The real inventor is a very nice fellow, but the chronic inventor is generally a bore. Take notice, my dear reader, of one fact, how few of the great inventions were the work of chronic inventors. I do not refer to men who have simply taken out a number of patents in their own particular line: one of the best cures for chronic inventorism is to resolve to confine yourself to one line; the next best cure being to firmly conclude never to take out a second patent until the first has paid you something, or has done you some good in some way. The great inventors are those who stick to one thing until success is attained or absolute failure fully demonstrated. Why, now, this anathema against the chronic inventor? It is this: the chronic inventor is lazy; you say he will stay up at night, work all day, and never sleep; well, let him, all except the work; this element is supposititious. It is _not_ work, and here is just where the trouble comes in,—the chronic inventor stops just where the work begins. It is fun to invent, and it only takes a little practice to be able to accomplish it; it is as easy as “castle-building,” but when you come to build the real castle, out of good hard stone and grimy mortar,—“ay, there’s the rub!” The men who have really done something to the benefit of the world, are those who have reduced their inventions (or those of some one else) to practice and brought them before the people. A great invention which has never gotten beyond the confines of the brain that evolved it might as well never have been evolved at all. Nor is it any better that a pasteboard model lies moulding in the garret; and, strange as it may appear, a record of the same in the Patent Office does not help matters much. See the number of patents, many of which are good, lying in the files at the Patent Office,—neglected and forgotten by everybody except the examiner, who persistently uses them as ammunition against the real benefactor of mankind who, though subsequent, would like to do something with them. Before my early entrance into the arena of invention, I had a suspicion that some of the work of benefiting mankind, if so high a title be justifiable, consisted in getting an invention into practical and useful form for general use. I also had some premonition that it would require a portion of the ingenuity to get the pay for it at the hands of the populace. In this connection a diverting amusement was discovered in the way of apportioning the ingenuity to the different departments of the required work. My original scale was as follows: One-half of the ingenuity to inventing the thing, one-fourth to getting up the tools and making same, and one-fourth to placing upon the market and gathering in the returns. After a little experience the schedule was remodelled, making one-third to each section. Later on, the entire schedule underwent a most decided and radical change. It stands now as follows: