He don't never balk? inquired the bell-hop. He ain't afraid of being drowned?
Not Georgie, said Davies. He trusts me.
Ah, that's it! said the bell-hop. He trusts you.
Of course I make the water luke-warm for him, said Davies. All the same, it takes some character in a mouse to take the dip every time like that. Never mind if he puts this deal over, we get him a little collar made.
Mister, cried the bell-hop, I want to see that mouse in that collar. You ought to get his photo taken. You could give it to anybody. They could send it back home to their families. Yes, sir, their folks 'ud sure be tickled to death to get a photo of that mouse in that collar.
Maybe I will, said Davies, smiling.
You do that thing, mister, said the bell-hop. Well, I got to be getting. Goodbye, Georgie! He went out, but at once re-opened the door. All the same, he said, if I had that mouse I sure would call him Simpson.
Davies, left alone, set out his apparatus to advantage, washed, even shaved, and powdered his face with talcum. When he had nothing more to do, he took out his billfold, and laid six dollar bills one by one on the top of the bureau, counting them out as if he had hoped to find there were seven. He added thirty-five cents from one pocket, and a nickel from another. We've got to put it over this time, said he to the mouse, who was watching him brightly from the top of the box. Never get down-hearted, Georgie! That gang of short-sighted, narrow-minded, small-town buyers, they just don't mean a thing. This fellow's the guy that counts. And he's our last chance. So do your stuff well, pal, and we'll be on top of the world yet.
Suddenly the telephone rang. Davies snatched it up. Mr. Hartpick to see you, said the desk-clerk.
Send Mr. Hartpick up right away, said Davies.
He stowed away the money, put Georgie back in his nest, and dried his moist palms on his handkerchief. He remembered, just as the tap came on the door, to banish the anxious expression from his face and put on a genial smile.
Mr. Hartpick was a square and heavy man, with fingers twice as thick as ordinary fingers, and the lower joints of them were covered with wiry, reddish hair.
Mr. Hartpick, said Davies. I certainly appreciate your coming up here like this.
Long as I'm not wasting my time, returned Mr. Hartpick. Let's see the goods. I got a rough idea from your letter.
Davies had set the box on the table. Now getting behind it, he attempted a persuasive, hearty, salesmanlike tone. Mr. Hartpick, you know the old adage about the better mouse-trap. You've been good enough to beat a path to my door, and
Show me an idea, and I'll beat a path to it, said Mr. Hartpick. However nutty it sounds.
and here, said Davies, is the Steel Cat. With that he flung open the box.
Selling name! said Hartpick. Might be able to use the name, anyway.
Mr. Hartpick, the idea is this, said Davies, beginning to count off his points on his fingers. More mice caught. More humanely. No mutilation of mice as with inferior traps. No mess. No springs to catch the fingers. Some women are just scared to death of those springs. No family disagreements, Mr. Hartpick. That's an important angle. I've gone into that angle psychologically.
His visitor paused in the rooting out of a back tooth, and stared at Davies. Eh? said he.
Psychologically, said Davies. The feminine angle, the masculine angle. Now, the wife doesn't generally like to see a cat playing with a mouse.
She can poison 'em, said Hartpick.
That's what she says, said Davies. That's the woman angle. Poisoners throughout the ages. Lucrezia Borgia lots of 'em. But a good many husbands are allergic to having their wives playing around with poison. I think a nation-wide poll would show most husbands prefer a cat. Remember, it was Nero a man fed the Christians to the lions. So that starts an argument. Besides, you've got to put a cat out, get it fed when on vacation.
Any mice we catch, the missus flushes 'em down the toilet, said Mr. Hartpick, with a shrug.
Feminine angle again, said Davies. Cleopatra fed her slaves to the crocodiles. Only many women haven't the levelheadedness of Mrs. Hartpick to take a mouse out of a trap and get rid of it that way.
Oh, I dunno, said Mr. Hartpick in tones of complete boredom.
In one way this is the same sort of thing, said Davies, beginning to talk very fast. Only more scientific and labour-saving. See I fill the glass jar here with water, lukewarm water. It's glass in this demonstration model. In the selling product it'd be tin to keep the cost down to what I said in my letter. The frame needn't be chromium either. Well, having filled it, I place it right here in position. Kindly observe the simplicity. I take a morsel of ordinary cheese, and I bait the hook. If economy's the subject, a piece of bread rubbed in bacon fat is equally effective. Now look! Please look, Mr. Hartpick! I'll show you what the mouse does. Come on, Georgie!
Live mouse, eh? observed Hartpick, with a flicker of interest.
Mus domesticus, the domestic mouse, said Davies. Found in every home. Now watch him! He's found the way in. See him go along that strip in the middle! Right to the bait see? His weight tilts the
He's in! cried Hartpick, his interest entirely regained.
And the trap, said Davies triumphantly, has automatically set itself for another mouse. In the morning you just remove the dead ones.
Not bad! said Hartpick. Gosh he's trying to swim! My friend, I think you may have something there.
You know the old adage, Mr. Hartpick, said Davies, smiling. It's the better mouse-trap!
Like hell it is! said Hartpick. Pure nut, that's what it is. But what I always say there's a nut market for nut inventions. Play up the humane angle get the old dames het up
Gee, that's great! said Davies. I was beginning to Well, never mind! Excuse me! I'll just get him out.
Wait a minute, said Hartpick, putting his heavy hand on Davies' wrist.
I think he's getting a bit tired, said Davies.
Now look, said Hartpick, still watching the mouse. We've got our standard contract for notions of this sort. Standard rate of royalties. Ask your attorney if you like; he'll tell you the same thing.
Oh, that'll be all right, I'm sure, said Davies. Just let me
Hold on! Hold on! said Hartpick. We're talking business, ain't we?
Why sure, said Davies uneasily. But he's getting tired. You see, he's a demonstration mouse.
Mr. Hartpick's hand seemed to grow heavier. And what's this? he demanded. A demonstration or what?
A demonstration? Yes, said Davies.
Or are you trying to put something over on me? said Hartpick. How do I know he won't climb out? I was going to suggest you step around to the office in the morning, and we sign. If you're interested, that is.
Of course, I'm interested, said Davies, actually trembling. But
Well, if you're interested, said Hartpick, let him alone.
But, my God, he's drowning! cried Davies, tugging to free his wrist. Mr. Hartpick turned his massive face toward Davies for a moment, and Davies stopped tugging.
The show, said Hartpick, goes on. There you are! Look! Look! He's going! His hand fell from Davies' arm. Going! Going! Gone! Poor little bastard! Okay, Mr. Davies, let's say ten-thirty o'clock then, in the morning.
With that he strode out. Davies stood stock-still for a little, and then moved toward the Steel Cat. He put out his hand to take up the jar, but turned abruptly away and walked up and down the room. He had been doing this for some time when there came another tap on the door. Davies must have said come in, though he wasn't aware of doing so. At all events the bell-hop entered, carrying a covered platter on a tray. Excuse me, said he, smiling all over his face. It's on the house, sir. Buttered corn-cob for Brother George Simpson!