 Why were people throwing things at Feetch's house?
"Feetch!" grated Ogden Piltdon, president of the Piltdon Opener Company, slamming the drafting board with his hairy fist, "I want results!" "But Mr. Piltdon," remonstrated Feetch unsteadily under his employer's glare, "don't you remember? The International rips apart cans in three and three-tenths seconds. Our own Piltdon opener barely manages to open a can in eight point nine without chimes. Four months, Feetch! I want it completely developed, engineered and tooled-up, ready for production. Otherwise, Feetch—" Feetch's body twitched. "Excuses," sneered Mr. Piltdon. Four months, Feetch, no more!" A designer had to dream at his board, investigate, search, build, test, compare, discard. He had always wanted to devote all his time to research, but Piltdon Opener had not given him that opportunity. Twenty-five years of close supervision, dead-lines, production headaches, inadequate facilities and assistance. What had happened, to the proud dream he once had, the dream of exploring uncharted engineering regions, of unlimited time to investigate and develop? Ah, well, thought Feetch straightening his thin shoulders, he had managed somehow to design a few good things during his twenty-five years with Piltdon. "Got to be," answered Feetch tiredly. Departures, such as the thermal or motor-driven types, would be too expensive for mass production." Three new models and a group of cans were waiting for them on the bench. They began testing, Hanson operating the openers and Feetch clocking. Twenty-five years of your life you put in with Piltdon, and he'd fire you just like that if you don't do the impossible. The Piltdon Company is built upon your designs and you get handed this deal!" "Well, well," said Feetch. Piltdon is a household word, but who has heard of Feetch? Nine completed and tested, two in work. "Hello," said Feetch as an aproned machinist entered carrying a glistening mechanism. The machinist departed and Hanson locked the opener on a can. Likewise several corn cans, sweet potato cans and corned-beef hash cans, leaving their contents intact. "Dear, dear," said Feetch, regarding the piles of food on the bench. Several days later, however, Piltdon himself charged into the drawing room and slapped Feetch heartily on the back, causing him to break a pencil point. "Feetch!" roared Piltdon. "Mr. Piltdon—" said Feetch shakily.
 They thought the falling cans were all his fault
 They were jealous of Feetch's invention  They thought the falling cans were all his fault  Piltdon told them to  Cans were still falling on people