“Why, instead of findin’ out what we wanted, or if it was something the boss would want to know about, he jest tried to send us off. That hain’t brains. When you’re in business you don’t want to let no chances slip. Nobody ever knows what minute there’s goin’ to be a chance to make money. I always find out what everybody wants that comes in, and if they don’t want anything, why, I try to make them want something.” “Hear that, Jones?” says the man with the whiskers. “You might remember it, too. It’s a good rule.... Now, young man, I’m Mr. Sommers—the boss, as you call it. What can I do for you?” “I want to show you something,” says Catty, “and ask you if you don’t think there’s money in it.” “Come in,” says Mr. Sommers, and in we marched. I had noticed that Catty was carrying around a parcel all day, but I thought it was lunch or something, and hadn’t asked any questions about it. He put the parcel on a table now and began to open it. In a minute he took out that little folding-table of his father’s—the one Mr. Atkins had whittled out just for fun. “Here it is,” says he, “a new-fangled, patent, foldin’-table. I got it into my head that it was a rip-snortin’ good table, and that maybe other folks would think so. Looky here.... It opens like this, and it’s stiddy on its feet, and you can’t pinch your fingers. I don’t call to mind ever seein’ a table quite as good as this one.... And so I come to git your opinion about it.” Mr. Sommers picked up the little table and examined it close. He opened and shut it, and looked under it, and then sat back in his chair and thought. “Are you manufacturing tables like this?” “Not yet. I figgered it would be safer to find out if folks would buy them.” “They would,” says Mr. Sommers. “There isn’t a table on the market that can touch this. If you can manufacture it at a decent price you can make money. Is it patented?” “Patented? What’s that?” Mr. Sommers explained about patents and why folks ought to have them. “I see,” says Catty. “It hain’t patented yet, but you kin bet it’s goin’ to be, right off. How do I go about it?” “I can send you to a good patent lawyer, if you like.” “Thankee,” says Catty. “If this table was being made, would you order some to sell in your store?” “I would give you an order right now for ten gross.” “A gross is twelve dozen, hain’t it?” “Yes.” “Ten gross would be a thousand and four hundred and forty. Jingoes! That’s a lot of tables, mister.” “Did you make this model?” “No, sir. Dad he jest whittled it out because he pinched his fingers on a foldin’-table he bought. Done it just to show that there could be a better table. He’s always doin’ that. He’s whittled out lots of things. Made a game for us that’s a dandy, and he’s fixed up a step-ladder that folds into a kitchen chair, and a dingus for hangin’ up brooms, and about forty other things. He’s always whittlin’.” “That’s interesting. I’d like to see some of those other things. Patent any of them?” “Not a one.”