"'"But what profits? Where from?" asked my father, still unenlightened, for, outside architecture, he was a greenhorn. "'Marple sang the "Ba, ba, ba, boodle-dee" of the day, and continued his wild career. "'My father seized him by the throat and pushed him into a chair. "'"Speak, man," he cried agitatedly. "Stop your tomfoolery and talk sense." "'"I am talking cents--which is better," said Marple, with a boisterous burst of laughter. "A word that all the world is talking about is a gold-mine--a real gold-mine. I mean, not one on a prospectus. Don't you see that 'Olotutu' is a household word, and that everybody imagines it is the name of some new patent, something which the proprietor has been keeping dark? I did myself. When at last 'Olotutu' _is_ put upon the market it will come into the world under the fierce light that beats upon a boom, and it will be snapped up like currant cake at a tea-fight. Why, Nemo's Fruit Pepper, which has been on every hoarding for twenty years, is not half so much talked about as 'Olotutu.' What you achieved is an immense preliminary advertisement--and you were calmly thinking of stopping there! Within sight of Pactolus!" "'"I had achieved _my_ end!" replied my father with dignity. "Art for art's sake--I did not work for money." "'"Then you refuse half the profits?" "'"Oh, no, no! If the artist's work brings him money, he cannot help it. I think I catch your idea now. You wish to put some commodity upon the market attached to the name of 'Olotutu.' We have a pedestal but no statue, a cloak but nothing to cover." "'"We shall have plenty to cover soon," observed Marple winking. And he sat himself unceremoniously at my writing-desk and began scribbling away for dear life. "'"I suppose then," went on my father, "we shall have to get hold of some article and manufacture it." "'"Nonsense," jerked Marple. "Where are we to get the capital from?" "'"Oh, I see you will get the syndicate to do it?" "'"Good gracious, man!" yelped Marple. "Do you suppose the syndicate will have any capital? Let me write in peace." "'"But who _is_ going to manufacture 'Olotutu' then?" persisted my father. "'"The British Public of course," thundered Marple. My father was silenced. The feverish scratching of Marple's pen continued, working my father up to an indescribable nervous tension. "'"But what will 'Olotutu' be?" he inquired at last. "A patent medicine, a tobacco, a soap, a mine, a comic paper, a beverage, a tooth-powder, a hair-restorer?"