Page 38 of Hearts of Briarwall

Andrew watched him, his brow drawing low. “You mean to talk me out of this venture before you’ve presented it? That’s awfully sporting of you.” He grinned.

“I am not trying to amuse you.” Spencer sighed in frustration. “I only mean to—”

“Wooding, shall we get on with this?” The older gentleman spoke pleasantly but firmly. “I’ve a meeting with my solicitor on the hour.”

“Of course. First, Mr. Lucas Janes, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Spencer Hayes. He’ll be addressing us in a moment.”

Spencer started at the man’s name.

“Hayes,” Mr. Janes said with a nod. “I believe you’ve met my Florrie. Said something about a clock.”

“Yes, sir. Delightful young lady.”

“Well,” Mr. Janes said, “she can be.”

Spencer nodded, silenced by the risk of saying something upsetting to this wealthy man about his daughter. Mr. Janes took a seat at the table.

Andrew turned back to Spencer, gripping his shoulder and speaking low. “Allow me to decide whether or not you’ve misjudged. I will consider your warning.” He nodded, then turned to the refreshments.

Spencer swallowed. He’d done what he could with these men and potential investors looking on. His belief in his vision had brought him this far. He would move forward. He only hoped it would not cost him a friendship.

Andrew returned, setting a glass of amber liquid on the table near Spencer with a pointed look. Spencer lifted it with a slight salute and took a swallow, then pushed the rest away.

“Gentlemen,” Andrew began. “Thank you for accepting my hasty invitation. We’re here to consider an opportunity from an old friend whom I hold in high esteem.” Andrew tossed him another pointed look. “Mr. Spencer Hayes has a great mind for innovation. He has since we were boys. I urge you to listen and decide for yourselves. Spencer? The time is yours.”

Spencer approached the head of the table as Andrew took a seat. He opened his portfolio and took a deep breath.Look’em in the eye, boy. You’ve ’alf won’em.

He met each man’s gaze, gave a nod, and began.

“Thank you, Andrew. Gentlemen.” He cleared his throat, hoping to clear his nerves as well. “I’ve spent several months in America. In Detroit. Studying the motorcar industry.”

He glanced in Andrew’s direction, noting a slight tightening of his gaze. Spencer pushed forward.

“I met Mr. Ford himself, albeit briefly. A firm handshake as he made his way to his office.” He read the interest in the men’s eyes at that. “His ideas are groundbreaking. Currently, it takes a team of four to five men to build a car from axle to hood—a meticulous and time-consuming task.”

Mr. Janes nodded, encouraging Spencer on.

“Imagine, instead, a car being assembled from the first frame to the last knob by a hundred machinists who do their assigned part as the cars are slowly carried past on a conveyor belt. Mr. Ford’s vision of assembly-line manufacturing will speed up production and affordability to meet an increasing demand of car ownership for the Everyman.”

“No doubt,” Mr. Janes said. The man was familiar with the subject. That boded well.

“But what attracted my attention,” Spencer said, “was the incorporation of standardized parts.”

“Standardized parts have been around for centuries,” Sir Lawrence said.

Spencer nodded. “True, but the automobile has not. Look at the bicycle. The ordinary man in need of a repair will take his bicycle to a general repair shop, hoping the necessary part is in stock. If it is not, the repairman orders it from the particular manufacturer, waits on the shipment of said part, and then makes the repair.” He took a breath and turned to Andrew. “What do you do now, if your Singer should need a part for a repair?”

Andrew folded his hands in front of him. “I suppose we would order the part from the catalog or take the car to Singer Motors for repairs.”

Spencer firmly rapped his knuckles on the table. “Exactly. Even if it was the simplest part—a carriage spring, for example—you would shoulder the trouble, time, and cost to order it from a catalog or return it to the manufacturer—in this case, Singer Motors Limited of Warwickshire, a company producing bicycles and motorcycles as well as the automobile—and then you’d wait for the repairs to be done.

“Now, what if you—or your garage man, Warren, was it?—could simply ring up a supply shop here in Albury, or Guilford, where they kept replacement parts for every top make and model car produced in England? They match the part, and you are able to pick it up immediately. Or they could deliver it to you for a fee. Possibly even install the part for you for an additional fee, should you be unable to do so yourself.”

He gauged each man’s reaction. So far, he had their attention in varying degrees. Andrew remained tense, his eyes on his own fingers as they silently tapped the tabletop.

Spencer continued. “Imagine one of these shops outside every major city in England, easily available to the Everyman. The Everyman who will someday soon be able to afford a motorcar, if Mr. Ford has his way.”

“And where do these parts come from?” Mr. Janes asked.

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