Skippy Bedelle. Owen Johnson

looked like the cross section of a switch yard. "Do you get it?"

      "What's this?"

      "That? Why that's the bathtub, you chump."

      "It doesn't look like any bathtub."

      "You're in it, looking down—see, this is the line of the water. Here's the hot and cold—"

      "But this and that—"

      "That's your legs, of course. You're in the tub looking south. Your legs stick out, don't they, and these are the foot regulators—"

      "They look like feet."

      "They are feet—that is, your feet stick in 'em."

      "But how does it work?"

      Snorky produced another scrawl.

      "This is a cross section, you see. Works both ways. This you work with your hands. Then you turn it on here with this catch, and your foot regulators come into play—see?"

      "It's awfully complicated."

      "Ought to be."

      "Why?"

      "'Cause if you just had an attachment to put on the spigots, you mightn't get more than a dollar a tub."

      "He's thinking of the money," thought Skippy, darkly.

      "You don't seem enthusiastic."

      "No-o—."

      "I say, Skippy, you aren't natural," said Snorky in alarm. "You don't look at me as you used to. What is it? Out with it now."

      "Well," said Skippy slowly, "I said fifty-fifty and I stick to it; fifty-fifty, because I am a man of my word, but I do think there ought to be some limit … "

      Ten minutes later, when Snorky's infectious laugh had restored his sense of humor, Bedelle, Incorporated took up the transaction of business again—the discussion of the profits having by mutual consent been adjourned to a later session.

      "Skippy, old top, I'm thinking we've got to get expert advice," said Snorky after a morning of fruitless discussion.

      "You mean—"

      "I mean Doc Macnooder or the Tennessee Shad."

      "I'm afraid so, too. This is bigger than us."

      "It's a hard choice."

      "It is—and we've got to be protected."

      "You bet we've got to be protected."

      "Well, if we must choose between Macnooder and the Shad, which would you rather trust?"

      "Trust no one," said Snorky, finding it impossible to establish this distinction. "And say, Skippy—oaths on the Bible are all right, but if we're going to let Macnooder in on this he's got to sign a paper."

      "You betcha!" said Skippy, with whom a little of Bill Appleby's distrust remained. "A paper's the thing!"

      That afternoon, after due ceremony, the door was closed and locked and Doc Macnooder inducted into an easy chair. Skippy producing the Bible said firmly:

      "Doc, you've got to take the oath; never to reveal to man, woman—"

      "But I'm a Unitarian," said Macnooder, examining the St. James version.

      The point was debated and passed over. Snorky then produced a formidable document tied in green ribbons with large wax seals, stamped with a cameo stick-pin.

      "You'll have to sign this, too."

      "Sign what?"

      Snorky read rapidly:

      "I, Doc Macnooder, in my third form year, Lawrenceville, New Jersey, hereby testify that on this date, the 12th day of April, 1896, the information written on the back of the present sheet of paper was communicated to me by John C. Bedelle, the rightful and lawful inventor, and the document does hereby establish all his rights. Signed—"

      "Yes, but what's on the other side?" said Macnooder, with rising curiosity.

      "That can only be communicated to you after your signature."

      Macnooder was wary, but Macnooder was inquisitive. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and considered.

      "Is Dink Stover in this, or the Tennessee Shad?" he asked cautiously.

      "Not a soul besides us two has the slightest suspicion."

      "All right then—I'll sign."

      "Skippy, you tell—" said Snorky Green generously, "the glory is yours."

      "It's an invention that's got to do with a bathtub, with all bathtubs," said Skippy, with a sudden faintness of confidence before the professional agnosticism which Macnooder, the man of affairs, now assumed by crossing his legs and donning a large horn-rimmed pair of spectacles.

      "The word is bathtub," said Macnooder, who not to appear too eager dug a knife from his pocket and carefully whittled at the end of his pencil.

      "It's a foot regulator!"

      "Aha!" said Macnooder, who didn't understand at all.

      "You see, Doc, what's the matter with all the bathtubs of to-day," said Skippy, picking up courage, "your head's at one end and the faucets are at the other—and, that's an awful distance!"

      "Good point!" said Macnooder, nodding.

      "Now when you want to let in the cold water you've got to sit up, reach down and turn it on and that's cold and chilly and drafty as the mischief, isn't it?"

      "That's a very strong point," said Macnooder, who began to see.

      "Now, if you could only turn the faucets with your toes, you could lie quietly under the hot water, couldn't you? … But you can't—but you could if you had foot regulators. And isn't it the simplest thing in the world to have foot regulators? Only no one has ever thought of it before?"

      "Think what it would do to the bathtub industry, Doc," said Snorky, who felt the preceding explanation had failed properly to illuminate the epochal quality of the invention. "Why, Doc, we'd have 'em by the throat. We'd put every bathtub out of existence. The whole dinged system is fossilized and we'd show 'em up with the first exhibit. Do you see it, Doc? Do you get the possibilities?"

      "At first sound," said Macnooder, who kept his glance on the end of his pencil, not to reveal how much his imagination had been stirred, "at first sound, it interests me strangely. Skippy—Mr. Bedelle, your hand, and my congratulations."

      "Oh, I say, Doc," said Skippy, with a lump in his throat, "you really do believe in it, don't you?"

      "My boy, there are gold mines in it," said Macnooder, carefully, "the wealth of the Sultan is nothing to it, or—or it isn't worth a plugged nickel."

      Skippy and Snorky exchanged glances of sudden dismay.

      "It's one or the other. That's what I will find out."

      "How'll you do that?" said the roommates, in a breath.

      "I shall write for catalogues first. I may have to conduct a personal investigation at the patent office—and of course I must look at all possibilities. The idea is revolutionary," said Macnooder, reviving their spirits. "Mr. Bedelle, nothing can deprive you of that distinction and glory. Your fame is secure. But the bank account? Can we protect ourselves against pirating? Can the Bathtub Combine avoid in any way, shape or manner, being forced to treat with the owners of the Bedelle Foot Regulator? That's what I must carefully consider. Gentlemen, one week from to-day I promise you my answer."

      "Then you will take it up, Doc?"

      "If everything is all right we incorporate Bedelle, patent the foot regulator, organize a stock company, and I shall accept the posts of President and Treasurer, with fifty-one per cent of the stock."

      "Fifty-one per cent, Doc!"