Part 82 (1/2)

”Hill” said the first hundred dollars, on a big blank s.p.a.ce for a week.

”Mill” said the second. ”Hill Mill Meal,” said the third.

The fourth was more explicit.

”When tired of every cereal Try our new material-- Hill Mill Meal.”

The fifth--

”Ask your grocer if you feel An interest in Hill Mill Meal.

Samples free.”

The sixth-- ”A paradox! Surprising! True!

Made of chestnuts but brand new!

Hill Mill Meal.”

And the seventh--

”Solomon said it couldn't be done, There wasn't a new thing under the sun-- He never ate Hill Mill Meal!”

Seven hundred dollars went in this one method only; and meanwhile diligent young men in automobiles were making arrangements and leaving circulars and samples with the grocer. Anybody will take free samples and everybody likes chestnuts. Are they not the crown of luxury in turkey stuffing? The gem of the confection as _marron glaces_? The sure profit of the corner-merchant with his little charcoal stove, even when they are half scorched and half cold? Do we not all love them, roast, or boiled--only they are so messy to peel.

Arnold's only secret was his process; but his permanent advantage was in the fine quality of his nuts, and his exquisite care in manufacture. In dainty, neat, easily opened cartons (easily shut too, so they were not left gaping to gather dust), he put upon the market a sort of samp, chestnuts perfectly sh.e.l.led and husked, roasted and ground, both coa.r.s.e and fine. Good? You stood and ate half a package out of your hand, just tasting of it. Then you sat down and ate the other half.

He made pocket-size cartons, filled with whole ones, crafty man! And they became ”The Business Man's Lunch” forthwith. A pocketful of roast chestnuts--and no mess nor trouble! And when they were boiled--well, we all know how good boiled chestnuts are. As to the meal, a new variety of mush appeared, and gems, m.u.f.fins, and pancakes that made old epicures feel young again in the joys of a fresh taste, and gave America new standing in the eyes of France.

The orders rolled in and the poetry rolled out. The market for a new food is as wide as the world; and Jim Chamberlin was mad to conquer it, but Arnold explained to him that his total output was only so many bushels a year.

”Nonsense!” said Jim. ”You're a--a--well, a _poet_! Come! Use your imagination! Look at these hills about you--they could grow chestnuts to the horizon! Look at this valley, that rattling river, a bunch of mills could run here! You can support a fine population--a whole village of people--there's no end to it, I tell you!”

”And where would my privacy be then and the beauty of the place?” asked Arnold, ”I love this green island of chestnut trees, and the winding empty valley, just freckled with a few farms. I'd hate to support a village!”

”But you can be a Millionaire!” said Jim.

”I don't want to be a Millionaire,” Arnold cheerfully replied.

Jim gazed at him, opening and shutting his mouth in silence.

”You--confounded old--_poet_!” he burst forth at last.

”I can't help that,” said Arnold.

”You'd better ask Miss Sutherland about it, I think,” his friend drily suggested.

”To be sure! I had forgotten that--I will,” the poet replied.

Then he invited her to come up and visit his Hill, met her at the train with the smooth, swift, noiseless, smell-less electric car, and held her hand in blissful silence as they rolled up the valley road. They wound more slowly up his graded avenue, green-arched by chestnut boughs.

He showed her the bit of meadowy inlet where the mill stood, by the heavy lower fall; the broad bright packing rooms above, where the busy Italian boys and girls chattered gaily as they worked. He showed her the second fall, with his little low-humming electric plant; a bluestone building, vine-covered, lovely, a tiny temple to the flower-G.o.d.

”It does our printing,” said Arnold, ”gives us light, heat and telephones. And runs the cars.”