"I did, colonel. You see, I was always fond of dabbling in chemistry and the idea for this came to me one day when I was at work in my father's store. I didn't worry about it much, until the poor old man went broke, and then it struck me there was money in it. It was the mayor of our town, Orangeville, told me to come to you. He said that you could give me the proper introductions."
"He was right," said Colonel Fearon. "I can fix you up with the proper people. Let me have a shot."
Lionel Rutherford handed the colonel a cartridge, which outwardly looked precisely similar to an ordinary rifle cartridge. He then walked across the lawn of fine Bermuda grass, put a fresh piece of steel plate in position, and came back.
The colonel fired, and, as before, the tough steel simply sprang to pieces and lay in scattered fragments on the grass.
"I reckon there's more money in this than in keeping store," said the colonel thoughtfully. "Rutherford, I'll be pleased if you'll stay here at my house for a day or two till I can write to the proper people."
Young Rutherford thanked him warmly and the two walked back toward the long, low, wide verandaed house.
Late that night the colonel and his son, Randal Fearon, sat together in the well-appointed smoking room and talked earnestly in low tones.
"There's thousands in it, father," said the younger man sharply. "Thousands!"
"I know that as well as yourself," returned the other irritably. "But the invention's not yours or mine."
"What's Rutherford?" sneered Randal. "Here he is, a fellow who's never known anything of life, who's lived all his days in a little one-horse backwoods town, and now he's going to roll in riches while we are on the edge of bankruptcy."