Part 2

The Cashier came in and spread before him the weekly Worry Sheet, and then chugged off for the week-end in his little threshing machine.

All the other Help had of course already gone, for it was about ten minutes before closing time.

The only man left around the Works was the afore-specified manufacturer. He couldn’t get off because he was the Boss.

Suddenly, without warning, prologue, or advance copy for the Press, he launched a vicious right-arm jab at two million flies that were mobilizing on his occiput, and then lammed out the following trenchant blank verse:

“Blankety blank my hide if I ain’t getting hankety-pankety sick of this blank country and its laws. Here I am, week in and week out, sweating like a Somali dock-hand to make both ends meet, and instead of being charted up as a useful, constructive factor in the country’s development, I’m hooted from the house-tops, shot at from ambush, chased up trees, and hounded like a pole-cat.

“The goods I make are clean, legitimate, honorable goods, and a public necessity. By their manufacture and sale, thousands of people have it soft on both the productive and distributive ends of the line. If it were not for this business, this two-spot town would be fanning for air inside twenty-four hours, and hundreds of happy homes would be hurdling to Hades.

“Not a week goes by that I’m not digging up for some Church, School, Library, Fair, Famine, Hospital or some form of wallet-puller. I pay more town, county, state and federal taxes than the whole loafing lot of Timber Tops at Washington put together.

“And yet every move I make, or don’t make, I’m yanked up before some inch-browed Investigating Committee to explain why I didn’t do what I did, or did do what I didn’t.

“First they fan me for maintaining prices and then for cutting prices. They lower freight rates so I can compete in a certain market, and then just when I’ve gone to the expense of advertising and traveling it, the State and Interstate Commissions get into a dog-fight and they shoot the freight rates up again.

“They charge me an Income Tax on what I make, and an Income Tax on what I lose. They compel me to fill out long, winding webbed-up Forms that they don’t understand themselves, and that would be sufficient to dam any Office Boy in the land for business incompetence.

“Out of the taxes that I and my impotent kind are soaked with, they send a lot of clerks over the globe to write high-school tracts on the Old Stuff about our Great Trade Chances Abroad, and then spring a Seaman’s Law joker that tosses American Shipping into the Discard and puts our goods at the mercy of ships of Nations that are out to stick tacks in the tire of American Trade.

“For twenty years sane men have been struggling to pull the Tariff out of the toils of Party Pilferers and give Industry a chance to tell where it’s at, and yet to this muggy day it is made the mule on which Boneheads in black fedoras ride in and out of Congress.

“I maintain that the backbone, brains and belly of this Nation is BUSINESS, and yet when it comes to enacting legislation, Business hasn’t the voice of a pink-eyed chigger. It is forced to operate under laws made by men that couldn’t hold a bill clerk’s job in a Brooklyn kiosk, and I for one am getting good and dam sick of the whole frowsy, fiddling farce.”

With this perorational explosion, Comrade Manufacturer slapped down the corrugated cover of his Roll Top, jammed his hat on a bent ear, and soled off home to take it out on The Folks.

* * * * *

Monday morning came around, according to cosmic custom. The much admired face of the office clock smiled out the hour of ten, and the last story of the week-end’s mush had been passed along Bookkeeper’s Row.

A neatly harnessed young man with a well-groomed superstructure appeared at the General Office Door.

“What is the nature of your business?” inquired the Office Rat in a ripsaw crescendo.

“Tell him I am a Field Secretary of the National Business Men’s Phalanx, lately organized to express the collective business sentiment of the Nation to the law-builders at Washington,” replied the Field Secretary. “And tell him,” he added, handing out his official pasteboard, “that I am here to explain to him why he should become a member.”

The boy bowlegged off to an adjoining office and returned with the pleasing tidings that the Boss was Too Busy.

“Go back and tell him that it is to _his_ interest that I be allowed to come alongside now,” said Field Secretary.

The boy reluctantly went away again, and in a moment later came back and told the F. S. to take a seat. Whereupon the F. S. took it, and then for one long, lonely newspaper-reading, thumb-twirling, watch-glancing hour he held it down without a whimper.

Finally he called the boy again and told him that he’d like to see the Boss during the present era if possible. The boy waddled off once more to the secret chamber of the Great and Grouchy One. When he returned he brought back this cheery message:

“Tell the gentleman I don’t believe I care to go into the matter. I am Very Busy today, and besides, I am not in favor of these Associations that cost a lot of money and produce no results.”

“Very well,” replied the Field Secretary sweetly, “I’ll consider myself null and void.”

“But just kindly inform your intelligent Boss for me,” he continued, “that the reason these Associations cost a lot of money is because of the time they lose in hanging around waiting to get possum heads like himself to see their own Game. And the reason they ‘produce no results’ is because stupid men can’t see that they’ve got to get together to produce results.”

“And tell him further,” went on Field Sec., edging toward the door and raising his voice just high enough so that it could be heard about seven miles, “that while I shall expect to lose my good hundred-dollar job for it, I can not restrain myself the pleasure of telling him and his visionless ilk that they deserve just exactly the kind of legislation they are getting, and that as far as I myself am concerned, they can all go and take a great big jump into the seventeenth sub-basement of hell. Good-NIGHT!”

And with this impressive Valedictory the Field Secretary departed, slamming the door so hard that it jarred the ledger out of balance and woke up every clerk in the place.

_Lesson for Today:_ There are none so blind as the trusting husband and the bright-eyed business man.

HOT SKETCH NO. 5

THE ADVERTISING GENIUS OF SQUIRRELVILLE

THERE was a Hotel Clerk in a one-ply town who yearned to become an Ad Man.

He could have yearned to become President of the United States if he had wanted to, but there wasn’t so much money in the president business.

His name was Fred, but they called him Chesterton for short.

During his incarceration as Glad Hander at the McGlook House, Chesterton had lived to see one of the Town Terriers go down to New York and hoof up great clods of turf in the arena of Successful Advertising.

This fired his Ambition, and when later he learned that the reporter on the Squirrelville Banner had just landed a good job as Advertising Manager for a nearby manufactory which had begun to stretch, he just up and heard the voice of Destiny calling him through a railway megaphone.

Thus it was, one Gladsome spring morning, that Chesterton backed away from the little pine hotel-desk for good, and plunged eye-deep into the intricacies of the Advertising Art.

Chesterton’s first clever move was to procure copies of The Banner and analyze all the local Advertisements, but after close scrutiny he concluded that they all leaned heavily to The Rotten.

Which they did.

Which they did beyond the slightest shadow of a little round doubt.

The Liveryman’s Advertisement, for instance, didn’t “Tell The Story,” reflected Chesterton who had already begun to show an easy familiarity with Publicity Terms. And he observed also that the reminder which stood all the year around in the daily 3 in. dbl. col. Display of the Elite Stationary & Supply Store to the effect that Prospective Patrons should do their Christmas shoplifting early, did not appear to be timely copy for July.

Let not the thought here sneak into your mind, Gentile Reader, that our embryonic George Creel confined his observations solely to advertisements committed by local craftsmen. On the contrary he went to the Eureka News Shop and procured copies of all the national magazines and periodicals that carried advertising to enliven the reading matter, and every Ad in them came under the sweep of his cold unemotional eye.

“One common fault I find in all of them,” mused Chesterton. “They all lack The Punch.”

Which criticism should be sufficient to prove to The Reader that Chestie old toppo was now a full-feathered Ad Writer. In the bright lexicon of Publicity there is no word that mouthes so smoothly. When in doubt, talk about The Punch!

To make a long story about seven pages shorter, we will now brush the dandruff off our coat-collar and say that Chesterton accidentally ran across the Three Ball Column of one of the magazines where the Frayed Boys of the Advertising World are accustomed to hanging up their best belongings.

The first one that caught his eye was this:

“PULLEM PETE—The powerful penster who pulls peppy potent phrases for particular patrons—try him—6c for a sample slasher, or 50 individual humdinging follow-ups for 40c.”

Following this sizzling specimen of alliterative skill, Chesterton ran across this one:

“AD MAN ARONSON penned one pep and paprika sales letter that pulled $80,000,000 worth of business. He can do the same for you. Specimen letter, 11 cents and postage. Lock box 4-11-44, Spinach Corners, Conn.”

By this time Chesterton was all het up for he saw where all these Sales Letter Builders were making their big mistake and he felt the feathers of his guardian angel’s wing tickling his spine all the way up.

Intuitively he knew that his footsteps had been guided at last to the big bronze door of Opportunity, and that all he had to do was to knock on her and she would be opened up Unto him. He was politician-sure that he had the password. And the password was PRICE!

And so Chestie sat him down at his little school-desk in the attic, which he had fixed up neatly as his office with a newsprint of St. Elmo as his patron saint, and after three non-union days’ labor he carved out this modest little synopsis of his advertisorial equipment:

I AM CHESTERTON OF SQUIRRELVILLE—I write serial follow-ups that tear the teeth out of indifference, pull the wool off the sky-piece of scepticism, rouse interest to a frenzy and send the prospect screaming down the aisle to pay tithe to the titillating tin box. A sample letter will cost you $100.00. Three letters for $200.00. Cash with order regardless of rating. Business already booked makes delivery of copy impossible to guarantee under seven months after order is placed.

Looking the copy over once more, Chesterton decided that there was only one thing the matter with it. The price was too much to the Clothing Sale. So he raised it another $100.00 and then fired the copy off to a couple of good advertising media.

Then he lit up a piece of tampa twine and walked out in the backyard and put chicken-wire around all the trees so the goats would not bark them when the stampede commenced.

One week later the Postman was rolling up Chesterton’s mail in barrels. One year later, all Squirrelville was working in various departments of the Chesterton Advertising Agency.

_Lesson for Today:_ If you’re going to “do,” then do; otherwise, don’t.

HOT SKETCH NO. 6

THE SALESMAN WHO BECAME BUYER

BILL was a Salesman with a series of chins, who chewed the ends of his cigars and was by nature Very Sociable.

The bell sprints would all stampede for his Leathers when he arrived at a/an hotel, and the Clerk always had some little confidential pleasantry to whisper into his large jovial ear when handing him his Room Key.

Bill abhorred all forms of convention, had no use for vests, and never called any man “Mr.” past the introduction, no matter how high the social or financial pinnacle from which the party breathed his ozone. In the course of a twenty-minute conversation a Mr. John Wanamaker would become plain “Wanamaker,” then “John” and finally “Jack,” whether Jack liked it or not.

Truthfully speaking, it cannot be said that Bill’s particular brew of bon-hominy made as big a hit with the average Buyer as it did, for example, with the drayman who juggled the trunks up to the Hotel. As a matter of bald clean-shaven fact, most of the Larger Buyers in Bill’s territory threw up a redoubt of icy Reserve every time he wheezed in to see them; and, to anyone of Bill’s Genial and Sunny Nature, such an aggressive exhibition of unsociabiliousness is sure to prove a thorn in the flank.

Thus it was that Bill in time made no dark secret of his Real Opinion of any man who thought he had to starch all up like a Bank President just because a pull with the Powers had made him a Buyer instead of a Bill Clerk.

He didn’t see, he contended, why a Salesman representing a Concern that covered forty acres Under Roof and made all their own castings, was not just as good as the man he was trying to sell.

So far as Bill was concerned, he was getting foddered up to the gills, he said, trying to be friendly with certain deaf and dumb Yappoos that sit twirling paper-knives and eyeing a Salesman with the critical eye of an alienist just because he is doing his damdest to cheer them up and make them act Natural.

The wise Buyer, argued Bill, is the man who treats Salesmen like pals, because he can get more out of them that way; and moreover, Salesmen are always in position to do the Buyer a Good Turn in the Trade, as well as up at the Factory when the Complaints come in.

Now it was the custom of Bill’s firm to use some of their Salesmen in the home office when the men came in off the road between seasons. It was a good custom because it not only enabled the Salesmen to earn a portion of their salaries during the dull months, but also got them into the habit of breakfasting before Noon.

Bill became particularly adept at this Indoor Exercise especially in the Purchasing Department where he helped at odd jobs, besides helping himself to cigars that were daily presented to the Purchasing Agent in the sacred cause of bribery.

It was soon discovered that Bill had a keen and steady eye when it came to judging materials and prices, and the Purchasing Agent got sort of in the habit of mistrusting his own flickering wick and turning over a good deal of his work to Bill, especially when he was Very Busy, such as selecting from a mail-order catalogue some kind of a suitable cap to wear on his forthcoming fishing trip.

One day, as Luck would have it, Comrade Purchasing Agent suddenly up and kicked off his mortal cocoon, leaving behind him a wife and a gallon of gasoline for his motorcycle. Bill was chosen to fill the vacant chair, and putting it Very Mildly yet informingly, the news did not exactly crush him to death. On the contrary, he went out in the Coat Room and shook hands with himself until he had two lead arms and one limp theologian’s grip left in his Gripper.

Bill’s first week as Buyer saw him billy-sundaying every salesmanic trail-hitter that struck the Works. But somehow the Open Arm stuff seemed to convey to visiting Salesmen the impression that Bill as Buyer for the Works intended to lay in a million dollars’ worth of their Stuff. When he told them that he wasn’t in the market, they couldn’t seem to assimilate the tidings and just continued to hang on until the whistle blew and the regular daily imitation of the Rush from Pompeii commenced.

Bill’s second week as Buyer saw him giving Explicit Instructions to the Office Spaniel to bring to him the card of every visiting Salesman before letting the gunk in. In this way quite a few zeppelins were put out of commission before they reached the First Line Trench, and Bill got several minutes each day in which to Attend to Business.

But Bill’s heart was still too full of the mush-and-milk of Human Kindness to long hold down the lid on his Buoyant and Bubbling nature, and so he continued to spend most of his conscious hours watching the skilful Air Navigators loop-the-loop from dizzy heights. Besides, there was in Bill himself a lingering love for the sport which he found it hard to curb, and which caused him to forget his position as Buyer every once in a while and ascend as high as any of The Boys—though always to regret it when he came to earth again.

Bill’s third week as Buyer found him with his Office moved back a mile and a half from the front door and all approaches barb-wired and mined. Out in the Reception Office hung a sign, “Salesmen seen Thursdays ONLY, between 10:30 and 11:30,” and while the lettering was not large enough to be seen across the river, it was plainly visible to everything this side.

Such Salesmen as were fortunate enough to receive an invitation to visit Bill’s imperial headquarters were escorted by two gendarmes with secret Road Maps that enabled them to find the way; and these Luckies were then permitted to stand unheeded in the doorway from 20 to 30 minutes twirling their little dollar derbys and snapping the rubber-band on their leather covered catalogues until such time as the Honorable Bill had finished dictating his daily batch of Third Reader essays.

The idea in keeping these few privileged Samsons of The Sale hovering around the entrance to the refrigerator was to give them time to apply the Air Compressor after observing certain ominous signs which Bill had hung around the walls and which read: “Be brief,” “Tell it, and Tell it Quick,” “Come to the point. If there isn’t any STAY OUT!”

If the visitors were not thoroughly cowed by these sinister signals, they could proceed further and read an additional warning painted on the back of the Visitor’s Chair which read: “This is no Park Bench.” The letters were about the size of the name on the side of a Neutral Merchantman.

Whenever Bill said to a waiting Salesman, “Come in,” you could see his breath like on a crisp winter morn. After that, he wouldn’t say another word until the Salesman had finished a five-minute Oration. Then Bill would say, “Not interested. Good day.”

Under this policy of Frightfulness, Bill naturally became the target for a shower of shrapnel every time The Boys got together in the Smoker. What one would forget to call Bill, another would think of, thus thoroughly canvassing the Field of Invective at every session.

One fine day an Old Customer to whom Bill had once sold goods when he himself was a livery-bumping County Hopper, blew into the Office as the Representative of an Advertising Novelty House. It seems that Business had gone bunc with the Old Customer and he had been obliged to knit up with a Road Job to keep the wolf off the door-mat. He was sure he could land his old friend Bill as a new customer for his almanacs or some other neat and fetching advertising novelty, and thus make a Killing with his Firm. He sent word back to the barracks where Bill was entrenched saying that he was waiting in the offing and wanted to see him. Bill frowned when he saw the card but told the sentry to show him in anyway.

A few moments later the poor misguided Yob, who had read his Human Nature all awry, appeared at the door of the Cold Storage Plant, and, catching sight of Bill who sat stalling as usual and didn’t see the Approach, rushed into the room with an extended bronze paw the size of a Smithfield ham and yelled: “Hello Bill old socks!”

The shock was too much. To have been “Billed” by this brazen intruder would have been bad enough, but to be “Socked” at the same time was the belt-below-the-belt that laid Bill low. With one hand clapped to his heart and the other to his head, he staggered to his feet and then fell heavily to the ice-bound floor—a victim of heart failure superinduced by acute inflammation of the Ego.

_Lesson for Today:_ To get a calm view of the bull, you’ve got to be on the opposite side of the fence.

HOT SKETCH NO. 7

THE PAMPERED DEALER

A CERTAIN condescending old zambuck thought he was doing his Town a large comprehensive favor by being in the hardware business.

Whenever a Customer entered his store, carrying the door-webs through on his hat, the grouchy one would look over his glasses to see who it was, and then go on reading his newspaper until he got good and ready, thereby justly rebuking the intruder.

Salesmen who called to sell him their flawless Goods used to grow old and hoary sitting around the dumpo waiting for him to say officially that he didn’t care to look at the stuff.

Then they would salaam low and in a galley-grind’s voice thank him for the interview, and back out of the place on their shirt-fronts, and go sell a lot of Small Bills at high prices over the County at the expense of Dear House, and then come back and beg the Civic Benefactor to accept the bouquet at 50 percent profit to himself by placing an order covering only the bare quantity they had sold for him.

With a show of reluctance and drab boredom seldom seen outside the Banking Business, the old Nawab would finally put his influential signature to the Order, but only on condition that the manufacturers consented to run an Advertisement at their own cost in the local paper featuring his progressive and popular Establishment. Of course if they cared at the same time to slide in a few 5-point words about their own goods, why he would have no special objection.

If it so happened occasionally that he so far lost his balance as to buy one dollar and sixty cents’ worth more stuff than had already been sold for him by the visiting Salesman, he would sit himself down on his comfortable chair-pad of old newspapers and write off a starchy hand-tooled letter to the House—on stationery that had been printed for him free of charge by some Easy Eugene of the manufacturing world—and insist emphatically upon having a Special Man from the factory payroll to help him dispose of the surplus as well as wait upon customers, assist in taking Inventory, and be generally useful about the premises.

It is not recorded that any of the manufacturers who were privileged to sell their goods to this highly respected and pampered posh went so far as to pay his store rent for him or defray the expenses of his family wash.

But through their tripe-eyed vision of Sales Promotion they ultimately succeeded in swelling his super-structure to the point where he was able to snuggle down into the comforting hallucination that he could throw any one of them into the bogs of bankruptcy at any time by simply holding back his thirty-cent orders.

Now it came to pass that a certain young Lochinvar of high voltage had been tiptoeing about for a favorable Town in which to weigh-in a blooded Hardware Store, and he happened to hear of this martyr to the noble cause of service.

In fact every Salesman that Young Loch met told him the same story about the old crabbino, but some of them heralded the tidings with less profanity than did others.

Young Loch did not have to get a powerful field-glass to see the Opportunity that lay before him and stretched out its arms. He could see it with his eyes tied behind his back.

So forthwith he sallied to the Particular Town to which we have up and alluded, and in due season he opened him up an establishment that had old Puffed Bean’s place looking like a Hongkong junk hole. The swellest cry in Hardware Shelving was installed, and you could close your big searching eyes and walk all over the place without tangling up with nail kegs, rope, barbed wire and other embellishments peculiar to the small-town hardware dispensary.