IN WHICH JOHNNY KEEPS ON DOING BUSINESS TILL THE CLOCK STRIKES FOUR
The hired auto had plenty to do. It carried Johnny to court, where he
made a deposition against Gresham; it carried him to the office of the
Amalgamated Steel Company, where he had the bonds that Gresham had
transferred to him registered in his own name; it carried him to the
appointment with Washburn's lawyer, who destroyed a full hour and a
half of palpitating time; and it carried all of them to Loring's
office, into which they burst triumphantly at twenty minutes of four.
At that hour Loring's office was crowded with loafers, the same being
Colonel Bouncer, Morton Washer, Joe Close, Ben Courtney, Val Russel and
Bruce Townley.
"This being a sporting event of some note, I gathered up a nice little
bunch of sports to see the finish," explained Val Russel with a
graceful bow. "Loring passed me the word that he expected you to nose
under the wire in record time. You must show us the million dollars you
were to have by four P. M., on Wednesday, May thirty-first."
"I don't have to flash it for twenty minutes," claimed Johnny happily.
"At that hour I will show you a certificate of deposit on Joe Close's
bank for half a million in bonds, and a sure-enough check for five
hundred and ten thousand dollars."
"No fair!" objected Val. "You were to have only an even million, and
you've shot ten thousand over the mark."
"I owe Polly five thousand," explained Johnny as he hung his hat on a
hook and pushed back his sleeves, "and I provided for the other five
thousand in order to give a party. May I wash my face while I'm waiting
for the time to be up?"
Courtney noticed that Constance had moved over toward the rather
inadequately screened basin in the corner in unconscious accompaniment
of Johnny.
"We'll excuse you if you'll answer one question," Courtney ventured
with twinkling eyes. "It has been generally understood among your
friends that when you really secured your million dollars--"
"That will do," interrupted Polly Parsons. "You interfered once before
with Johnny's love affairs--Well, I'm not giving anything away!" she
hotly retorted to a blazing glance from Constance.
The door opened and a boy brought in a package for Mr. Gamble. Loring,
guessing the contents from its size, tore off the wrapper.
"Collaton sticks, anyhow, Johnny," he called. "Here are the lost books."
"Cheap at half the price," laughed Johnny as he splashed in the water.
"By the way, Loring, you never did tell me how you steered off that
first bogus attachment for fifteen thousand."
Constance and Loring looked at each other in dismay.
"I'll bring in a bill for that after four o'clock," promised Loring,
laughing as lightly as he could.
"After four," repeated Johnny, coming from behind the screen with a
towel in his hands. "You didn't pay it, did you?"
"That's an entirely separate deal," evaded Loring.
"Where did you get the money?" demanded Johnny, and scrutinizing the
confused face of Constance, he knew.
Johnny smiled gratefully at her and patted her on the shoulder as he
walked quietly behind the screen. Great Scott! He glanced over the
screen at the clock. Where could he make ten thousand dollars in
fifteen minutes? He had to have that million and it must be clear! He
reached for a comb with one hand and for his hat with the other.
Winnie and Sammy Chirp rushed into the office--Winnie in a bewildering
new outfit of pure white, beaming all over with importance, and Sammy
smiling as he had never smiled before.
"Where on earth have you been?" demanded Polly. "I've been telephoning
for you all day."
"Well," explained Winnie volubly, "I took a notion to marry Sammy. I
just thought that if I mentioned it to you you'd want me to wait a
while, and when it did happen it would be a regular fussy affair."
"Honestly, child, I don't know whether to scold you or kiss you," broke
in Polly. "Sammy, come here."
Sammy came, not only obediently but humbly, though he never ceased to
smile; and he looked her squarely in the eyes.
Polly surveyed him long and earnestly.
"I guess it's the best thing that could have happened to both of you,
but I'll have a dreadful time looking after such a pair!"
"I'll look after my husband myself, if you please!" indignantly
protested Winnie.
Everybody laughed, and Polly started the popular ceremony of kissing
the bride.
Johnny Gamble came thoughtfully from behind the screen. He had not
heard the commotion, nor was he even now aware that Winnie and Sammy
had been added to the party. He had a broken comb in his hand.
"Bruce," said he, looking steadfastly at the comb, "did you ever feel
the need of a comb of your own in a public wash room?"
"I've sent a boy six blocks to buy one," responded Bruce with a surge
of recurrent indignation.
"It's the curse of the nation," Val earnestly assured him. "You are
ready for the theater. You have fifteen minutes to spare. You drop into
a gilded palace of crime to drink a highball. In your earnestness you
muss your hair. You retire to primp. A comb hangs before you, with one
serviceable tooth. A brush with eight bristles hangs by its side. You
smooth your hair with your towel and go away saddened for ever!"
"The trouble is," said Colonel Bouncer, "that every man thinks he's
going to carry a neat little pocket-comb in a neat little case, and he
buys dozens of them; but he never has one with him."
"Thanks," acknowledged Johnny. "Now suppose you could step into any
barber shop, theater, hotel, saloon or depot wash room, drop a nickel
in a slot and take out a nice papier-mache comb, paraffined and
medicated and sealed in an oiled-paper wrapper. Would you do it?"
"Just as fast as I could push the button," agreed Bruce with enthusiasm.
"Well, I've just invented that comb," explained Johnny, smiling. "Do
you think there would be a good business in manufacturing it?"
Courtney, who had been considering the matter gravely, now nodded his
head emphatically.
"There's a handsome fortune in it," he declared. "It is one of those
little things of which there are enormous quantities used and thrown
away each day. If you want to organize a company to put it on the
market, Johnny, I'll take any amount of stock you think proper--not
only for the investment, but for the pure philanthropy of it."
"Also for the pure selfishness of it," laughed Joe Close. "Courtney
wants to be sure to find a private comb in every public wash room."
"When you get your factory going I wish you'd send a salesman to my
head supply man," requested Mort Washer. "I'll buy them by the ton, and
every guest who comes into one of my hotels will find a fresh comb in
an aseptic wrapper by the side of his individual soap."
"That will be up to Bruce," Johnny informed him. "Bruce intends to
manufacture this device at his papier-mache factory."
"Thanks," acknowledged Bruce. "I hadn't contemplated enlarging the
factory, but I see I shall need to."
"Johnny isn't kidding, Bruce," Val shrewdly warned him.
"Neither am I," maintained Bruce stoutly. "I'll have that comb on the
market so quickly that you can almost afford to wait for it. Royalty,
Johnny?"
"No," denied Johnny promptly. "I'll sell it to you outright for ten
thousand dollars, me to sign any sort of papers you need and you to pay
the patent lawyer."
"I'd be robbing you," protested Bruce. "I should think you'd want to
retain an interest in the manufacture, or at least a royalty. There'd
be a lot more money in it for you."
"Wait just a minute," directed Loring, sitting down at his typewriting
machine from which the neat operator had fled at the very beginning of
the social invasion.
For the next two or three minutes the rapidfire click of the keys under
Loring's practiced fingers drowned all other sound, and then he jerked
off a paper.
"Now, Johnny, you sign this," he ordered. "It is a rather legal
transfer, in line with your other dubious operations of the day, of all
your rights in the Johnny Gamble comb to one Bruce Townley, here
present. Bruce, give Johnny your check for the ten thousand dollars."
"All right, if you fellows are bound to have it that way," agreed
Bruce. "I haven't a check-book with me, Johnny, but I'll send it up to
you from the office to-morrow."
"But, Bruce, that won't do!" hastily urged Constance. "He must have the
check right now. Don't you see he only has a million and ten thousand
dollars? He owes Polly five thousand and me fifteen thousand, and if
you give him ten thousand dollars for his invention he'll have a
million and how much? I'm all mixed up! But I do know this: that he'll
have his million dollars left exactly to the cent!"
"I--I see," stuttered Bruce in a fever of anxiety to help Johnny
achieve his million in the specified time. "I--I'm sorry I haven't my
check-book," and he looked about him hopelessly.
Just in front of his chest was suspended a check, already made out in
favor of Johnny Gamble, in the amount of ten thousand dollars, properly
dated and lacking only Bruce's signature. It was smiling Sammy Chirp
who had been quietly thoughtful enough to remember that he and Bruce
did business at the same bank.
"The nation is saved!" cheered Val Russel as Bruce dropped down at
Loring's desk. Johnny was already busy writing.
"Do hurry!" urged Constance. "It's two minutes of four!"
Johnny jumped up with two checks on the First National Bank and passed
one to Constance and one to Polly.
"Tough luck!" suddenly commented Val Russel. "It just occurs to me that
our friend Johnny will have to break into his million to pay for his
blow-out."
"I'm glad of it," snapped Morton Washer. "He took an eighth of that
million out of my pocket. He can afford to give a dinner, with salted
almonds and real imported champagne at every plate."
"And a glass-scratching diamond souvenir from the million-dollar
bride," added Polly with a wicked glance at Constance.
"Are we positive that he has won a bride?" demanded Courtney, gathering
courage from the fact that Polly was not crushed.
"I don't know myself," boasted Johnny with an assumption of masculine
masterfulness which he knew he could never maintain. "Will you marry
me, Constance?"
"I decline to discuss that in public," declared Constance with
well-feigned haughtiness.
Johnny kissed her, anyhow, and the mob cheered.
"Listen!" ordered Constance.
The little clock above Loring's desk struck four.
End of Project Gutenberg's Five Thousand an Hour, by George Randolph Chester