"In case you don't know it," I told her gloomily, "you are displaying a lamentably vulgar interest in one of life's lesser values. Happiness, not money, should be man's chief goal." "What good is happiness," demanded Joyce, "if you can't buy money with it?" "Why hoard lucre?" I sniffed. "You can't take it with you." "In that case," said Joyce flatly, "I'm not going. There's no use arguing, Don. I've made up my mind--" At this moment our dreary little impasse was ended by a sudden tumult outside my office. There was a squealing shriek, the shuffle of footsteps, the pounding of fists upon my door. And over all the shrill tones of an old, familiar voice high-pitched in triumph. "Let me in! I've got to see him instantaceously. This time I've got it; I've absolutely _got_ it!" Joyce and I gasped, then broke simultaneously for the door as it flew open to reveal a tableau resembling the Laocoon group _sans_ snake and party of the third part. Back to the door and struggling valiantly to defend it stood the receptionist, Miss Thomas. Held briefly but volubly at bay was a red-thatched, buck-toothed individual--and I _do_ mean individual!--with a face like the map of Eire, who stopped wrestling as he saw us, and grinned delightedly. "Hello, Mr. Mallory," he said. "Hi, Miss Joyce." "Pat!" we both cried at once. "Pat Pending!" * * * * * Miss Thomas, a relative newcomer to our bailiwick, seemed baffled by the warmth of our greeting. She entered the office with our visitor, and as Joyce and I pumphandled him enthusiastically she asked, "You--you _know_ this gentleman, Mr. Mallory?" "I should say we do!" I chortled. "Pat, you old naughty word! Where on earth have you been hiding lately?" "Surely you've heard of the great Patrick Pending, Miss Thomas?" asked Joyce. "Pending?" faltered Miss Thomas. "I seem to have heard the name. Or seen it somewhere--" Pat beamed upon her companionably. Stepping to my desk, he up-ended the typewriter and pointed to a legend in tiny letters stamped into the frame: _Reg. U.S. Pat. Off.--Pat. Pending._ "Here, perhaps?" he suggested. "I invented this. And the airplane, and the automobile, and--oh, ever so many things. You'll find my name inscribed on every one. "I," he announced modestly, "am Pat Pending--the greatest inventulator of all time." Miss Thomas stared at me goggle-eyed. "_Is_ he?" she demanded. "I mean--_did_ he?" I nodded solemnly. "Not only those, but a host of other marvels. The bacular clock, the transmatter, the predictograph--" Miss Thomas turned on Pat a gaze of fawning admiration. "How wonderful!" she breathed. "Oh, nothing, really," said Pat, wriggling.