I heard from Ernie, and in fragmentary snatches, the story of his
moving-picture experience. There was a studio in one of the more remote
suburbs, the plant of a fly-by-night company of none too good repute.
The director of this company it was who had enticed Ernie away.
“They wanted me,” he told me seriously one day, “because I looked so
much like Tom Edison. Didn’t you ever notice that?”
I did not smile, for Ernie was perfectly sober. But that this washer of
automobiles was even remotely like the great inventor seemed to me a
ridiculous suggestion. It was true that Ernie had white hair, had a
round and placid face; but there was in his countenance none of that
strength which is so evident in the other’s. I told myself that it was
possible the picture-people were wiser than I, that under the lights and
with a touch of makeup here and there--
“A war-film, it was,” Ernie assured me. “I was the big man in it.”
“So?” I prompted.
“Yeah. Inventor. Working on a new torpedo thing. Spies after it, trying
to get it from me. They had me working in a shop with barred windows and
a steel door and a guard outside. Had a bed there. Slept there. In the
picture, you understand. Ate there and everything. People’d come to see
me, and I’d show ’em how the thing worked. I was the big man in that
picture, I’ll tell you.”
“That must have been an interesting experience,” I suggested.
He nodded, started to speak, but an expression curiously and almost
ludicrously secretive crossed his countenance. He held his tongue,
turned back to his task in a manner almost curt.
I drove out, and just outside the door--this was in January, and there
was snow upon the streets--one of my chains flipped off. Forgan’s hail
of warning stopped me, and he shut the door and came out to help me
adjust the chain.
“I see Ernie telling you about his movie,” he said, as we worked. And I
was surprised, for the man’s tone was perfectly respectful.
“Yes,” I replied. “He seems to take it seriously.”
“Well, now, you know,” Forgan told me, “it’s made a big change in
Ernie.”
“Change?” I blew upon my cold fingers and fumbled at the chains.
“Yes. He never had much git-up to him before. But now he’s full of
ideas. Rigged that water-curtain to wash the cars. Things like that.
Good ideas, too.”
My interest was caught.
“A real inventor?”
“You’d be surprised. He took him two of these here electric pads that
you sleep on when you got the lumbago, and made a bag of them, just
right to fit round the carbureter and the manifold of his old flivver;
and he keeps her all warm at night from the light-socket. No heat in his
garage. No starter on his car; but he says she starts at the first whirl
now.”
“That’s pretty good,” I agreed. “More power to him. I’ve no heat,
either. Use one of those electric things under the hood; but Ernie’s
notion is better.”
“Get him to make you one,” Forgan advised. And, the chain adjusted, I
stepped in and drove away.
I was able, thus prompted by Forgan, to mark the development in Ernie
during the succeeding weeks. He became steadily more alert of eye, and
at the same time more confident of his own powers. One day in early
spring I drove in and remarked that I had dropped a grease-cup off the
forward right-hand spring.
“I’ll stick one on,” he promised. “One around here somewheres.” And
added, “You won’t be using them things any more in a year or two.”
“I suppose you’re right. They’ll do away with them somehow,” I agreed.
“They won’t,” said Ernie. “But I will.”
“You’ve got a scheme? Automatic lubrication?”
“Better than that,” he told me.
“Better?”
“I’ll show you one o’ these days,” he promised. But would say no more.