“Wait!” he cried imperiously.
“See the old world crumbling to decay! See the U. S. A. flying to the front in a gold-painted horseless band-wagon! Why does America triumph? What is the cause and symbol of her success? What is mightier than the sword, than the pen, than the Gatling gun? What is it that is in every hand in America; that opens the good things of the world for rich and poor, for young and old, for one and all?”
“The ballot-box?” I ventured.
Perkins took something from his trousers pocket, and waved it in the air. I saw it glitter in the sunlight before he threw it on my desk. I picked it up and examined it. Then I looked at Perkins.
“Perkins,” I said, “this is a can-opener.” He stood with folded arms, and nodded his head slowly.
“Can-opener, yes!” he said. “Wealth-opener; progress-opener!” He put one hand behind his ear, and glanced at the ceiling. “Listen!” he said. “What do you hear? From Portland, Maine, to Portland, Oregon; from the palms of Florida to the pines of Alaska—cans! Tin cans! Tin cans being opened!”
He looked down at me, and smiled.
“The back-yards of Massachusetts are full of old tin cans,” he exclaimed. “The gar-bage-wagons of New York are crowned with old tin cans. The plains of Texas are dotted with old tin cans. The towns and cities of America are full of stores, and the stores are full of cans. The tin can rules America! Take away the tin can, and America sinks to the level of Europe! Why has not Europe sunk clear out of sight? Because America sends canned stuff to their hungry hordes!” He leaned forward, and, taking the can-opener from my hand, stood it upright against my inkstand. Then he stood back and waved his hand at it.
“Behold!” he cried. “The emblem of American genius!”
“Well,” I said, “what are you going to sell, cans or can-openers?”