"What?" says I. "Before you get the final word from us?"
"I've had it," says he. "Briscoe is final enough for me."
"You're easy satisfied," says I, "or else you're easy beat. I didn't take you for a quitter, either."
Say, that got to him. "Quitter, eh!" says he. "See here, Son, how long do you think I've been plugging at this thing? Nine years. And for the last four I've been giving it all my time, day in and day out, and many a night as well. I've been living with it, in this loft here, like a blessed hermit; testing and perfecting, trying out my processes, and fighting the Patent Office sharks between times. Nine years—the best of my life! Call that quitting, do you?"
"Well, that is sticking around some," says I. "Think you've got your schemes so they'll work?"
"I don't think," says he; "I know."
"But what's the good," I goes on, "if you can't make other folks see you've got a good thing?"
"I can, though," he says. "Why, any person with even ordinary intelligence can——"
"That's me," says I. "My nut is just about a stock pattern size, six and seven-eighths, or maybe seven. Come, try it on me, if it's so simple. Now what about this retort business?"
That got him goin'. Rowley drops the potatoes, and in another minute we're neck-deep in the science of makin' an ore puddin', doin' stunts with the steam, skimmin' dividends off the pot, and coinin' the slag into dollars.