William's remarks next became irrelevant. For example, after being
wrapped in silence for over half an hour, he suddenly flung out the
question, 'How many people do you know who possess a trousers-press?
Faced with the problem, I confessed I could not connect a single
acquaintance with a trousers-press. 'Henry hasn't got one,' I admitted.
'Neither have I,' said William. (I didn't doubt that for an instant.)
He went on to remark that he knew many men in many walks of life, and
only two of them owned a trousers-press, and they shared it between
them. Yet the inventor of this apparently negligible article had made
a small fortune out of the idea.
'If,' concluded William, 'you can make a small fortune out of a thing
that you can dispense with, how much more can you make out of something
that you can't do without?'
This sentence I give as William composed it, and from its construction
you will understand the state of his mind, for he was as fastidious
regarding style as Henry himself. Of course there was some excuse for
him. You see, when you're an inventor you can't be anything else. It
takes all your time. Judging by William's procedure you must sit up
experimenting all night long; you lie down in your clothes and snatch a
little sleep at odd moments. When you walk abroad you stride along
muttering, waving your arms and bumping into people; you forget to eat;
your friends fall away from you.
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