Mark Tidd’s father was walking up and down the parlor with a volume of the Decline and Fall in his hand when the pompous man with the silk hat rapped at the door. Mr. Tidd would read a few lines and then go stamping across the floor, shaking his head and talking to himself as though he’d lost his mind. His hair, what there was of it, was all rumpled up, and he was so excited and afraid and fidgety he couldn’t keep still.

Mrs. Tidd was out cleaning up in the kitchen. That was just like her; she would have to go on working if a cyclone came and blew away the front of the house. Yes, sir, she’d keep right on scrubbing what was left.

The man with the silk hat pounded on the door two or three times before anybody heard him, but at last Mr. Tidd went poking out and opened the door a crack.

“Is this Mr. Tidd?” the man asked.

Mr. Tidd nodded, but didn’t say anything, because he didn’t think of anything to say.

“I,” says the man, “am Hamilton Carver, attorney for the International Engineering Company.”

“Oh,” Mr. Tidd says, in a dull sort of way, “be you?”

“Yes, sir.” Carver blew out his chest and looked important. “I came from Pittsburg to have a talk with you, sir.”

“From Pittsburg?” says Mr. Tidd. “From Pittsburg, eh? To talk with me? Um! Well, mister, there ain’t anything I want to talk about to-day. No, sir, not a thing.”

“But I have something I want to talk with you about, and it’ll be very much to your advantage to listen to me.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Mr. Tidd says, mostly to himself. “My son’s gone, and my turbine’s gone—everything’s gone. I’ve read the Decline and Fall, mister, for two hours. Two hours! But it hain’t helped none. I wisht I knew what to do.”

“May I come in?” asked the lawyer.

“Come in,” says Mr. Tidd, “and sit.”

They went into the parlor, where Carver sat down; but Mr. Tidd went right on pacing up and down as if he was all alone, reading away at the Decline and Fall, and mumbling, and shaking his head, and tugging away at his ear.

“I came,” says Carver, “to see you about your invention. I have been sent to negotiate with you—to—er—endeavor to enter into an—er—business arrangement with you.”

“Oh,” says Mr. Tidd. “Um!”

“Your invention may be valuable, and it may be worthless,” Carver went on.

But Mr. Tidd broke in, cross-like: “It ain’t worthless. It’s goin’ to—to revolutionize transportation, mister. It’s been tested; yes, sir, tested. No guess-work. It does what I said it would do. I know. But it’s been stole.”

Carver’s eyes twinkled, and he smiled to himself as if he was pretty well satisfied with something.

“You seem worried,” says he. “Maybe I can help clear things up for you.”

“Somebody’s run off with my model—night before last. Gone. Take six months to make another.”

“You’re in a pretty bad way, then, if they should go and get a patent on it, aren’t you? Looks as though you wouldn’t have a chance, doesn’t it?”

“Bad—it looks perty bad! I’ve thought and I’ve figgered. Readin’ the Decline and Fall don’t help none. First time it ever failed me. And my boy’s gone, too.”

“It’s fortunate I came, then,” says the lawyer. “I will be willing to make you an offer for your invention even under the circumstances. I can help you that much. Not a big offer, maybe, but a good offer, considering.”

“It ain’t no good with the model gone,” says Tidd, shaking his head despondent-like.

“My company will be willing to take the risk. What would you say if I was to offer to buy your invention and take all the worry right off your hands?”

“I dunno,” says Mr. Tidd. “I dunno what I would say.”

“I’ve got a paper here all drawn up. It’s an assignment of your rights, properly executed. You understand? A sort of deed, you know. Now the chances are you will never see your model again and that you won’t get a cent out of it. But we are willing to pay you something. It’s the only way you’ll ever get a penny.”

“Maybe so,” said Mr. Tidd. “I’m sort of confused to-day. Mark’s gone, and the turbine’s gone, and I can’t think very clear.”

“Whatever we pay you will be just that much you wouldn’t get if you don’t sell to us. Be a sensible man, now, and make the best of things. You’ve lost your machine. The wise thing to do is to get as much as you can and forget all about it. Go to inventing something else.”

“I sha’n’t ever invent anything else,” Mr. Tidd says, almost in a whisper.

Carver reached into his pocket and pulled out a big roll of bills. “See there,” he said. “I’ve got the money right in my hand.” He shook it in the air so the bills crinkled and crackled. “Remember, you’ll never have another chance. If you don’t sell to me now you’ll never get anything.”

“How much be you offerin’?”

“I’ll give you—five hundred dollars.”

Mr. Tidd shook his head slow and worried. “Don’t seem like that was enough. No, sir, that don’t seem enough nohow.”

“Well, I’ll stretch a point. Just sign your name to this assignment and I’ll give you seven hundred and fifty.”

Mr. Tidd walked to the table and took the fountain-pen the lawyer offered him. He held it in his hand and looked out of the window with tears standing in his eyes. “An’ I figgered it would make me rich. Seven hundred and fifty dollars. Oh, ho! Mister, it’s cost me more’n that to make the model. Oh, ho!”

“Sign right there,” said Carver, pointing to a line.

“Maybe I better speak to my wife about it first,” Mr. Tidd said, not being certain what he ought to do. I guess he didn’t really know just what he was doing.

“Nonsense,” the lawyer put in, quick. “Just sign right there, and the money’s yours. It’s just getting that much you never would get any other way.”

“I s’pose maybe so,” Mr. Tidd says, and drew up a chair to sign. The lawyer sat back and sort of held his breath until Mr. Tidd’s name should be written on his paper. Mr. Tidd looked at the pen, shook it a little, and leaned over the table. He made the first letter of his name when there was a whopping racket on the porch and Mark came running slam-bang into the house.

“D-d-dad!” he yelled. “Dad!”

Mr. Tidd looked up and then heaved a big sigh.

“Marcus,” he said, “you’re all right!”

Mark didn’t pay any attention. “Have you taken any money?” he said. “Have you s-s-signed anythin’?”

“I’m just a-goin’ to,” says Mr. Tidd. “I’m a-gittin’ what I kin. The engine’s gone—lost! I’m gittin’ what I kin.”

Well, Mark just reached for that paper and mussed it all up in his hand. He was so mad his fat cheeks shook. “You,” says he to Carver, “git right out of here! G-g-git!”

“Marcus,” says his father, in that mild way of his.

“He’s tryin’ to cheat you. He’s in with Batten and them folks.”

Uncle Ike and Mr. Whiteley and dad and I were all standing in the hall. Now Mr. Whiteley stepped into the room.

“I don’t know who you are,” says he to the lawyer, “but if you know what’s good for you you’ll take the first train out of town.”

“But,” says Mr. Tidd, “but my turbine’s gone, and he’ll give me seven hundred—”

“Your turbine ain’t gone,” says Mark, stuttering so he could hardly speak. “It’s out in the wagon right this m-m-m—”

“Minute,” I says, to help him out.

The lawyer got up and edged around to the door. He didn’t say a word, but put on his hat and went out of the house quick; and that was the end of him.

Mr. Tidd sat like he was stunned, not knowing exactly what had happened, and turning from one to the other of us with the blankest look you ever saw.

“But,” says he, “what—”

Mr. Whiteley turned in then and told him the whole business. As he went along describing how Mark and I had gone after the engine Mr. Tidd kept looking at Mark and blinking; and pretty soon he stretched out his hand and took a hold of Mark and pulled him over close, hanging onto him tight. When Mr. Whiteley told about the way we stood the siege at the cave and fought Batten and Bill Mr. Tidd patted Mark soft-like with his hand and looked up at him that proud you’d never believe it. I felt funny to see him sitting there so kind of honest and simple and good. My throat ached and—well, I walked over and made believe I was looking out of the window.

When Mr. Whiteley was all done Mr. Tidd says, kind of choked up and broken; “I never heard anything like it—never. Man and boy I’ve been a-readin’ the Decline and Fall thirty-five years, and there ain’t a thing in it equal to this. Not a thing. No, sir.”

We didn’t stay very long after that, but went away and left Mark with his father and mother and the turbine. I never saw three folks so happy as they were, and I never saw two people as proud of a boy as Mr. and Mrs. Tidd were of Mark. And I don’t blame them.

Plunk and Binney and I weren’t long getting together, and as soon as we thought it was polite we went hurrying over to Mark’s. Plunk and Binney wanted to hear all about it again, and to have Mark do the telling. We felt it was the biggest thing that ever happened in Wicksville, and I can tell you we were pretty proud to be mixed up in it. The town was all excited, and folks kept coming to call on Mrs. Tidd in a steady stream until she was so nervous and flustered it wasn’t safe for us boys to stay around. Mrs. Tidd was the kind of person that wanted to do her regular work every day, no matter what happened; and she didn’t have a speck of patience with all the inquisitive folks that came traipsing over to ask about it, and get a look at Mark as though they hadn’t been seeing him every day for almost a year. She kept getting sharper and sharper, and more anxious and more anxious to get to her work, until Mark says to us that we’d better dig out before the explosion came.

“She can’t take it out on the folks,” says he, “so we’ll catch it. Somebody’s b-b-bound to.”

We went off down-town. Mark suggested it. I guess he wanted to give the people a chance to look at him. He was a great fellow that way, and always wanted all the glory that could be got out of anything. I don’t know as there is anything funny about that, because I sort of liked to have men stop when we went past and whisper and point after us; and it was all right to have other kids you knew stand back, awed-like, and watch you as if you had just come back from the middle of Africa. I tell you we were some folks, Mark and me.

All that day we loafed around and told the story. I wish it could have lasted always, for we were treated like we were all Presidents of the United States come on a visit. Folks were so good to us that I was sick that night. It was that way everywhere we went. The grocer called us in to tell him about it, and told us to help ourselves; there was a crowd in the drug store, and Smiley set out a dish of candy. Everywhere we ate and ate and ate, which was all right for Mark, because he was used to it and had room to put it all; but after a while I got full and couldn’t cram down another thing. It was enough to make a fellow mad, with all sorts of things to eat and no place to put them.

Uncle Ike was quite a hero, too. He told his part of it a hundred times, and got us to ride back and forth in his bus with him just to show how intimate we were. He was a little jealous of Zadok Biggs, but Biggs was so good-natured and so full of admiration for Mark that Uncle Ike couldn’t get up a grudge; and before night they were friends for life, as Zadok would say.

The story spread around the country, and in the afternoon farmers began coming in. Of course, they had excuses for coming, but we knew, and everybody else knew, they just came to see us and hear all about it. I guess there isn’t a more curious and inquiring part of the country than ours.

With all of it we were pretty tired by night, and pretty well satisfied with ourselves, too. Who wouldn’t be? Hadn’t we really done something? And didn’t the people show they were proud of us? Well, then, why shouldn’t we be swelled up a little?

Once, early in the day, some of the men talked about getting up a crowd and going after Henry C. Batten and Bill; but they didn’t make a go of it, and it isn’t likely they would have caught them, anyhow.

On the way home to supper we met Zadok Biggs on his wagon. He stopped and called to us.

“Marcus Aurelius,” says he, “it is my desire—wish—to meet your parents. I shall consider it an honor and a distinction. I shall go with you and meet your parents—the parents of Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd!”

“Come on,” says Mark, “and stay to supper.” He knew his mother would be glad to have Zadok to a meal so she could thank him a lot for helping him out and so she could ask him a heap of questions. Dad had already said I could go to Mark’s, so we’d be all in a crowd together. Zadok made room for us on the seat—that is, he made most room enough for Mark, and I sat on top of the wagon. And so we drove to Tidd’s.

“Where’ve you been all day? That’s what I’d like to know,” snapped Mrs. Tidd, when we came to the door. She didn’t see there was company, or she wouldn’t have lit into Mark till they were alone. But Zadok stepped from behind and bowed way over, and Mark introduced him.

“Sakes alive!” says Mrs. Tidd. “Sakes alive!” And she kept looking and looking at Zadok like he was a curiosity out of a sideshow—which he pretty nearly was. Then she remembered her manners and asked us to come in.

“Madam,” says Zadok, “you have a son to be proud of. And he, Marcus Aurelius, has parents that in turn he may well boast about. His name, Mrs. Tidd, attracted me to him. I knew that one with such a name must be out of the ordinary run, and so it proved. He’s a remarkable boy, ma’am.”

Mrs. Tidd blushed and looked at Mark out of the corner of her eye as proud as a hen with eleven chickens.

“I won’t go as far’s to say he’s a bad boy, Mr. Biggs. He’s been well spoke of, though he is a trial, what with his mischief and his appetite. But there’s worse boys in Wicksville!” Here she looked at me, and I looked out of the window. Maybe she didn’t mean anything that time, but mostly she did.

Mrs. Tidd went to the back door and called Mr. Tidd, who was out in his workshop fussing with his turbine. It seemed he was so glad to get it back he couldn’t leave it alone a minute. But he came in to supper because he knew his wife would come out and make him whether he wanted to or not.

“Dad,” says Mark, “this is Mr. Zadok Biggs. If it hadn’t been for him Tallow and I never would have got the engine back safe.”

Mr. Tidd shook hands with Zadok, so there couldn’t be any doubt what he thought. As for Zadok, he stood off and bowed to Mr. Tidd with his hand on his stomach.

“Mr. Tidd,” says he, “it was you, I understand, who gave the remarkable, the admirable name of Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus to your son. It was an achievement, sir. Beside it even the Tidd turbine is insignificant—some folks would say small. I congratulate you, sir.”

“It ain’t such a bad name,” agreed Mr. Tidd, pretty well pleased.

“Bad, sir! It is stupendous—no less. But, my friends, let us consider business. How have you succeeded, Mr. Tidd, with your affairs in the city?”

“I don’t understand much about it,” said Mr. Tidd, looking kind of bewildered. “The lawyer did a pile of talking and wrote a lot of papers and things, but just what it all amounted to I’m blessed as I can see. He didn’t give me no patent. I came home before he was through.”

Zadok Biggs blinked. For quite a while Zadok kept staring and blinking at Mr. Tidd as though he didn’t know what to make of it. Sometimes he looked mad, sometimes he looked disappointed, and sometimes he looked just plain flabbergasted. Then, all of a sudden, his face looked relieved, and he let a twinkle come into his eye. He nudged Mark with his elbow.

“Genius,” says he, “that’s it. Your father’s a genius, Marcus Aurelius. For a minute I was disappointed. I admit it. I thought maybe giving you your name was just chance, but now I see how it was. It was another side to the genius that invented the turbine. Ah, ah! Your father, Marcus, is not clever on the financial side—not a good business man, is the plainer way to say it. And, Marcus, listen to me. Listen to Zadok Biggs. The turbine isn’t safe yet, and it won’t be safe after the patent issues. No, sir. But Zadok Biggs is your friend for life. I will assume the business responsibility.”

Mark didn’t quite follow him. All he understood clear was that the turbine was still in danger.

“How is it in danger?” he wanted to know.

“Your father will get cheated out of his rights yet. Many inventors have. What good, I ask you, is his invention until the turbines are manufactured and sold? That requires money. The man who contributes—gives—the money will cheat him. It would be as easy as—as cracking an egg with a sledge-hammer.”

Mark knew it, and it worried him a heap. No matter how close they watched his father, there was no telling when somebody might get hold of him and gouge his patent out of him while he sat with his eyes wide open looking on. There wasn’t anything in the Decline and Fall about patents or business, and outside of mechanics the Decline and Fall was about all the real experience Mr. Tidd had.

That afternoon Zadok Biggs drove away on his wagon. He never could stay very long in one place because, he said, he had a disease that he called the wandering foot, and it kept him moving. The last thing he said to Mark as he shook the lines on Rosinante’s back was; “Don’t let your pa do anything—anything about that turbine till you hear from me. I’ve written a letter. I, Zadok Biggs, have written an important letter. Until I get a communication in return—reply, you would say—don’t let him do a thing.”

Mark promised he’d look after things careful and we stood waving our hands to Zadok as long as his red wagon was in sight.

Every day after that we went to the post-office to see if there was a letter from him, but we didn’t hear a word. A whole week went by, and we didn’t get so much as a postal to tell us where he was.

“He’s gone off and forgot all about us,” I told Mark.

“Not him,” says Mark. “He jest hain’t got around to do what he wanted to, that’s all. We’ll be hearin’ from him perty quick. D-d-don’t you worry.”

Well, it wasn’t any of my funeral, so I didn’t argue with him!