Part 17 (1/2)

”I'll bet you have gone to work and bored Mister Hanley half to death!”

says his wife. ”How often have I told you that strangers is not interested in them fool ideas of yours?”

”Not at all!” says Alex. ”I fail to recall when I spent such a enjoyable night. Mister Simmons is a genius, if they ever was one, and I predict a great future for his automatic c.o.c.ktail shaker. Then, if he gets his keyless lock workin' right, why--”

”Let's eat in the kitchen, it's cosier,” interrupts Mrs. Simmons. ”Do you folks mind?”

They was no bloodshed over it, and we all went in. Simmons claims he would like to change his collar, and invites me back to look over the flat, a treat the wife has already had. Once we get in his boudoir, he finds they is everything in the world in it with the exception of a clean collar, and he calls Mrs. Simmons to the rescue.

”Here!” she says, handin' him the laundry. ”Hurry up, so's we can eat.

He's always losin' somethin'!” she remarks.

I got a comical answer on the tip of my tongue, when Simmons drops his collar b.u.t.ton on the floor, and, the same as all the other collar b.u.t.tons in the world, they picked out the furtherest corners of the room to roll into. The poor b.o.o.b gets as red as a four-alarm fire and goes crawlin' around the room tryin' to run them collar b.u.t.tons down.

”It's too bad them b.u.t.tons wasn't made of rubber,” I says, thinkin' to pa.s.s the thing off. ”They would of bounced right back in your hand, hey?”

He straightens up like he had stepped on a egg and runs his hands through his hair.

”A rubber collar b.u.t.ton!” he mutters. ”A rubber collar b.u.t.ton!

No--no--not _rubber_, but--”

”My Gawd!” cuts in Mrs. Simmons. ”Will he _ever_ stop it? Sit down and eat, folks, he's ravin' again! Here, Edgar, try some of this cold ham. It set our friends back a dollar and it ought to be good!”

”I'm--I'm sorry!” pipes Edgar, movin' away with that little, nervous step of his. ”I couldn't eat a thing. I got a headache, I guess--I--excuse me, but I'll see you all again.”

With that he blows.

”Ain't he the limit?” inquires Mrs. Simmons, grabbin' the choicest bits of that ham and goin' south with it.

”Mine's worse!” remarks the wife. ”What would them men ever do without us?”

”Save money!” I says. ”Slip me some of that cold chicken, will you?--I got a stomach, too!”

Well, we didn't see Edgar Simmons no more that night. In fact it was all of two weeks before he appeared again, and then it was by way of the phone. He asked me if I would tell my Cousin Alex to come down at once, he had somethin' very important to tell him. I waited till supper had come and gone that night, and then I got hold of Alex. The wife and Mrs. Simmons went to the theatre together and I arranged the conference for my flat. The minute Alex arrived I phoned Simmons and he come right up. He's all excited over somethin' and he's got a parcel under his arm.

”I have followed your advice,” he tells Alex, ”and at last I've invented something practical. There's millions in it!”

”What?” I says. ”The mint?”

Alex kicks me in the s.h.i.+ns under the table so hard that I moaned aloud.

”What is it?” he asks.

Simmons unwraps the parcel and pulls out a piece of cloth. It's the neckband of a s.h.i.+rt and the same as the ordinary neckband in every way--except it's got collar b.u.t.tons _built right into it_!

”What's the idea?” I asks.

”Heavens, man, can't you grasp it?” says Simmons, slammin' the table with his fist. ”Here we have the only collar b.u.t.ton in the world _that can't be lost_! You never have to look for it, because it's always attached to the s.h.i.+rt. You can't lose the b.u.t.ton unless you lose the s.h.i.+rt! It's made right with it! It--”

”Wait!” b.u.t.ts in Alex, leapin' to his feet. ”Simmons--you have got somethin'! Is it patented?”