He was happily playing with the contraption when Larry Phelan arrived to pick him up for dinner that night, and the engineer gazed at him in somewhat condescending puzzlement.
“What the hell are you doing with a Doodlebug, Saint?” he demanded, and Simon was hardly less surprised.
“How the hell did you know what it was?”
“The lunatic fringes of the business were stiff with these things during the Depression. I’ve seen ’em in all sizes and shapes. Trouble is, none of ’em are worth anything.”
“What do you mean, not worth anything?” Simon objected. “I’ll bet I can pick up a silver dollar at ten feet with this gadget.”
“I’ll bet you can too,” Phelan said. “I’ve seen it done, and by queerer-looking numbers than this one. I’ve seen ’em with loop aerials, knee action, and floating power.”
Simon produced a silver cartwheel and threw it on the carpet. Grasping the stirrup handles, he lifted the box, and the same humming sound he had heard in the Bonanza City bar filled the room.
“Listen to the hum,” he said.
“They all hum,” said Larry Phelan.
Simon made sure the scale pointer indicated “Silver,” and advanced upon the dollar. Just as it had done for James Aloysius McDill, the humming keened up the scale until, as the Saint stood over the dollar, a malignant whining came from between his hands. He turned to Phelan triumphantly.