Sam's smile lightened his face like sunlight striking a snow-bound field. He nodded slowly, thinking of his past enthusiasms, his hopes and discouragements. "I've spent most of my life at it, sir, but somehow nothing has ever turned out well... not so far, I mean. But I mean to hit it yet."
"That's the way to talk," Burnham cried heartily; "never give up, I say!... But tell me about some of these inventions, won't you?"
"Wel-l"—Sam knitted his fingers and pursed his lips reflectively—"I patented a new type threshing machine, once, but I couldn't get anybody to take hold of it. You see, I haven't any money, Mr. Burnham."
"How would you like to talk it over with me, some time? I'm interested in such things—as a sort of side issue."
"Will you?" Sam's eagerness was not to be disguised.
"Be glad to. Tell me, how did you get your power?"
"From gas, sir—though coal will do 'most as well. You see, I've got this burner patented, that makes gas from crude oil—no waste, no odour nor trouble, and little expense. It'd be cheaper than coal, I thought; that's why I invented it. I could get steam up mighty quick with that gas arrangement. I use it for lighting here in the store, now."
"Do you, indeed?" Burnham's tone indicated failing interest, but such diplomacy was lost on Sam.
"If you've got time, I could show you; it's right over here."
A glance at his watch accompanied Burnham's consent to spare a few minutes. "There's a telegram I must send presently," he said. "But I'd like to see this burner, if it won't take long."