Part 10

"Flash?" laconically inquired "Senator Lowry." He was such a famous portraitist that his sitters never gave him time to talk. Hence his habit of speaking while he could. He prepared his flash-powder.

"Yep!" and the reporter nodded.

The others also unlimbered their cameras. The _Globe_ man threw open the door.

The president was angrily haranguing the reporters.

"Mr. Goodchild," said the _Globe_ man, "look pleasant!"

Mr. Goodchild turned quickly and opened his mouth.

_Bang!_ went, the flash-powder.

"Hel--" shrieked Mr. Goodchild.

"--p!" said the pious young _Journal_ man, with an air of completing the presidential speech. A good editor is worth his weight in pearls.

The photographers' corps retreated in good order and record time.

"For the third and last time will you tell us why you won't let your daughter marry Mr. Rutgers!" asked the _Globe_.

"No."

"Then will you tell us why you won't let Mr. Rutgers marry your daughter?"

Mr. Goodchild was conservative to the last. Too many people who needed money had talked to him in the borrower's tone of voice. He could not grasp the new era. He said, "You infernal blackmailer--"

"Sir," cut in the _Globe_ man, with dignity, "you are positively insulting! Be nice to the other reporters. I thank you for the interview!" He bowed and left the office, followed by all the others except the _Evening Post_ man, who, unfortunately, had never been able to rid himself of the desire to get the facts. It was partly his editor, but mostly the absence of a sense of humor.

"I think, Mr. Goodchild, that you'd better give me an official statement. I'll give the Associated Press man a copy, and that will go to all the papers."

"But I don't want to say anything," protested Mr. Goodchild, who always read the _Post_'s money page.

"The other reporters will say it for you. I think you'd better."

"He's right, Mr. Goodchild," said the vice-president.

"But what the dickens can I say?" queried Mr. Goodchild, helplessly, not daring to look out of the window for fear of seeing the sandwiches.

"If I were you," earnestly advised the _Post_ man, "I'd tell the truth."

"What do you mean?"

"Say why you won't let your daughter--"

"It's preposterous!"

"Say it; but also say why it is preposterous."

Two directors of the bank came in. They were high in high finance. In fact, they _were_ High Finance. They therefore knew only the newspapers of an older generation, as they had proven by their testimony before a Congressional Committee. The older director looked at Mr. Goodchild and began:

"Goodchild, will you tell me why--"

"You, too?" interrupted Mr. Goodchild, reproachfully but respectfully. "First the reporters and now--"

The directors gasped.

"You didn't--actually--talk--for--_publication_?"

They stared at him incredulously.

"No. But I'm thinking of giving out a carefully prepared statement--"

The higher of the high financiers, with the masterfulness that made him richer every panic, assumed supreme command. He turned to the _Post_ man and said: "I'm surprised to see you here. Your paper used to be decent. Mr. Goodchild has nothing to say."

"But--" protested the anguished father of Grace Goodchild.

"You haven't!" declared $100,000,000.

"I have nothing to say!" meekly echoed one-tenth of one hundred.

The _Post_ man walked out with a distinctly editorial stride. He began to envy the yellows and their vulgar editors, as all _Post_ men must at times.

Mr. Goodchild's efforts to suppress the publication of his family affairs were in vain. He unfortunately sought to argue over the telephone with the owners.

The owners spoke to the editors.

"It's _News_!" the editors pointed out.

"It's _News_," the owners regretfully explained to the bank president.

"But it's a crime against decency," said Mr. Goodchild.

"You are right. It's a damned shame. But it's _News_!" said the owners, and hung up.

Mr. Goodchild summoned his lawyer. The lawyer looked grave. He recognized the uselessness of trying to stop the newspapers, and realized that there would be no fat fees, even if he were otherwise successful. He tried to frighten H. R., but was referred to Max Onthemaker, Esquire.

Max Onthemaker, Esquire, was in heaven. He finally had butted into polite society! From the Bowery to Wall Street! At last he was opposed by the very best. A lawyer is known by his opponents!

Mr. Lindsay protested with quite unprofessional heat. It was an outrage.

"_Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur_," Mr. Onthemaker solemnly reminded the leader of the corporation bar. "Also, dear Mr. Lindsay, I am ready to accept service of any paper you may see fit to honor us with. My client means to fight to the bitter end."

"Yes, in the newspapers!" bitterly said the eminent Mr. Lindsay through his clenched teeth.

"And with sandwiches! When we ask for bread you give us a stone. But we give you a sandwich. There's no ground for criminal action in view of the public's frame of mind toward the money power. But if you will sue us for one million dollars damages I'll name my forthcoming baby after you."

Mr. Lindsay hung up with violence, mistaking the telephone-holder for Mr. Onthemaker's cranium.

XIII

The reporters of the conservative journals sought H. R. later in the day--simply because the reporters for the live newspapers did. The system was to blame. A daily paper may eschew vulgarity, but it must not be beaten. By using better grammar and no adjectives they intelligently show they are never sensational.

The newspaper-men confronted H. R. eagerly. It was the day's big story. They asked him about it.

He said to them, very simply, "I love her!"

They wrote it down. He waited until they had finished. Then he went on:

"She is the most beautiful girl in the world--to me. Don't forget that--_to me_!"

Those two words would prevent two million sneers from the other most beautiful girls in the world who at that moment happened to reside in New York. Indeed, all his words would be read aloud to young men by said two million coral lips. Perfect Cupid's bows. She was beautiful--_to him_!

"Her parents oppose my suit," went on H. R., calmly.

"Is this a free country," interjected Max Onthemaker, vehemently, "or are we in Russia? Has Wall Street established morganatic marriages in this Republic, or--"

H. R. held up a quieting hand. Max Onthemaker smiled at the rebuke. Two reporters had taken down his remarks.

"I have told her parents that I propose to marry Miss Goodchild--peacefully. Get that straight, please. Peacefully! I am a law-abiding citizen. She is very beautiful. But I am willing to wait--a few weeks."

"Yes. But the sandwiches," began a reporter who entertained hopes of becoming a Public Utility Corporation's publicity man.

H. R. stopped him with an impressive frown. He cleared his throat.

The reporters felt it coming.

"What I have done--" he began.

"Yes! Yes!"

"--is merely the employment for the first time in history of _psychological sabotage_!"

The reporters, now having the head-line, rushed off. All except one, who whispered to H. R.'s counsel:

"What in blazes _is_ sabotage? How do you spell it?"

"Quit your joking," answered Max. "You know very well what it is. Isn't he a wonder? Psychological sabotage!"

The newspapers gave it space in proportion to the extent of their Wall Street affiliations. The _Evening Post_, having none, came out with an editorial on "Psychological Sabotage." It held up H. R. as a product of the times, made inevitable by T. Roosevelt. The _World_ editorialized on "The Wall Street Spirit _versus_ Love"; the _Times_ wrote about "The Ethics of Modern Courtship"; and the _Sun_ about "The Decay of Manners under the Present Administration and its Mexican Policy." The _American_'s editorial was "Intelligent Eugenics and Unintelligent Wealth."

But all of them quoted "Psychological Sabotage." This made the Socialist papers espouse the cause of H. R.

The _Globe_, however, beat them all. It offered to supply to the young couple, free of charge, a complete kitchen-set and the services of a knot-tier. It printed the names and addresses of sixteen clergymen, two rabbis, three aldermen, and the Mayor of the City of New York.

The Public Sentiment Corps copied two hundred and thirty-eight letters prepared by the boss, praising and condemning H. R. and Mr. Goodchild. This compelled the newspapers that received the letters to run Grace's portrait daily--a new photograph each time.

As for Grace herself, crowds followed her. She could not go into a restaurant without making all heads turn in her direction. People even stopped dancing when they saw her. And six of New York's bluest-blooded heiresses became her inseparable companions. They also had their pictures printed.

Grace hated all this notoriety. She said so, at times. But her friends soothed her and developed the habit of looking pleasantly at cameras.

H. R. on the third day sent all the clippings to Grace with beautiful flowers and a note:

_For your sake!_

One of Grace's friends asked to be allowed to keep the note. It reminded her, she said, of the early Christians; also of the days of knighthood.

The commercial phase of the mission of the Society of American Sandwich Artists had become in the meanwhile a matter of real importance to the business world. Business men, not being artists, are stupid because they deal with money-profits, and they are imitative because money-making in the ultimate analysis is never original. When the merchants of New York perceived that Fifth Avenue had sanctified sandwiching by paying cash for it, and that the better shops elsewhere had perforce resorted to it, they accepted it as one of the conditions of modern merchandising. It did not become a fad, but worse--an imagined necessity and, as such, an institution. The little Valiquet-made statuettes of the Ultimate Sandwich sold by the thousands, greatly adding to the personal assets of the secretary and treasurer of the society. And what New York did, other cities wished to do.

Then the blow fell!

On the same day that H. R. sent his early Christian message to Grace, Andrew Barrett reported that while some of the streets were almost impassable for the multitude of sandwiches, the greater part of the latter, alas! were _non-union men_!

"They are using their porters and janitors to carry boards," said Andrew Barrett, bitterly. "I tell you, H. R., this is a crisis!"

H. R., thinking of Grace, nodded absently and said, "Send for Onthemaker."

Max came on the run. Nearly three days had elapsed without a front-page paragraph for him.

Barrett told him about the crisis. Their idea had been stolen and utilized by unscrupulous merchants who were sandwiching without permission and using scabs.

"I get you," said Max Onthemaker. Then he turned to the chief and told him:

"H. R., you've got to do something to make George G. Goodchild sue you for a million dollars." He had drawn and kept ready for use sixty-three varieties of restraining orders, writs, etc.

"What's that got to do with our--" began Andrew Barrett, impatiently.

"Certainly!" cut in Mr. Onthemaker. "We must fight Capital with its own weapon. The Money Power is great on injunctions. I wish to say that when it comes to injunctions I've got Wall Street gasping for breath and--"

"Yes, but what about the scabs? Can't you stop 'em?" persisted Barrett.

The future of the Barrett Itinerant Advertising Agency was at stake.

"Sure! We can hire strong-arm--"

"No!" said H. R., decisively.

Andrew Barrett, who had begun to look hopeful, frowned at his leader's negative, and said, desperately, "Something has got to be done!"

When human beings say "Something" in that tone of voice they mean dynamite by proxy.

"Certainly!" agreed H. R., absently, his mind still on Grace.

Andrew Barrett stifled a groan. He whispered to Max, "It's the girl!"

Max looked alarmed, then hopeful. Grace was almost as much News as H. R. himself.

Andrew Barrett turned to H. R., and said, reproachfully:

"Here we've made sandwiching what it is, and these infernal tightwads--"

"That's the word, Barrett," cut in H. R. "Go to it, my son!"

"How do you mean?" asked Barrett.

"Advertise in all the papers, morning and evening."

Young Mr. Barrett stared at him, then he shook his head, tapped it with his knuckles, and confessed: "Solid!"

"_Give me a pencil!_" said H. R. It sounded like "Fix bayonets!"

"Nothing," Mr. Onthemaker permitted himself to observe, judicially, "is so conducive to front-page publicity as intelligent violence. This is not a strike, but a cause. Look at the militants--"

"There is something in that," admitted A. Barrett.

"There is something," said H. R., gently, "in everything, even in Max's cranium. But, this is not a matter of principle, but of making money."

"But if you first establish--"

"No," interrupted H. R. "If you make money, the principle establishes itself. The situation does not call for a flash of inspiration, but for common sense. Listen carefully: Nothing is so timid as Capital!"

He looked at them as if further talk were redundant, superfluous, unnecessary, a waste of time, and an insult.

"Well?" said Barrett, forgetting himself and speaking impatiently.

"Utilize it. Treat it as you would a problem in mathematics. You start with an axiom. Build on it. Capital is timid. Therefore, people who have money never do anything original; that is to say, venturesome; that is to say, courageous. All new enterprises are begun and carried through by people who have no money of their own to lose. I, single-handed, could defeat an army commanded by Alexander, Caesar, Napoleon, and U. S. Grant, if I could put into the pockets of each of the enemy's private soldiers six dollars in cash. No man likes to be killed with money in his clothes. Money is fear! Fear is unreasoning. I am opposed to injecting fear into the situation. No, sir; instead, we must capitalize another human force. Have this printed. Big blank margin. All the papers."

He gave them what he had written:

TO THE PUBLIC

We are Union Men but we are for Peace.

We do not hate scabs: we pity them!

We do _not_ pity Tightwads who make scabs possible.

We made Sandwiching an Art, also an Honorable Occupation.

We feed our hungry men out of our Hunger Fund. Those who work support those who can't, until they in turn find work.

We ask for living wages, but also for the respect of the public.

Our Emblem is the Sign of the Ultimate Sandwich.

Every time you see a Sandwich-Board without it you may be sure it belongs to a merchant who skimps his Advertising Appropriation.

If he skimps in that, what won't he skimp in?

How about the _quality_ of his goods and his _values_?

We advertise the High-class Trade, honest advertisers who skimp in nothing to please the public.

No merchant can misrepresent his goods through us.

We do not Advertise Frauds nor Misers.

We could frighten off the Poor Men whose hunger makes scabs of them.

We would have the approval of the Labor Organizations and of the thinking public.

_But we are for the Law!_

They can join our Union if they wish.

There is no Initiation Fee.

There is no compulsion to join.

They are American Citizens!

_So Are We!_

The Tightwad Merchant may not be Dishonest. But--

The Public Must Judge--Calmly.

Look for the Ultimate Sandwich in all signs!

American Society of Sandwich Artists. H. R., _Sec._

WE NEVER SOLICIT SUBSCRIPTIONS!

Andrew Barrett read it. His jaw dropped and he stared at H. R. Then he declared with conviction:

"Next to the Gettysburg address, this! WE--NEV-ER--SO-LI-CIT--SUB-SCRIP-TIONS! Where does it all come from?"

H. R. solemnly pointed to the ceiling of his office, meaning thereby, like most Americans, heaven. Max Onthemaker looked at him dubiously, the Deity being extra-judicial. Then he shook his head uncertainly. History had told of Peter the Hermit, Mohammed, and others. It was a familiar hypothesis.

The public, when it read in the newspapers that these poor men did not believe in killing scabs, but hated tightwads and never asked for subscriptions, unmistakably and unreservedly espoused their cause. The man who skimped was the common foe of the free citizen. They wrote letters to the newspapers.

So did the Public Sentiment Corps.

To hate tightwads and never to ask for subscriptions were admirable American traits. Christian merchants and even heretics in trade called them Virtues!

Big business took the trouble to tell the reporters that this was the kind of labor organization everybody could approve of. It was a check to Socialism. Big business believes in some kinds of checks.

The labor organizations could not condemn a union. They said they also were for peace and against the wretches who capitalized the hunger of their fellows.

In twenty-four hours the scab-users surrendered!

More clippings for Grace.

The Society of American Sandwich Artists prudently leased three more offices and prepared for the rush. It came. Orders poured in from scores of merchants. The premises were so crowded with men both with and without sandwich-boards that the other tenants complained.

The agent of the Allied Arts Building requested H. R. to vacate. He requested it three times an hour, from nine to six.

"The other tenants object to your sandwiches," the agent explained to H. R.

"Let 'em move out. We'll take the whole building--at a fair concession.

"Move out yourself!" shrieked the agent.

"See our lawyer," said H. R., and turned his back on the agent.

The agent called on Mr. Onthemaker.

"Fifty thousand dollars!" said Max.

The agent fled, holding his watch in place.

In the mean time the treasury of the society was growing apace. H. R. transferred his account. He now deposited the funds with the National Bank of the Avenue.

The president, Mr. Wyman, told Mr. Goodchild about it. Mr. Goodchild, who had turned red as H. R.'s name was mentioned by a highly esteemed colleague, looked thoughtful--he might have had the account.

XIV

In the very hour of his great success H. R. suddenly was thus confronted by the greatest menace to a political career--wealth!

In one morning's mail he received three hundred and eighty-four offers to become the advertising Napoleon of national concerns; no limit to the advertising appropriations. He added up the aggregate offers of salary and maximum commissions.

His income, if he accepted all the offers, would amount to $614,500 per annum.

So great is the danger and so widely recognized is it that nobody is worthy of respect until he is threatened by wealth with wealth.

Should H. R. accept greatness to-day and let to-morrow bring the littleness?

He did not reply to his correspondents. He thus went up in their estimation. To refuse to take money is something. To refuse even to refuse it is everything!

He prepared a memorandum containing all the offers he had received, with the sum total of same, and sent the originals of the letters and telegrams to Mr. Goodchild.

His only comment, in careless lead-pencil, was what it should be:

"_Not enough!_"

He knew Mr. Goodchild would speak about it. How could Mr. Goodchild help it? Didn't $614,500 begin with a $?

But H. R. did not think of what he had not done, not even of what he had done, but of what he would do. Doers of deeds always think that way. To them yesterday is as dead as Caesar. To-day is settled. To-morrow alone is greater opportunity!

He therefore thought of himself. That made him think of Grace.

He had no illusions about himself, but, what was far more intelligent, he had none about anybody else. He was aware that already the world was divided in their opinion of him. To some he was a humbug, to others a crank; to some a genius, to a few a dangerous demagogue.

People respect what they fear. Fear always puts humanity in the attitude of a rat in a corner. That is why people with a passion for making money naturally think of corners.

To make millions of men follow is to make millions of dollars shake.

But his was an infinitely more difficult problem. How to become the fear of the rich and at the same time be respected by the best element? He had no precedents by which to guide his steps, no example that he might modernize and follow.

He reduced the problem to its simplest form? To bring this about he would preach Brotherhood.

To stop the mouths that thereupon would call him Socialist he would cover his effort.

Then, in the chemical reactions of his mind, something flashed! He would do something to attract the best element. That would bring in the mob. What begins by being fashionable always ends by being popular. Nobody had ever thought of making goodness a fad. Hence, poverty, and therefore wealth!

He would take the first step that night.

About 11 P.M. an excited feminine voice, without the slightest trace of Yiddish--indeed, more fashionable than a Fifth Avenue voice ever dared to be--called up, one after another, the city editors of the best papers and asked:

"Is it true that Grace Goodchild has eloped with Hendrik Rutgers?"

"We had not heard that--"

"It is not true! _It is not true!_" shrieked the voice in the highest pitch of dismay and rang on.

Having been told that it was not true, the city editors, after vainly trying to get the speaker again, honorably called up the Goodchild residence.

Nobody home!

That was enough corroboration for any intelligent man, but the city editors despatched their most reliable reporters to the former residence of the bride. Being prudent men, the editors prepared the photographs, and the head-line was all a matter of final punctuation:

MISS GOODCHILD ELOPES

It remained for the make-up man to put a "!" or a "?" after "ELOPES."

The reporters could not get to either Mr. or Mrs. Goodchild or to H. R. or Grace. The papers therefore did not say that the young people, whose courtship was a Fifth Avenue romance, had eloped. That might not be true. But they printed Grace's photographs and H. R.'s and reviewed H. R.'s meteoric career and called the rumor a rumor. That was common sense.

Also, all the newspapers spoke about the Montagues and the Capulets. At about 2.30 A.M. the reporters returned with expurgated versions of Mr. Goodchild's denial. But the pages were cast. The late city editions honorably printed:

Mr. Goodchild, when seen early this morning, denied the rumor.

It was thus, at one stroke, that the nuptials of Grace Goodchild and H. R. were definitely placed among the probabilities. The average New-Yorker now knew it was only a matter of days.

XV

H. R. dressed to resemble an undertaker, but wearing a beautiful orchid to show he did not do it for a living, called a taxicab, drove to the Diocesan House and sent in his card to the Bishop of New York.

The Bishop was a judge of cards. He therefore received H. R. in his study instead of the general waiting-room of which the decorative scheme consisted of "In His Name" in old English and therefore safe from perusal. It might as well have been, "Be Brief!"

"How do you do, Bishop Phillipson?" And H. R. held out his hand with such an air of affectionate respect that the Bishop was sure he had confirmed this distinguished-looking young man.

But the head of the diocese has to know more than theology. Therefore the Bishop answered, very politely:

"I am very well, thank you."

"Did you recognize the name?" modestly asked H. R.

"Oh yes," said the Bishop, who recently had read about some meeting in Rutgers Square and therefore remembered Rutgers.

He was a fine figure of a man with clean-cut features and a look of kindliness so subtly professional as to keep it from being indiscriminatingly benevolent; a good-natured man rather than a strong. One might imagine that he made friends easily, but none could visualize him as a Crusader. He was cursed with an orator's voice, sensitive ears, and the love of words.