“A mouth-inventor I call him. He always knew what ought to be done by machine. He had mighty good ideas, but he never got as far as building a working model or even making a rough drawing. My mother used to tell him to go ahead and invent, and he'd promise he would. But all he ever did was to talk about the machine that ought to be built, until somebody else did it and copped the dough. Then he would tell my mother, 'There, wasn't I right?'” Bill's face clouded and he stopped talking--to remember. “Didn't he ever finish anything?” Tommy meant to show a hopeful loyalty to his friend's father. “Yes, he finished my mother,” answered Bill, savagely. “He got so he would talk in the shop, and the men would stop their work to listen to him, for he certainly had the gift of gab. He cost the shop too much, and so my mother had to support him and us kids. She invented regular grub for all of us, and it wore her out.” Bill paused and stared absently at Tommy, who tried to look as sorry as he felt and feared he wasn't succeeding. Bill started slightly, like a man awakening from a doze, and went on quietly: “Even as a kid I was crazy about machinery. I wanted to be a mechanic and she hated the idea of it, but when she saw I was bound to be one she simply would talk to me by the hour about the same thing--to do my inventing with my hands instead of with my jaw. She's dead and he's dead. I take after her on the matter of regular grub, but I haven't got my father's nose for discovering what's needed ahead of everybody else. I don't seem to be as interested in a brand-new machine as in a better machine.” “The company would pay for any improvement you might make,” suggested Tommy. “I'm not so sure,” said Bill, who was inventor enough to be suspicious. “Oh, shucks! Mr. Thompson is a square man,” retorted Tommy. “He's like all the rest. All business men are nothing but sure-thing gamblers, and they never make their gambling roll big enough. Take the case of the Tecumseh carburetor. It used to be a fine carburetor.” “Isn't it still?” “In a way. You see, the oil companies can't supply the demand for high-grade gas, so what you get to-day is so much poorer than it was five years ago that the old carburetor couldn't work with it at all. Now the carburetor is one of the principal things the advertisements call attention to in the Tecumseh.” Bill permitted himself a look of disgust. “What's the answer?” asked Tommy. “To be able to use bum gasoline. I've been working on this at odd times.” “Why not at all times?” asked Tommy, with a stem frown. Bill could see by Tommy's face that Tommy would remain unconvinced by any answer he might make. So he resorted to sarcasm. “You see, dear Mr. Leigh, when you work with the company's machine in the company's shop in the company's time, the company has a claim on your invention. Oh, yes, I could tell you a thousand stories of fellows who--”