IV
It was not till early May that I was shown, and, as the thing chanced, it was Forgan who then showed me.
I happened to come in when Ernie was not there. We spoke of him, and Forgan said,
“You know what that old guy’s done?” I shook my head. “Company’s backing him,” said Forgan. “He’s got a great thing. You come down-stairs.”
We went down to the machine shop under the receiving floor. Forgan unlocked the door, led me into a small room. On a bench was set up a tiny electric motor, harnessed to a wheel and connected with a simple bit of apparatus which had no meaning, at first sight, at all. But Forgan stopped the motor and made all clear to me. The power revolved a wooden spindle, which entered a hole in a steel block, whirling there. I could perceive no purpose in this, but Forgan said:
“It’s a test. It don’t do anything. Feel of it. Ain’t hot, is it?”
I touched the steel, touched the spindle that had been revolving so swiftly.
“No.”
“See if you can pull it out.” I tried, and failed. “Tight fit, you see,” Forgan told me. “But she’s been spinning in there for three days now, except when we stop her to measure once in a while. No oil, and no heat, and no wear.”
“But what’s it all about?” I asked.
“That’s an oilless bearing,” Forgan explained, a little disgusted with my stupidity. “Piece of hard wood, filled with oil. Use the stuff to make wrist-pins and all, and you’ll never have to oil your chassis at all.”
The thing broke upon me.
“But does it work?” I asked.
“You see it,” he said. “It works here. Well, it’ll work anywhere.”
“And Ernie figured that out?”
“He sure did.”
“Why, the man’s a genius!”
“Yeah. Ever since he went and got his picture took.”
“How does he make this, anyway—this bearing? Soak the wood in oil?”
Forgan laughed.
“Not as easy as that. He puts her in as hot as the devil, and under a lot of pressure. Don’t just know how. He won’t tell. He’s got a lay-off now to work it out. Figuring on cost. Cost’s too much now; but he’s going to figure to make it cheaper. He—”
Ernie himself came in just then. I hardly knew him. He had on a new suit of clothes; he was close-shaven, and his hair was trimmed. His bearing was that of a successful and confident man, and he nodded to the respectful Forgan as one nods to a chauffeur.
“How is she?” he asked.
“Cool as a cucumber,” Forgan assured him.
“Any wear?”
“I’ll see,” the foreman said with alacrity, and proceeded to dismantle the test-apparatus and apply a micrometer to the bearing. Ernie nodded to me, and I said,
“Seems like a fine thing.”
“It is,” he replied, positively and confidently, yet without a trace of arrogance or ugly pride. “Yes; it will do very well.”
“No wear at all,” Forgan reported, and Ernie nodded assent.
“Keep her going,” he directed.
While Forgan was setting the apparatus again in position, Ernie and I went up the stair together. He said, as we came to the main floor,
“By the way, that film, you know—”
“The one you were in—”
“Yes. It’s at the Globe next week.”
“I’ll surely go and see it,” I promised him.
We separated with a word, and I drove home, marveling at this new man that had been Ernie Budder—marveling at the power of suggestion. He had been told that he looked like a great inventor, and he had emerged from this experience stimulated, sure of himself, alert, and keen—a new man.
Such a slight fillip from the finger of Destiny to throw open before a man’s feet new and lofty ways—