Alice Adams, Booth Tarkington [thriller novels to read .txt] 📗

Adams burst out at him. “You little fool! If I had three hundred dollars to throw away, besides the pay I expected to give you, haven’t you got sense enough to see I could hire a man worth three hundred dollars more to me than you’d be? It’s a fine time to ask me for three hundred dollars, isn’t it! What for? Rhinestone buckles to throw around on your ‘girl friends’? Shame on you! Ask me to bribe you to help yourself and your own family!”

“I’ll give you a last chance,” Walter said. “Either you do what I want, or I won’t do what you want. Don’t ask me again after this, because⁠—”

Adams interrupted him fiercely. “ ‘Ask you again’! Don’t worry about that, my boy! All I ask you is to get out o’ my room.”

“Look here,” Walter said, quietly; and his lopsided smile distorted his livid cheek. “Look here: I expect you wouldn’t give me three hundred dollars to save my life, would you?”

“You make me sick,” Adams said, in his bitterness. “Get out of here.”

Walter went out, whistling; and Adams drooped into his old chair again as the door closed. “Oh, my, my!” he groaned. “Oh, Lordy, Lordy! The way of the transgressor⁠—”

He meant his own transgression and his own way; for Walter’s stubborn refusal appeared to Adams just then as one of the inexplicable but righteous besettings he must encounter in following that way. “Oh, Lordy, Lord!” he groaned, and then, as resentment moved him⁠—“That dang boy! Dang idiot!” Yet he knew himself for a greater idiot because he had not been able to tell Walter the truth. He could not bring himself to do it, nor even to state his case in its best terms; and that was because he felt that even in its best terms the case was a bad one.

Of all his regrets the greatest was that in a moment of vanity and tenderness, twenty-five years ago, he had told his young wife a business secret. He had wanted to show how important her husband was becoming, and how much the head of the universe, J. A. Lamb, trusted to his integrity and ability. The great man had an idea: he thought of “branching out a little,” he told Adams confidentially, and there were possibilities of profit in glue.

What he wanted was a liquid glue to be put into little bottles and sold cheaply. “The kind of thing that sells itself,” he said; “the kind of thing that pays its own small way as it goes along, until it has profits enough to begin advertising it right. Everybody has to use glue, and if I make mine convenient and cheap, everybody’ll buy mine. But it’s got to be glue that’ll stick; it’s got to be the best; and if we find how to make it we’ve got to keep it a big secret, of course, or anybody can steal it from us. There was a man here last month; he knew a formula he wanted to sell me, sight unseen; but he was in such a hurry I got suspicious, and I found he’d managed to steal it, working for the big packers in their glue-works. We’ve got to find a better glue than that, anyhow. I’m going to set you and Campbell at it. You’re a practical, wide-awake young feller, and Campbell’s a mighty good chemist; I guess you two boys ought to make something happen.”

His guess was shrewd enough. Working in a shed a little way outside the town, where their cheery employer visited them sometimes to study their malodorous stews, the two young men found what Lamb had set them to find. But Campbell was thoughtful over the discovery. “Look here,” he said. “Why ain’t this just about yours and mine? After all, it may be Lamb’s money that’s paid for the stuff we’ve used, but it hasn’t cost much.”

“But he pays us,” Adams remonstrated, horrified by his companion’s idea. “He paid us to do it. It belongs absolutely to him.”

“Oh, I know he thinks it does,” Campbell admitted, plaintively. “I suppose we’ve got to let him take it. It’s not patentable, and he’ll have to do pretty well by us when he starts his factory, because he’s got to depend on us to run the making of the stuff so that the workmen can’t get onto the process. You better ask him the same salary I do, and mine’s going to be high.”

But the high salary, thus pleasantly imagined, was never paid. Campbell died of typhoid fever, that summer, leaving Adams and his employer the only possessors of the formula, an unwritten one; and Adams, pleased to think himself more important to the great man than ever, told his wife that there could be little doubt of his being put in sole charge of the prospective glue-works. Unfortunately, the enterprise remained prospective.

Its projector had already become “inveigled into another sideline,” as he told Adams. One of his sons had persuaded him to take up a “cough-lozenge,” to be called the “Jalamb Balm Trochee”; and the lozenge did well enough to amuse Mr. Lamb and occupy his spare time, which was really about all he had asked of the glue project. He had “all the money anybody ought to want,” he said, when Adams urged him; and he could “start up this little glue sideline” at any time; the formula was safe in their two heads.

At intervals Adams would seek opportunity to speak of “the little glue sideline” to his patron, and to suggest that the years were passing; but Lamb, petting other hobbies, had lost interest. “Oh, I’ll start it up someday, maybe. If I don’t, I may turn it over to my heirs: it’s always an asset, worth something or other, of course. We’ll probably take it up someday, though, you and I.”

The sun persistently declined to rise on that day, and, as time went on, Adams saw that his rather timid