"No, not long; just a minute or two." Sam was already dragging the affair out from under the window box. "You see..."
He went on to expound its virtues with all the fond enthusiasm of a father showing off his firstborn, and wound up with a demonstration of the illuminating appliance. I'm afraid, though, he got little encouragement from Mr. Burnham. He considered the machine with a dispassionate air, it's true, and admitted its practical advantages, but wasn't at all disposed to take a roseate view of its future.
"Yes," he grudged, when Sam put a match to the jet, "that's certainly a very good light."
"All right, ain't it?" chimed Roland, enthusiastic.
"Oh, it may amount to something. It's hard to tell. Of course you know, sir," he continued, addressing Graham directly, "you've got competition to overcome."
Sam's old fingers trembled to his chin. "No-o," he said, "I didn't know that. I've got the patent——"
"Of course that's something. But the Consolidated Petroleum crowd has another machine, slightly different, which does the same work, and, I should say, does it better."
"Is—is that so?" quavered Sam. "My patent——."
"Now see here, Mr. Graham," Burnham argued, "we're practical men, both of us——"
"No; I shouldn't say that about myself," Sam interrupted. "Now you, sir——I can see you're a man who understands such things. But I——"