Mr. Armstrong hesitated. He did not like to give up his scheme of renovation; still, there were the papers waiting for his signature for the transfer of the invention, and this he had decided he must have; it was sure to bring in a great deal of money, and another year he could much better afford to make these improvements. He decided, reluctantly, that he would put them off for the present.
"I will have a fire-escape put up," he said to his agent, "and we will do the rest as soon as possible."
Solomon Meyer shrugged his shoulders. "There is no danger of fire," he said, "and I was about to propose that you take out a fire insurance policy on that building; that cost about the same, and much more sensible."
Mr. Armstrong thought a moment. "If the danger of fire is sufficient to warrant me in insuring, it is also great enough to make furnishing the fire-escape an imperative duty. I insist on your seeing that one is adjusted immediately. You may also take out an insurance policy for twenty thousand. See if Mr. Trimble can wait for the rest of his money until the first of the month. (The agent's face fell.) You have given him my check for one thousand; he ought to be willing to wait a few days for the rest. If he is not satisfied, tell him to come down and see me, and we'll come to some agreement."
This was exactly what Solomon Meyer did not wish. "I will try my best to make him sign the papers on those terms," he said, and carried them away to his own den, where he forged the name of Stephen Trimble to both contract and check. He found no difficulty in cashing the check, for Mr. Armstrong's name was well known, though Stephen Trimble's was not.
And in the mean time the poor inventor sat in his garret trying to think. His wife was in the hospital, and his little son busied himself with washing the supper dishes. It was not a heavy task, for their supper had consisted only of some cold griddle-cakes which, the flap-jack man had given them. When the boy had finished his work he crept close to his father and laid his head on his knee.
"Why don't you light the lamp?" Mr. Trimble asked, rousing himself.
"There isn't any oil, daddy."
"No matter. I can think better in the dark, and you had better go to bed."
"I am going out pretty soon to help the flap-jack man wheel his cart."