«Show me an idea, and I'll beat a path to it,» said Mr. Hartpick. «However nutty it sounds.»
«… and here,» said Davies, «is the Steel Cat.» With that he flung open the box.
«Selling name!» said Hartpick. «Might be able to use the name, anyway.»
«Mr. Hartpick, the idea is this,» said Davies, beginning to count off his points on his fingers. «More mice caught. More humanely. No mutilation of mice as with inferior traps. No mess. No springs to catch the fingers. Some women are just scared to death of those springs. No family disagreements, Mr. Hartpick. That's an important angle. I've gone into that angle psychologically.»
His visitor paused in the rooting out of a back tooth, and stared at Davies. «Eh?» said he.
«Psychologically,» said Davies. «The feminine angle, the masculine angle. Now, the wife doesn't generally like to see a cat playing with a mouse.»
«She can poison 'em,» said Hartpick.
«That's what she says,» said Davies. «That's the woman angle. Poisoners throughout the ages. Lucrezia Borgia — lots of 'em. But a good many husbands are allergic to having their wives playing around with poison. I think a nation-wide poll would show most husbands prefer a cat. Remember, it was Nero — a man — fed the Christians to the lions. So that starts an argument. Besides, you've got to put a cat out, get it fed when on vacation.»
«Any mice we catch, the missus flushes 'em down the toilet,» said Mr. Hartpick, with a shrug.
«Feminine angle again,» said Davies. «Cleopatra fed her slaves to the crocodiles. Only many women haven't the levelheadedness of Mrs. Hartpick to take a mouse out of a trap and get rid of it that way.»
«Oh, I dunno,» said Mr. Hartpick in tones of complete boredom.
«In one way this is the same sort of thing,» said Davies, beginning to talk very fast. «Only more scientific and labour-saving. See — I fill the glass jar here with water, lukewarm water. It's glass in this demonstration model. In the selling product it'd be tin to keep the cost down to what I said in my letter. The frame needn't be chromium either. Well, having filled it, I place it right here in position. Kindly observe the simplicity. I take a morsel of ordinary cheese, and I bait the hook. If economy's the subject, a piece of bread rubbed in bacon fat is equally effective. Now look! Please look, Mr. Hartpick! I'll show you what the mouse does. Come on, Georgie!»
«Live mouse, eh?» observed Hartpick, with a flicker of interest.
«Mus domesticus, the domestic mouse,» said Davies. «Found in every home. Now watch him! He's found the way in. See him go along that strip in the middle! Right to the bait — see? His weight tilts the …»
«He's in!» cried Hartpick, his interest entirely regained.
«And the trap,» said Davies triumphantly, «has automatically set itself for another mouse. In the morning you just remove the dead ones.»
«Not bad! »said Hartpick. «Gosh — he's trying to swim! My friend, I think you may have something there.»
«You know the old adage, Mr. Hartpick,» said Davies, smiling. «It's the better mouse-trap!»
«Like hell it is!» said Hartpick. «Pure nut, that's what it is. But what I always say — there's a nut market for nut inventions. Play up the humane angle … get the old dames het up …»
«Gee, that's great!» said Davies. «I was beginning to … Well, never mind! Excuse me! I'll just get him out.»
«Wait a minute,» said Hartpick, putting his heavy hand on Davies' wrist.
«I think he's getting a bit tired,» said Davies.
«Now look,» said Hartpick, still watching the mouse. «We've got our standard contract for notions of this sort. Standard rate of royalties. Ask your attorney if you like; he'll tell you the same thing.»
«Oh, that'll be all right, I'm sure,» said Davies. «Just let me …»
«Hold on! Hold on!» said Hartpick. «We're talking business, ain't we?»
«Why sure,» said Davies uneasily. «But he's getting tired. You see, he's a demonstration mouse.»
Mr. Hartpick's hand seemed to grow heavier. «And what's this?» he demanded. «A demonstration — or what?»
«A demonstration? Yes,» said Davies.
«Or are you trying to put something over on me?» said Hartpick. «How do I know he won't climb out? I was going to suggest you step around to the office in the morning, and we sign. If you're interested, that is.»
«Of course, I'm interested,» said Davies, actually trembling. «But …»
«Well, if you're interested,» said Hartpick, «let him alone.»
«But, my God, he's drowning!» cried Davies, tugging to free his wrist. Mr. Hartpick turned his massive face toward Davies for a moment, and Davies stopped tugging.
«The show,» said Hartpick, «goes on. There you are! Look! Look! He's going!» His hand fell from Davies' arm. «Going! Going! Gone! Poor little bastard! Okay, Mr. Davies, let's say ten-thirty o'clock then, in the morning.»
With that he strode out. Davies stood stock-still for a little, and then moved toward the Steel Cat. He put out his hand to take up the jar, but turned abruptly away and walked up and down the room. He had been doing this for some time when there came another tap on the door. Davies must have said «come in,» though he wasn't aware of doing so. At all events the bell-hop entered, carrying a covered platter on a tray. «Excuse me,» said he, smiling all over his face. «It's on the house, sir. Buttered corn-cob for Brother George Simpson!»
SLEEPING BEAUTY
Edward Laxton had everything in the world that he wanted except a sweetheart, fiancée, or wife.
He had a very civilized little Regency house, whose ivory façade was reflected in a few acres of ornamental water. There was a small park, as green as moss, and well embowered with sober trees. Outside this, his land ran over some of the shaggiest hills in the south of England. The ploughed fields were on the small side, and lay locked in profound woods. A farmhouse and a cottage or two sent their blue smoke curling into the evening sky.
With all this, his income was very small, but he was blessed with good taste, and was therefore satisfied with simple fare. His dinner was a partridge roasted plain, a bottle of Hermitage, an apple pie, and a crumb of Stilton cheese. His picture was a tiny little Constable left to him by his great-uncle. His gun was his father's old Holland and Holland, which fitted him to a hair. His dogs were curly-coated retrievers, one liver coloured and one black. Such dogs are now considered very old-fashioned, and so, by those who knew him, was their master. He was now over thirty, and had begun to tell his tailor to make him exactly the same suits as last year, and when his friends went abroad it did not occur to him to find out others.
He turned more and more to the placid beauty of his house, and to the rich, harsh beauty of the upland farms. A man should beware of surrendering too much of himself to this sort of thing, for the beauty of a place can be as possessive as other beauties. Believe it or not, when Edward met a girl who attracted him, a certain hill would thrust its big shoulder, furred with oak woods, between them, for all the world like a jealous dog. It would at once be obvious that the girl was weak in the ankles, and wore too much make-up. The bare, prim front of a certain stock-man's cottage, like the disapproving face of an old servant, could make a merry girl seem altogether too smart, and there was a certain faded little nursery room, the memory of which could make any young woman of these days look like something out of the cinema.