gold. And looking down the long avenue between the ropes (gilded now with the sunset), one saw red signals, and two miles away an ant-hill of workmen busy altering the last falls of the run into a rising slope.
"I'll come," said Woodhouse. "I'll come right enough. But I tell you it's infernally foolhardy. If only you would give another year"—
"I tell you I won't. I tell you the thing works. I've given years enough"—
"It's not that," said Woodhouse. "We're all right with the machine. But it's the steering"—
"Haven't I been rushing, night and morning, backwards and forwards, through this squirrel's cage? If the thing steers true here, it will steer true all across England. It's just funk, I tell you, Woodhouse. We could have gone a year ago. And besides"—
"Well?" said Woodhouse.
"The money!" snapped Monson over his shoulder.
"Hang it! I never thought of the money," said Woodhouse, and then, speaking now in a very different tone to that with which he had said the words before, he repeated, "I'll come. Trust me."
Monson turned suddenly, and saw all that Woodhouse had not the dexterity to say, shining on his sunset-lit face. He looked for a moment, then impulsively extended his hand. "Thanks," he said.
"All right," said Woodhouse, gripping the hand, and with a queer softening of his features. "Trust me."
Then both men turned to the big apparatus that lay with its flat wings extended upon the carrier,
