The Early Bird | Page 6

conversation thereupon lagged for a moment or two, while Mr.
Turner blankly asked himself: "What is thunder does a man talk about
when he has nothing to say and nobody to say it to?" Presently he
solved the problem.
"It must be beautiful out here in the autumn," he observed.
"Yes, it is indeed," returned Mr. Westlake with alacrity. "The leaves

turn all sorts of colors."
Once more conversation lagged, while Billy feebly wondered how any
person could possibly be so dull as this chap. He made another attempt.
"Beastly place, though, when it rains," he observed.
"Yes, I should imagine so," agreed Mr. Turner. Great Scott! The voice
of McComas saved him from utter imbecility.
"You'll excuse Mr. Turner a moment, won't you, Billy?" begged
McComas pleasantly. "I want to introduce him to a couple of friends of
mine."
Billy Westlake bowed his forgiveness of Mr. McComas with fully as
much relief as Sam Turner had felt. Over in the same corner of the
porch where he had sat in the afternoon with McComas and Princeman
and the elder Westlake, Sam found awaiting them Mr. Cuthbert, of the
American Papier-Mâché Company, an almost viciously ugly man with
a twisted nose and a crooked mouth, who controlled practically all the
worth-while papier-mâché business of the United States, and Mr.
Blackrock, an elderly man with a young toupee and particularly gaunt
cheek-bones, who was a corporation lawyer of considerable note. Both
gentlemen greeted Mr. Turner as one toward whom they were already
highly predisposed, and Mr. Princeman and Mr. Westlake also shook
hands most cordially, as if Sam had been gone for a day or two. Mr.
McComas placed a chair for him.
"We just happened to mention your marsh pulp idea, and Mr. Cuthbert
and Mr. Blackrock were at once very highly interested," observed
McComas as they sat dawn. "Mr. Blackrock suggests that he don't see
why you need wait for the issuance of the letters patent, at least to
discuss the preliminary steps in the forming of your company."
"Why, no, Mr. Turner," said Mr. Blackrock, suavely and smoothly; "it
is not a company anyhow, as I take it, which will depend so much upon
letters patent as upon extensive exploitation."

"Yes, that's true enough," agreed Sam with a smile. "The letters patent,
however, should give my kid brother and myself, without much capital,
controlling interest in the stock."
Upon this frank but natural statement the others laughed quite
pleasantly.
"That seems a plausible enough reason," admitted Mr. Westlake,
folding his fat hands across his equator and leaning back in his chair
with a placidity which seemed far removed from any thought of gain.
"How did you propose to organize your company?"
"Well," said Sam, crossing one leg comfortably over the other, "I
expect to issue a half million participating preferred stock, at five per
cent., and a half-million common, one share of common as bonus with
each two shares of preferred; the voting power, of course, vested in the
common."
A silence followed that, and then Mr. Cuthbert, with a diagonal yawing
of his mouth which seemed to give his words a special dryness,
observed:
"And I presume you intend to take up the balance of the common
stock?"
"Just about," returned Mr. Turner cheerfully, addressing Cuthbert
directly. The papier-mâché king was another man whom he had
inscribed, some time since, upon his mental list. "My kid brother and
myself will take two hundred and fifty thousand of the common stock
for our patents and processes, and for our services as promoters and
organizers, and will purchase enough of the preferred to give us voting
power; say five thousand dollars worth."
Mr. Cuthbert shook his head.
"Very stringent terms," he observed. "I doubt if you will interest your
capital on that basis."

"All right," said Sam, clasping his knee in his hands and rocking gently.
"If we can't organize on that basis we won't organize at all. We're in no
hurry. My kid brother's handling it just now, anyhow. I'm on a vacation,
the first I ever had, and not keen upon business, by any means. In the
meantime, let me show you some figures."
Five minutes later, Billy Westlake and his sister and Miss Hastings
drew up to the edge of the group. Young Westlake stood diffidently for
two or three minutes beside Mr. Turner's chair, and then he put his
hand on that summer idler's shoulder.
"Oh, good evening, Mr.--Mr.--Mr.--" Sam stammered while he tried to
find the name.
"Westlake," interposed Billy's father; and then, a trifle impatiently,
"What do you want, Billy?"
"Mr. Turner was to go over with us to the bowling shed, dad."
"That's so," admitted Mr. Turner, glancing over to the porch rail where
the girls stood expectantly in their fluffy white dresses, and nodding