Mr. Edison, of course, had long before received notification of the
hour at which the deputation would wait upon him, but when we entered
the large parlour assigned to the inventor, it was evident to me at a
glance that the celebrated man had forgotten all about the function.
He stood by a bare table, from which the cloth had been jerked and
flung into a corner, and upon that table were placed several bits of
black and greasy machinery--cog wheels, pulleys, bolts, etc. These
seemingly belonged to a French workman who stood on the other side of
the table, with one of the parts in his grimy hand. Edison's own hands
were not too clean, for he had palpably been examining the material,
and conversing with the workman, who wore the ordinary long blouse of
an iron craftsman in a small way. I judged him to be a man with a
little shop of his own in some back street, who did odd jobs of
engineering, assisted perhaps by a skilled helper or two, and a few
apprentices. Edison looked sternly towards the door as the solemn
procession filed in, and there was a trace of annoyance on his face at
the interruption, mixed with a shade of perplexity as to what this
gorgeous display all meant. The Italian is as ceremonious as the
Spaniard where a function is concerned, and the official who held the
ornate box which contained the jewellery resting on a velvet cushion,
stepped slowly forward, and came to a stand in front of the bewildered
American.
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