“A doctor up in Chicago,” he smiled. “He has it yet.”
“Of course, you thought you could make money out of it?”
“Well, I built my first car with the idea of having one for myself, really. I have a turn for mechanics. I borrowed enough money to begin manufacturing at once—took in a partner.”
“And then what?”
“Well, the machine was a success. We just grew. In a few months we were behind on our orders, and always have been since.”
He appeared too tired and weary to be actively at the head of any business at this time. Yet he went on telling us a little of his trade struggles and what he thought of the future of the automobile—in connection with farming, railroads and the like—then he suddenly changed to another subject.
“But I’m not nearly so interested in automobiles as I was,” he observed smilingly, at the same time diving into his pocket and producing what looked like a silver knife. “My son and I”—he waved an inclusive hand toward an adjoining room built of red brick, and which seemed to be flickering romantically as to its walls with the flame reflections of small furnace fires—"have invented a thing which we call stellak, which is five hundred times harder than steel and cuts steel just as you would cut wood with an ordinary knife."
“Well, how did you invent that?” I asked.
“We had need of something of that kind here, and my son and I invented it.”
“You just decided what to do, did you? But why did you call it stellak?” I persisted.