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 “I am the cashier,” he said. “What do you want?”

“I,” said the stranger, “am an inventor.” He stretched his arm at full length before him and pointed a long, eloquent finger at his chest. “An inventor. I furnish brains, ingenuity, the raw materials of fortune… somebody else supplies the money. Comprehensible, eh?”

“No,” said Angus characteristically.

“I have invented no less than fourteen articles, devices, and mechanisms—whatever you call ’em. All to be manufactured from wood, from the trees of the forest. I have invented boons for the housewife, aids for the merchant, doo-dards for the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. The world needs them. It cannot get along without them…. But an invention, young man, is like a keg of—er—amber beverage without a—what-d’ye-call-it—a bung-starter. There’s no way of making use of it. Clear now?”

“Not yet,” said Angus.

“In words of one syllable, then, I have the inventions, duly patented and protected by statutes in such case made and provided.” The man smiled slyly, but with a certain charm and shook his head with a boyishly self-satisfied air. “Oh, they’re patented, and nobody can gouge ’em out of me. I’m looking for capital to