Mr. Leffingwell Hope concluded his interview with Jimmy in a state of mental excitement of which his calm, imperturbable demeanor gave no sign. His keen mind had seen at once the possibilities in Jimmy’s crude idea.
Mr. Hope was not a technical man. But he understood, infinitely more clearly than Jimmy possibly could, what this plan would accomplish for the Wentworth Company, assuming it would work out. Mr. Hope had imagination. He saw the technical difficulties standing in the way—some of them he had pointed out to Jimmy. But he knew, also, that probably the idea, thus crudely conceived, could be developed by some one having the necessary technical knowledge.
After Jimmy left, Mr. Hope sat alone at his desk for fully half an hour, turning these thoughts over and over in his mind. Whoever broached this plan to the Wentworth Company and proved it successful would make a fortune. A fortune in a year or two! More than he could make the way he was going in ten times that long! He could marry Estelle, then; with the money, and the prestige such accomplishment would give him, that would be easy!
Only this youth from the country standing between him and a fortune and a marriage with Estelle. And what did this boy have—nothing but an idea. And now he had the idea, too—he could develop it—put it forth as his own when the proper time came.
He would have to deal with this boy—that would be easy. Mr. Leffingwell Hope smiled his thin smile as he mused on how easy that would be. That was a clever stroke, too—helping him get a job right here in the company. He could keep his eye on him better that way—and then, when the proper time came, have him fired out of the organization.
Simplicity itself! Also, what a perfect alibi! Suppose anything did leak out? Suppose the boy did make a fuss—claim the idea as his own? Would it have been likely, then, under such circumstances, that he, Leffingwell Hope, would have assisted in getting a job right here in this same company for this boy whose idea he was about to use as his own? Certainly not—a perfect alibi. And because the boy was around the offices, that could be shown to be the way he had stolen the idea from Mr. Hope.
The thing was perfect—it couldn’t fail. All he needed now was some technical dope. Merkle would be the man. He would see Merkle. Shifty little man, but he could handle him.
Mr. Leffingwell Hope felt very pleased with himself when his meditations reached this point. He tossed his empty cigarette box into the waste-basket and went in to see Mr. Wentworth.
“About that boy who was in here just now,” he began casually, finding the president disengaged at the moment. “I thought you might be amused. A crazy, wild idea. It seems his mother or somebody owns some land up in Alberta. Somebody else struck natural gas ten or twenty miles away. He seemed to think we’d be anxious to drill on his mother’s place and put a factory there if we were lucky enough to bring in a well. Something like that, anyway—he talked so wild I couldn’t follow him exactly.”
The president smiled. “Why didn’t you tell him about the McKeesport gas wells—that’s a little nearer home. They’re bringing one in every day down there.”
“I promised him I’d tell you what he said, so I’m doing it, but you know—” Mr. Hope waved his hand vaguely.
“Earnest-looking boy,” said Mr. Wentworth. “Tell him I’m sorry—not interested.”
Isaac Merkle was a consulting chemist who did a considerable amount of work for the Wentworth Glass Company. He lived and worked in a six-room flat on the top floor of a tenement house in that somewhat unsalubrious section of New York known as Hell’s Kitchen. His laboratory consisted of one large room that had been formed by knocking down the partitions of three smaller rooms; it was in the other three rooms that Mr. Merkle, who was a bachelor, lived alone.
The laboratory was a long, bare room, with a skylight. It was furnished with two long wooden tables, littered with chemical apparatus, several small chairs, and a wooden table. There was a large soapstone sink over at one side, and a long, low shelf down one wall, with a row of villainous-looking bottles upon it.
To this laboratory, by appointment, came Mr. Leffingwell Hope that very same evening. Mr. Merkle, as agreed, was quite alone when the secretary arrived. The chemist was a fat, middle-aged little man, with a round, very red, smooth-shaven face, an over-large nose, and mouse-colored hair with a bald spot on top.
Mr. Leffingwell Hope, seating himself uncomfortably on one of the little wooden chairs, was at some trouble just how to begin the business that had brought him.
“Ike,” he said finally, “I’ve got an idea that might, if it is any good, make us a lot of money.” He hesitated; and then, feeling that frankness would be his best policy, went on:
“I’m going to tell you all about it—everything I know. I want your advice in the first place, and then, if the idea’s any good—which maybe it’s not—we’ll go in it together—share and share alike, no matter what we have to do to pull it through. That O. K.?”
“The way you talk it’s crook stuff,” said Mr. Merkle. “You couldn’t scare me if it’s to be made real money. Shoot.”
“It isn’t crooked,” the secretary hastened to assure him. “But it’s a matter requiring, for the present, absolute secrecy.”
“Shoot,” said Mr. Merkle again.
The secretary hesitated. He didn’t exactly trust Mr. Merkle. He realized that he had nothing but an idea to tell. If the idea was worth anything at all it was a big thing. He thought it best to set this forth frankly to his friend at the outset.
“To hell with that argument,” said Mr. Merkle, interrupting him, though without sign of resentment. “I ain’t never double-crossed a friend yet. If you couldn’t believe it shut up before you start.”
Feeling that he had to be satisfied with that, the secretary went ahead and recounted briefly the whole story of Jimmy’s idea. Only he did not mention Jimmy—but set it forth as his own.
The chemist listened attentively, with his eyes fixed on his companion’s feet.
“Well, go on, Ike, what about it?” said the secretary impatiently, after a moment. “I’ve been thinking about it quite a while. Is it any good?”
“You could do it,” said Mr. Merkle with deliberation.
“How?” The secretary’s eyes sparkled, but without waiting for his question to be answered he went on to name all the objections he had pointed out to Jimmy.
“You ask me could it be done and right away you tell me why you couldn’t do it,” said Mr. Merkle.
“Well, all right, then. How?”
“All what you say about piping up heat is bunk,” the chemist declared. “You couldn’t make a fire four hundred feet in the ground and melt glass with it so far away. Bunk. But listen, Leff, here is it what you could do—in the ground you start a fire—”
“How could you control it?”
“Like you said—with air. That part, it’s all right. But the heat you don’t pipe up—that’s bunk. You pipe up the gases from the coal—the products of combustion that are only part used, and you burn them in the regenerator furnace. Maybe you could get very good producer gas. How could I tell till I work it out? Maybe producer gas forty-five per cent combustible—how could I tell?”
The chemist here plunged into a long dissertation of an exceedingly technical nature, which Mr. Leffingwell Hope, even though he had some knowledge of the types of furnaces used by the Wentworth Company, followed with difficulty. But the gist of it was, he gathered, that in all probability the idea could be worked out to a practical conclusion. And as Mr. Merkle, finished, waxing enthusiastic as he developed his thoughts by voicing them: “He was just the baby to work it out, if there was enough money in it for him.”
“That’s where I come in,” said the secretary. “I’ve doped out the idea—now you work it out. I’ll see we get the money—we’ll split it fifty-fifty!”
“You could consider it done. Have you told it to the boss?”
“No, certainly not. I want it in good shape first. That’s why I told you it was a matter demanding secrecy. I haven’t told it to any one—only you.” Mr. Hope thought a moment. “How about some other company than this one—would that be better, do you think?”
The chemist considered. “What it saves is only part of the cost of coal,” he said finally. “It ain’t that every factory what you tell it to right away breaks its neck to move to where the coal is.”
“But it’s particularly good for the Wentworth Company, you mean?”
“For them when they use so much fuel, and because, don’t you know about the new plant what they expect to put up next year? For them it would be a good thing.”
Mr. Merkle referred to the fact that the Wentworth Company was considering the building of another factory for the making of optical glass. For some months they had been looking for a good location, one preferably where they could use natural gas for fuel.
“I know,” said Mr. Hope. “These new ‘gas babies’ at McKeesport got Mr. Wentworth interested last winter. But I heard him say he had about given up that locality as a possibility.”
Merkle nodded. “Your idea beats that,” he said definitely. “You could pick up a coal property cheap—where the coal was so deep you couldn’t mine it with profit.”
“Then we’ll put it through with Wentworth,” Mr. Hope announced with finality. “You work it out—how long will it take?”
“A month or two. Maybe more. You know it, Leff, I’m busy now.”
“You rush it through. I’ll do the rest. Let me know how you get on. And keep your mouth shut.”
“You could count on me,” said Mr. Merkle.
It was a big thing! All the way home that evening, the secretary’s heart beat fast at the thought of how big it was. A fortune in his grasp at last! A fortune that would give him Estelle! And no one to divide the money with except Merkle, and probably he could think of some way of getting rid of him at the last. A fortune for himself! Riches—the greatest thing in the world!