"Good boy!" he cried, getting up and holding out his hand. "My name's Horsfal,—K. B. Horsfal,—lumberman, meat-packer, and the man whose name is on every trouser-suspender worth wearing. What's yours?"
"George Bremner," I answered simply.
"All right, George, my boy,—see you in ten minutes. But, remember, I called this tune, so I pay the piper."
That was music in my ears and I readily agreed.
"Make it twenty minutes," I suggested. "I have a short letter to write."
I wrote my letter, gave it to the boy to deliver for me and presented myself before my new friend right up to time.
In the half hour's run we had in the electric tram, I learned a great deal about Mr. K. B. Horsfal.
He had migrated from the Midlands of England at the age of seventeen. He had kicked,—or had been kicked,—about the United States for some fifteen years, more or less up against it all the time, as he expressively put it; when, by a lucky chance, in a poverty-stricken endeavour to repair his broken braces, he hit upon a scheme that revolutionised the brace business: was quick enough to see its possibilities, patented his idea and became famous.
Not content to rest on his laurels,—or his braces,—he tackled the lumbering industry in the West and the meat-packing industry in the East, both with considerable success. Now he had to sit down and do some figuring when he wished to find out how many millions of dollars he was worth.
His wife had died years ago and his only daughter was at home in Baltimore.