The inspection of the machine was finished at last. Tim stood flushed and triumphant. The child of his ingenious brain had survived the tests of an expert. Mildmay turned to Ascher and bowed again.
“It’s a wonderful invention,” he said. “I see no reason why it should not be a commercial success.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Mildmay,” said Ascher, “you will study the subject further and submit a report to us in writing.”
Mr. Mildmay left the room. I had no doubt that he would report enthusiastically on the new cash register. Mechanical experts do not, I suppose, write poetry, but there was without doubt a lyric in Mildmay’s heart as he left the room. Tim packed the thing up again. Now that the mechanical part of the business was over, he relapsed into shy silence in a corner. His brother took out a cigarette and lit it. I would not have ventured to light a cigarette in that sanctuary for a hundred pounds. But Gorman is entirely without reverence.
“Well,” he said, “there’s no doubt about the value of the invention.”
“We shall wait for Mr. Mildmay’s report,” said Ascher, “before we come to any decision; but in the meanwhile we should like to hear any proposal you have to make.”
“Yes,” said Stutz, “your proposals. We are prepared to listen to them.”
Stutz seemed to me to speak English with difficulty. His native language was perhaps German, perhaps Hebrew or Yiddish or whatever the language is which modern Jews speak in private life.
“The matter is simple enough,” said Gorman. “Our machine will drive any other out of the market. There’s no possibility of competition. The thing is simply a dead cert. It can’t help going.”
“A large capital would be required,” said Stutz, “a very large capital.”