Claude Monet Vetheuil In Summer

name’s Simnel. What do you think, eh?’
IT’S A GOOD NAME.
‘No, I mean the machine. Pretty ingenious, eh?’
Bill Door ?regiy~,or two rather radical ideas in that direction.’ he added dreamily.
IT’S A DEVICE OF SOME SORT?
Simnel looked mildly affronted.
‘I prefer the term machine,’ he said.’It will revolutionise farming methods, and drag them kicking and screaming into the Century of the Fruitbat. My folk have had this forge for three hundred years, but Ned Simnel doesn’t intend to spend the rest of his life nailing bits of bent metal on to horses, I call tell you.’
Bill looked at him blankly. Then he bent down and
ded? it with polite incomprehension. It looked, at first sight, like a portable windmill that had been attacked by an enormous insect, and at second sight like a touring torture chamber for an Inquisition that wanted to get out and about a bit and enjoy the fresh air. Mysterious jointed arms stuck out at various angles. There were belts, and long springs. The whole thing was mounted on spiked metal wheels.‘Of course, you’re not seeing it at its best when it’s standing still,’ said Simnel.’It needs a horse to pull it. At the moment, anyway. I’ve got one