“I'll give you ten minutes,” I said.
“Not enough,” said Perkins. “I want a year. But I'll take ten minutes on account. Owe me the rest!”
He turned and beckoned into the hall, and a small boy appeared carrying a very large glass demijohn. Perkins placed the demijohn on a chair, and stood back gazing at it admiringly.
“Great, isn't it?” he asked. “Biggest demijohn made. Heavy as lead! Fine shape, fine size! But, say—read that!”
I bent down and read. The label said: “Onotowatishika Water. Bottled at the spring. Perkins & Co., Glaubus, Ia.”
I began spelling out the name by syllables, “O—no—to—wat—” when Perkins clapped me on the back.
“Great, hey? Can't pronounce it? Nobody can. Great idea. Got old Hunyadi Janos water knocked into a cocked hat. Hardest mineral water name on earth. Who invented it? I did. Perkins of Portland. There's money in that name. Dead loads of money. Everybody that can't pronounce it will want it, and nobody can pronounce it—everybody'll want it. Must have it. Will weep for it. But that isn't the best!”
“No?” I inquired.
“No!” shouted Perkins. “I should say 'no!' Look at that bottle. Look at the size of it. Look at the weight of it Awful, isn't it? Staggers the brain of man to think of carrying that across the continent! Nature recoils, the muscles ache. It is vast, it is immovable, it is mighty. Say!”
Perkins grasped me by the coat-sleeve, and drew me toward him. He whispered excitedly.