"Yes, sir; right away; just a minute." Roland was lingering
unwillingly, detained by Burnham's imperative hand. "What d'you want? I
got to hurry."
"What was he winking at me for?" demanded Burnham heatedly. "Have
you----?"
"Oh!" Roland laughed. "He wasn't winking. He can't help doing that.
It's a twitchin' he's got in his eye. That's why they call him Blinky."
"Oh, that was it!" Burnham accepted the explanation with distinct
relief, while Duncan, who had been an unregarded spectator, suddenly
found cause to retire behind one of the show-cases on important
business.
So that was the explanation!...
After his paroxysm had subsided and he felt able to control his facial
muscles, Duncan emerged, suave and solemn. Roland had disappeared with
Blinky, and Burnham was alone.
"Anything you wish, sir?" asked Nat.
"Only to see Mr. Graham."
"He's out just at present, but I think he'll be back in a moment or so.
Will you wait? You'll find that chair comfortable, I think."
"Believe I will," said Burnham with an air. He seated himself. "I can't
wait long, though," he amended.
"Yes, sir. And if you'll excuse me----?"
Burnham's hand dismissed him with a tolerant wave. "Go right on about
your business," he said with supreme condescension.
And Duncan returned to his work in the backyard. It wasn't long before
he found occasion to go back to the store, and by that time old Sam was
there in conversation with Burnham. Neither noticed Nat as he entered,
and to begin with he paid them little heed, being occupied with his
task of depositing an armful of bottles without mishap and then placing
them on the shelves. The hum of their voices from the other side of the
counter struck an indifferent ear while he busied himself, but
presently a word or phrase caught his interest, and he found himself
listening, at first casually, then with waxing attention.
"That's part of my business," he heard Burnham say in his sleek,
oleaginous accents. "Sometimes I pick up an odd no-'count contraption
that makes me a bit of money, and more times I'm stung and lose on it.
It's all a gamble, of course, and I'm that way--like to take a gambling
chance on anything that strikes my fancy--like that burner of yours."
"Yes," Graham returned: "the gas arrangement."
"It's a curious idea--quite different from the one I told you about;
but I kinda took to it. There might be something to it, and again there
mightn't. I've been thinking I might be willing to risk a few dollars
on it, if we could come to terms."
"Do you mean it, really?" said old Sam eagerly.
"Not to invest in it, so to speak; I don't think it's chances are
strong enough for that. But if you'd care to sell the patent outright
and aren't too ambitious, we might make a dicker. What d'you say?"
"Why, yes," said Graham, quivering with anticipation. "Yes, indeed,
if--"
"Well?"
"If you really think it's worth anything, sir."
"Well, as I say, there's no telling; but I was thinking about it at
dinner, and I sort of concluded I'd like to own that burner, so I made
out a little bill of sale, and I says to myself, says I: 'If Graham
will take five hundred dollars for that patent, I'll give him spot
cash, right in his hand,' says I."
With this Burnham tipped back in his chair, and brought forth a wallet
from which he drew a sheet of paper and several bills.
"Five hundred dollars!" repeated Graham, thunderstruck by this
munificence.
"Yes, sir: five hundred, cash! To tell you the truth--guess you don't
know it--I heard at the bank that they didn't intend to extend the time
on that note of yours, and I thought this five hundred would come in
handy, and kind of wanted to help you out. Now what do you say?"
He flourished the bills under Graham's nose and waited, entirely at
ease as to his answer.
"Well," said the old man, "it is kind of you, sir--very kind. Everybody's
been good to me recently--or else I'm dreamin'."
"Then it's a bargain?"
"Why, I hope it won't lose any money for you, Mr. Burnham," Sam
hesitated, with his ineradicable sense of fairness and square-dealing.
"Making gas from crude oil ought to--"
Duncan never heard the end of that speech. For some moments he had been
listening intently, trying to recollect something. The name of Burnham
plucked a string on the instrument of his memory; he knew he had heard
it, some place, some time in the past; but how, or when, or in respect
to what he could not make up his mind. It had required Sam's reference
to gas and crude oil to close the circuit. Then he remembered: Kellogg
had mentioned a man by the name of Burnham who was "on the track of" an
important invention for making gas from crude oil. This must be the
man, Burnham, the tracker; and poor old Graham must be the tracked....
Without warning Duncan ran round and made himself an uninvited third to
the conference.
"Mr. Graham, one moment!" he begged, excited. "Is this patent of yours
on a process of making gas from crude oil?"
Burnham looked up impatiently, frowning at the interruption, but Graham
was all good humour.
"Why, yes," he started to explain; "it's that burner over there that--"
"But I wouldn't sell it just yet if I were you," said Nat. "It may be
worth a good deal--"
"Now look here!" Burnham got to his feet in anger. "What business 've
you got butting into this?" he demanded, putting himself between Duncan
and the inventor.
"Me?" Duncan queried simply. "Only just because I'm a business man. If
you don't believe it, ask Mr. Graham."
"He's got a perfect right to advise me, Mr. Burnham," interposed
Graham, rising.
"Well, but--but what objection 've you got to his making a little money
out of this patent?" Burnham blustered.
"None; only I want to look into the matter first. I think it might be--
ah--advisable."
"What makes you think so?" demanded Burnham, his tone withering.
"Well," said Nat, with an effort summoning his faculties to cope with a
matter of strict business, "it's this way: I've got an _idea_," he
said, poking at Burnham with the forefinger which had proven so
effective with Pete Willing, "that you wouldn't offer five hundred iron
men for this burner unless you expected to make something big out of
it, and... it ought to be worth just as much to Mr. Graham as to you."
"Ah, you don't know what you're talking about."
"I know that," Nat admitted simply, "but I do happen to know you're
promoting a scheme for making gas from crude oil, and if Mr. Graham
will listen to me you won't get his patent until I've consulted my
friend, Henry Kellogg."
"_Kellogg!_"
"Yes. You know--of L.J. Bartlett & Company." Nat's forefinger continued
to do deadly work. Burnham backed away from it as from a fiery brand.
"Oh, well!" he said, dashed, "if you're representing Kellogg"--and Nat
took care not to refute the implication--"I--I don't want to interfere.
Only," he pursued at random, in his discomfiture, "I can't see why he
sent you here."
"I'd be ashamed to tell you," Nat returned with an open smile. "Better
ask him."
Burnham gathered his wits together for a final threat. "That's what I
will do!" he threatened. "And I'll do it the minute I can see him. You
can bet on that, Mister What's-Your-Name!"
"No, I can't," said Nat naively. "I'm not allowed to gamble."
His ingenuous expression exasperated Burnham. The man lost control of
his temper at the same moment that he acknowledged to himself his
defeat. In disgust he turned away.
"Oh, there's no use talking to you--"
"That's right," Nat agreed fairly.
"But I'll see you again, Mr. Graham--"
"Not alone, if I can help it, Mr. Burnham," Duncan amended sweetly.
"But," Burnham continued, severely ignoring Nat and addressing himself
squarely to Graham, "you take my tip and don't do any business with
this fellow until you find out who he is." He flung himself out of the
shop with a barked: "Good-day!"
"Well, Mr. Graham?" Duncan turned a little apprehensively to the
inventor. But Sam's expression was almost one of beatific content. His
weak old lips were pursed, his eyes half-closed, his finger tips
joined, and he was rocking back and forth on his heels.
"Margaret used to talk that way, sometimes," he remarked. "She was the
best woman in the world--and the wisest. She used to take care of me
and protect me from my foolish impulses, just as you do, my boy...."
For a space Duncan kept silent, respecting the old man's memories, and
a great deal humbled in spirit by the parallel Sam had drawn. Then: "I
was afraid what I said would sound queer to you, sir," he ventured--
"that you mightn't understand that I'm not here to do you out of your
invention..."
"There's nothing on earth, my boy,"--Graham's hand fell on Nat's arm--
"could make me think that. But five hundred dollars, you see, would
have repaid you for taking up that note, and--and I could have bought
Betty a new dress for the party. But I'm sure you've done what's best.
You're a business man--"
"Don't!" Nat pleaded wildly. "I've been called that so much of late
that it's beginning to hurt!"