made out enough to convince me that he was no mere crank playing at

discoveries. In spite of his crank-like appearance there was a force about

him that made that impossible. Whatever it was, it was a thing with

mechanical possibilities. He told me of a work-shed he had, and of three

assistants--originally jobbing carpenters--whom he had trained. Now,

from the work-shed to the patent office is clearly only one step. He

invited me to see those things. I accepted readily, and took care, by a

remark or so, to underline that. The proposed transfer of the bungalow

remained very conveniently in suspense.

At last he rose to depart, with an apology for the length of his call.

Talking over his work was, he said, a pleasure enjoyed only too rarely. It

was not often he found such an intelligent listener as myself, he mingled

very little with professional scientific men.

So much pettiness," he explained; "so much intrigue! And really, when one

has an idea--a novel, fertilising idea--I don't want to be uncharitable,

but--"

I am a man who believes in impulses. I made what was perhaps a rash

proposition. But you must remember, that I had been alone, play-writing in

Lympne, for fourteen days, and my compunction for his ruined walk still

hung about me. "Why not," said I, "make this your new habit? In the place

of the one I spoilt? At least, until we can settle about the bungalow.

What you want is to turn over your work in your mind. That you have always

done during your afternoon walk. Unfortunately that's over--you can't get

The First Men In The Moon