TOMMY used his ears to good advantage, and before long began to think that he was on the verge of understanding the general policy of the Tecumseh selling organization, and why Mr. Grosvenor did not try to sell a Tecumseh car to every man in the United States. The only thing that stood in the way of complete understanding was his own appalling ignorance of the A B C of business. One morning he told Mr. Grosvenor he thought it would be wise if he could learn step by step. For all answer Mr. Grosvenor told him: “You are not here to learn details, but to absorb general principles. Some day Mr. Thompson may tell you what to specialize on. In the mean time just breathe, Tommy. Most people have a habit of telling themselves that a certain thing is very difficult. From that to saying it is impossible to understand is a short step, and that keeps them from trying to understand. Details can be so complex and intricate as to hide first principles.”

Tommy nodded gratefully, but in his heart of hearts he yearned for details, because he remembered that he had not seen any pleasure in selling cars until he had begun to sell, in his mind, his own kerosene-car. But he persevered, because he realized that the ability to “see big” was the most valuable of all. If it could be acquired by hard work he would get it.

He had his more juvenile emotions pretty well under control by now, and would have told himself so had he been introspective enough to ask the question. And yet from time to time there came to him something like a suspicion that he was having too easy a time, too pleasing a task. Did anybody ever have such a job as his? The car gave him so much unearned pleasure that he sometimes feared he was not doing his duty in full. Whenever that thought, prompted by the lingering instinct of expiation, came to him, Tommy took out of his weekly pay all but what was strictly necessary to carry him over till next pay-day. And when he craved to smoke, which was very often, and he conquered the craving, he thought of the many blank pages on the Cr. side of the little black book at home in New York, and he was glad that he had wished to smoke and still gladder that he had not smoked. Prom some remote ancestor Tommy had his share, fortunately not over-bulky, of the New England conscience.

Bill was having all sorts of troubles, trying and untrying. At times success seemed within reach, but an unscalable wall suddenly reared itself before his very nose. And then Bill's anger expressed itself both verbally and muscularly, a perfectly insane fury that made Tommy despair, for he thought an inventor should, above all things, have patience. But Bill's outbursts did not last over five minutes, after which he would return to the attack smiling and so full of amiability that it was a pleasure to watch him work and, later, to listen to him explaining.

To Tommy the most thrilling speeches in the world were Bill's, on the subject of what the automobile industry would become when the Byrnes carburetor was finished. Bill contented himself with seeing it on every automobile in the world; but Tommy saw the seventeen thousand dollars paid off. It would make him master of himself, czar of his destiny; so that the remoter future ceased to be a problem worth considering.

Tommy had so little to do with Mr. Thompson now that he did not even wonder if Mr. Grosvenor ever spoke to the chief about him. One morning the message came by telephone to Mr. Grosvenor's office that Mr. Thompson wished to see Tommy at the works. Tommy instantly went.

“Tommy,” said Mr. Thompson, abruptly, “do you now want to be a cog?”

Tommy was not sure he understood. He realized that he was to be put to work definitely as a small part of the Tecumseh machine, and wondered what Mr. Thompson thought him best fitted for. He himself was not quite sure what he'd like to be; indeed, the fear suddenly came to him that he took an interest in too many things. But whatever Thompson said, he would do.

“I'm willing to be, sir.”

“Have you picked it out yourself?”

“You are the cog-picker, Mr. Thompson. You know more about it than I do.”

“I make mistakes,” said Thompson, frowning slightly.

“If you make one in my case,” said Tommy, very seriously, “I'll tell you—the moment I myself am absolutely sure of it.”

“Now answer my first question,” said Thompson.

“I am sorry to say I have not found out what cog I want to be.” It cost Tommy a sharp pang to acknowledge his failure. That is why he looked unflinchingly into Mr. Thompson's eyes as he spoke.

“Is that all you can say?” Thompson's voice was so incurious that it sounded cold.

“Well, Mr. Thompson,” Tommy said, desperately, “the last cog always seems to be my cog.”

“Why didn't you say so at once?”

“It didn't seem like an answer.”

“It was more; it was a clue.” Mr. Thompson looked at Tommy a full minute before he asked, “Are you still a college boy?”

“I—I'm afraid I am, sir.”

“Keep on being it. Listen to me. You will spend next month in the shop.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Looking!”

“Yes, sir.”

“At the machinists and the engineers and the electricians and the mechanics and the foundry-men and the laborers and the painters—at everybody. You will look at them. But what I want you to see is men.”

“Human beings?”

Thompson nodded. Then he said: “Four weeks. Do you know Milton?”

Tommy tried to recall.

Thompson added: “John—poet.”

“We read him—”

“You don't know him. I have found him of great value in automobile manufacturing.”

Thompson said this so seriously that Tommy, instead of smiling, was filled with admiration for Thompson, who went on, gravely: “He even had in mind the particular job of Mr. Thomas Leigh—Paradise Lost, Eighth Book. For your special benefit he wrote:

“'To know

That which before us lies in daily life

Is the prime wisdom'

“Report to me in one month.” And Mr. Thompson turned to his mail.

Tommy left the room full of admiration for Mr. Thompson and of misgivings about Mr. Thomas Leigh. He couldn't see very far ahead, so he went to his old desk in the information bureau, sat down and made up his mind to get back to first principles, as Mr. Grosvenor always preached.

Mr. Thompson had said that Tommy must continue to be a college boy; therefore, it was plain that for some reason, not quite so plain, Mr. Thompson wished to get reports from a college boy. Then that he must look at the workmen and see the human beings. By having no theories about Thompson's motives and by not trying to make himself into any kind of expert, he would be able to obey orders. The truth! Thompson was paying for it; Thompson would get it from Thomas F. Leigh.

For days Tommy wandered about from place to place, unable to speak to most of his fellow-employees, who were too busy to indulge in heart-to-heart talks with the official college boy who was studying them. At lunch-time it was easier to mix with them as he wished, and he ate out of his lunch-pail as if he were one of them. But there seemed to be a barrier between them and himself, chiefly, he again decided, because his job did not classify—and, therefore, they could not take him into full membership. Moreover, his interest was in listening rather than in talking, and that was almost fatal to perfect frankness, for they didn't know why he was so interested in everything they did and said. They did not quite regard him as a spy, but he was not a blood brother. It was only when they began to tease him and to make clear his abysmal ignorance of their business, and to poke fun at him in all sorts of ways, that the ice was broken. He accepted it all so good-naturedly and was so sincerely anxious to be friends that in the end they took him in. Some of them even told him their troubles.

Bill kept on working away at his experiments at home after shop hours, with the usual violent changes in his moods. One evening after a particularly explosive outburst, which ended by his shaking a clenched fist at the carburetor, Bill shouted:

“I'll make you do it yet, dodgast ye!”

“Bill,” said Tommy, seriously, “tell your partner what the trouble is. Begin at the beginning and use words of one syllable.”

“What good will that do, you poor college dude?”

“Well, it will enable me to give you a d—d good licking with a free conscience,” said Tommy. “Did you never hear how often inventors' wives have suggested the way out by means of the little door labeled Common Sense? It is in The Romances of Great Inventors.”

“Well, if you can find the way out of this you are a wonder.”

“I am. Go on.” Bill looked at Tommy, who went on, cheerfully, “Be a sport; loosen up.” After a moment Bill spoke calmly, “You know heat is not enough to effect the perfect vaporization of the kerosene.”

“What would be the effect of passing a whopper of an electric current direct through the kerosene before you do anything else?”

Tommy, as he said this, looked as wise as a woman does when she offers advice because having no knowledge she can give no commands.

“I don't know,” said Bill, indifferently. Then he repeated, “I don't know,” less indifferently. Then he shouted: “I don't know, but, by heck, I'm going to find out! Now get out of here!”

“Will it explode?” asked Tommy.

“No. But I can't work with anybody round me.”

“Why can't you? Honestly now.”

“Well,” said Bill, “I feel like a fool when I fail, and I have a rotten temper, and—and—” Bill hesitated; then his face flushed.

“Then what?” asked Tommy, curiously. “Well, I'm fond of you and I don't want to have a fight when I'm out of my head. Now will you go or will you stay?”

“I'll go. If I ever landed on the point of the chin—” And shaking his head dolefully, Tommy shook hands with Bill and left.

There was always his automobile. He took Mrs. Clayton out for a joy-ride.

A few days later Bill said to Tommy at breakfast: “Your new high-tension generator is a wonder. I can get a very high-frequency current—”

“You can?” interrupted Tommy, with a frown. He did this merely to encourage Bill, who thereupon explained:

“Of course I'm using a step-up transformer with it, and something has happened!”

“Certainly”; and Tommy nodded wisely. He added: “I expected it to. But you can't use that kind of generator on cars, can you?”

“Oh, we'll have no trouble about the generator once I get what I'm after.”

“Sure of that?”

“Oh yes,” said Bill, gloomily.

“Then what's the trouble?” asked Tommy, alarmed by Bill's look.

“I certainly do get the vaporization all right, all right.”

“Great Scott! isn't that what you wanted?”

“Yes.”

“Then we've got it!”

“Yes, but I don't know what does it,” said Bill in despair.

“No smoke?” persisted Tommy.

“Not a darned bit. The inside of the engine was clean as a whistle.” Bill shook his head and frowned as at very unpleasant news.

“Well,” observed Tommy, thoughtfully, “something has happened!”

“Indeed?” Bill looked very polite.

“You don't know what, and I don't, either. Therefore—” Tommy paused for effect.

Bill's elaborate sarcasm failed him. “Go on, you idiot!” he shouted.

“Therefore, I will find out!” announced Tommy.

“Ask La Grange and have him cop the whole cheese!”

“No, William. You admit we've got to know what happens, don't you?”

“Certainly. Otherwise, what will I get a patent on?”

Tommy realized in a flash that Bill might have stumbled upon something that would have far-reaching results on everybody concerned as well as on the industry. What was now needed was plain to him.

“William,” he said, slowly, “I will go to an altruist.”

“A what?”

“A college professor. We must prepare a lot of questions to ask and we will get his answers. And then we must check up the answers by actual experiment. See?”

“No, I don't. But I see very clearly that if you give away—”

“You make me tired,” said Tommy, pleasantly. “It's the suspicious farmer who always buys the gold brick. What we need now is knowledge. We'll go to one of those despised beings who have nothing to live for but to know.”

“But I tell you that if you go blabbing—”

“We won't blab; he will. He loves to. He will make us rich by his speech, and then he will thank us for having so patiently listened to his lecture, and for doing him the honor of transmitting his thousands of hours of study into thousands of dollars of cash for ourselves. That is his reward, and we shall grant it to him unhesitatingly as befits captains of industry. Bill, about all I got out of college was to know where to go for information. Now don't talk. Look at the clock. Eat!”

At dinner-time they again talked about it. That night Bill ran his engine for Tommy's benefit. He took a power test and showed Tommy a number of pieces of paper which Bill said were “cards.” They meant nothing to Tommy, but Bill asserted they were great; and this confirmed Tommy's judgment that the wise thing to do was to consult one of those experts whose delight it is to clear those mysteries that have nothing to do with the greatest mystery of all—moneymaking. On the next day he asked guarded questions of La Grange and others, and gathered from their answers that W. D. Jenkins, of the Case School at Cleveland, was the great authority on the subject. So Tommy wrote to Professor Jenkins asking for an interview, and while he waited for the answer asked Williams, one of the Tecumseh lawyers, all about patents and patent lawyers and the troubles of inventors, and, above all, the mistakes of inventors. From him he learned about the vast amount of patent litigation that might have been averted if the inventors and their lawyers had only gone about their business intelligently. Tommy realized that he must get the best lawyer available. Williams spoke very highly of exactly three of his patent colleagues in the United States. The nearest was Mr. Hudson Greene Kemble, at Cleveland, where Professor Jenkins lived.

When he spoke to Bill about it Bill asked: “How do you know he is straight? If he is so smart, won't he see what a big thing—”

“You still talk like the wise rube before he acquires three and a half pounds of brass for two hundred and eighty dollars. A first-class professional man doesn't have to be a crook to make money. Suppose we've got to get what they call a basic patent? Don't you see it takes a first-class man to fence it in so that we can keep all that is coming to us, not only to-day but years from now when it comes to be used in ways and places we don't even suspect at this moment? And inventors don't always know the real reason why their invention works.”

Tommy was really quoting from Williams, the company's lawyer, but he looked so wisely business-like that Bill grudgingly admitted:

“I guess you're right. But where is the money coming from? That's where most inventors give up the lion's share—at the beginning.”

“I don't know,” said Tommy, thoughtfully; “but I do know I'm going to get it without money.”

“If you can do that—”

“What else can we do, you bonehead? We have no money and we must have some light.” When Professor Jenkins's answer came Tommy and Bill, with their list of questions all ready and the carburetor carefully packed, asked for a day off and traveled by night to Cleveland. In Professor Jenkins's office Tommy introduced himself and Bill with an ease and fluency that Bill envied. Professor Jenkins appeared intelligently interested. It was to Bill that he turned and asked: “What is it you have, young man?”

“I—we have a kerosene-carburetor that works like a charm,” answered Bill.

“Is that so?”

The professor did not speak skeptically, but Bill said, defiantly: “It gives perfect combustion, and we can start the engine cold even better than with gasoline. Peach!”

“Lots of people are working on that.”

“Yes, sir; but you never saw one that did what ours does.”

“What's the difference between yours and the others?”

Bill hesitated.

“Tell him,” said Tommy, frowning.

“I don't know anything about the others except that they don't work.”

“Show it to him,” commanded Tommy.

Bill aimed a look at his partner, making clear who would be to blame if somebody else got a patent on the selfsame carburetor, and then slowly unwrapped the package. With his child before him Bill became loquacious, and he began to explain it to the professor, who listened and asked question, most of which Bill answered. Occasionally he said, “I don't know,” and then Tommy would interject, “But it works, Professor Jenkins.”

Bill could not tell how high a voltage he was using nor the kind of transformer.

“The man I bought it from said it was a six-to-one transformer. There is no marking on it.”

The professor smiled, asked more questions, and finally Bill confessed that it didn't work above nine hundred revolutions.

“When we speed her up she begins to smoke like—”

“She does smoke pretty badly,” interjected Tommy.

“Why?” asked Jenkins.

“Damfino!” said Bill, crossly. It had been a source of exasperation to him.

“That is what we are here to find out, sir,” put in Tommy, deferentially.

“I've tried every blamed thing I could think of,” said Bill. “If I only knew why she works below nine hundred I might make it work when I speed her up.”

“H'm!” The professor was thinking over what Bill had told him. Then he said: “Well, you evidently are using a very high current. I suspect there must be some ionization there.” He paused. Then, more positively: “I think you undoubtedly are ionizing the vapor. That would account for what results you say you are getting.”

“What is it that happens?” asked Bill, eagerly.

Professor Jenkins delivered a short lecture on the ionization of gases, a subject so dear to his heart that when he saw how absorbingly they listened he took quite a personal liking to them. He suggested a long series of tests and experiments, which Tommy jotted down in his own private system of Freshman shorthand. At one of them Bill shook his head so despairingly that Professor Jenkins told him, kindly:

“If you care to have us make any of the tests for which you may lack the proper appliances, we shall be glad to undertake them for you here.”

“We can't tell you how grateful we are,” said Tommy, perceiving that the end of the talk had come. “And please believe me when I tell you that although we are not millionaires now, we hope you will let us consult you professionally from time to time, and I promise you, sir, that I—we—I—''

“Mr. Leigh, I shall be glad to help you. And”—Jenkins paused and laughed—“my fee can wait. Let me hear from you how you make out with the heavier oils. Mr. Byrnes's device is very ingenious. I think you are in a very interesting field.”

“Do you happen to know Mr. Hudson G. Kemble, the patent lawyer?”

“Very well. Is he interested in your work?”

“Not yet,” said Tommy; “but we expect him to be our legal adviser.”

“Couldn't go to a better man. By the way, he is an alumnus of your college, class of '91, I think.”

“Then he must be what you say he is,” smiled Tommy, happily, while Bill looked on more amazed than suspicious at the friendliness of the conversation.

Outside Bill and Tommy talked about it, until

Bill said, “That's what happens, all right, all right—ionization!”

“Sure thing!” agreed Tommy. “But we must make some more tests—”

“Naw! I want to cinch this thing. Let's hike to the lawyer. Come on; we haven't got time to waste.”

They looked up Mr. Kemble's address in the telephone-book. Luck was with them. Mr. Kemble was not very busy and could see them at once. They were ushered into his private office.

“Mr. Kemble,” said Tommy, so pleasantly that for a moment Bill thought they were old friends, “your name was suggested to us by Mr. Homer Williams, of Dayton. Professor Jenkins, of the Case School, also told us we could not go to a better man. I have no letters of introduction, but can you listen to us two minutes?”

Kemble looked into Tommy's eyes steadily, appraisingly. Then he looked at Bill, his glance resting on the package Bill carried under his arm—the precious carburetor.

“I'll listen,” said Kemble, not over-encouragingly.

Tommy looked at him full in the face—and liked it. Kemble reminded him of Thompson. The lawyer also was plump and round-faced and steady-eyed. He impressed Tommy as being less interested in all phases of human nature than Thompson, slightly colder, more methodical, less imaginative, more concerned with exact figures. The mental machinery was undoubtedly efficient, but worked at a leisurely rate and very safely—a well-lubricated engine.

“First, we have no money—now.”

Tommy looked at Mr. Kemble. Mr. Kemble nodded.

“Second, we think we have a big thing.”

Tommy again looked at Mr. Kemble. This time Mr. Kemble looked at Tommy and did not nod. Bill frowned, but Tommy went on, pleasantly:

“Everybody that comes here doubtless thinks the same thing.”

“Every inventor,” corrected Mr. Kemble.

“But we have just left Professor Jenkins, of the Case School of Applied Science.”

“What did he say?” asked Mr. Kemble.

“He was very much interested. He has a theory, which we must prove by a long series of experiments he wants us to make.” Tommy paused.

“Go on!” said Kemble, frowning slightly, as if he did not relish a story in instalments. Bill bit his lip, but Tommy smiled pleasantly and went on:

“Mr. Kemble, we have no money, but kindly consider this: We went to Professor Jenkins for science. We have come to you for legal advice. Therefore, we have not done what ordinary fool inventors would do. Whatever your fee may be we'll pay—in time. You will have to risk it. But now is the time for you to say whether you want to hear any more or not.”

“And if I don't?”

“Then we'll go back and save up money until we can return to this same office with the cash. That means that some one else may beat us to the Patent Office. We think we have a big thing—so big that it needs the best patent lawyer we can get. Do you still want to take our case?”

Kemble looked at Tommy's eager face a moment. Then he smiled and said: “I'll listen, and then I'll tell you what I'll do. I may or I may not take your case, for you may or you may not have a patent.”

“This”—and Tommy pointed to Bill—“is the inventor, William S. Byrnes. I am merely a friend—”

“And partner!” interjected Bill. “Share and share alike!”

“That's for later consideration,” said Tommy.

“No, it's for now—fifty-fifty,” said Bill, pugnaciously.

“I shouldn't quarrel about the division of the spoils if I were you,” suggested Mr. Kemble. “Fool inventors always do. Suppose we first find out whether it's worth quarreling about?”

“Go on, Bill; you tell him,” said Tommy, and he began to study the notes he had taken about the points Professor Jenkins had emphasized.

“Well,” said Bill, confidently, “we've got a kerosene-carburetor that works all right.”

“All the time? Under all conditions?” asked Kemble, leaning back in his chair with a suggestion of resignation.

Bill did not like to admit at the very outset that his own child misbehaved above nine hundred revolutions.

“Well, you see, I'll tell you what we've got.” And Bill proceeded to do so. From time to time Tommy interrupted to read aloud from his notes. Then Mr. Kemble began, and Bill was more impressed by the lawyer's questions than he had been by the scientist's, for they were the questions Bill felt he himself would have asked a brother inventor. In the end he admitted almost cheerfully that it didn't do so well when the engine ran above nine hundred revolutions. He was sure the high currency ionized the gas, but he somehow had not got it to ionizing fast enough.

“Lots of engines,” he finished, defensively, “don't run any faster than that.”

“How much have you actually used this thing?” asked Kemble, coming back to Bill's own.

“On the bench. But we've tried it out pretty well,” answered Bill. He produced his cards.

Kemble studied them.

“And it starts cold!” said Bill.

“Is that so?” Kemble looked up quickly at Bill, for the first time appearing to be really interested.

“Yep!” he said, triumphantly.

Since they thought this a very important point, Tommy asked the lawyer, “Could we get a patent on that?”

“Yes, if it's new,” answered Kemble.

“Sure it's new. There isn't any other in the market,” said Bill.

“That's a fact,” chimed in Tommy.

“I'll have to look into that,” said the patent lawyer, calmly.

“If there was any patent, people would be using it, wouldn't they?” challenged Bill, unaware that all inventors make the same point at their first interview with their patent lawyers.

“That may be true,” was all that Kemble would admit.

“What do you need besides this,” asked Bill, pointing to his carburetor, “to file an application for a patent?”

“Well, you'd better leave that here and find out what your dynamo and transformer are. In fact, I think you'd better send them on to me. That would be the easiest way. When did you first run this?”

After some guessing, Bill told him.

“You ought to keep a careful date record.”

“What's that for?”

“As a record of your priority in case somebody else has the same thing.”

“We've got the priority all right,” Bill assured him. All inventors always are sure of it.

Tommy, who had begun to fidget uneasily, now asked Kemble, “About how much is this going to cost us?”

Kemble shook his head and smiled. “I can't tell you now. It depends upon the experiments you make and the results you get.”

“Can't we file an application now to protect ourselves?” persisted Tommy, who knew how uneasy Bill felt about it.

“Yes, I could do that. But I'd like to see Jenkins first. You'd better plan to spend about two hundred and fifty dollars—” Kemble stopped talking when he saw the consternation on both boys' faces. He had been rather favorably impressed with them. He added, “Well, you send me the generator and the transformer, and when I know more about it I'll let you know more definitely.”

“If I am going to make the experiments, how can I send them to you?”

“I'll return them to you, and you can make your experiments after that.”

“Mr. Kemble,” asked Tommy, “when shall we be safe in talking to an outsider about this?”

“You'd better wait until the application is filed,” answered the lawyer.

“Thank Heaven we came to you,” said Tommy, fervently. “We are fellow-alumni. Professor Jenkins told me you were '91. I am '14. I've met Mr. Stuyvesant Willetts. He was '91, I think?”

“Yes, I remember him,” said Mr. Kemble, with a new interest.

Tommy was on the verge of saying that Stuyvesant Willetts's nephew Rivington was his chum; but all he said was:

“His nephew was in my class. I am with the Tecumseh Motor Company in Dayton. And so is Byrnes here. Do you know Mr. Thompson?” asked Tommy.

“Yes,” said Mr. Kemble.

“Then,” said Tommy, determinedly, “I am about to pay you the biggest compliment you'll ever get from a human being. Mr. Kemble, you remind me of Mr. Thompson!”

“Yes,” said Kemble, “we are so different.”

“Not so different as you think,” contradicted Tommy. “Do you take our case?”

“Yes.”

“You see, I was right,” laughed Tommy, and held out his hand. After a barely perceptible hesitation Mr. Kemble took it. “Thank you, sir. Come on, Bill, Mr. Kemble has all we've got.” They returned to Dayton excited rather than elated. Bill contended there was no need of additional proof, and that there was no sense in making the experiments that Professor Jenkins had suggested. Six months with an equipment they did not have put it out of the question. Tommy, not knowing exactly what to say, told Bill that the experiments would fix exactly what happened and how and why, and that they must be made. But Bill in his mind was equipping a car with his kerosene-carburetor, planning certain modifications in the position of the tank, and trying to install a generator that would do for the self-starter as well as for the ionization of the kerosene. He thought he saw how he could do all these things; therefore his amiability returned.

And Tommy began to think that the seventeen thousand dollars might be paid off much sooner than he had expected. But in the next breath he decided that a wise man has no right to look for miracles. Therefore, he would not build castles in the air. Certainly not! But he couldn't help thinking of his father's joy—not his own, but his father's—when the seventeen thousand dollars should be paid back.

No wisdom in counting your chickens prematurely. Certainly not! But what a day of days that would be! In the mean time he must not allow himself to feel too sure. Poor old dad!