FATE ARRANGES FOR J. RUFUS AN OPPORTUNITY TO MANUFACTURE SALES RECORDERS
It was not until their train had passed beyond the last suburb that
Wallingford, ensconced in the sleeper drawing room, was able to resume
his accustomed cheerfulness.
"Sure you have that bundle of American passports all right, Fanny?" he
inquired.
"They're perfectly safe, but I'm glad to be rid of them," she answered
listlessly, and opening her hand bag she emptied it of its contents,
then, with a small penknife, loosened the false bottom in it. From
underneath this she drew a flat package of thousand-dollar bills and
handed them to him.
"Forty of them!" gloated Wallingford, counting them over. Then he
pounded upon his knees and laughed. "I can see Starvation Neil when he
has to tell his jay delegates that I drew out every cent the day after I
lost my bank book. I'd been missing too many things that never turned up
again. I fixed them to-night, too. Although I didn't need to do it to
be on the law's safe side, I hustled out before we started and swore to
a notary that I signed that check under coercion; and they'll get that
affidavit before the check and the injunction!"
Mrs. Wallingford did not join him in the shoulder-heaving laugh which
followed.
"I don't like it, Jim," she urged. "You're growing worse all the time,
and some day you'll overstep the bounds. And have you noticed another
thing? Our money never does us any good."
"You'll wake up when we get settled down some place to enjoy ourselves.
I don't believe you know how well you like fine dresses and diamonds,
and to live on the fat of the land. You know what this little bundle of
comfort means? That we're the salt of the earth while it lasts; that for
a solid year we may have not only all the luxuries in the world, but
everybody we meet will try to make life pleasant for us."
To that end Wallingford secured a suite of rooms at two hundred dollars
per week the moment they landed in New York, and began to live at a
corresponding rate. He gave himself no regret for yesterday and no care
for to-morrow, but let each extravagant moment take care of itself. It
was such intervals as this, between her husband's more than doubtful
"business" operations, that reconciled Mrs. Wallingford to their mode of
life, or, rather, that numbed the moral sensibilities which lie dormant
in every woman. While they were merely spending money she was content to
play the _grande dame_, to dress herself in exquisite toilettes and
bedeck herself with brilliant gems, to go among other birds of fine
feathers that congregated at the more exclusive public places, though
she made no friends among them, to be surrounded by every luxury that
money could purchase, to have her every whim gratified by the mere
pressing of a button. As for Wallingford, to be a prince of spenders, to
find new and gaudy methods of display, to have people turn as he passed
by and ask who he might be; these things made existence worth while.
Only one thing--his restless spirit--kept him from pursuing this
uneventful path until all of his forty thousand dollars was gone. After
two months of slothful ease, something more exciting became imperative,
and just then the racing season began and supplied that need. Every
afternoon they drove out to the track, and there Wallingford bet
thousands as another man might bet fives. There could be but one end to
this, but he did not care. What did it matter whether he spent his money
a trifle more or less quickly? There was plenty of it within his broad
hunting grounds, and when what he had was gone he had only to go capture
more; so it was no shock one morning to count over his resources and
find that he had but a fragment left of what he had laughingly termed
his "insurance fund." Upon that same morning an urgent telegram was
delivered to him from "Blackie" Daw. He read it with a whistle of
surprise and passed it over to his wife without comment.
"You're not going?" she asked with much concern, passing the message
back to him.
"Of course I am," he promptly told her. "Blackie's the only man I could
depend upon to get me out of a similar scrape."
"But, Jim," she protested; "you just now said that you have barely over
six thousand left."
"That's all right," he assured her. "I'd have to get out and hustle in
less than a month anyhow, at the rate we're going. I'll just take
Blackie's five thousand, and a couple of hundred over for expenses. You
keep the balance of the money and we'll get out of these apartments at
once. I'll get you nice accommodations at about twenty a week, and
before I come back I'll have something stirred up."
Secretly, he was rather pleased with the turn affairs had taken.
Inaction was beginning to pall upon him, and this message that called
urgently upon him to take an immediate trip out of town was entirely to
his liking. Within an hour he had transferred his wife into comfortable
quarters and was on his way to the train. He had very little margin of
time, but, slight as it was, the grinning Fate which presided over his
destinies had opportunity to arrange a meeting for him. Even as he
pointed out his luggage to a running porter, a fussy little German in
very new-looking clothes which fitted almost like tailor-made, had
rushed back to the gates of the train shed where the conductor stood
with his eyes fixed intently on his watch, his left hand poised ready to
raise.
"I left my umbrella," spluttered the passenger.
"No time," declared the autocrat, not gruffly or unkindly, but in a tone
of virtuous devotion to duty.
The little German's eyes glared through his spectacles, his face puffed
red, his gray mustache bristled.
"But it's my wife's umbrella!" he urged, as if that might make a
difference.
The brass-buttoned slave to duty did not even smile. He raised his hand,
and in a moment more the potent wave of his wrist would have sent Number
Eighteen plunging on her westward way. In that moment, however, the
Pullman conductor, waiting with him, clutched the blue arm of authority.
"Hold her a second," he advised, and with his thumb pointed far up the
platform. "Here comes from a dollar up for everybody. He's rode with me
before."
The captain of Eighteen gave a swift glance and was satisfied.
"Sure. I know him," he said of the newcomer; then he turned to the still
desperately hopeful passenger and relented. "Run!" he directed briefly.
Wallingford, who had secured for Carl Klug this boon, merely by an
opportune arrival, was not hurrying. He was too large a man to hurry, so
a depot porter was doing it for him. The porter plunged on in advance,
springing heavily from one bent leg to the other, weighted down with a
hat box in one hand, a huge Gladstone bag in the other and a suit case
under each arm. The perspiration was streaming down his face, but he
was quite content. Behind him stalked J. Rufus, carrying only a cane and
gloves; but more, for him, would have seemed absurd, for when he moved
the background seemed to advance with him, he was so broad of shoulder
and of chest and of girth. Dignity radiated from his frame and carriage,
good humor from his big face, wealth from every line and crease of his
garments; and it was no matter for wonder that even the rigid schedule
of Number Eighteen was glad to extend to this master of circumstances
its small fraction of elasticity.
One of the Pullman porters from up the train caught a glimpse of his
approach and came running back to snatch up two of the pieces of
luggage. It did not matter to him whether the impressive gentleman was
riding in his coach or not; he was anxious to help on mere general
principles, and was even more so when the depot porter, dropping the
luggage inside the gate, broke into glorious sunrise over the crinkling
green certificate of merit that was handed him. The Pullman conductor
only asked to what city the man was bound, then he too snatched up a
suit case and a bag and raced with the porter to take them on board,
calling out as he ran the car into which the luggage must go. To
Wallingford their activity gave profound satisfaction, and he paused to
hand the conductor a counterpart to the huge black cigar he was then
smoking. It had no band of any sort upon it, but the conductor judged
the cigar by the man. It was not less than three for a dollar, he was
sure.
"Pretty close figuring, old man," observed Wallingford cordially.
The conductor's smile, while gracious enough, was only fleeting, for
this thing of being responsible for Eighteen was an anxious business,
the gravity of which the traveling public should be taught to appreciate
more.
"We're nearly a minute off now," he said, "and I've let myself in to
wait for a Dutchman I let run out when I saw you coming. There he is.
Third car up for you, sir," and he ran up to the steps of the second car
himself.
The missing passenger came tearing through the gates just as Wallingford
went up the car steps. The conductor held his hand aloft, and the
engineer, looking back, impatiently clanged his bell. The porter picked
up his stepping-box and jumped on after his tip, but he looked out to
watch the little German racing with all his might up the platform, and
did not withdraw his head until the belated one, all legs and arms,
scrambled upon the train. Instantly the wheels began to revolve, both
vestibule doors were closed with a slam, and a moment later Carl Klug,
puffing and panting, dropped upon a seat in the smoking compartment,
opposite to the calm J. Rufus Wallingford, without breath--and without
his umbrella.
"_Schrecklich!_" he exploded when he could talk. "They are all thieves
here. I leave my umbrella in the waiting-room five minutes, I go back
and it is gone. Gone! And it was my wife's umbrella!"
Under ordinary circumstances Mr. Klug, whose thirty years of residence
in America had not altogether destroyed certain old-country notions of
caste, would not have ventured to address this lordly-looking stranger,
but at present he was angry and simply must open the vials of his wrath
to some one. He met with no repulse. Mr. Wallingford was not one to
repulse strangers of even modest competence. He only laughed. A score of
jovial wrinkles sprang about his half-closed eyes, and his pink face
grew pinker.
"Right you are," he agreed. "When I'm in this town I keep everything
I've got right in front of me, and if I want to look the other way I
edge around on the other side of my grips."
Mr. Klug digested this idea for a moment, and then he, too, laughed,
though not with the abandon of Mr. Wallingford. He could not so soon
forget his wife's umbrella.
"It is so," he admitted. "I have been here three days, and every man I
had any business with ought to be in _jail_!"
A sudden thought as he came to this last word made Mr. Klug lay almost
shrieking emphasis upon it, and smack both fists upon his knees. He
craned his head forward, his eyes glared through his spectacles, his
cheeks puffed out and his mustache bristled. Wallingford surveyed him
with careful appraisement. The clothing was ready made, but it was a
very good quality of its kind. The man's face was an intelligent one and
told of careful, concentrated effort. His hands were lean and rough, the
fingers were supple and the outer joints bent back, particularly those
of the thumb, which described almost a half circle. The insides of the
fingers were seamed and crossed with countless little black lines. From
all this the man was a mechanic, and a skilled one. Those fingers dealt
deftly with small parts, and years of grimy oil had blackened those
innumerable cuts and scratches.
"Did they sting you?" Wallingford inquired with a dawning interest that
was more than courteous sympathy.
"I guess _not_!" snapped Mr. Klug triumphantly, and the other made quick
note of the fact that the man was familiar with current slang. "I was
too smart for them." Then, after a reflective pause, he added: "Maybe.
They might steal my patent some way."
Patent! Mr. Wallingford's small, thick ears suddenly twitched forward.
"Been trying to sell one?" he asked, pausing with his cigar half way to
his mouth and waiting for the answer.
"Three hundred dollars they offer me!" exploded Mr. Klug, again smiting
both fists on his knees. "Six years I worked on it in my little shop of
nights to get up a machine that was different from all the rest and that
would work right, and when I get it done and get my patent and take it
to them, they already had a copy of my patent and showed it to me. They
bought it from the Government for five cents, and called me the same as
a thief and offered me three hundred dollars!"
Wallingford pondered seriously.
"You must have a good machine," he finally announced.
Mr. Klug thought that he was "being made fun of."
"It _is_ a good machine. It's as good a machine as any they have got.
There is no joke about it!"
"I'm not joking," Wallingford insisted. "Who are the people?"
Mr. Klug considered for a suspicious moment, but the appearance of this
gentleman, the very embodiment of sterling worth, was most reassuring.
Beneath that broad chest and behind that diamond scarf pin there could
rest no duplicity. Moreover, Mr. Klug was still angry, and anger and
discretion do not dwell together.
"The United Sales Recording Machine Company of New Jersey," he stated,
rolling out the name with a roundness which betrayed how much in respect
and even awe he held it.
Wallingford was now genuinely interested.
"Then you _have_ a good patent," he repeated. "If they offered you three
hundred dollars it is worth thousands, otherwise they would not buy it
at any price. They have hundreds of patents now, and you have something
that they have not covered."
"Four hundred and twelve patents they own," corrected Mr. Klug. "I have
been over every one in the last six years, every little wire and bar and
spring in them, and mine is a whole new machine, like nothing they have
got. They have got one man that does nothing else but look after these
patents. You know what he said? 'Yes, you have worked six years for a
chance to hold us up. But we're used to it. It happens to us every day.
If you think you can manufacture your machine and make any money, go at
it.' He told me that!"
Wallingford nodded comprehendingly.
"Of course," he agreed. "They have either fought out or bought out
everybody who ever poked their nose into the business. They had to. I
know all about them. If you have a clean invention you were foolish to
go to them with it in the first place. They'd only offer you the cost of
the first lawsuit they're bound to bring against you. That's no way to
sell a patent. Inventors all die poor for that very reason. The thing
for you to do is to start manufacturing, and make them come to you.
Throw a scare into them."
Mr. Klug was frightened by the very suggestion.
"Jiminy, no!" he protested, shaking his head vigorously. "I got no big
money like that. I'd lose every cent and all my little property."
"It don't take so much money, if you use it right," insisted
Wallingford. "Use as little capital as you can for manufacturing, and
save the most of it for litigation. I'll bet I could sell your patent
for you." He pondered a while with slowly kindling eyes, and smiled out
of the window at the rushing landscape. "I tell you what you do. Get up
a company and I'll buy some stock in it myself."
"Humbug with that stock business!" Mr. Klug exclaimed with explosive
violence, his mustache bristling now until it stuck straight out. "I
would not get up any such a business with stock in it. I had all the
stock I want, and I never buy nor sell any any more. I got some I'll
give away."
Wallingford smiled introspectively.
"Oh, well, form a partnership, then. You have four or five friends who
could put up five thousand apiece, haven't you?"
Mr. Klug was quite certain of that.
"I am president of the Germania Building Loan Association," he announced
with pardonable pride.
"Then, of course, you can control money," agreed the other in a tone
which conveyed a thoroughly proper appreciation of Mr. Klug's standing.
"I'll invest as much as anybody else, and you put in your patent for a
half interest. We'll start manufacturing right away, and if your
machine's right, as it must be if they offer to buy the patent at all,
I'll make the United people kneel down and coax us to take their money.
There are ways to do it."
"The machine is all right," declared Mr. Klug. "Wait; I'll show it to
you."
He hurried out to his seat, where reposed a huge box like a typewriter
case, but larger. He lugged this back toward the smoker, into which
other passengers were now lounging, but on the way Wallingford met him.
"Let's go in here, instead," said the latter, and opened the door into
the drawing room.
It was the first time Mr. Klug had ever been in one of these
compartments, and the sense of exclusiveness it aroused fairly reeked of
money. The dreams of wealth that had been so rudely shattered sprang
once more into life as the inventor opened the case and explained his
device to this luxury-affording stranger, who, as a display of their
tickets had brought out, was bound for his own city. It was a pneumatic
machine, each key actuating a piston which flashed the numbered tickets
noiselessly into view. It was perfect in every particular, and
Wallingford examined it with an intelligent scrutiny which raised him
still further in Mr. Klug's estimation; but as he compared patent
drawings and machine, intent apparently only upon the mechanism, his
busy mind was ranging far and wide over many other matters, bringing
tangled threads of planning together here and there, and knotting them
firmly.
"Good," said he at last. "As I said, I'll buy into your company. Get
your friends together right away and manufacture this machine. I'll
guarantee to get a proper price for your patent."