“Up as far as that gold-edged fellow—farther. It seems queer that I’ll be swimming there before long. But I shall. And my aeroplane won’t tip over.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled happily. “I’ve done it; just to get it on the market and I’ll have made good. I’ll have earned my place in the world. And a fortune for Margaret and Jack. Her drudgery over. Margaret,” he repeated half aloud; and again: “Margaret.” Then a cloud drowned the brightness from his face. “If I could get money for the model,” he spoke aloud. “The thing is so sure. It’s a hideous joke not to have a thousand or two now.”
His mind, working this way and that trying to find a solution for the problem, his thought travelling along all possible ways, came shortly on another thought, stirring sorely at a touch.
“The fellows,” he murmured. “A lot of them have money.” He drew his hand sharply from his pocket and thumped on the rail. His dreamy eyes flashed. “Not if I starve,” he cried. “Never that. I won’t poison the memory of college days. I’ve got my place among them yet; they don’t know; nobody knows.”
He dived into a coatpocket, and brought out a letter. Looking over his shoulder, one might have read that the class of such a year of Yale University would hold its thirtieth reunion three months from the date; that it was hoped that John Ellsworth of this class would be present; that he was requested to let the class secretary know. Signed with a name which brought to the man’s lips a half-laugh.
“Little old Saint Peter,” he murmured.
With that his face was grim. Peter Price had sent a letter with the formal notice; a friendly, easy letter, taking it for granted that all of the “boys” would bring to Alma Mater this June some simple gifts of the years. Such gifts as success and good spirits and manly work well done; money to enrich Yale perhaps; perhaps big lads to carry on her banner; perhaps honored names for her roll of fame. The man’s head bent farther over the flimsy rail. He caught at it again with both hands. He stared, not away now at the gleaming, darkening river, but at the rubbish—broken pottery, old chair-legs, things whose day was done. His day was done; he was fifty-two, and had not made good; he was a failure. They had expected great things of him; he was to have been a Newton, an Edison. He was to have made the class illustrious; they had said it, patting him on the shoulder in generous boy fashion, that last day in New Haven almost thirty years ago. He remembered well how, a dozen boys, they had stood together on the campus, under the elms, very tender-hearted over each other at this parting of the ways, very shamefaced at their unaccustomed softness. Jimmy Pendleton, his chum, with an arm stretched to Ellsworth’s shoulder—for Jimmy was short and chubby—had fallen into prophecy.
“We’re all great men, that’s sure, but it’s Johnny who’s going to be our crown of glory. He’s going to invent things. Flying-machines will be play. You listen while I tell you that this class will be known as the class of John Ellsworth.” And the others had growled assent in deep, friendly young voices, while Ellsworth called them all “darn fools,” with love and gratitude bursting his ribs. He had felt fairly sure that Jimmy was right.
“Apollo, too,” Jimmy went on, for Ellsworth had been voted the “best-looking man.” “And our star singster. I’m no inventor, and I can’t sing, and something tells me I’m no beauty either,” and he rumpled his shoe-brush black hair sorrowfully.
Again the group agreed cordially. “You sure are not, my son.” Peter Price had spoken. “You’re neither inspired nor beautiful—so’s you’d notice it; but don’t worry, you may be an honest man yet.”
Ellsworth, across the stretch of years, recalled such details. The years had been before him then, and sunshine had flooded them. But one by one his inventions had gone wrong; fate had been against him. And now that he had at last a certainty he must wait, honor and wealth within reach of his hand, till some other man, whose hand was not weighted by poverty, should lift it and grasp success. It is a thing that happens to inventors; many times a man has died broken-hearted close to his heart’s desire.