I never worked or pretended to work on the detection of submarines. All of my work in this general direction was confined to the detection of torpedoes and to the quick turning of cargo boats ninety degrees in order to save the boat from being torpedoed. I was successful in both. With my listening apparatus, and while my boat was in full speed, I could hear a torpedo the instant it was fired nearly two miles away, and with my turning device, a 5,000-ton cargo boat, fully loaded going at full speed, was turned at right angles to her original course in an advance of 200 feet. Along with the hundred thousand suggestions of how to win the war, there were not wanting incidents out of the ordinary. One day as I was discussing department business with a bureau chief the telephone rang, and a clerk said "long distance" was calling. He did not catch the name clearly, but thought it was Mr. Ford. I found in a moment that it was not the famous Detroit automobile maker, for the man at the other end of the line began talking a blue streak, starting out with the declaration: "I've invented a thing that will wipe out the submarines; I've got something that positively will end the war." He seemed quite excited about it. I asked him what it was. He said he could not tell me over the phone, or entrust the secret to mails or telegraph. "Send it to our Inventions Board," I suggested. "Not on your life," he replied. "They might steal it, and I'd never get the credit for it. It's worth millions, millions!" He would never show it to but three people, he said, the President, Mr. Edison and myself, and all three must give the pledge of secrecy. "There's not a moment to be lost, and I want to bring it to Washington myself," he exclaimed. "But I must be careful. If the Germans knew I had this, their spies would murder me." "All right, bring it on," I remarked, hoping to end the conversation before he had bankrupted himself with telephone charges. "Send me $5,000 by telegraph this afternoon, and I'll start tomorrow," he demanded. Used as I was to queer propositions, this did rather startle me. "No, no," I replied emphatically; "I cannot do that." "Do you mean to say,"--he seemed to be surprised--"that you won't send me a measly little $5,000 when the thing I have is worth millions, and will end the war?" "That's correct," I said, rather sharply, I fear. "We will not send anybody a dollar of Government money until we know what it is for." "Well, that's the smallest piece of business I ever heard of," he snapped. "I thought you were some Secretary, and now I believe all the mean things some newspapers have said about you." One of my office aids figured out that this irate citizen had spent about $20 in telephone tolls. We never heard from him again, and the invention that would end the war was lost to the world.