He invented something, and then he took it to Robert Belcher, and he put it into his mill, and-paid-him-just-as-little-for-it-as-he-could.

And then he invented something more, and-that-went-into-the-mill; and then something more, and the patent was used by Mr.
Belcher for a song, and the man grew poorer and poorer, while-Mr.-Belcher-grew-richer-and-richer-all-the-time.

And then he invented a gun, and then his little wife died, and what with the expenses of doctors and funerals and such things, and the money it took to get his patent, which-I-begged-him-for-conscience'-sake-to-keep-out-of-Robert-Belcher's-hands, he almost starved with his little boy, and had to go to Robert Belcher for money." "And get it," said Mr.Belcher.
"How much, now?
A hundred little dollars for what was worth a hundred thousand, unless-everybody-lies.

The whole went in a day, and then he went crazy." "Well, you know I sent him to the asylum," responded Mr.Belcher.
"I know you did--yes, I know you did; and you tried to get him well enough to sign a paper, which the doctor never would let him sign, and which wouldn't have been worth a straw if he had signed it.
The-idea-of-getting-a-crazy-man-to-sign-a-paper!" "Well, but I wanted some security for the money I had advanced," said Mr.Belcher.
"No; you wanted legal possession of a property which would have made him rich; that's what it was, and you didn't get it, and you never will get it.

He can't be cured, and he's been sent back, and is up at Tom Buffum's now, and I've seen him to-day." Miss Butterworth expected that this intelligence would stun Mr.Belcher, but it did not.
The gratification of the man with the news was unmistakable.