by Otto Penzler
“Fine? My boy, I’m not much older than you are, but I have been connected with several large enterprises in Boston and elsewhere—if any one were to care to inquire about me they might drop a line to the Mexican and Rio Grande Rubber Company, the St. John’s Blood Orange Plantation Company, the Los Pocos Lead Development Company, the Sierra Cinnabar Grant, and a number of others, the addresses of which I could supply—and I never have seen anything so good as this. I am staking my entire business judgment upon it, and, of course, I shall retain the majority of stock myself, inasmuch as the article is my invention.”
This being the psychological moment, Mr. Wallingford put forth his hand and had Mr. Lamb dump the tacks back into the large palm that had at first held them. He left them open to view, however, and presently Mr. Lamb picked out one of them for examination. This particular tack was of an exquisite apple-green color, the covering for which had been clipped from one of Mr. Wallingford’s own expensive ties, glued to its place and carefully trimmed by Mr. Wallingford’s own hands. Mr. Lamb took it to the window for closer admiration, and the promoter, left to himself for a moment, stood before the glass to mop his face and head and neck. He had been working until he had perspired; but, looking into the glass at Mr. Lamb’s rigid back, he perceived that the work was well done. Mr. Lamb was profoundly convinced that the Universal Covered Carpet Tack Company was an entity to be respected; nay, to be revered! Mr. Lamb could already see the smoke belching from the tall chimneys of its factory, the bright lights gleaming out from its myriad windows where it was working overtime, the thousands of workmen streaming in at its broad gates, the loaded freight cars leaving every seven minutes!
“You’re not going home to dinner, are you, Mr. Lamb?” asked Mr. Wallingford suddenly. “I owe you one for the splash, you know.”
“Why—I’m expected home.”
“Telephone them you’re not coming.”
“We—we haven’t a telephone in the house.”
“Telephone to the nearest drug store and send a messenger over.”
Mr. Lamb looked down at himself. He was always neatly dressed, but he did not feel equal to the glitter of the big dining room downstairs.
“I am not—cleaned up,” he objected.
“Nonsense! However, as far as that goes, we’ll have ’em bring a table right here.” And, taking the matter into his own hands, Mr. Wallingford telephoned for a waiter.
From that moment Mr. Lamb strove not to show his wonder at the heights to which human comfort and luxury can attain, but it was a vain attempt; for from the time the two uniformed attendants brought in the table with its snowy cloth and began to place upon it the shining silver and cut-glass service, with the centerpiece of red carnations, he began to grasp at a new world—and it was about this time that he wished he had on his best black suit. In the bathroom Mr. Wallingford came upon him as he held his collar ruefully in his hand, and needed no explanation.
“I say, old man, we can’t keep ’em clean, can we? We’ll fix that.”
The bellboys were anxious to answer summons from 44-A by this time. Mr. Wallingford never used money in a hotel except for tips. It was scarcely a minute until a boy had that collar, with instructions to get another just like it.
“How are the cuffs? Attached, old man? All right. What size shirt do you wear?”
Mr. Lamb gave up. He was now past the point of protest. He told Mr. Wallingford the number of his shirt. In five minutes more he was completely outfitted with clean linen, and when, washed and refreshed and spotless as to high lights, he stepped forth into what was now a perfectly appointed private dining room, he felt himself gradually rising to Mr. Wallingford’s own height and able to be supercilious to the waiters, under whose gaze, while his collar was soiled, he had quailed.
It was said by those who made a business of dining that Mr. Wallingford could order a dinner worth while, except for the one trifling fault of over-plenty; but then, Mr. Wallingford himself was a large man, and it took much food and drink to sustain that largeness. Whatever other critics might have said, Mr. Lamb could have but one opinion as they sipped their champagne, toward the end of the meal, and this opinion was that Mr. Wallingford was a genius, a prince of entertainers, a master of finance, a gentleman to be imitated in every particular, and that a man should especially blush to question his financial standing or integrity.
They went to the theater after dinner—box seats—and after the theater they had a little cold snack, amounting to about eleven dollars, including wine and cigars. Moreover, Mr. Lamb had gratefully accepted the secretaryship of the Universal Covered Carpet Tack Company.
Chapter III
Mr. Wallingford’s Lamb Is Carefully Inspired with a Flash of Creative Genius
The next morning, in spite of protests and warnings from his employer, Mr. Lamb resigned his position with the A. J. Dorman Company, and, jumping on a car, rode out to the far North Side, where he called at David Jasper’s tumble-down frame house. On either side of this were three neat houses that David had built, one at a time, on land he had bought for a song in his younger days; but these were for renting purposes. David lived in the old one for exactly the same reason that he wore the frayed overcoat and slouch hat that had done him duty for many years—they made him as comfortable as new ones, and appearances fed no one nor kept anybody warm.
Wholesome Ella Jasper met the caller at the door with an inward cordiality entirely out of proportion to even a close friend of the family, but her greeting was commonplaceness itself.
“Father’s just over to Kriegler’s, getting his glass of beer and his lunch,” she observed as he shook hands warmly with her. Sometimes she wished that he were not quite so meaninglessly cordial; that he could be either a bit more shy or a bit more bold in his greeting of her.
“I might have known that,” he laughed, looking at his watch. “Half-past ten. I’ll hurry right over there,” and he was gone.
Ella stood in the doorway and looked after him until he had turned the corner of the house; then she sighed and went back to her baking. A moment later she was singing cheerfully.
It was a sort of morning lunch club of elderly men, all of the one lodge, the one building association, the one manner of life, which met over at Kriegler’s, and “Eddy” was compelled to sit with them for nearly an hour of slow beer, while politics, municipal, state, and national, was thoroughly thrashed out, before he could get his friend David to himself.
“Well, what brings you out so early, Eddy?” asked the old harness maker on the walk home. “Got a new gold-mining scheme again to put us all in the poorhouse?”
Eddy laughed.
“You don’t remember of the kid-glove miner taking anybody’s money away, do you?” he demanded. “I guess your old chum Eddy saw through the grindstone that time, eh?”
Mr. Jasper laughed and pounded him a sledge-hammer blow upon the shoulder. It was intended as a mere pat of approval.
“You’re all right, Eddy. The only trouble with you is that you don’t get married. You’ll be an old bachelor before you know it.”
“So you’ve said before,” laughed Eddy, “but I can’t find the girl that will have me.”
“I’ll speak to Ella for you.”
The younger man laughed lightly again.
“She’s my sister,” he said gayly. “I wouldn’t lose my sister for anything.”
David frowned a little and shook his head to himself, but he said nothing more, though the wish was close to his heart. He thought he was tactful.
“No, I’ve got that new job,” went on young Lamb. “Another man from Boston, too. I’m in charge of the complete office organization of a brand-new manufacturing business that’s to start up here. Two hundred dollars a month to begin. How’s that?”
“Fine,” said David. “Enough to marry on. But it sounds too good. Is he a sharper, too?”
“He don’t need to be. He seems to have plenty of money, and the article he’s going to start manufacturing is so goo
d that it will pay him better to be honest than to be crooked. I don’t see where the man could go wrong. Why, look here!” and from his vest pocket he pulled an orange-headed tack. “Carpet tack—covered with any color you want—same color as your carpet so the tacks don’t show—only cost a little bit more than the cheap ones. Don’t you think it’s a good thing?”
David stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and put on his spectacles to examine the trifle critically.
“Is that all he’s going to make—just tacks?”
“Just tacks!” exclaimed the younger man. “Why, Dave, the Eureka Tack Company, that has a practical monopoly now of the tack business in this country, occupies a plant covering twenty acres. It employs thousands of men. It makes sixteen per cent. a year dividends, and has millions of dollars surplus in its treasury—undivided profits! Long freight trains leave its warehouses every day, loaded down with nothing but tacks; and that’s all they make—just tacks! Why, think, Dave, of how many millions of tacks are pulled out of carpets and thrown away every spring!”
Mr. Jasper was still examining the tack from head to point with deep interest. Now he drew a long breath and handed it back.
“It’s a big thing, even if it is little,” he admitted. “Watch out for the man, though. Does he want any money?”
“Not a cent. Why, any money I’ve got he’d laugh at. I couldn’t give him any. He’s a rich man, and able to start his own factory. He’s going to organize a quarter of a million stock company and keep the majority of the stock himself.”
“It might be pretty good stock to buy, if you could get some of it,” decided Dave after some slow pondering.
“I wish I could, but there is no chance. What stock he issues is only to be put out in twenty-five-thousand-dollar lots.”
Again David Jasper sighed. Sixteen per cent. a year! He was thinking now of what a small margin of profit his houses left him after repairs and taxes were paid.
“It looks to me like you’d struck it rich, my boy. Well, you deserve it. You have worked hard and saved your money. You know, when I got married I had nothing but a set of harness tools and the girl, and we got along.”
“Look here, Dave,” laughed his younger friend, whose thirty years were unbelievable in that he still looked so much like a boy, “some of these days I will hunt up a girl and get married, just to make you keep still about it, and if I have any trouble I’ll throw it up to you as long as you live. But what do you think of this chance of mine? That’s what I came out for—to get your opinion on it.”
“Well,” drawled Dave, cautious now that the final judgment was to be pronounced, “you want to remember that you’re giving up a good job that has got better and better every year and that will most likely get still better every year; but, if you can start at two hundred a month, and are sure you’re going to get it, and the man don’t want any money, and he isn’t a sharper, why, it looks like it was too good to miss.”
“That’s what I think,” rejoined Mr. Lamb enthusiastically. “Well, I must go now. I want to see Mr. Lewis and John Nolting and one or two of the others, and get their advice,” and he swung jubilantly on a car.
It was a pleasant figment this, Eddy Lamb’s plan of consulting his older friends. He always went to them most scrupulously to get their advice, and afterward did as he pleased. He was too near the soil, however—only one generation away—to make many mistakes in the matter of caution, and so far he had swung his little financial ventures with such great success that he had begun to be conceited.
He found Mr. Wallingford at the hotel, but not waiting for him by any means. Mr. Wallingford was very busy with correspondence which, since part of it was to his wife and to “Blackie” Daw, was entirely too personal to be trusted to a public stenographer, and he frowningly placed his caller near the window with some new samples of tacks he had made that morning; then, for fifteen minutes, he silently wrote straight on, a course which allowed Mr. Lamb the opportunity to reflect that he was, after all, not entitled to have worn that air of affable familiarity with which he had come into the room. In closing his letter to Mr. Daw the writer added a postscript: “The Lamb is here, and I am now sharpening the shears.”
His letters finished and a swift boy called to despatch them, Mr. Wallingford drew a chair soberly to the opposite side of the little table at which he had seated Mr. Lamb. Like every great captain of finance, he turned his back to the window so that his features were in shadow, while the wide-set, open eyes of Mr. Lamb, under their good, broad brow, blinked into the full light of day, which revealed for minute study every wrinkle of expression in his features.
“I forgot to warn you of one thing last night, and I hope you have not talked too much,” Mr. Wallingford began with great seriousness. “I reposed such confidence in you that I did not think of caution, a confidence that was justified, for from such inquiries as I have made this morning I am perfectly satisfied with your record—and, by the way, Mr. Lamb, while we are upon this subject, here is a list of references to some of whom I must insist that you write, for my own satisfaction if not for yours. But now to the main point. The thing I omitted to warn you about is this,” and here he sank his voice to a quite confidential tone: “I have not yet applied for letters patent upon this device.”
“You have not?” exclaimed Mr. Lamb in surprise. The revelation rather altered his estimate of Mr. Wallingford’s great business ability.
“No,” confessed the latter. “You can see how much I trust you, to tell you this, because, if you did not know, you would naturally suppose that the patent was at least under way, and I would be in no danger whatever; but I am not yet satisfied on one point, and I want the device perfect before I make application. It has worried me quite a bit. You see, the heads of these tacks are too smooth to retain the cloth. It is very difficult to glue cloth to a smooth metal surface, and if we send out our tacks in such condition that a hammer will pound the cloth tops off, it will ruin our business the first season. I have experimented with every sort of glue I can get, and have pounded thousands of tacks into boards, but the cloth covering still comes off in such large percentage that I am afraid to go ahead. Of course, the thing can be solved—it is merely a question of time—but there is no time now to be lost.”
From out of the drawer of the table he drew a board into which had been driven some dozens of tacks. From at least twenty-five per cent. of them the cloth covering had been knocked off.
“I see,” observed the Lamb, and he examined the board thoughtfully; then he looked out of the window at the passing traffic in the street.
Mr. Wallingford tilted back his chair and lit a fat, black cigar, the barest twinkle of a smile playing about his eyes. He laid a mate to the cigar in front of the bookkeeper, but the latter paid no attention whatever to it. He was perfectly absorbed, and the twinkles around the large man’s eyes deepened.
“I say!” suddenly exclaimed Mr. Lamb, turning from the window to the capitalist and throwing open his coat impatiently, as if to get away from anything that encumbered his free expression, “why wouldn’t it do to roughen the heads of the tacks?”
His eyes fairly gleamed with the enthusiasm of creation. He had found the answer to one of those difficult problems like: “What bright genius can supply the missing letters to make up the name of this great American martyr, who was also a President and freed the slaves? L-NC-LN. $100.00 in GOLD to be divided among the four million successful solvers! Send no money until afterwards!”
Mr. Wallingford brought down the legs of his chair with a thump.
“By George!” he ejaculated. “I’m glad I found you. You’re a man of remarkable resource, and I must be a dumbhead. Here I have been puzzling and puzzling with this problem, and it never occurred to me to roughen those tacks!”
It was now Mr. Lamb’s turn to find the fat, black cigar, to light it, to lean back comfortably and to contemplate Mr. Wallingford with triumphantly smiling eyes. The latter gentleman, however, was in no contemplative
mood. He was a man all of energy. He had two bellboys at the door in another minute. One he sent for a quart of wine and the other to the hardware store with a list of necessities, which were breathlessly bought and delivered: a small table-vise, a heavy hammer, two or three patterns of flat files, and several papers of tacks. Already in one corner of Mr. Wallingford’s room stood a rough serving table which he had been using as a work bench, and Mr. Lamb could not but reflect how everything needed came quickly to this man’s bidding, as if he had possessed the magic lamp of Aladdin. He was forced to admire, too, the dexterity with which this genius screwed the small vise to the table, placed in its jaws a row of tacks, and, pressing upon them the flat side of one of the files, pounded this vigorously until, upon lifting it up, the fine, indented pattern was found repeated in the hard heads of the tacks. The master magician went through this operation until he had a whole paper of them with roughened heads; then, glowing with fervid enthusiasm which was quickly communicated to his helper, he set Mr. Lamb to gluing bits of cloth upon these heads, to be trimmed later with delicate scissors, an extra pair of which Mr. Wallingford sent out to get. When the tacks were all set aside to dry the coworkers addressed themselves to the contents of the ice pail; but, as the host was pulling the cork from the bottle, and while both of them were perspiring and glowing with anticipated triumph in the experiment, Mr. Wallingford’s face grew suddenly troubled.
“By George, Eddy”—and Mr. Lamb beamed over this early adoption of his familiar first name—“if this experiment succeeds it makes you part inventor with me!”
Eddy sat down to gasp.
Chapter IV
J. Rufus Accepts a Temporary Accommodation and Buys an Automobile
The experiment was a success. Immediately after lunch they secured a fresh pine board and pounded all the tacks into it. Not one top came off. The fact, however, that Mr. Lamb was part inventor, made a vast difference in the proposition.
