George Griffith

The Angel of Revolution George Griffith

"VICTORY! It flies! I am master of the Powers of the Air at last!"They were strange words to be uttered, as they were, by a pale, haggard, half-starved looking young fellow in a dingy, comfortless room on the top floor of a South London tenement-house; and yet there was a triumphant ring in his voice, and a clear, bright flush on his thin cheeks that spoke at least for his own absolute belief in their truth. Let us see how far he was justified in that belief. To begin at the beginning, Richard Arnold was one of those men whom the world is wont to call dreamers and enthusiasts before they succeed, and heaven-born geniuses and benefactors of humanity afterwards. He was twenty-six, and for nearly six years past he had devoted himself, soul and body, to a single idea-to the so far unsolved problem of aerial navigation. This idea had haunted him ever since he had been able to think logically at all-first dimly at school, and then more clearly at college, where he had carried everything before him in mathematics and natural science, until it had at last become a ruling passion that crowded everything else out of his life, and made him, commercially speaking, that most useless of social units-a one-idea'd man, whose idea could not be put into working form. He was an orphan, with hardly a blood relation in the world. He had started with plenty of friends, mostly made at college, who thought he had a brilliant future before him, and therefore looked upon him as a man whom it might be useful to know.