If we’d known what a trouble Sammy was going to be to us all through
the winter, I guess we’d have been more careful about making him our
ward. But we’d done it, and there was nothing for us but to stand by
him—and he did have a monstrous appetite. After winter came on we
pretty nearly had to feed him. He did get things to eat besides what
we took him—chicken sometimes, I guess, and things like that. We
never asked how he got them, and he never told us, but I don’t
imagine it was best for folks in that neighborhood to leave things
laying after dark.
We were afraid he’d freeze to death, but the cold never seemed to
bother him. In the cave he had some old quilts and a piece of carpet
he used to hang across the opening to shut out the wind. When he
built a fire on the sand before the cave it was surprising how warm
it got inside, and then he’d drop his curtain, and it seemed like
the heat would stay for hours after the fire was gone.
Of course, he couldn’t stay in the cave all the time, and, though we
cautioned him, he did go prowling around the country a good deal,
even on the roads. Once or twice he was seen at night, and one
farmer came lashing his horse into town with a story of being chased
by a ghost twenty feet high with hair two yards long. We knew who
the ghost was, all right, though we couldn’t see why Sammy chased
the man. He told us it was just for fun. That’s the way he was, a
regular little boy, and how he did love to play pranks! What with
him sneaking around that section and with people missing things and
catching glimpses of him in the darkness, the locality got a bad
name. It doesn’t take long for a place to get a bad name; and, no
matter how much folks don’t believe in ghosts, they’re ready to
believe in something or other. I don’t believe in them, and Mark
says there isn’t any such thing, but all the same there are times
when the chills run all over you and you know there’s something that
isn’t flesh and blood right behind you.
All that winter we lugged things to eat out to the cave, usually a
couple of times a week, and when the drifts were high it was pretty
hard work. But Sammy was always grateful, and when you come to think
about what came later, and how valuable Sammy was to us, I shouldn’t
wonder if he was worth more than our trouble.
During the winter Mr. Tidd worked harder than ever on his turbine,
and before the last snow was off the ground he had his working
model, or whatever he called it, about ready for a trial. He was
excited and we were excited, but it was Mark that thought of
something that gave us all a setback.
“How you goin’ to try it? You ain’t got any s-steam.”
Mr. Tidd scratched his head and looked at Mark reproachful-like, as
if calling his attention to it was as bad as if Mark had come right
up and taken steam away from him that he’d been saving for the
purpose.
“It won’t run without steam,” he said, slow and worried. “Without
steam a-sissin’ and strainin’ and workin’ it won’t do nothin’. It
might just as well be a bag of potaters for all the good it is.
Well, well! Um!” After a minute he brightened up like he always did.
Worry and Mr. Tidd never could stay together long. “There’s some way
out of it,” he said, “some way out of it. The trouble—the trouble
seems to be, now I think of it, that no way comes into my head.”
He sighed and pulled a volume of the _Decline and Fall_ out of his
pocket and commenced to read. In less than a minute he’d forgotten
all about us and the turbine and the steam and everything else in
the world but those old Roman folks that went tearing and rampaging
all over the world without much regard for anybody’s feelings, so
I’ve always thought. How Mr. Tidd, a gentle, nice man, could be fond
of such characters as those Romans was a mystery to me. He used to
read pieces out of the _Decline and Fall_ to us, and in the course
of a year I calculate we heard most all of it. I can’t remember that
those folks ever did anything but fight. From morning till night
they were picking on somebody. What I’d like to know is, if the
whole nation was always fighting, who tended the post-office and ran
the stores and looked after things at home? Quite likely the
womenfolks had to do that while their husbands were gallivanting
around in Gaul or Egypt or other foreign parts. To my mind those
Romans were a ridiculous lot.
“If you haven’t got steam here,” I said, trying to puzzle it out, “I
guess you’ll have to take your model where steam is.”
“What’s that?” Mr. Tidd asked, looking up from his book. “What’s
that? Oh yes. Of course.”
“Don’t you know anybody that’s got steam that’ll lend some to you?”
Mr. Tidd thought. Then he slapped his knee. “There’s Mr. Whiteley
over at the power-plant. Him and me has got pretty friendly, one way
and another. He’s got steam. Now, do you s’pose he’d be willin’? Do
you?”
“I don’t see why he shouldn’t,” I told him; and Mark nodded his head
once or twice to show he agreed.
The upshot of it was that Mr. Tidd went to see Mr. Whiteley and got
permission to set up his turbine in a corner of the room where the
engines and things were to give it a trial. When we found that out—I
mean Binney and Plunk and me—we were all as wrought up about it as
though it was our father doing the inventing.
Mr. Tidd put in about a week finishing his turbine and setting it up
in the engine-room. We went down to see it when it was all ready. It
was to be tried out the next morning. Tucked away in a corner of the
engine-room it didn’t look like much. It was little and boxed in so
you couldn’t see any of the machine parts that made it go, and
somehow didn’t seem very important when you compared it with the big
wheels and beams and one thing and another on the engine that stood,
all shining with brass, in the middle of the floor. We felt a sort
of sinking.
But Mr. Tidd was humming and happy. He patted his little contraption
and beamed and beamed. Then he’d look over at the big engine and
smile scornful-like. “This here leetle feller,” he said, “will do
most as much work as you will, with all your size and brass and
roarin’. You want to look out, for this leetle feller is goin’ to be
the death of you, and don’t you forget it!”
“Mr. Tidd,” said Mr. Whiteley, “I hope you aren’t too confident. It
won’t be too big a disappointment if it fails to work?”
“Fails to work! Why, it _will_ work, Mr. Whiteley. It—”
“But lots of others have failed—men with technical educations,
eminent engineers.”
“They didn’t know what I know, Mr. Whiteley. Not what I know. No,
sir. The Tidd turbine’s goin’ to do what it ought to. You see.”
We left the engine-room, and Mark went home with his father. The
trial was to come off at nine o’clock the next morning, and we were
to be there. It was a promise. Nobody was to see it but Mr. Tidd and
Mr. Whiteley and us four boys. Of course the engineer would be
there, but he didn’t count—or we thought so, anyhow.
Binney and I were on hand before eight o’clock, and we had a whole
hour to hang around. It was tiresome waiting by the door, so we got
up and prowled around the building just to pass away the time and
see what we could see. After a while we got tired and sat down on a
plank that ran across a couple of oil barrels under a window of the
engine-room and made ourselves comfortable. The window was open, and
I could hear voices inside, but I supposed it was the engineer
talking to some of his help and didn’t think anything about it until
whoever it was came closer. It was the engineer, all right, but I
couldn’t make out from the sound who was with him, though there was
something familiar about the voice.
“They’re goin’ to turn steam into the thing at nine o’clock,” said
the engineer. “Funny-lookin’ contraption, ain’t it?”
“Um!” said the other man. “Why didn’t you telegraph me sooner?”
“I didn’t know when they was goin’ to be ready until yestiddy.
Soon’s I found out I sent off a wire right off. Anyhow, you’re here,
ain’t you?”
“Yes,” said the man, in a kind of a grunt. “What d’you s’pose is
inside the thing?”
“Hain’t got no idee. What are you so all-fired int’rested in it for?
You don’t reckon this coot of a Tidd has up and invented somethin’,
do you?”
“You can never tell, my friend,” said the man; and all at once I
recognized his voice. It was the same man that we saw on the depot
platform and that tried to get Mr. Tidd to show him his drawings and
patterns and things last fall—the fellow that worked for some
machinery company in Pittsburg.
“Confound it,” he went on, snappishly, “he’s got it all covered up
with casing so’s you can’t see into it at all. Wonder what his idea
_is_. Can’t we pry into it and see?”
I calculated it was about time to do something, so I stuck my head
in the window and hollered, like I’d just got there, “Hey, Mr.
Willis”—which was the engineer’s name—“open the door, will you
please? Mr. Tidd’ll be here in a minute, and we want to git in.”
I saw the stranger kick the floor like he was mighty mad, but there
wasn’t anything Mr. Willis could do but let us in, so he didn’t get
to see into the engine that time. When we got inside the stranger
was gone.
“Somebody with you, wasn’t there?” I asked Mr. Willis.
He grunted out a yes, and then jerked his head back through the
engine-room. “Feller tryin’ to sell oil. He just went out the other
way.”
“Oh,” I says; but I didn’t believe he was selling oil or that he was
gone very far away. You don’t telegraph men to come and try to sell
you things.
It wasn’t more than five minutes before Mr. Tidd and Mark and Plunk
came in with Mr. Whiteley.
“Everything ready?” Mr. Whiteley asked the engineer; and Willis
nodded that it was. Mr. Tidd went over to his turbine and began
fiddling around with it, and I grabbed Mark by the arm and whispered
in his ear, “That feller’s here.”
“What feller?”
“The sneakin’ one. That one that’s after your father’s turbine. He’s
hidin’ here somewheres. The engineer’s a friend of his’n and
telegraphed him to come.”
“Sure?” Mark asked, sharp.
“I saw him and heard him.”
Mark took hold of his fat cheek with his finger and thumb and
pinched it. His little eyes were going here and there around the
machinery and into corners, and he was thinking hard.
“He’s hidin’ where he can s-s-see,” he says, half to himself.
“Of course,” I told him, “that’s what he came for.”
Now, if it had been me I’d have told Mr. Tidd and Mr. Whiteley right
off and had the stranger put out; but that wasn’t Mark’s way. He
always wanted to engineer things differently and be original about
it. If there was an easy way, like there was now, and some other way
that had to be puzzled and figured over, he’d choose that way every
time. I knew there wasn’t any use in my saying anything, so I just
waited to see what would happen.
“I dunno’s it will do any harm if he d-does see it run. He can’t
find out nothin’. Maybe it’s a good thing he came. Havin’ him
sneakin’ round like this may show father he ain’t to be trusted.
Eh?”
I could see there was something in that. If we could get it into Mr.
Tidd’s head that all the world wasn’t as honest as a prayer-meeting
we’d be doing something pretty valuable.
“It’s your business,” I told him, “and you can run it the way you
want to.”
He kept peering around cautious, and finally he decided the stranger
was hiding in one of two places. One of them was a sort of toolroom
right across from where we stood; the other place was a dark
cubbyhole under the stairs. He could see all right from either
place.
Mr. Tidd was all ready now to begin his trial. He told the engineer
to turn on his steam, and we all stood around, almost forgetting to
breathe. We could see the steam climbing up in the gauge he’d fixed
until it showed there was a hundred pounds of pressure.
“There,” he says, “that’s enough. Now we’re agoin’ to see the Tidd
turbine set about its business. There’s no doubt about it; not a
mite.”
“Don’t be too confident,” warns Mr. Whiteley.
Mr. Tidd only smiled and turned a little thing that let the steam
into his turbine. Pretty soon there came a sort of purring like a
cat, only not so loud; maybe it was more like the whirring of an
electric fan. We couldn’t see the machine shake or anything, and it
didn’t look to me like a thing had happened. But Mr. Tidd was
dancing up and down, and saying “I told you so!” and slapping his
hip with his big hand, and acting in general like he had gone crazy.
Mr. Whiteley looked at him sort of queer, like he was afraid he
really had gone out of his head, and says: “Hold hard; Tidd, get a
grip on yourself. She may work yet.”
Mr. Tidd stopped capering and stared at Mr. Whiteley with his mouth
open. “May work yet!” he says. “May work yet! Ho, ho! May work yet!
Do you hear that hummin’, Mr. Whiteley, and that purrin’? And, Mr.
Whiteley, do you see that shaft a-turnin’? Ho, ho! I knew it!”
“Do you mean the thing’s working?” demanded Mr. Whiteley.
“She’s a-turnin’ her rotator this very second about twelve thousand
times a minute,” says Mr. Tidd, “and she’s a-stirrin’ up close to a
hundred horse-power.”
“Impossible!” says Mr. Whiteley.
“Measure it, then,” sings Mr. Tidd. “Measure it.”
The engineer brought Mr. Whiteley a couple of little brass things,
and he hitched them onto the turbine. The one that measured the
revolutions seemed to go plum crazy for a while, then it settled
down to business, and Mr. Whiteley bent over to read what it said.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again. “Tidd,” he said, all excited,
“Tidd, it can’t be possible! It can’t! But this says you’re making
fourteen thousand revolutions to the minute.”
“What’s she doin’ in the way of horse-power?” Mr. Tidd chuckled.
Mr. Whiteley fussed around a while till he found out.
“It says the machine’s turning up one hundred and two horse-power,”
he says, kind of hushed like. With that he walked over to Mr. Tidd
and put out his hand. “Mr. Tidd,” says he, “you’ve done it. You’ve
come close to revolutionizing the business of applying power, and
you’re going to be a rich man.”
“Wait,” says Mr. Tidd. “You hain’t seen it all. What’s one of the
greatest obstacles now in the turbine?”
“The difficulty of reversing.”
“Watch,” says Mr. Tidd. He turned a cock one place and turned
another at the opposite end. “There,” says he; “she’s reversed.”
“What!” Mr. Whiteley said, his face all twisted up with
astonishment.
“Fact,” grins Mr. Tidd. “Fact, gen-_u_-ine fact. As sure as that
Cæsar conquered Gaul.” “Have you got your patent?”
“Nope. Couldn’t get it till I proved she’d work. But I’m goin’ to
git it quick now, you can bet, perty sudden.”
Mark sort of scrooged up to his father. “Father,” he says, “come
here a minute. I want to show you and Mr. Whiteley somethin’.”
They looked at him surprised-like.
“Over here.” Mark points.
He walks to the toolroom and points. “Here it is,” he says,
“a-crouchin’ in here. C-come out!” he tells the stranger.
The stranger, seeing there wasn’t anything else to do, did come out
looking flustered and a little greasy where he’d squeezed up against
things. “What’s this?” snaps Mr. Whiteley. “What are you doing
here?”
The man didn’t say anything for a minute, and I noticed the engineer
was looking pretty uncomfortable. Mark spoke right up, though.
“He was sneakin’ around to see father’s engine work. He’s been
s-s-spyin’ around a year, he has. He works for some engineerin’
company in Pittsburg.”
“I _have_ been watching Mr. Tidd’s progress with his turbine,” said
the stranger, in a make-believe honest kind of voice. “I represent
capital, and Mr. Tidd will need capital to market and manufacture
his invention. It was my desire to see how he came out before I
raise his hopes by offering him financial support.”
“It was a queer way you took,” Mr. Whiteley said, and his voice
sounded unpleasant. “You’ve found out it works, all right. _Now
git!_” He took a step forward, and the stranger looked like he was
startled plenty. He didn’t wait to make any more explanations, but
hurried out of the engine-room.
“Tidd,” said Mr. Whiteley, “you want to look out. The best thing you
can do is to get off after your patent and protect yourself. If you
don’t you’ll just be another inventor cheated out of the profits of
his invention—and yours is a big one.”
“I guess,” answered Mr. Tidd, “that you’re right.” His eyes looked
sorry—sorry, I guess, to find out anybody was so dishonest. “You’re
right. I’ll go to-morrow—to-morrow.”
He did go next day, down to Detroit to see a patent lawyer that Mr.
Whiteley told him was all right. Before he went he brought his
turbine back to his shop in the barn and put a new padlock on both
doors. It was while he was away that the things happened which gave
the Ku Klux Klan a chance to show what it was made of.