TOMMY found, after his dinner with Mr. Thompson, that the responsibility of learning the business by doing his own studying in his own way did not weigh so heavily upon him. There were times, of course, when the slowness of his own progress was not comfortable, but he learned the most valuable of all lessons—to wit, that you cannot turn raw material into finished product by one operation in one second.

He now divided his time between the general business office in the Tecumseh Building and the office at the works. In the morning he was with the selling force, listening to the dictated replies to all sorts of correspondence or to the explanations and pointers of men who looked after the merchandising of the company's product. But his own interest in the psychology of selling was not personal enough. He couldn't bring himself to feel that in selling for the Tecumseh Company he was pleasing Thomas Francis Leigh quite as much as the company. Of course it would please him to succeed; but he acknowledged to himself that the pleasure would not be because of the selling, but because of the success. He could not project himself into his imaginary auditors, for the wonderful possession of another's ears with which to hear his own voice was not to him what it is to the bom pleader.

He began to think that selling did not come natural to him, but he kept on listening to the salesmen, grasping their point of view and at times even sympathizing with it, but always feeling like a buyer himself—an outsider. This gave him the buyer's point of view—an invaluable gift, though he not only did not know it, but felt sorry he had it. To conceal part of the truth, to be only technically veracious, to have a customer say, “You did not tell me thus and so when you sold me that car!” was an apprehension he could not quite shake off. All he could conceal was one thing, and in his introspective moments at home he almost convinced himself that his secret, by making it difficult for him to become an enthusiastically unscrupulous salesman, was interfering materially with the success of Thomas Francis Leigh.

His afternoons he spent in his information bureau, or wandering about the shop asking the various heads of the mechanical departments what they were doing to correct one or another of the parts of the motor that seemed to be regarded by customers as sources of trouble. When they told him the customers were to blame, and that no car is utterly fool-proof, he refused to abandon his buyer's point of view. He would argue, with the valor of ignorance, against the mechanical experts—and learned much without being aware of it.

At home evenings he did not talk, but kept from brooding on his own troubles by listening to Bill Byrnes. The young mechanic soon outgrew his feeling of pity for the New-Yorker's profound ignorance, and then developed a friendship that rose almost to enthusiasm—Tommy listened so gratefully to Bill's monologues.

On this evening Bill told Tommy that everything was wrong with the work. Tommy was dying to ask for details, that he might sympathize more intelligently, but Bill had not seen fit to enlighten him, and not for worlds would he ask point-blank. So Tommy contented himself with looking judicial and told Bill:

“This carburetor business is becoming an obsession with you. Give it a rest and then go back to it fresh. When you get a hobby and ride it to death—''

“Grandpop,” interrupted Bill, unimpressed by Tommy's octogenarian wisdom, “the moment I see a carburetor that suits me, no matter whose it is, I'll have no more interest in the problem than I have in the potatoes in the neighbors' cellars.”

Tommy was not sure that Bill was deceiving himself. He, therefore, observed, cynically, “All signs fail with inventors that don't invent.”

Bill became so serious that Tommy felt he had hurt Bill's feelings. Before he could explain his words away Bill said, slowly:

“Let me tell you something, Tommy. You don't know what I've gone through.” He hesitated, then he went on reluctantly, as though the confession were forced out of him, “My father was a mouth-inventor!”

“What was he?” asked Tommy, puzzled.

“A mouth-inventor I call him. He always knew what ought to be done by machine. He had mighty good ideas, but he never got as far as building a working model or even making a rough drawing. My mother used to tell him to go ahead and invent, and he'd promise he would. But all he ever did was to talk about the machine that ought to be built, until somebody else did it and copped the dough. Then he would tell my mother, 'There, wasn't I right?'”

Bill's face clouded and he stopped talking—to remember.

“Didn't he ever finish anything?” Tommy meant to show a hopeful loyalty to his friend's father.

“Yes, he finished my mother,” answered Bill, savagely. “He got so he would talk in the shop, and the men would stop their work to listen to him, for he certainly had the gift of gab. He cost the shop too much, and so my mother had to support him and us kids. She invented regular grub for all of us, and it wore her out.”

Bill paused and stared absently at Tommy, who tried to look as sorry as he felt and feared he wasn't succeeding. Bill started slightly, like a man awakening from a doze, and went on quietly:

“Even as a kid I was crazy about machinery. I wanted to be a mechanic and she hated the idea of it, but when she saw I was bound to be one she simply would talk to me by the hour about the same thing—to do my inventing with my hands instead of with my jaw. She's dead and he's dead. I take after her on the matter of regular grub, but I haven't got my father's nose for discovering what's needed ahead of everybody else. I don't seem to be as interested in a brand-new machine as in a better machine.”

“The company would pay for any improvement you might make,” suggested Tommy.

“I'm not so sure,” said Bill, who was inventor enough to be suspicious.

“Oh, shucks! Mr. Thompson is a square man,” retorted Tommy.

“He's like all the rest. All business men are nothing but sure-thing gamblers, and they never make their gambling roll big enough. Take the case of the Tecumseh carburetor. It used to be a fine carburetor.”

“Isn't it still?”

“In a way. You see, the oil companies can't supply the demand for high-grade gas, so what you get to-day is so much poorer than it was five years ago that the old carburetor couldn't work with it at all. Now the carburetor is one of the principal things the advertisements call attention to in the Tecumseh.” Bill permitted himself a look of disgust.

“What's the answer?” asked Tommy.

“To be able to use bum gasoline. I've been working on this at odd times.”

“Why not at all times?” asked Tommy, with a stem frown.

Bill could see by Tommy's face that Tommy would remain unconvinced by any answer he might make. So he resorted to sarcasm.

“You see, dear Mr. Leigh, when you work with the company's machine in the company's shop in the company's time, the company has a claim on your invention. Oh, yes, I could tell you a thousand stories of fellows who—”

Bill's voice grew so bitter that Tommy broke in: “You make me tired, Bill. If you get to think that everybody's a crook, you'll find everybody not only willing, but delighted to do you. Do you know why? Because everybody that you take for a crook will take you for one, too.”

“And if you talk like a kid, everybody will think you are a kid and take away the nice little toy so you won't hurt yourself by being independent.”

“I bet if I went to Thompson—”

“Yes, he'd smile like a grandfather, and pat you on the head and tell you to stick to the office-boy brigade where you belong, and kindly allow his high-priced experts to earn their wages. By heck! if I had a little time and a little shop of my own—”

“Well, you have the shop—”

“And no machinery.”

“What machinery do you need?”

“Well, I have to get a generator. I'm dickering for one, but I am shy fifty dollars. I tried the self-starter generator, but it doesn't do what I want. So there you are—mouth-inventor.” Tommy saw Bill's despairing look and asked, “Can't you borrow one from the shop?”

“No.”

“Fifty dollars,” mused Tommy, “isn't much. You're making your three and a half a day—”

“Yes, but I've got a sister who—well, she isn't right. My father's fault.” He paused and corrected himself. “No, it wasn't. Just her luck. When she was a baby my father thought of something and he yelled to mother to tell her. And mother was frightened and dropped Charlotte. The fall did something to her. Anyhow, she's got what they call arrested development. She will never be able to amount to anything. So, of course, I—Well, it takes a big bite out of the pay envelope”; and he smiled defensively.

“Of course,” agreed Tommy with conviction. Then he irrepressibly held out his right hand toward Byrnes and said, nonchalantly, “Say, Bill, I've got a hundred I'm not using.”

“Keep it,” said Bill, shortly.

“It's yours,” Tommy contradicted, pleasantly. “Then keep on keeping it for me,” said Bill, and rose. He went toward his own room so quickly that Tommy did not have time to pursue the subject further. At the threshold Bill turned and said, “I'm much obliged, Tommy.”

“Wait!” said Tommy, going toward him. But Bill slammed the door in his face and locked it. It came to Tommy that Bill, too, had his cross to bear, and it was not of his own making—the sister for whom he must work, about whom he never talked. Yet Bill had shared his secret with Tommy, and Tommy couldn't share his with anybody! The more he thought about it the more he liked Bill. And the more he liked Bill the more he desired to help Bill in his experiments with the carburetor. It was a man's duty to help a friend. Tommy told himself so and agreed with himself.

He did not know that while his sense of duty was undergoing no deterioration, the equally strong desire for recreation, for something to make him forget his own trouble without resorting to cowardly or ignoble devices, insisted upon making itself felt. Then the thrilling thought came to him that besides helping Bill he was helping an inventor to do something useful, something that might be the means of accelerating the accumulation of the seventeen thousand dollars he needed. That made the loan strictly business, he thought, with the curious instinct of youth to cover the outside of a beautiful impulse with sordid motives, deeming that a more mature wisdom.

He had been sending three dollars a week regularly to his father. He had put it delicately enough. “Please credit me with the inclosed and write it down in the little black book. It's too one-sided as it is; too much Dr. and not enough Cr.” This was all that he had written to his father about his remittances. He had not asked what proportion of the debt was rightfully his. He would not stop to separate the clean dollars from the tainted, but give back the whole seventeen thousand. Nevertheless, he now wished to do something else with his mother's hundred, and the gold coins began to burn a hole in his pocket.

One night after supper he said to Bill, “I've been thinking about our experiments.” He paused to let the news sink in.

“Oh, you have, have you?” retorted Bill, with the elaborate sarcasm of the elder brother.

“Yep. Now if gasoline is going to keep on becoming less and less inflammable, what's the matter with going the whole hog and tackling kerosene?”

“Oh, shucks!” said Bill, disgustedly. Then meditatively, “I don't know—”

“I do,” said Tommy, decisively. “No scarcity of supply and cheaper.”

“Yes, and more power units; go further and cost less. But it will be more difficult—”

“Sure thing. That's what you're here for. The first practical kerosene-auto will make a goldmine look like a pile of wet sawdust.”

“You're right,” said Bill. “But I've never tried—”

“I'll help you,” said Tommy, kindly. “Don't talk about it; think!” This was rank plagiarism from Thompson, and he wouldn't let Bill say another word on the subject. Being compelled to do his thinking in silence made Bill grow quite excited about it. Tommy saw the desire to experiment show itself unmistakably in Bill's face. It made Tommy happy. He was helping some one else. Therefore, he was not thinking of himself. Therefore the secret slept.

On the very next morning Tommy went to one of the engineers in the experimental laboratory and asked, “Say, where can I get some literature on kerosene-motors—”

The engineer, La Grange, who had early taken a liking to Tommy, threw up his hands, groaned, and cried, “Another!”

“Another what?” asked Tommy.

“Savior of the industry.”

“Is everybody trying—”

“Everybody—and then add a couple of millions on top of that. It's worse than Mexico for revolutionists.”

“I again ask,” remarked Tommy, severely, in order not to show his disappointment, “where can I get some literature on the subject?”

“You never read the technical papers?”

“No.”

“Do so.”

“Got any files here?” persisted Tommy. It was evident that somebody had beaten him to the great idea.

“Yep, all of them, and several hundred tons of Patent Office Gazettes.”

“Where be they?” asked Tommy, pleasantly. “In the library.”

“Thank you; you are very helpful.”

“Don't mention it. Say, Tommy, if you invent a kerosene-carburetor, swallow it whole before you bring it up here, won't you, please?”

“I'll cram it down your giraffe throat,” said Tommy, La Grange being stout and short-necked.

He spent an hour looking over the files, taking notes of the issues he thought Bill would find useful. His disappointment over finding that so many bright minds were at work on the same problem was tempered by his stronger realization of the value of a working kerosene-carburetor. His profit came in his own recognition of his own ignorance. Enthusiasm isn't enough in this world. There must be knowledge. And other people existed who had knowledge, experience, and brains.

He went to the down-town office for the first time keenly interested in the selling department.

The more he thought about it the more important selling became. And the reason was that he was now dramatizing his own sales of his own kerosene-car. He would apply only sound selling methods when the Bymes-Leigh carburetor was put on the Tecumseh cars; therefore he began to study sound selling methods with a more sympathetic understanding.

Mr. Grosvenor, the selling genius of the Tecumseh organization, was greatly impressed by Tommy's intelligent questions. It made him say to Mr. Thompson: “Young Leigh has suddenly taken hold in a surprising manner, but he comes here mornings only. He'll spoil if he gets too technical. I'd like to have him with me.”

“Why?” asked Mr. Thompson, curiously.

“Because he'll make a first-class—”

“No, no! I mean why has he taken hold suddenly?”

“He is no fool. He instinctively reduces all his problems to the basis of 'Show me'—not Missouri distrust, but the desire really to know and—”

“Ah yes, the ideal juryman,” said Thompson, musingly.

“I don't see it,” said Grosvenor.

“The lawyers don't, either, hence it is all law or all emotion with them. Well, you can't have Tommy yet awhile.”

“Why not?” asked Grosvenor, curiously. He, too, learned from Thompson and his experiments with human beings.

“He hasn't reported to me yet.”

“But he's crazy to begin,” protested Grosvenor.

“No, he isn't. It is only that something has happened. Wait!” said Thompson. “Now about the Chicago agency—” And they ceased to discuss young Mr. Leigh.

That same afternoon Thompson rang for Tommy. “Tommy,” he said, “I want you to take one of our cars and play with it.”

“Meaning?” asked Tommy.

“Whatever you like. Company's car, company's time,” returned Mr. Thompson, impassively.

Tommy nodded. He saw, or thought he saw, usefulness to the company. Then he thought of Tommy Leigh. This made him think of Bill. The car being company's property, the Bymes-Leigh experiments with it also would be company's property.

“And Sundays?” he asked, and looked intently at Mr. Thompson.

Thompson stared back. Then he frowned slightly and kept on staring into Tommy's eyes. “H'm!” said Thompson, presently.

Tommy would have given much to know what the chief was thinking about. It fascinated him to watch the face and to wonder what the machine within the well-shaped cranium was turning out in the way of conclusions and decisions. Then the fear came to Tommy that Mr. Thompson might think Tommy wanted to joy-ride on the Sabbath or break speed records or have fun—Tommy who wanted no pleasure whatever in life until the seventeen thousand was paid back! The boy's face clouded. He couldn't explain.

“H'm!” again muttered Thompson, absently. Then his eyes grew alert and he said: “Use one of my own cars instead. Company's time, my car. Sundays, your time, your car.”

Tommy's heart skipped a beat. Had Mr. Thompson guessed? It was positively uncanny. Then Tommy asked, “Is it an old car?”

Thompson looked sharply at Tommy. Then he said: “It isn't; but it is—so far as you are concerned. I expect to have to repaint it.”

Tommy hesitated.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” asked Thompson.

Tommy might have said there wasn't anything to tell. But he answered, “I do, but I think I'd better wait.”

“Very well, Tommy,” said Thompson, seriously. “Want your salary raised?”

“Not yet!” said Tommy. Impulsively in a burst of gratitude he held out his hand. Then he drew it back.

“Shake hands, anyhow,” said Thompson; and Tommy did.

“Mr. Thompson, I'll tell you—”

“Not much you won't!” interrupted Mr. Thompson. “Run along, sonny!”