the time. So, after all, your requiring capital is no great
misfortune; you must look out for a working capitalist. No sleeping
partner will serve your turn; what you want is a good rich, vulgar,
energetic man, the pachydermatouser the better."

Henry acted on this advice, and went to London in search of a moneyed
partner. Oh, then it was he learned--

"The hell it is in suing long to bide."

He found capitalists particularly averse to speculate in a patent. It
took him many days to find out what moneyed men were open to that sort
of thing at all; and, when he got to them, they were cold.

They had all been recently bitten by harebrained inventors.

Then he represented that it was a matter of judgment, and offered
to prove by figures that his saw-grinding machines must return three
hundred per cent. These he applied to would not take the trouble to
study his figures. In another words, he came at the wrong time. And the
wrong time is as bad as the wrong thing, or worse.

Take a note of that, please: and then forget it.

At last he gave up London in despair, and started for Birmingham.

The train stepped at Tring, and, as it was going on again, a man
ran toward the third-class carriage Little was seated in. One of the
servants of the company tried to stop him, very properly. He struggled
with that official, and eventually shook him off. Meantime the train was
accelerating its pace. In spite of that, this personage made a run and
a bound, and, half leaping, half scrambling, got his head and shoulders
over the door, and there oscillated, till Little grabbed him with
both hands, and drew him powerfully in, and admonished him. "That is a
foolhardy trick, sir, begging your pardon."

"Young man," panted the invader, "do you know who you're a-speaking to?"

"No. The Emperor of China?"

"No such trash; it's Ben Bolt, a man that's bad to beat."

"Well, you'll get beat some day, if you go jumping in and out of trains
in motion."

"A many have been killed that way," suggested a huge woman in the corner
with the meekest and most timid voice imaginable.

Mr. Bolt eyed the speaker with a humorous voice. "Well, if I'm ever
killed that way, I'll send you a letter by the post. Got a sweetheart,
ma'am?"

"I've got a good husband, sir," said she, with mild dignity, and pointed
to a thin, sour personage opposite, with his nose in a newspaper. Deep
in some public question, he ignored this little private inquiry.

"That