“They’re evidence of something, all right—chicanery. In the greatest nation on earth, we have no need for flimflam or hocus-pocus. We believe in opportunity and the power of the self-made man.”
Fresh cheers went up. T. S. Woodhouse waited for them to subside. “Sure, sure, who doesn’t love a Horatio Alger story? But you’re not a self-made man, are you, Mr. Marlowe? You came from old money.”
“Leave him alone!” a thick-necked man in a Shriners fez growled.
“What’re you, one of those Bolsheviks?” someone else cried and gave Woodhouse a small shove.
Marlowe put out a calming hand. “Now, now,” he admonished. But as he turned to Woodhouse, his anger was evident. “I made my own way. My family money didn’t create those inventions. Nor did they test-fly all those new aeroplanes or run trials on lifesaving medicines. I did.”
“But your family’s money helped finance them,” Woodhouse said, sneezing.
“My family’s fortune was lost during the war, as you well know. Every last cent of it. I was the one who rebuilt it. In fact, I surpassed it. That’s the American way.”
“For some Americans.”
“Mr. Woodhouse, that may not be a cold you have. You may be allergic to the notion of hard work and success.”
The crowd responded with a round of laughter, applause, and shouts of “Hear, hear!” With the sun streaming down on him like a William Blake painting, Jake Marlowe strode through the pressing masses, shaking hands with the people now calling his name like a wish.
“Hold on!” Henry yelled to Ling as Marlowe moved closer to them. Henry waved wildly. “Mr. Marlowe! Mr. Marlowe! Please, sir!” he shouted. “This is one of your biggest admirers, Miss Ling Chan! She’s a scientist, like you!”
“Henry!” Ling whispered, embarrassed.
“Is that so?” Mr. Marlowe said.
Ling’s heart beat quickly as the spectators cleared the way and Jake Marlowe came closer. Unlike other people, his gaze didn’t go automatically to her braces and crutches. He looked her straight in the eyes as he bowed.
“Well, then. I am pleased to meet you, Miss Chan. Will you be coming to the fair, then?” Marlowe asked.
“I… I hope so. Sir.”
Marlowe laughed. “You don’t sound too sure about it. Here. Let me make it easier.” He reached into his pocket and wrote something on a sheet of paper, then handed it to her.
“Excuse me, can we get a picture for the papers?” T. S. Woodhouse asked and gestured to the news photographer in the clearing.
“Hold it!” the photographer shouted from behind the curtain of his camera. The flash erupted with a puff of gray smoke, immortalizing Henry, Ling, and her hero in silver gelatin. “Thank you.”
“See you in the spring, Miss Chan,” Mr. Marlowe said and moved on.
“What’s it say? What’s it say?” Henry asked, angling for a better look at the paper in Ling’s hands.
“‘IOU Miss Ling Chan—two free tickets to the Future of America Exhibition,’” Ling read. At the bottom was Marlowe’s signature. She now had Jake Marlowe’s autograph.
Ling looked ready to faint or vomit. “I talked to Jake Marlowe,” she said, incredulous. “This is his signature.”
“Well, it was nothing, really,” Henry said. “No, please! No more gratitude! Your happiness is thanks enough.”
“Thank you, Henry,” Ling said.
“Shucks. ’Tweren’t nothing.”
Ling beamed, holding the piece of paper like a sacred object. “Jake Marlowe touched this!” she said, and it was as close to a squeal as she’d ever come.
“Why, Miss Chan,” Henry drawled. “I believe you are pos-i-tute-ly smitten.”
T. S. Woodhouse turned and squeezed his way through the throngs of smiling, optimistic people happy to have something to be happy about.