“Naw! I want to cinch this thing. Let's hike to the lawyer. Come on; we haven't got time to waste.”
They looked up Mr. Kemble's address in the telephone-book. Luck was with them. Mr. Kemble was not very busy and could see them at once. They were ushered into his private office.
“Mr. Kemble,” said Tommy, so pleasantly that for a moment Bill thought they were old friends, “your name was suggested to us by Mr. Homer Williams, of Dayton. Professor Jenkins, of the Case School, also told us we could not go to a better man. I have no letters of introduction, but can you listen to us two minutes?”
Kemble looked into Tommy's eyes steadily, appraisingly. Then he looked at Bill, his glance resting on the package Bill carried under his arm—the precious carburetor.
“I'll listen,” said Kemble, not over-encouragingly.
Tommy looked at him full in the face—and liked it. Kemble reminded him of Thompson. The lawyer also was plump and round-faced and steady-eyed. He impressed Tommy as being less interested in all phases of human nature than Thompson, slightly colder, more methodical, less imaginative, more concerned with exact figures. The mental machinery was undoubtedly efficient, but worked at a leisurely rate and very safely—a well-lubricated engine.
“First, we have no money—now.”
Tommy looked at Mr. Kemble. Mr. Kemble nodded.
“Second, we think we have a big thing.”
Tommy again looked at Mr. Kemble. This time Mr. Kemble looked at Tommy and did not nod. Bill frowned, but Tommy went on, pleasantly: