his engine seemed to be grinning at him, in fiendish delight over his
misfortunes. There were times when he was angry with it, outright, as if
it knew what he was doing and did not mean to give in to him and let
itself be invented.

But now the tune of the lathe and the chisel still ran on in his head,
for he had heard it through two whole days and could not get rid of it.

"Bricks without straw, bricks without straw!" repeated the lathe
viciously. "Ever so much better than no bricks at all, sh--sh--sh!"
answered the chisel, gibbering and hissing like an idiot.

"You will certainly be lying on straw before long, and then I suppose
you'll wish you had something else!" squeaked the little chisel with
which he was cutting out holly leaves, as it went through the thin
plates into the wood of the bench under each push of his hand.

The things in the workshop all seemed to be talking to him together, and
made his head ache.

"I had a letter from your mother to-day," he said, because it was
better to hear his own voice say anything than to listen to such
depressing imaginary conversations. "I'm sorry to say she sees no chance
of getting home before the spring."

"I don't know where you'd put her if she came here," answered the
practical Newton. "Your room leaks when it rains, and so does mine. You
two would have to sleep in the parlour. I guess it'll be better if she
doesn't come now."