat with
cynical satisfaction; but his master lay on the ground with his head on his
arms in the sand, and the little wheels and chips of wood lay on the ground
around him. The dog jumped on to his back and snapped at the black curls,
till, finding that no notice was taken, he walked off to play with a black
beetle. The beetle was hard at work trying to roll home a great ball of
dung it had been collecting all the morning: but Doss broke the ball, and
ate the beetle's hind legs, and then bit off its head.
Pages:
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126