Fancies and Goodnights

THE STEEL CAT

The Hotel Bixbee is as commercial an hotel as any in Chicago. The brass-rail surmounts the banisters; the cuspidor gleams dimly in the shade of the potted palm. The air in the corridors is very still, and appears to have been de-odorized a few days ago. The rates are moderate.

Walter Davies' cab drew up outside the Bixbee. He was a man with a good deal of grey in his hair, and with a certain care-worn brightness on his face, such as is often to be seen on the faces of rural preachers, if they are poor enough and hopeful enough. Davies, however, was not a preacher. The porter seized his suitcase, and would have taken the black box he held on his knees, but Davies nervously put out his hand. «No,» he said. «Leave this one to me.» He entered the hotel carrying the box as if it were a baby. It was an oblong box, nearly two feet long, and perhaps a foot wide and a foot in depth. It was covered with a high-grade near-leather. It had a handle on the top side, but Davies preferred to cradle it in his arms rather than to swing it by this handle.

As soon as he had checked in and was shown to his room, he set the box on the bureau and made straight for the telephone. He called Room Service. «This is Room 517,» said he. «What sort of cheese have you?»

«Well, we got Camembert, Swiss, Tillamook …»

«Now, the Tillamook,» said Davies. «Is that good and red-looking?»

«Guess so,» said the man at the other end. «It's like it usually is.»

«All right, send me up a portion.»

«What bread with it? Roll? White? Rye?»

«No bread. Just the cheese by itself.»

«Okay. It'11 be right up.»

In a minute or two a bell-hop entered, carrying a platter with the wedge of cheese on it. He was a coloured man of about the same age as Davies, and had a remarkably round face and bullet head. «Is that right, sir? You wanted just a piece of cheese?»

«That's right,» said Davies, who was undoing the clasps of his black box. «Put it right there on the table.»

The bell-hop, waiting for him to sign the check, watched Davies fold down the front side of the box, which carried part of the top with it. Thus opened, it displayed an interior lined with black velvet, against which gleamed an odd-looking skeletal arrangement in chromium-plated metal. «Now look at that!» said the bell-hop, much intrigued. «Wouldn't be surprised if that ain't an invention you got there.»

«Interesting, eh?» said Davies. «Catches the eye?»

«Sure does,» said the bell-hop. «There ain't nothing much more interesting than an invention.» He peered reverently at the odd-looking apparatus in the box. «Now what sort of invention would you say that might be?»

«That,» said Davies proudly, «is the Steel Cat.»

«Steel Cat?» cried the bell-hop. «No kidding?»

He shook his head, a plain man baffled by the wonders of science. «So that's the Steel Cat! Well now, what do you know?»

«Good name, you think?» asked Davies.

«Boy, that's a title!» replied the bell-hop. «Mister, how come I ain't never heard of this here Steel Cat?»

«That's the only one in the world,» said Davies. «So far.»

«I come from Ohio,» said the bell-hop. «And I got folks in Ohio. And they're going to hear from me how I got to see this one and only Steel Cat.»

«Glad you like it,» said Davies. «Wait a minute. Fond of animals? I'll show you something.»

As he spoke, he opened a small compartment that was built into one end of the box. Inside was a round nest of toilet tissues. Davies put his fingers against his nest. «Come on, Georgie,» he said. «Peep! Peep! Come on, Georgie!»

A small, ordinary mouse, fat as a butter-ball, thrust his quick head out of the nest, turned his berry-black eyes in all directions, and ran along Davies' finger, and up his sleeve to his collar, where he craned up to touch his nose to the lobe of Davies' ear.

«Well, sir!» cried the bell-hop in delight. «If that ain't a proper tame, friendly mouse you got there!»

«He knows me,» said Davies. «In fact, this mouse knows pretty near everything.»

«I betcha!» said the bell-hop with conviction.

«He's what you might call a demonstration mouse,» said Davies. «He shows off the Steel Cat. See the idea? You hang the bait on this hook. Mr. Mouse marches up this strip in the middle. He reaches for the bait. His weight tips the beam, and he drops into this jar. Of course, I fill it with water.»

«And that's his name — Georgie?» asked the bell-hop, his eyes still on the mouse.

«That's what I call him,» said Davies.

«You know what?» said the bell-hop thoughtfully. «If I had that mouse, mister, I reckon I'd call him Simpson.»

«D'you know how I came to meet up with this mouse?» said Davies. «I was in Poughkeepsie — that's where I come from — and one night last winter I ran my bath, and somehow I sat on, reading the paper, and forgot all about it. And I felt something sort of urging me to go into the bathroom. So I went in, and there was the bath I'd forgotten all about. And there was Master Georgie in it, just about going down for the third time.»

«Hey! Hey!» cried the bell-hop in urgent distress. «No third time for President Simpson!»

«Oh, no!» said Davies. «Life-guard to the rescue! I picked him out, dried him, and I put him in a box.»

«Can you beat that?» cried the bell-hop. «Say, would it be all right for me to give him just a little bit of the cheese?»

«No. That's just demonstration cheese,» said Davies. «Mice aren't so fond of cheese as most people think. He has his proper meal after the show. A balanced diet. Well, as I was saying, in a couple of days he was just as friendly as could be.»

«Sure thing,» said the bell-hop. «He knows who saved him.»

«You know, a thing like that,» said Davies, «it starts a fellow thinking. And what I thought of — I thought of the Steel Cat.»

«You thought of that cat from seeing that mouse in that bath?» cried the bell-hop, overwhelmed by the processes of the scientific mind.

«I did,» said Davies. «I owe it all to Georgie. Drew it up on paper. Borrowed some money. Got a blue-print made; then this model here. And now we're going around together, demonstrating. Cleveland, Akron, Toledo — everywhere. Nowhere.»

«Just about sweeping the country,» said the bell-hop. «That's a real good-luck mouse, that is. He certainly ought to be called Simpson.»

«Well, I'll tell you,» said Davies. «It needs one really big concern to give the others a lead. Otherwise, they hang back. That's why we're in Chicago. Do you know who's coming here this afternoon? Mr. Hartpick of Lee and Waldron. They don't only manufacture; they own the outlets. Six hundred and fifty stores, all over the country! No middle-man, if you see what I mean. If they push it, oh, boy!»

«Oh, boy!» echoed the bell-hop with enthusiasm.

«He'll be here pretty soon, »said Davies. «Three o'clock. By appointment. And Georgie'll show him the works.»

«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!»