"Sir, how much for this pot?"
In a blacksmith's shop near the dock area, Allen pointed to a cast-iron pot, half a man's height, and asked.
The pot was covered in rust, clearly having been idle for a long time.
The blacksmith was a burly German immigrant with arms as thick as Allen's thighs. He glanced at Allen, then at the pot.
"That's for boiling ropes on ships. It's big and heavy. If you're sure you need it, it's five dollars."
"Too expensive."
Allen shook his head at the reply, turned, and walked away without any hesitation.
"Hey, buddy, wait!"
The blacksmith didn't expect him to leave so decisively and quickly called out to him.
"So, how much can you offer?"
Allen looked straight at him and slowly extended three fingers.
"I can only give you three dollars. It's just a pile of scrap metal, sir. Besides me, I doubt anyone would buy it to cook with."
The blacksmith's face twitched, as if weighing whether to leave this scrap metal to rust in the corner or exchange it for three dollars in cash.
Ultimately, the desire for cash won out.
"Alright, buddy, you've convinced me. Three dollars it is, but you'll have to take it away yourself!"
"Of course."
Allen paid readily.
He didn't take the large pot immediately but continued to search through the blacksmith's shop.
Afterward, he spent two more dollars to buy a pile of discarded sheet metal, a few iron rods, and some miscellaneous tools.
What the blacksmith considered junk, Allen saw as treasure.
Leaving the blacksmith's shop, Allen went to several pawn shops and flea markets.
He was like an experienced treasure hunter, acquiring every item he needed for his plan with the least amount of money.
He bought an old bench vise for one dollar, a large pair of tin snips for fifty cents, and some cheap charcoal for two dollars.
By the time Allen returned to Mrs. Hudson's basement, it was already getting dark.
He had spent a total of 8.5 dollars today, leaving him with 58.5 dollars in his pocket.
"Mr. Williams, what are you doing bringing all this dirty junk into my basement?" Mrs. Hudson stood at the top of the stairs, frowning and looking at the 'trophies' Allen had brought back with a disgusted expression.
"Don't worry, madam," Allen replied breathlessly, struggling to drag the sheet metal down the stairs. "They'll soon turn into something useful, and I promise to clean this place up."
"It better be as you say, Mr. Williams."
Mrs. Hudson mumbled, and for the sake of Allen paying for breakfast, she didn't say anything more.
Over the next few days, Allen barely left the basement.
The first thing he did was thoroughly clean the large pot.
He polished it repeatedly with sand and stones, and boiled it several times with hot water, until the inner wall of the pot revealed the metal's inherent luster.
This pot would be his key equipment for high-temperature sterilization.
Then, he began to make his secret weapon: a rudimentary manual seaming machine for canning.
This would be a simple machine in the 21st century, but in 1860, it was a groundbreaking idea.
Currently, all cans were sealed by smearing a large lump of solder to attach the lid to the can body, which not only resulted in poor sealing but also made workers highly susceptible to burns from molten lead drips during operation, not to mention the long-term risk of lead poisoning.
Allen's design was simple: he used a bench vise to secure the can body, then used two specially polished rollers.
One was responsible for the initial curling, and the other for pressing it tightly to make the edge of the can lid and the flange of the can body interlock securely.
Making the rollers was the most difficult step in the entire plan.
He had no lathe, so he could only use files and sandpaper, grinding the two iron lumps he had salvaged from the junkyard little by little.
The basement was filled with grating friction sounds all day long.
"Mr. Williams, what on earth are you doing? The noise keeps me awake every night!" Mrs. Hudson finally couldn't take it anymore and complained loudly from the top of the stairs.
"I am terribly sorry, madam!"
Allen quickly stopped what he was doing and apologized sincerely.
"Please give me two more days. I promise, after two days, there will be no more noise."
"Two days, my foot… If you make noise again after two days, I'll throw you and your junk out!"
Allen knew he had to speed up.
Late at night two days later, after Allen finished the final polish with sandpaper, he let out a long sigh, looking at the two oddly shaped but smooth rollers in his hands.
The most crucial components were complete.
He mounted the rollers onto a simple frame made of iron rods and wood, and added a hand-cranked handle.
A seaming machine, a fusion of modern industrial wisdom and rudimentary 19th-century craftsmanship, was officially born.
To test the machine, he carefully cut out several circular pieces of sheet metal with tin snips to serve as can bodies, and also cut out several circular top and bottom lids with edges.
He hammered and pounded these parts, barely assembling them into a cylindrical can.
Then he secured an empty can in the bench vise, took a deep breath, and began to crank the handle of the seaming machine.
The first roller pressed down, emitting a "creak," and the edge of the can lid successfully curled inward, hooking onto the flange of the can body.
The first step was successful!
Allen's heart swelled with joy. He switched to the second roller and again vigorously cranked the handle.
The purpose of the second roller was to press tightly, completely sealing the already hooked edges to form an airtight double seam.
"Click!"
A crisp sound rang out. Allen stopped, picking up the sealed can.
He carefully inspected the seal; the seam was smooth and tight, more perfect than any can he had seen on the market.
He filled the can with water, inverted it, and shook it vigorously; not a single drop of water leaked out.
"It worked!"
Despite his best efforts to suppress it, a tremor entered Allen's voice.
He knew that this currently very ugly machine would be the engine of his fortune.
With it, he could produce cans that were safer, more reliable, and cheaper than all his competitors.
There was no time to celebrate.
The successful first step meant that the busier second step had already begun.
He needed to buy ingredients and produce the first batch of products that could truly impress people.
Every cent of the remaining fifty-plus dollars had to be spent wisely.
He cleaned up the basement, swept all the metal scraps into a corner, then changed into his only presentable set of clothes and walked out of the basement.