“Look here: suppose you give a cook a soup-bone and some vegetables, and pay her to make you a soup: has she got a right to take and sell it? You know better!”
“I know ONE thing: if that old man tried to keep your own invention from you he’s no better than a robber!”
They never found any point of contact in all their passionate discussions of this ethical question; and the question was no more settled between them, now that Adams had succumbed, than it had ever been. But at least the wrangling about it was over: they were grave together, almost silent, and an uneasiness prevailed with her as much as with him.
He had already been out of the house, to walk about the small green yard; and on Monday afternoon he sent for a taxicab and went downtown, but kept a long way from the “wholesale section,” where stood the formidable old oblong pile of Lamb and Company. He arranged for the sale of the bonds he had laid away, and for placing a mortgage upon his house; and on his way home, after five o’clock, he went to see an old friend, a man whose term of service with Lamb and Company was even a little longer than his own.
This veteran, returned from the day’s work, was sitting in front of the apartment house where he lived, but when the cab stopped at the curb he rose and came forward, offering a jocular greeting. “Well, well, Virgil Adams! I always thought you had a sporty streak in you. Travel in your own hired private automobile nowadays, do you? Pamperin’ yourself because you’re still layin’ off sick, I expect.”
“Oh, I’m well enough again, Charley Lohr,” Adams said, as he got out and shook hands. Then, telling the driver to wait, he took his friend’s arm, walked to the bench with him, and sat down. “I been practically well for some time,” he said. “I’m fixin’ to get into harness again.”
“Bein’ sick has certainly produced a change of heart in you,” his friend laughed. “You’re the last man I ever expected to see blowin’ yourself—or anybody else to a taxicab! For that matter, I never heard of you bein’ in ANY kind of a cab, ‘less’n it might be when you been pall-bearer for somebody. What’s come over you?”
“Well, I got to turn over a new leaf, and that’s a fact,” Adams said. “I got a lot to do, and the only way to accomplish it, it’s got to be done soon, or I won’t have anything to live on while I’m doing it.”
“What you talkin’ about? What you got to do except to get strong enough to come back to the old place?”
“Well–-” Adams paused, then coughed, and said slowly, “Fact is, Charley Lohr, I been thinking likely I wouldn’t come back.”
“What! What you talkin’ about?”
“No,” said Adams. “I been thinking I might likely kind of branch out on my own account.”
“Well, I’ll be doggoned!” Old Charley Lohr was amazed; he ruffled up his gray moustache with thumb and forefinger, leaving his mouth open beneath, like a dark cave under a tangled wintry thicket. “Why, that’s the doggonedest thing I ever heard!” he said. “I already am the oldest inhabitant down there, but if you go, there won’t be anybody else of the old generation at all. What on earth you thinkin’ of goin’ into?”
“Well,” said Adams, “I rather you didn’t mention it till I get started of course anybody’ll know what it is by then—but I HAVE been kind of planning to put a liquid glue on the market.”
His friend, still ruffling the gray moustache upward, stared at him in frowning perplexity. “Glue?” he said. “GLUE!”
“Yes. I been sort of milling over the idea of taking up something like that.”
“Handlin’ it for some firm, you mean?”
“No. Making it. Sort of a glue-works likely.”
Lohr continued to frown. “Let me think,” he said. “Didn’t the ole man have some such idea once, himself?”
Adams leaned forward, rubbing his knees; and he coughed again before he spoke. “Well, yes. Fact is, he did. That is to say, a mighty long while ago he did.”
“I remember,” said Lohr. “He never said anything about it that I know of; but seems to me I recollect we had sort of a rumour around the place how you and that man—le’s see, wasn’t his name Campbell, that died of typhoid fever? Yes, that was it, Campbell. Didn’t the ole man have you and Campbell workin’ sort of private on some glue proposition or other?”
“Yes, he did.” Adams nodded. “I found out a good deal about glue then, too.”
“Been workin’ on it since, I suppose?”
“Yes. Kept it in my mind and studied out new things about it.”
Lohr looked serious. “Well, but see here,” he said. “I hope it ain’t anything the ole man’ll think might infringe on whatever he had you doin’ for HIM. You know how he is: broad-minded, liberal, free-handed man as walks this earth, and if he thought he owed you a cent he’d sell his right hand for a pork-chop to pay it, if that was the only way; but if he got the idea anybody was tryin’ to get the better of him, he’d sell BOTH his hands, if he had to, to keep ‘em from doin’ it. Yes, at eighty, he would! Not that I mean I think you might be tryin’ to get the better of him, Virg. You’re a mighty close ole codger, but such a thing ain’t in you. What I mean: I hope there ain’t any chance for the ole man to THINK you might be–-“
“Oh, no,” Adams interrupted. “As a matter of fact, I don’t believe he’ll ever think about it at all, and if he did he wouldn’t have any real right to feel offended at me: the process I’m going to use is one I expect to change and improve a lot different from the one Campbell and I worked on for him.”
“Well, that’s good,” said Lohr. “Of course you know what you’re up to: you’re old enough, God knows!” He laughed ruefully. “My, but it will seem funny to me—down there with you gone! I expect you and I both been gettin’ to be pretty much dead-wood in the place, the way the young fellows look at it, and the only one that’d miss either of us would be the other one! Have you told the ole man yet?”
“Well–-” Adams spoke laboriously. “No. No, I haven’t. I thought—well, that’s what I wanted to see you about.”
“What can I do?”
“I thought I’d write him a letter and get you to hand it to him for me.”
