“Something, my dear madam,” glowed Mr. Hunt; “it is more than a something. It is an achievement. My boy Freeman—a dear friend of your son’s—told me about it—there’s no objection to my seeing it, I hope. I called on purpose.”
“Why, I—really, sir, I don’t know if Paul would like it,” palpitated Mrs. Perkins. “You see, he—he is very particular about letting anybody see the invention. He’s trying for a patent on it at Washington now.”
“Ah, then it is not yet patented?” There was an eager catch in Mr. Hunt’s voice. For an instant his composed manner seemed to lose its icy calm. But in a moment he was himself again. “He should certainly get it patented at once, madam,” he went on, in his usual oily tones—“which brings us at once to the point. I am here to offer him a price for his invention if it seems at all practicable.”
“Oh, sir!” gasped Mrs. Perkins, quite overcome. “You would buy it?”
“Yes, madam, I, Stonington Hunt, will buy it. I am prepared to offer,” he paused as if in doubt whether to mention the sum in one breath, “one hundred dollars for the exclusive right to manufacture it.”
“A hundred dollars!” exclaimed Mrs. Perkins, who had seen few lump sums of money since her husband had died. “Why, sir, it is only a plaything of the boy’s.”
“If you will let me see it, I will judge of that,” put in Mr. Hunt softly. “Can we not go out to your stable and view it now?”
“Why, I—Paul has the key,” stammered Mrs. Perkins.
“Confound the brat!” muttered Mr. Hunt, and then aloud he purred: “But you have another one, my dear madam, I don’t doubt.”
“Yes,” confessed Mrs. Perkins; “there is one on my dead husband’s key ring. But I don’t know if Paul would like it. You see——”