Of all his regrets the greatest was that in a moment of vanity and tenderness, twenty-five years ago, he had told his young wife a business secret. He had wanted to show how important her husband was becoming, and how much the head of the universe, J. A. Lamb, trusted to his integrity and ability. The great man had an idea: he thought of “branching out a little,” he told Adams confidentially5, and there were possibilities of profit in glue.
What he wanted was a liquid glue to be put into little bottles and sold cheaply. “The kind of thing that sells itself,” he said; “the kind of thing that pays its own small way as it goes along, until it has profits enough to begin advertising7 it right. Everybody has to use glue, and if I make mine convenient and cheap, everybody'll buy mine. But it's got to be glue that'll STICK; it's got to be the best; and if we find how to make it we've got to keep it a big secret, of course, or anybody can steal it from us. There was a man here last month; he knew a formula he wanted to sell me, 'sight unseen'; but he was in such a hurry I got suspicious, and I found he'd managed to steal it, working for the big packers in their glue-works. We've got to find a better glue than that, anyhow. I'm going to set you and Campbell at it. You're a practical, wide-awake young feller, and Campbell's a mighty8 good chemist; I guess you two boys ought to make something happen.”
His guess was shrewd enough. Working in a shed a little way outside the town, where their cheery employer visited them sometimes to study their malodorous stews9, the two young men found what Lamb had set them to find. But Campbell was thoughtful over the discovery. “Look here,” he said. “Why ain't this just about yours and mine? After all, it may be Lamb's money that's paid for the stuff we've used, but it hasn't cost much.”
“But he pays US,” Adams remonstrated10, horrified11 by his companion's idea. “He paid us to do it. It belongs absolutely to him.”
“Oh, I know he THINKS it does,” Campbell admitted, plaintively12. “I suppose we've got to let him take it. It's not patentable, and he'll have to do pretty well by us when he starts his factory, because he's got to depend on us to run the making of the stuff so that the workmen can't get onto the process. You better ask him the same salary I do, and mine's going to be high.”
But the high salary, thus pleasantly imagined, was never paid. Campbell died of typhoid fever, that summer, leaving Adams and his employer the only possessors of the formula, an unwritten one; and Adams, pleased to think himself more important to the great man than ever, told his wife that there could be little doubt of his being put in sole charge of the prospective13 glue-works. Unfortunately, the enterprise remained prospective.
Its projector14 had already become “inveigled into another side-line,” as he told Adams. One of his sons had persuaded him to take up a “cough-lozenge,” to be called the “Jalamb Balm Trochee”; and the lozenge did well enough to amuse Mr. Lamb and occupy his spare time, which was really about all he had asked of the glue project. He had “all the MONEY anybody ought to want,” he said, when Adams urged him; and he could “start up this little glue side-line” at any time; the formula was safe in their two heads.
At intervals15 Adams would seek opportunity to speak of “the little glue side-line” to his patron, and to suggest that the years were passing; but Lamb, petting other hobbies, had lost interest. “Oh, I'll start it up some day, maybe. If I don't, I may turn it over to my heirs: it's always an asset, worth something or other, of course. We'll probably take it up some day, though, you and I.”
The sun persistently16 declined to rise on that day, and, as time went on, Adams saw that his rather timid urgings bored his employer, and he ceased to bring up the subject. Lamb apparently17 forgot all about glue, but Adams discovered that unfortunately there was someone else who remembered it.
“It's really YOURS,” she argued, that painful day when for the first time she suggested his using his knowledge for the benefit of himself and his family. “Mr. Campbell might have had a right to part of it, but he died and didn't leave any kin6, so it belongs to you.”
“Suppose J. A. Lamb hired me to saw some wood,” Adams said. “Would the sticks belong to me?”
“He hasn't got any right to take your invention and bury it,” she protested. “What good is it doing him if he doesn't DO anything with it? What good is it doing ANYBODY? None in the world! And what harm would it do him if you went ahead and did this for yourself and for your children? None in the world! And what could he do to you if he WAS old pig enough to get angry with you for doing it? He couldn't do a single thing, and you've admitted he couldn't, yourself. So what's your reason for depriving your children and your wife of the benefits you know you could give 'em?”
“Nothing but decency,” he answered; and she had her reply ready for that. It seemed to him that, strive as he would, he could not reach her mind with even the plainest language; while everything that she said to him, with such vehemence18, sounded like so much obstinate19 gibberish. Over and over he pressed her with the same illustration, on the point of ownership, though he thought he was varying it.
“Suppose he hired me to build him a house: would that be MY house?”
“He didn't hire you to build him a house. You and Campbell invented——”
“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 passionate20 discussions of this ethical21 question; and the question was no more settled between them, now that Adams had succumbed22, than it had ever been. But at least the wrangling23 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 down-town, 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 curb24 he rose and came forward, offering a jocular greeting. “Well, well, Virgil Adams! I always thought you had a sporty streak25 in you. Travel in your own hired private automobile26 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 ruffled27 up his gray moustache with thumb and forefinger28, leaving his mouth open beneath, like a dark cave under a tangled
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