Mr. Leffingwell Hope, seating himself uncomfortably on one of the little wooden chairs, was at some trouble just how to begin the business that had brought him. “Ike,” he said finally, “I’ve got an idea that might, if it is any good, make us a lot of money.” He hesitated; and then, feeling that frankness would be his best policy, went on: “I’m going to tell you all about it—everything I know. I want your advice in the first place, and then, if the idea’s any good—which maybe it’s not—we’ll go in it together—share and share alike, no matter what we have to do to pull it through. That O. K.?” “The way you talk it’s crook stuff,” said Mr. Merkle. “You couldn’t scare me if it’s to be made real money. Shoot.” “It isn’t crooked,” the secretary hastened to assure him. “But it’s a matter requiring, for the present, absolute secrecy.” “Shoot,” said Mr. Merkle again. The secretary hesitated. He didn’t exactly trust Mr. Merkle. He realized that he had nothing but an idea to tell. If the idea was worth anything at all it was a big thing. He thought it best to set this forth frankly to his friend at the outset. “To hell with that argument,” said Mr. Merkle, interrupting him, though without sign of resentment. “I ain’t never double-crossed a friend yet. If you couldn’t believe it shut up before you start.” Feeling that he had to be satisfied with that, the secretary went ahead and recounted briefly the whole story of Jimmy’s idea. Only he did not mention Jimmy—but set it forth as his own. The chemist listened attentively, with his eyes fixed on his companion’s feet. “Well, go on, Ike, what about it?” said the secretary impatiently, after a moment. “I’ve been thinking about it quite a while. Is it any good?” “You could do it,” said Mr. Merkle with deliberation. “How?” The secretary’s eyes sparkled, but without waiting for his question to be answered he went on to name all the objections he had pointed out to Jimmy. “You ask me could it be done and right away you tell me why you couldn’t do it,” said Mr. Merkle. “Well, all right, then. How?” “All what you say about piping up heat is bunk,” the chemist declared. “You couldn’t make a fire four hundred feet in the ground and melt glass with it so far away. Bunk. But listen, Leff, here is it what you could do—in the ground you start a fire—” “How could you control it?” “Like you said—with air. That part, it’s all right. But the heat you don’t pipe up—that’s bunk. You pipe up the gases from the coal—the products of combustion that are only part used, and you burn them in the regenerator furnace. Maybe you could get very good producer gas. How could I tell till I work it out? Maybe producer gas forty-five per cent combustible—how could I tell?”