you. I ain't one to gouge a feller, no matter what he's got. Poolin' your money like I said, you'll make a lot more than you or me or anyone would alone. An' since I'm watchin' over it for you, I ought to get a little somethin' out of it, hadn't I? I been thinkin' about it, an' talkin' to the boys here an' their pals. They had the idea we ought to take the whole racket over, but I ain't greedy, an' I kind of like you folks. I tell you—I'll call it quits at forty per cent for me, an' ten for the boys an' their gang. That'll leave plenty for you an' makes me pretty comfortable too. Fifty, forty, ten, an' no arguments. Right?"
T. Paterson's mouth was open to protest, but after one look at the twin mountains behind Baum’s chair he subsided. "Right," he murmured meekly. And the rest nodded dutifully.
So there we were, less than three months after Jones had hit on his idea of alchemic research, racketeers on a larger scale than anyone had ever tried to be in history, with a scheme that couldn't fail. I wondered, ironically, whether Jones would be aware of the panic. Like as not he would putter away at some weird new problem and never come to until it was all over and we were the autocrats of the world. It probably wouldn't make the slightest impression on him. It is the innocent fomenters of revolution that come out best in the long run.
We drew up a document of organization and dissolved the out-moded "Springville Gold-Synthesis" for a less revealing and more practical "Twentieth Century Metallurgy." T. Paterson Fosdick insisted upon that. He is a stickler for form, and our new comrade, Dr. Oscar Baum, chose to humor him. I'll wager that he has cursed that concession ever since—!
Fate and Mrs. Fosdick closed the deal. She was in high spirits and inclined to be kittenish. Apparently she thought of gold as a sort of super-sealing-wax, for she rallied us all into the kitchen and insisted on heating one of the spoons over the gas—"So that we can seal the compact in gold," she gurgled. I knew that gold melts at better than a thousand degrees centigrade, and that her kitchen range is not going to deliver that amount of heat. So did Baum, apparently, from his grin. I remembered that he claimed to have tested the melting point. In fact, the only one who looked at all uneasy was Mrs. Winters, whose spoon it was, and that was only natural.
Gold is a good conductor of heat, and Sydney very soon took over the job of holding the spoon in the nearly colorless gas-flame with an asbestos kitchen-mitt. The rest of us rummaged around among the edibles and laughed at Baum's crude jokes. I was facing him, with my back to the stove, when I saw his eyes suddenly go cold. With an oath he plunged forward and grabbed the spoon. His head poked forward like some heathen idol's, his face frozen and hard, he held the spoon in the hottest part of the flame. Beautiful green plumes streamed up from its edges!
"Is that stuff pure?" he demanded of Mrs. Winters.
Without waiting for her answer he whirled to me. "Gimme that bar!" he shouted. I handed him my "little dividend" and he thrust it into the center of the blue flame. A moment as it heated—and then the result was that same beautiful emerald flame.
Never have I seen a man so furious. He simply stood and roared. The poor women stood open-mouthed, too bewildered to be shocked. He certainly revealed his upbringing then! For fifteen minutes, without a pause, he blistered our ears with the choicest collection of oaths and obscenities that it has been my privilege to hear. I think he invented some of them on the inspiration of the moment. He must have. He waved his arms and stamped and shouted until his face was crimson and his little eyes were glassy and bulging. And when he ran dry, he stood and mouthed soundlessly for a good minute before he could get wind enough for speech.
"You damned crooks," he wound up, somewhat mildly. "If you wasn't so dumb I'd have these mugs blow you to bits. You're so damned crooked you throw two shadows. You—you—oh, Hell!"
He uttered something like a squeak, spat violently on the floor, yanked open the back door, and fairly ran out, his two frozen-faced gorillas behind him.
He left us in utter silence. I think I was the only one there with any conception whatever of what had happened. They were as dazed as though someone had touched off a bomb in the refrigerator. Mrs. Selford was the first to gain control of her tongue.
"Wha—wha—wha—what happened?" she yammered shrilly. I turned to her and bowed deeply. I handed her my beautiful share of "Springville Gold".
"Those emerald flames that you found so lovely, dear lady," I said slowly and distinctly, "are perfectly familiar to every high-school student as excellent evidence of the presence of copper. There was quite a little, I should say—certainly more than 'pure gold' should contain. I am afraid, Sydney," I added, "that you have been over-impulsive."
And I followed the gangsters down the back steps.
I did the obvious thing. I went to see Jones. He was still awake, as I had hoped he would be, and he welcomed me heartily.
"You haven't been here for more than a month, James," he complained, when I was snugly settled in my chair by the fire. "I wanted to talk over my new experiments with you, and the theory of the thing. It is really fascinating—perfectly wonderful! You mustn't forget to come in and help me think it out, often. It's the future, you know—predestination."
"Yes, Jones," I agreed hastily, "but my mind is not prepared now, and I can't stay long. It was something else I came for. You know, you've never told me about your work on transmutation."
He looked blankly at me for a moment, then light dawned on him. "Oh," he said, "you mean the gold."
"Yes," I admitted, "synthetic gold."
