THE DEVONS MANUFACTURING COMPANY
Dr. Nichols relieved Devons from the burden of most of his bandages
on Sunday, and the latter, on Monday, after paying his respects to
Mrs. Fairburne, left the house in the same machine which had brought
him there. Mrs. Fairburne was with her daughter when Devons took his
departure and was forced to admit that Joan conducted herself in
every respect like a young lady of good sense and propriety. It was
quite apparent that in the end the Fairburne blood triumphed over all
sentimentality. Not that deep in her heart she had honestly feared
anything, but it was a relief to know that the unusual episode was now
ended so happily and definitely. She was sure that her bridge game
would immediately pick up.
Charles, the driver, had considerable difficulty in locating Mullen
Court. So probably would any one who did not live there. The directions
are to go along lower Sixth Avenue until you come to a hole in a wall
and—there you are. The hole is not large enough to admit a machine. But
the trick is to find the hole.
Charles passed it twice, and might have gone on passing it in both
directions all day if he had not stopped and roused Devons from his
reverie. The latter, sitting back in the corner of the soft-cushioned
tonneau, had been so busy with his thoughts that he did not even glance
from the window. When he heard the voice of Charles it was like being
suddenly awakened.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I see no street sign with Mullen Court on
it.”
“I don’t believe there is one,” answered Devons.
“Then, sir—”
“We’re there now.”
Charles looked about, bewildered.
“Watch where I go and you’ll see. I shan’t need you any more to-day.”
Charles saw him disappear through an opening in the wall which looked
as though it led into nothing but an alley. He made a note of this
information and it proved useful later on.
As a matter of fact, however, the opening led into a little courtyard
and to a group of three or four houses facing it. Devons ascended a
short flight of steps bounded by an iron rail and hurried to the second
floor. He paused a moment to rap at Arkwright’s door.
“Come in!” shouted Arkwright.
Devons stepped in. Arkwright jumped to his feet.
“For the love of Mike!” he exclaimed; “Devons or his ghost!”
Devons backed away from the outstretched hand.
“Careful of my shoulder,” he warned. “It’s just out of bandages.”
“Eh? What the deuce has happened to you? Here.”
Arkwright shoved forward a chair.
“Sit down and tell us about it. I thought you must have gone West.”
“I’ve been right here in New York all the time.”
“You’re looking fine, man. A bit of luck?”
“In a sense.”
“Great. I’ve been putting in a lot of time on that house of yours. I’ll
show it to you later. Have you come back to join us again or to say
good-bye?”
“I’ve come back to go to work,” answered Devons.
“Well, you certainly look fit. I was rather worried about you when you
were here last. What’s your prescription?”
Devons grinned.
“I’m not sure it would suit every one,” he answered. “But what I did
was to go out and get run down by an automobile.”
“What?”
“You have to use some judgment in selecting your machine,” explained
Devons. “I picked out a good one.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Not a mite. I was knocked unconscious and I was pretty well bruised,
but as a result of it all I never felt better in my life.”
“Rather heroic treatment!” exclaimed Arkwright. “Did they take you to a
hospital?”
“They took me to a palace and treated me like a prince,” replied Devons.
“Now, look here—” protested Arkwright.
“I’m telling the bald truth,” insisted Devons. “I wish you could have
seen that house, Arkwright. It reminded me something of the one you’re
doing. Miss Fairburne—”
“Miss?” interrupted Arkwright.
“She’s the daughter,” explained Devons. He grew self-conscious beneath
Arkwright’s smiling eyes. “What’s queer about that?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” Arkwright hastened to assure him. “In fact it makes the
whole story more plausible. She is—er—attractive?”
“She’s wonderful, Arkwright!” declared Devons. “She’s one in ten
thousand. I want you to meet her some day.”
“Thanks. I’d like to. Bring her in and let her see my blue-prints.”
“I’ll do that—if things turn out right,” Devons promised.
He rose abruptly. It reminded him of the thousand and one details that
lay ahead of him.
“I have my work cut out for the next few months,” he observed. “I’ll
see you later.”
Arkwright went to the door with him. He liked the spark in the man’s
eyes; he liked the way he held his shoulders.
“Gad!” he exclaimed. “You tempt a fellow to try the same sort of
bracer.”
Devons went on up to his room with the springy step of a boy of
eighteen and unlocked his door. He hesitated, however, before going in.
It was like returning to the past, and for a second he had an uncanny
fear that once within he might be held here by this past. Arkwright
had not more than half believed, and Arkwright knew only a fraction
of the truth. Here was the same narrow, bare hallway he had left some
six weeks before, and once inside he would be facing even more barren
surroundings. What if then the whole episode should turn out to be
nothing but a flighty dream? It had happened before when he had come
back here.
Devons drew back and fumbled for his inside pocket. The proof of the
truth, if there were any truth, would be found there. He pulled out two
or three letters—an old letter from home and the letter from Reed and
the letter from Sawyer. That was all he found. The color went from his
face. With trembling fingers he felt in his waistcoat pockets. In the
first two he found nothing; in the third he discovered a folded bit of
paper. He breathed normally again. Unfolding it he read the mysterious
message addressed to a certain national bank.
“Pay to the order of Mark Devons one hundred dollars and no cents.” It
was signed, “Joan Fairburne.” She had started an account for the firm
before he left and insisted upon advancing him that much for current
expenses.
He opened the door without fear now and stepped into the little room.
On the table lay his corn-cob pipe where he had left it; on the couch
bed were scattered his books, one open at the very page where he
had quit reading. Except for a couple of wooden chairs and his old
dress-suit-case, that was all the room contained. He crossed to the
single window and threw it open and let in the stinging clear winter
air.
In contrast to the luxuries he had just left, the place, even with the
slip of green paper in his hand, depressed him. For a moment he caught
his breath and shrank back from it. Then he smiled. After all, if he
would only let it, this would give edge to all that lay ahead. Because
of what was to be he could show her what had been with the greater
relish. It was in that spirit men revisited the early scenes of their
boyhood hardships.
Besides, he had no time to waste on this or any other kind of dreaming.
That was the difference between to-day and yesterday. That was the
significance of the check. He was in a position now to act. He had
before him certain definite things to do. In the first place, he must
find some sort of loft-room which would serve him as a laboratory.
Then he must secure a permit to use the type of chemicals that were
necessary. Then there were the chemicals to buy and certain apparatus.
He had planned these details many times in his mind and now he was to
accomplish them.
His scheme was simple. It was to begin manufacturing by himself as
soon as he could equip his laboratory, and then, as fast as he had
stock enough on hand, take it personally to the small users in town and
supply enough to enable them to give it a thorough trial. The small
manufacturer would be willing to experiment with anything that promised
a twenty per cent reduction in price, besides better results. He had
several letters from professors at Tech under whom he had worked which
would introduce him anywhere and vouch for his reliability. So there
remained nothing to do but to go ahead.
Devons returned to Arkwright.
“Have you an account with any bank near here?” he inquired.
“Such as it is,” admitted Arkwright. “How much do you want?”
“I don’t want to borrow,” Devons answered quickly; “I want to open a
little account of my own. I thought you might introduce me.”
“Glad to do it,” nodded Arkwright with a trace of relief. “I’ll go up
there now. But say—that doesn’t come of getting run over?”
“Indirectly,” admitted Devons. “Through Miss Fairburne I found a
partner willing to furnish me with capital.”
“Believe me,” returned Arkwright, “you’ve certainly discovered a fresh
and original way of getting on in New York. Here’s hoping your luck
lasts.”
The experience of being introduced to a real live cashier behind a
grilled fence was, in itself, thrilling enough. With a brand-new
check-book of his own in his pocket, Devons came out feeling as
important as though instead of one hundred dollars he had deposited one
hundred thousand. There was nothing about the blank leaves to indicate
it was not the latter sum. A check-book is the most indiscreet thing in
the world. It always politely assumes its possessor is a millionaire.
Devons left Arkwright at the imposing structure which was now his bank
and went on to a real-estate office he had privately visited before on
one of those idle days when he was waiting to hear from Reed. He had
spoken then in rather larger figures than he used now. He wanted, to
start with, a small space, but one that offered room for expansion.
And he found it there waiting for him as though his coming had been
anticipated.
At the very top of a building, off Third Avenue, Dr. Dent had begun the
manufacture of a Universal Remedy on a scale which, though justified on
paper, did not work out in practice. There being some hundred million
inhabitants in these, the United States of America, the company had
estimated that at least a thousand bottles a day would be necessary to
supply the annual demand. This was allowing about one bottle to every
three hundred people. As a matter of fact, however, the demand was
considerably less and so a policy of retrenchment became necessary.
The firm having rented the entire floor was now ardently desirous of
sub-letting a portion of its space with a fair possibility of becoming
equally desirous, within six months, of sub-letting more unless the
American public suddenly turned more appreciative than it now showed
promise of doing.
Devons accompanied the agent up there at once and found it exactly what
he wanted. And the price was right! Under the circumstances it had to
be. In less than an hour he had signed a lease for a year and arranged
for certain partitions to be erected and for an inscription upon the
door to read:
=DEVONS MANUFACTURING COMPANY=
All this was accomplished on the first day.