But Sills was wrong! The article in the paper ushered in a very, very hectic two days for the two of them.
J. Throgmorton Bankhead is what is commonly known as a “captain of industry.” As head of the Acme Chromium and Silver Plating Corporation he no doubt deserved the title; but to his patient and long-suffering wife, he was merely a dyspeptic and grouchy husband, especially at the breakfast table… and he was at the breakfast table now.
Rustling his morning paper angrily, he sputtered between bites of buttered toast, ‘This man is ruining the country.” He pointed aghast at big, black headlines. “I said before and I’ll say again that the man is as crazy as a bedbug. He won’t be satisfied…”
“Joseph, please,” pleaded his wife, “you’re getting purple in the face. Remember your high blood pressure. You know the doctor told you to stop reading the news from Washington if it annoys you so. Now, listen dear, about the cook. She’s…”
“The doctor’s a damn fool, and so are you,” shouted J. Throgmorton Bankhead. “I’ll read all the news I please and get purple in the face too, if I want to.”
He raised the cup of coffee to his mouth and took a critical sip. While he did so, his eyes fell upon a more insignificant headline towards the bottom of the page: “Savant Discovers Gold Substitute.” The coffee cup remained in the air while he scanned the article quickly. “This new metal,” it ran in part, “is claimed by its discoverer to be far superior to chromium, nickel, or silver for cheap and beautiful jewelry. The twenty-dollar-a-week clerk,’ said Professor Sills, ‘will eat off ammonium plate more impressive in appearance than the gold plate of the Indian Nabob.’ There is no…”
But J. Throgmorton Bankhead had stopped reading. Visions of a ruined Acme Chromium and Silver Plating Corporation danced before his eyes; and as they danced, the cup of coffee dropped from his hand, and splashed hot liquid over his trousers.
His wife rose to her feet in alarm, “What is it, Joseph; what is it?”
“Nothing,” Bankhead shouted. “Nothing. For God’s sake, go away, will you?”
He strode angrily out of the room, leaving his wife to search the paper for anything that could have disturbed him.
“Bob’s Tavern” on Fifteenth Street is usually pretty well filled at all times, but on the morning we are speaking of, it was empty except for four or five rather poorly-dressed men who clustered about the portly and dignified form of Peter Q. Hornswoggle, eminent ex-Congressman.
Peter Q. Hornswoggle was, as usual, speaking fluently. His subject, again as usual, concerned the life of a Congressman.
“I remember a case in point,” he was saying, “when that same argument was brought up in the House, and which I answered as follows: The eminent gentleman from Nevada in his statements overlooks one very important aspect of the problem. He does not realize that it is to the interest of the entire nation that the apple-parers of this country be attended to promptly; for, gentlemen, on the welfare of the apple-parers depends the future of the entire fruit industry and on the fruit-industry is based the entire economy of this great and glorious nation, the United States of America.’ “
Hornswoggle paused, swallowed half a pint of beer at once, and then smiled in triumph, “I have no hesitation in saying, gentlemen, that at that statement, the entire House burst into wild and tumultuous applause.”
One of the assembled listeners shook his head slowly and marvelled. “It must be great to be able to spiel like that, Senator. You musta been a sensation.”
“Yeah,” agreed the bartender, “it’s a dirty shame you were beat last election.”
The ex-Congressman winced and in a very dignified tone began, “I have been reliably informed that the use of bribery in that campaign reached unprecedented prop…” His voice died away suddenly as he caught sight of a certain article in the newspaper of one of his listeners. He snatched at it and read it through in silence and thereupon his eyes gleamed with a sudden idea.
“My friends,” he said turning to them again, “I find I must leave you. There is pressing work that must be done immediately at City Hall.” He leant over to whisper to the barkeeper, “You haven’t got twenty-five cents, have you? I find I left my wallet in the Mayor’s office by mistake. I will surely repay you tomorrow.”
Clutching the quarter, reluctantly given, Peter Q. Hornswoggle left.
In a small and dimly lit room somewhere in the lower reaches of First Avenue, Michael Maguire, known to the police by the far more euphonious name of Mike the Slug, cleaned his trusty revolver and hummed a tuneless song. The door opened a crack and Mike looked up.
“That you, Slappy?”
“Yeh,” a short, wizened person sidled in, “I brung ye de evenin’ sheet. De cops are still tinkin’ Bragoni pulled de job.”
“Yeh? That’s good.” He bent unconcernedly over the revolver. “Anything else doing?”
“Naw! Some dippy dame killed herself, but dat’s all.”
He tossed the newspaper to Mike and left. Mike leaned back and flipped the pages in a bored manner.
A headline attracted his eye and he read the short article that followed. Having finished, he threw aside the paper, lit a cigarette, and did some heavy thinking. Then he opened the door.
“Hey, Slappy, c’mere. There’s a job that’s got to be done.”
Walter Sills was happy, deliriously so. He walked about his laboratory king of all he surveyed, strutting like a peacock, basking in his new-found glory. Eugene Taylor sat and watched him, scarcely less happy himself.
“How does it feel to be famous?” Taylor wanted to know.
“Like a million dollars; and that’s what I’m going to sell the secret of ammonium metal for. It’s the fat of the land for me from now on.”
“You leave the practical details to me, Walt. I’m getting in touch with Staples of Eagle Steel today. You’ll get a decent price from him.”
The bell rang, and Sills jumped. He ran to open the door.
“Is this the home of Walter Sills?” The large, scowling visitor gazed about him superciliously.
“Yes, I’m Sills. Do you wish to see me?”
“Yes. My name is J. Throgmorton Bankhead and I represent the Acme Chromium and Silver Plating Corporation. I would like to have a moment’s discussion with you.”
“Come right in. Come right in! This is Eugene Taylor, my associate. You may speak freely before him.”
“Very well.” Bankhead seated himself heavily. “I suppose you surmise the reason for my visit.”
“I take it that you have read of the new ammonium metal in the papers.”
“That’s right. I have come to see whether there is any truth in the story and to buy your process if there is.”
“You can see for yourself, sir,” Sills led the magnate to where the argon-filled container of the few grams of pure ammonium were. “That is the metal. Over here to the right, I’ve got the oxide, an oxide which is more metallic than the metal itself, strangely enough. It is the oxide that is what the papers call ‘substitute gold.’ “
Bankhead’s face showed not an atom of the sinking feeling within him as he viewed the oxide with dismay. “Take it out in the open,” he said, “and let’s see it.”
Sills shook his head. “I can’t, Mr. Bankhead. Those are the first samples of ammonium and ammonium-oxide that ever existed. They’re museum pieces. I can easily make more for you, if you wish.”
“You’ll have to, if you expect me to sink my money in it You satisfy me and I’ll be willing to buy your patent for as much as-oh, say a thousand dollars.”
“A thousand dollars!” exclaimed Sills and Taylor together.
“A very fair price, gentlemen.”
“A million would be more like it,” shouted Taylor in an outraged tone. “This discovery is a goldmine.”
“A million, indeed! You are dreaming, gentlemen. The fact of the matter is that my company has been on the track of ammonium for years now, and we are just at the point of solving the problem. Unfortunately you beat us by a week or so, and so I wish to buy up your patent in order to save my company a great deal of annoyance. You realize, of course, that if you refuse my price, I could just go ahead and manufacture the metal, using my own process.”
“We’ll sue if you do,” said Taylor.
“Have you got the money for a long, protracted-and expensive-lawsuit?” Bankhead smiled nastily. “I have, you know. To prove, however, that I am not unreasonable, I will make the price two thousand.”
“You’ve heard our price,” answered Taylor stonily, “and we have nothing further to say.”
“All right, gentlemen,” Bankhead walked towards the door, “think it over. You’ll see it my way, I’m sure.”
He opened the door and revealed the symmetrical form of Peter Q. Hornswoggle bent in rapt concentration at the keyhole. Bankhead sneered audibly and the ex-Congressman jumped to his feet in consternation, bowing rapidly two or three times, for want of anything better to do.
The financier passed by disdainfully and Hornswoggle entered, slammed the door behind him, and faced the two bewildered friends.
“That man, my dear sirs, is a malefactor of great wealth, an economic royalist. He is the type of predatory interest that is the ruination of this country. You did quite right in refusing his offer.” He placed his hand on his ample chest and smiled at them benignantly.
“Who the devil are you?” rasped Taylor, suddenly recovering from his initial surprise.