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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/12677-0.txt b/12677-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4f923e3 --- /dev/null +++ b/12677-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3343 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12677 *** + + [Illustration: "'What is this anyway? A George Cohan comedy?'"] + + +PERSONALITY PLUS + + SOME EXPERIENCES OF EMMA McCHESNEY + AND HER SON, JOCK + + +By + +EDNA FERBER + +AUTHOR OF "DAWN O'HARA," "BUTTERED SIDE DOWN," +"ROAST BEEF, MEDIUM," ETC. + + +_WITH FIFTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS BY +JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG_ + + +NEW YORK +FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY +1914 + + + + +CONTENTS + + +CHAPTER + I. MAKING GOOD WITH MOTHER + + II. PERSONALITY PLUS + +III. DICTATED BUT NOT READ + + IV. THE MAN WITHIN HIM + + V. THE SELF-STARTER + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + +"'What is this anyway? A George Cohan comedy?'" _Frontispiece_ + +"'You're a jealous blond,' he laughed" + +"He was the concentrated essence of do-it-now" + +"'Hi! Hold that pose!' called Von Herman" + +"With a jolt Jock realized she had forgotten all about him" + +"'Well, raw-thah!' he drawled" + +"... became in some miraculous way a little boy again" + +"Jock McChesney began to carry a yellow walking stick down to +work" + +"'Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't mean it, but--'" + +"'Greetings!'" + +"She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and looked up into the +sullen, angry young face" + +"He made straight for the main desk with its battalion of clerks" + +"'Let's not waste any time,' he said" + +"He found his mother on the floor ... surrounded by piles of +pajamas, socks, shirts and collars" + +"'Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?'" + + + + + +PERSONALITY PLUS + + + + +I + +MAKING GOOD WITH MOTHER + + +When men began to build cities vertically instead of horizontally +there passed from our highways a picturesque figure, and from our +language an expressive figure of speech. That oily-tongued, +persuasive, soft-stepping stranger in the rusty Prince Albert and +the black string tie who had been wont to haunt our back steps and +front offices with his carefully wrapped bundle, retreated in +bewildered defeat before the clanging blows of steel on steel that +meant the erection of the first twenty-story skyscraper. "As +slick," we used to say, "as a lightning-rod agent." Of what use +his wares on a building whose tower was robed in clouds and which +used the chain lightning for a necklace? The Fourth Avenue antique +dealer had another curio to add to his collection of andirons, +knockers, snuff boxes and warming pans. + +But even as this quaint figure vanished there sprang up a new and +glittering one to take his place. He stood framed in the great +plate-glass window of the very building which had brought about +the defeat of his predecessor. A miracle of close shaving his face +was, and a marvel of immaculateness his linen. Dapper he was, and +dressy, albeit inclined to glittering effects and a certain +plethory at the back of the neck. Back of him stood shining shapes +that reflected his glory in enamel, and brass, and glass. His +language was floral, but choice; his talk was of gearings and +bearings and cylinders and magnetos; his method differed from that +of him who went before as the method of a skilled aëronaut differs +from that of the man who goes over Niagara in a barrel. And as he +multiplied and spread over the land we coined a new figure of +speech. "Smooth!" we chuckled. "As smooth as an automobile +salesman." + +But even as we listened, fascinated by his fluent verbiage there +grew within us a certain resentment. Familiarity with his +glittering wares bred a contempt of them, so that he fell to +speaking of them as necessities instead of luxuries. He juggled +figures, and thought nothing of four of them in a row. We looked +at our five-thousand-dollar salary, so strangely shrunken and thin +now, and even as we looked we saw that the method of the unctuous, +anxious stranger had become antiquated in its turn. + +Then from his ashes emerged a new being. Neither urger nor +spellbinder he. The twentieth century was stamped across his brow, +and on his lips was ever the word "Service." Silent, courteous, +watchful, alert, he listened, while you talked. His method, in +turn, made that of the silk-lined salesman sound like the hoarse +hoots of the ballyhoo man at a county fair. Blithely he accepted +five hundred thousand dollars and gave in return--a promise. And +when we would search our soul for a synonym to express all that +was low-voiced, and suave, and judicious, and patient, and sure, +we began to say, "As alert as an advertising expert." + +Jock McChesney, looking as fresh and clear-eyed as only twenty-one +and a cold shower can make one look, stood in the doorway of his +mother's bedroom. His toilette had halted abruptly at the +bathrobe stage. One of those bulky garments swathed his slim +figure, while over his left arm hung a gray tweed Norfolk coat. +From his right hand dangled a pair of trousers, in pattern a +modish black-and-white. + +Jock regarded the gray garment on his arm with moody eyes. + +"Well, I'd like to know what's the matter with it!" he demanded, a +trifle irritably. + +Emma McChesney, in the act of surveying her back hair in the +mirror, paused, hand glass poised half way, to regard her son. + +"All right," she answered cheerfully. "I'll tell you. It's too +young." + +"Young!" He held it at arm's length and stared at it. "What d'you +mean--young?" + +Emma McChesney came forward, wrapping the folds of her kimono +about her. She took the disputed garment in one hand and held it +aloft. "I know that you look like a man on a magazine cover in it. +But Norfolk suits spell tennis, and seashore, and elegant leisure. +And you're going out this morning, Son, to interview business men. +You're going to try to impress the advertising world with the fact +that it needs your expert services. You walk into a business +office in a Norfolk suit, and everybody from the office boy to the +president of the company will ask you what your score is." + +She tossed it back over his arm. + +"I'll wear the black and white," said Jock resignedly, and turned +toward his own room. At his doorway he paused and raised his voice +slightly: "For that matter, they're looking for young men. +Everybody's young. Why, the biggest men in the advertising game +are just kids." He disappeared within his room, still talking. +"Look at McQuirk, advertising manager of the Combs Car Company. +He's so young he has to disguise himself in bone-trimmed +eye-glasses with a black ribbon to get away with it. Look at +Hopper, of the Berg, Shriner Company. Pulls down ninety thousand a +year, and if he's thirty-five I'll--" + +"Well, you asked my advice," interrupted his mother's voice with +that muffled effect which is caused by a skirt being slipped over +the head, "and I gave it. Wear a white duck sailor suit with blue +anchors and carry a red tin pail and a shovel, if you want to look +young. Only get into it in a jiffy, Son, because breakfast will be +ready in ten minutes. I can tell by the way Annie's crashing the +cups. So step lively if you want to pay your lovely mother's +subway fare." + +Ten minutes later the slim young figure, in its English-fitting +black and white, sat opposite Emma McChesney at the breakfast +table and between excited gulps of coffee outlined a meteoric +career in his chosen field. And the more he talked and the rosier +his figures of speech became, the more silent and thoughtful fell +his mother. She wondered if five o'clock would find a droop to the +set of those young shoulders; if the springy young legs in their +absurdly scant modish trousers would have lost some of their +elasticity; if the buoyant step in the flat-heeled shoes would not +drag a little. Thirteen years of business experience had taught +her to swallow smilingly the bitter pill of rebuff. But this boy +was to experience his first dose to-day. She felt again that +sensation of almost physical nausea--that sickness of heart and +spirit which had come over her when she had met her first sneer +and intolerant shrug. It had been her maiden trip on the road for +the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. She was secretary of +that company now, and moving spirit in its policy. But the wound +of that first insult still ached. A word from her would have +placed the boy and saved him from curt refusals. She withheld that +word. He must fight his fight alone. + +"I want to write the kind of ad," Jock was saying excitedly, "that +you see 'em staring at in the subways, and street cars and +L-trains. I want to sit across the aisle and watch their up-turned +faces staring at that oblong, and reading it aloud to each other." + +"Isn't that an awfully obvious necktie you're wearing, Jock?" +inquired his mother irrelevantly. + +"This? You ought to see some of them. This is a Quaker stock in +comparison." He glanced down complacently at the vivid-hued silken +scarf that the season's mode demanded. Immediately he was off +again. "And the first thing you know, Mrs. McChesney, ma'am, we'll +have a motor truck backing up at the door once a month and six +strong men carrying my salary to the freight elevator in sacks." + +Emma McChesney buttered her bit of toast, then looked up to remark +quietly: + +"Hadn't you better qualify for the trial heats, Jock, before you +jump into the finals?" + +"Trial heats!" sneered Jock. "They're poky. I want real money. +Now! It isn't enough to be just well-to-do in these days. It needs +money. I want to be rich! Not just prosperous, but rich! So rich +that I can let the bath soap float around in the water without any +pricks of conscience. So successful that they'll say, 'And he's a +mere boy, too. Imagine!'" + +And, "Jock dear," Emma McChesney said, "you've still to learn that +plans and ambitions are like soap bubbles. The harder you blow and +the more you inflate them, the quicker they burst. Plans and +ambitions are things to be kept locked away in your heart, Son, +with no one but yourself to take an occasional peep at them." + +Jock leaned over the table, with his charming smile. "You're a +jealous blonde," he laughed. "Because I'm going to be a captain of +finance--an advertising wizard; you're afraid I'll grab the glory +all away from you." + + [Illustration: "'You're a jealous blond,' he said"] + +Mrs. McChesney folded her napkin and rose. She looked unbelievably +young, and trim, and radiant, to be the mother of this boasting +boy. + +"I'm not afraid," she drawled, a wicked little glint in her blue +eyes. "You see, they'll only regard your feats and say, 'H'm, no +wonder. He ought to be able to sell ice to an Eskimo. His mother +was Emma McChesney.'" + +And then, being a modern mother, she donned smart autumn hat and +tailored suit coat and stood ready to reach her office by +nine-thirty. But because she was as motherly as she was modern she +swung open the door between kitchen and dining-room to advise with +Annie, the adept. + +"Lamb chops to-night, eh, Annie? And sweet potatoes. Jock loves +'em. And corn au gratin and some head lettuce." She glanced toward +Jock in the hallway, then lowered her voice. "Annie," she teased, +"just give us one of your peach cobblers, will you? You see +he--he's going to be awfully--tired when he gets home." + +So they went stepping off to work together, mother and son. A +mother of twenty-five years before would have watched her son +with tear-dimmed eyes from the vine-wreathed porch of a cottage. +There was no watching a son from the tenth floor of an up-town +apartment house. Besides, she had her work to do. The subway +swallowed both of them. Together they jostled and swung their way +down-town in the close packed train. At the Twenty-third Street +station Jock left her. + +"You'll have dinner to-night with a full-fledged professional +gent," he bragged, in his youth and exuberance and was off down +the aisle and out on the platform. Emma McChesney managed to turn +in her nine-inch space of train seat so that she watched the slim, +buoyant young figure from the window until the train drew away and +he was lost in the stairway jam. Just so Rachel had watched the +boy Joseph go to meet the Persian caravans in the desert. + +"Don't let them buffalo you, Jock," Emma had said, just before he +left her. "They'll try it. If they give you a broom and tell you +to sweep down the back stairs, take it, and sweep, and don't +forget the corners. And if, while you're sweeping, you notice that +that kind of broom isn't suited to the stairs go in and suggest a +new kind. They'll like it." + +Brooms and back stairways had no place in Jock McChesney's mind as +the mahogany and gold elevator shot him up to the fourteenth floor +of the great office building that housed the Berg, Shriner +Company. Down the marble hallway he went and into the reception +room. A cruel test it was, that reception room, with the cruelty +peculiar to the modern in business. With its soft-shaded lamp, its +two-toned rug, its Jacobean chairs, its magazine-laden cathedral +oak table, its pot of bright flowers making a smart touch of color +in the somber richness of the room, it was no place for the +shabby, the down-and-out, the cringing, the rusty, or the +mendicant. + +Jock McChesney, from the tips of his twelve-dollar shoes to his +radiant face, took the test and stood it triumphantly. He had +entered with an air in which was mingled the briskness of +assurance with the languor of ease. There were times when Jock +McChesney was every inch the son of his mother. + +There advanced toward Jock a large, plump, dignified personage, a +personage courteous, yet reserved, inquiring, yet not offensively +curious--a very Machiavelli of reception-room ushers. Even while +his lips questioned, his eyes appraised clothes, character, +conduct. + +"Mr. Hupp, please," said Jock, serene in the perfection of his +shirt, tie, collar and scarf pin, upon which the appraising eye +now rested. "Mr. McChesney." He produced a card. + +"Appointment?" + +"No--but he'll see me." + +But Machiavelli had seen too many overconfident callers. Their +very confidence had taught him caution. + +"If you will please state your--ah--business--" + +Jock smiled a little patient smile and brushed an imaginary fleck +of dust from the sleeve of his very correct coat. + +"I want to ask him for a job as office boy," he jibed. + +An answering grin overspread the fat features of the usher. Even +an usher likes his little joke. The sense of humor dies hard. + +"I have a letter from him, asking me to call," said Jock, to +clinch it. + +"This way." The keeper of the door led Jock toward the sacred +inner portal and held it open. "Mr. Hupp's is the last door to the +right." + +The door closed behind him. Jock found himself in the big, busy, +light-flooded central office. Down either side of the great room +ran a row of tiny private offices, each partitioned off, each +outfitted with desk, and chairs, and a big, bright window. On his +way to the last door at the right Jock glanced into each tiny +office, glimpsing busy men bent absorbedly over papers, girls busy +with dictation, here and there a door revealing two men, or three, +deep in discussion of a problem, heads close together, voices +low, faces earnest. It came suddenly to the smartly modish, +overconfident boy walking the length of the long room that +the last person needed in this marvelously perfected and +smooth-running organization was a somewhat awed young man named +Jock McChesney. There came to him that strange sensation which +comes to every job-hunter; that feeling of having his spiritual +legs carry him out of the room, past the door, down the hall and +into the street, even as, in reality, they bore him on to the very +presence which he dreaded and yet wished to see. + +Two steps more, and he stood in the last doorway, right. No +matinee idol, nervously awaiting his cue in the wings, could have +planned his entrance more carefully than Jock had planned this. +Ease was the thing; ease, bordering on nonchalance, mixed with a +brisk and businesslike assurance. + +The entrance was lost on the man at the desk. He did not even look +up. If Jock had entered on all-fours, doing a double tango to +vocal accompaniment, it is doubtful if the man at the desk would +have looked up. Pencil between his fingers, head held a trifle to +one side in critical contemplation of the work before him, eyes +narrowed judicially, lips pursed, he was the concentrated essence +of do-it-now. + + [Illustration: "He was the concentrated essence of do-it-now"] + +Jock waited a moment, in silence. The man at the desk worked on. +His head was semi-bald. Jock knew him to be thirty. Jock fixed his +eye on the semi-bald spot and spoke. + +"My name's McChesney," he began. "I wrote you three days ago; you +probably will remember. You replied, asking me to call, and I--" + +"Minute," exploded the man at the desk, still absorbed. + +Jock faltered, stopped. The man at the desk did not look up. A +moment of silence, except for the sound of the busy pencil +traveling across the paper. Jock, glaring at the semi-bald spot, +spoke again. + +"Of course, Mr. Hupp, if you're too busy to see me--" + +"M-m-m-m," a preoccupied hum, such as a busy man makes when he is +trying to give attention to two interests. + +"--why I suppose there's no sense in staying; but it seems to me +that common courtesy--" + +The busy pencil paused, quivered in the making of a final period, +enclosed the dot in a proofreader's circle, and rolled away across +the desk, its work done. + +"Now," said Sam Hupp, and swung around, smiling, to face the +affronted Jock. "I had to get that out. They're waiting for it." +He pressed a desk button. "What can I do for you? Sit down, sit +down." + +There was a certain abrupt geniality about him. His +tortoise-rimmed glasses gave him an oddly owlish look, like a +small boy taking liberties with grandfather's spectacles. + +Jock found himself sitting down, his anger slipping from him. + +"My name's McChesney," he began. "I'm here because I want to work +for this concern." He braced himself to present the convincing, +reason-why arguments with which he had prepared himself. + +Whereupon Sam Hupp, the brisk, proceeded to whisk his breath and +arguments away with an unexpected: + +"All right. What do you want to do?" + +Jock's mouth fell open. "Do!" he stammered. "Do! Why--anything--" + +Sam Hupp's quick eye swept over the slim, attractive, radiant, +correctly-garbed young figure before him. Unconsciously he rubbed +his bald spot with a rueful hand. + +"Know anything about writing, or advertising?" + +Jock was at ease immediately. "Quite a lot; yes. I practically +rewrote the Gridiron play that we gave last year, and I was +assistant advertising manager of the college publications for +two years. That gives a fellow a pretty broad knowledge of +advertising." + +"Oh, Lord!" groaned Sam Hupp, and covered his eyes with his hand, +as if in pain. + +Jock stared. The affronted feeling was returning. Sam Hupp +recovered himself and smiled a little wistfully. + +"McChesney, when I came up here twelve years ago I got a job as +reception-room usher. A reception-room usher is an office boy in +long pants. Sometimes, when I'm optimistic, I think that if I live +twelve years longer I'll begin to know something about the +rudiments of this game." + +"Oh, of course," began Jock, apologetically. But Hupp's glance was +over his head. Involuntarily Jock turned to follow the direction +of his eyes. + +"Busy?" said a voice from the doorway. + +"Come in, Dutch! Come in!" boomed Hupp. + +The man who entered was of the sort that the boldest might well +hesitate to address as "Dutch"--a tall, slim, elegant figure, +Van-dyked, bronzed. + +"McChesney, this is Von Herman, head of our art department." + +Their hands met in a brief clasp. Von Herman's thoughts were +evidently elsewhere. + +"Just wanted to tell you that that cussed model's skipped out. +Gone with a show. Just when I had the whole series blocked out in +my mind. He was a wonder. No brains, but a marvel for looks and +style. These people want real stuff. Don't know how I'm going to +give it to them now." + +Hupp sat up. "Got to!" he snapped. "Campaign's late, as it is. +Can't you get an ordinary man model and fake the Greek god +beauty?" + +"Yes--but it'll look faked. If I could lay my hands on a chap who +could wear clothes as if they belonged to him--" + +Hupp rose. "Here's your man," he cried, with a snap of his +fingers. "Clothes! Look at him. He invented 'em. Why, you could +photograph him and he'd look like a drawing." + +Von Herman turned, surprised, incredulous, hopeful, his artist eye +brightening at the ease and grace and modishness of the smart, +well-knit figure before him. + +"Me!" exploded Jock, his face suffused with a dull, painful red. +"Me! Pose! For a clothing ad!" + +"Well," Hupp reminded him, "you said you'd do anything." + +Jock McChesney glared belligerently. Hupp returned the stare with +a faint gleam of amusement shining behind the absurd glasses. The +amused look changed to surprise as he beheld the glare in Jock's +eyes fading. For even as he glared there had come a warning to +Jock--a warning sent just in time from that wireless station +located in his subconscious mind. A vivid face, full of pride, and +hope, and encouragement flashed before him. + +"Jock," it said, "don't let 'em buffalo you. They'll try it. If +they give you a broom and tell you to sweep down the back +stairs--" + +Jock was smiling his charming, boyish smile. + +"Lead me to your north light," he laughed at Von Herman. "Got any +Robert W. Chambers's heroines tucked away there?" + +Hupp's broad hand came down on his shoulder with a thwack. "That's +the spirit, McChesney! That's the--" He stopped, abruptly. "Say, +are you related to Mrs. Emma McChesney, of the Featherloom Skirt +Company?" + +"Slightly. She's my one and only mother." + +"She--you mean--her son! Well I'll be darned!" He held out his +hand to Jock. "If you're a real son of your mother I wish you'd +just call the office boy as you step down the hall with Von Herman +and tell him to bring me a hammer and a couple of spikes. I'd +better nail down my desk." + +"I'll promise not to crowd you for a year or two," grinned Jock +from the doorway, and was off with the pleased Von Herman. + +Past the double row of beehives again, into the elevator, out +again, up a narrow iron stairway, into a busy, cluttered, +skylighted room. Pictures, posters, photographs hung all about. +Some of the pictures Jock recognized as old friends that had gazed +familiarly at him from subway trains and street cars and theater +programmes. Golf clubs, tennis rackets, walking sticks, billiard +cues were stacked up in corners. And yet there was a bare and +orderly look about the place. Two silent, shirt-sleeved men were +busy at drawing boards. Through a doorway beyond Jock could see +others similarly engaged in the next room. On a platform in one +corner of the room posed a young man in one of those costumes the +coat of which is a mongrel mixture of cutaway and sack. You see +them worn by clergymen with unsecular ideas in dress, and by the +leader of the counterfeiters' gang in the moving pictures. The +pose was that met with in the backs of magazines--the head lifted, +eyes fixed on an interesting object unseen, one arm crooked to +hold a cane, one foot advanced, the other trailing slightly to +give a Fifth Avenue four o'clock air. His face was expressionless. +On his head was a sadly unironed silk hat. + +Von Herman glanced at the drawing tacked to the board of one of +the men. "That'll do, Flynn," he said to the model. He glanced +again at the drawing. "Bring out the hat a little more, Mack. They +won't burnish it if you don't,"--to the artist. Then, turning +about, "Where's that girl?" + +From a far corner, sheltered by long green curtains, stepped a +graceful almost childishly slim figure in a bronze-green Norfolk +suit and close-fitting hat from beneath which curled a fluff of +bright golden hair. Von Herman stared at her. + +"You're not the girl," he said. "You won't do." + +"You sent for me," retorted the girl. "I'm Miss Michelin--Gelda +Michelin. I posed for you six months ago, but I've been out of +town with the show since then." + +Von Herman, frowning, opened a table drawer, pulled out a card +index, ran his long fingers through it and extracted a card. He +glanced at it, and then, the frown deepening, read it aloud. + +"'Michelin, Gelda. Telephone Bryant 4759. Brunette. Medium build. +Good neck and eyes. Good figure. Good clothes.'" + +He glanced up. "Well?" + +"That's me," said Miss Michelin calmly. "I've got the same +telephone number and eyes and neck and clothes. Of course my hair +is different and I am thinner, but that's business. I'd like to +know what chance a fat girl would have in the chorus these days." + +Von Herman groaned. "I'll pay you for the time you've waited and +for your trouble. Can't use you for these pictures." Then as she +left he turned a comically despairing face to the two men at the +drawing boards. "What are we going to do? We've got to make a +start on these pictures and everything has gone wrong. They want +something special. Two figures, young man and woman. Said +expressly they didn't want a chicken. No romping curls and none of +that eyes and lips fool-girl stuff. This chap's ideal for the +man." He pointed to Jock. + +Jock had been staring, fascinated, at the shaded, zigzag marks +which the artist--dark-skinned, velvet-eyed, foreign-looking +youth--was making on the sheet of paper before him. He had +scarcely glanced up during the entire scene. Now he looked briefly +and coolly at Jock. + +"Where did you get him?" he asked, with the precise enunciation of +the foreign-born. "Good figure. And he wears his clothes not like +a cab driver, as the others do." + +"Thanks," drawled Jock, flushing a little. Then, boyish curiosity +getting the better of him, "Say, tell me, what in the world are +you doing to that drawing?" + +He of the velvety eyes smiled a twisted little smile. His slim +brown fingers never stopped in their work of guiding the pen in +its zigzag path. + +"It is work," he sneered, "to delight the soul of an artist. I am +now engaged in the pleasing task of putting the bones in a +herringbone suit." + +But Jock did not smile. Here was another man, he thought, who had +been given a broom and told to sweep down the stairway. + +Von Herman was regarding him almost wistfully. "I hate to let you +slip," he said. Then, his face brightening, "By Jove! I wonder if +Miss Galt would pose for us if we told her what a fix we were in." + +He picked up the telephone receiver. "Miss Galt, please," he said. +Then, aside, "Of course it's nerve to ask a girl who's earning +three thousand a year to leave her desk and come up and pose +for--Hello! Miss Galt?" + +Jock, seated on the edge of the models' platform, was beginning to +enjoy himself. Even this end of the advertising business had its +interesting side, he thought. Ten minutes later he knew it had. + +Ten minutes later there appeared Miss Galt. Jock left off +swinging his legs from the platform and stood up. Miss Galt was +that kind of girl. Smooth black hair parted and coiled low as only +an exquisitely shaped head can dare to wear its glory-crown. A +face whose expression was sweetly serious in spite of its youth. A +girl whose clothes were the sort of clothes that girls ought to +wear in offices, and don't. + +"This is mighty good of you, Miss Galt," began Von Herman. "It's +the Kool Komfort Klothes Company's summer campaign stuff. We'll +only need you for an hour or so--to get the expression and general +outline. Poster stuff, really. Then this young man will pose for +the summer union suit pictures." + +"Don't apologize," said Miss Galt. "We had a hard enough time to +get that Kool Komfort account. We don't want to start wrong with +the pictures. Besides, I think posing's real fun." + +Jock thought so too, quite suddenly. Just as suddenly Von Herman +remembered the conventions and introduced them. + +"McChesney?" repeated Miss Galt, crisply. "I know a Mrs. +McChesney, of the T.A. Buck--" + +"My mother," proudly. + +"Your mother! Then why--" She stopped. + +"Because," said Jock, "I'm the rawest rooky in the Berg, Shriner +Company. And when I begin to realize what I don't know about +advertising I'll probably want to plunge off the Palisades." + +Miss Galt smiled up at him, her clear, frank eyes meeting his. + +"You'll win," she said. + +"Even if I lose--I win now," said Jock, suddenly audacious. + +"Hi! Hold that pose!" called Von Herman, happily. + + [Illustration: "'Hi! Hold that pose!' called Von Herman"] + + + + +II + +PERSONALITY PLUS + +There are seven stages in the evolution of that individual whose +appearance is the signal for a listless "Who-do-you-want-to-see?" +from the white-bloused, drab-haired, anæmic little girl who sits +in the outer office forever reading last month's magazines. The +badge of fear brands the novice. Standing hat in hand, nervous, +apprehensive, gulpy, with the elevator door clanging behind him, +and the sacred inner door closed before him, he offers up a silent +and paradoxical "Thank heaven!" at the office girl's languid "Not +in," and dives into the friendly shelter of the next elevator +going down. When, at that same message, he can smile, as with a +certain grim agreeableness he says, "I'll wait," then has he +reached the seventh stage, and taken the orders of the regularly +ordained. + +Jock McChesney had learned to judge an unknown prospective by +glancing at his hall rug and stenographer, which marks the fifth +stage. He had learned to regard office boys with something less +than white-hot hate. He had learned to let the other fellow do the +talking. He had learned to condense a written report into +twenty-five words. And he had learned that there was as much +difference between the profession of advertising as he had thought +of it and advertising as it really was, as there is between a +steam calliope and a cathedral pipe organ. + +In the big office of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company they +had begun to chuckle a bit over the McChesney solicitor's reports. +Those same reports indicated that young McChesney was beginning to +find the key to that maddening jumble of complexities known as +human nature. Big Sam Hupp, who was the pet caged copy-writing +genius of the place, used even to bring an occasional example of +Jock's business badinage into the Old Man's office, and the two +would grin in secret. As when they ran thus: + + _Pepsinale Manufacturing Company_: + + Mr. Bowser is the kind of gentleman who curses his + subordinates in front of the whole office force. Very touchy. + Crumpled his advertising manager. Our chance to get at him is + when he is in one of his rare good humors. + +Or: + + _E.V. Kreiss Company_: + + Kreiss very difficult to reach. Permanent address seems to be + Italy, Egypt, and other foreign ports. Occasionally his + instructions come from Palm Beach. + +At which there rose up before the reader a vision of Kreiss +himself--baggy-eyed, cultivated English accent, interested in +polo, fast growing contemptuous of things American. + +Or still another: + + _Hodge Manufacturing Company:_ + + Mr. Hodge is a very conservative gentleman. Sits still and + lets others do the talking. Has gained quite a reputation for + business acumen with this one attribute. Spent $500 last year. + Holding his breath preparatory to taking another plunge. + +It was about the time that Jock McChesney had got over the novelty +of paying for his own clothes, and had begun to talk business in a +slightly patronizing way to his clever and secretly amused mother, +Mrs. Emma McChesney, secretary of the T.A. Buck Featherloom +Petticoat Company, that Sam Hupp noticed a rather cocky +over-assurance in Jock's attitude toward the world in general. +Whereupon he sent for him. + +On Sam Hupp's broad flat desk stood an array of diminutive jars, +and bottles, and tiny pots that would have shamed the toilette +table of a musical comedy star's dressing-room. There were +rose-tinted salves in white bottles. There were white creams in +rose-tinted jars. There were tins of ointment and boxes of +fragrant soap. + +Jock McChesney, entering briskly, eyed the array in some surprise. +Then he grinned, and glanced wickedly at Sam Hupp's prematurely +bald head. + +"No use, Mr. Hupp. They say if it's once gone it's gone. Get a +toupee." + +"Shut up!" growled Sam Hupp, good-humoredly. "Stay in this game +long enough and you'll be a hairless wonder yourself. Ten years +ago the girls used to have to tie their hands or wear mittens to +keep from running their white fingers through my waving silken +locks. Sit down a minute." + +Jock reached forward and took up a jar of cream. He frowned in +thought. Then: "Thought I recognized this stuff. Mother uses it. +I've seen it on the bathroom shelf." + +"You bet she uses it," retorted Sam Hupp. "What's more, millions +of other women will be using it in the next few years. This +woman," he pointed to the name on the label, "has hit upon the +real thing in toilette flub-dub. She's made a little fortune +already, and if she don't look out she'll be rich. They've got +quite a plant. When she started she used to put the stuff together +herself over the kitchen stove. They say it's made of cottage +cheese, stirred smooth and tinted pink. Well, anyway they're +nationally known now--or will be when they start to advertise +right." + +"I've seen some of their stuff advertised--somewhere," interrupted +Jock, "but I don't remember--" + +"There you are. You see the head of this concern is a little bit +frightened at the way she seems slated to become a lady cold cream +magnate. They say she's scared pink for fear somebody will steal +her recipes. She has a kid nephew who acts as general manager, and +they're both on the job all the time. They say the lady herself +looks like the spinster in a b'gosh drama. You can get a boy to +look up your train schedule." + +Train! Schedule! Across Jock McChesney's mind there flashed a +vision of himself, alert, confident, brisk, taking the luxurious +nine o'clock for Philadelphia. Or, maybe, the Limited to Chicago. +Dashing down to the station in a taxi, of course. Strolling down +the car aisle to take his place among those other thoroughbreds of +commerce--men whose chamois gloves and walking sticks, and talk of +golf and baseball and motoring spelled elegant leisure, even as +their keen eyes and shrewd faces and low-voiced exchange of such +terms as "stocks," and "sales" and "propositions" proclaimed them +intent on bagging the day's business. Sam Hupp's next words +brought him back to reality with a jerk. + +"I think you have to change at Buffalo. It gets you to Tonawanda +in the morning. Rotten train." + +"Tonawanda!" repeated Jock. + +"Now listen, kid." Sam Hupp leaned forward, and his eyes behind +their great round black-rimmed glasses were intent on Jock. "I'm +not going to try to steer you. You think that advertising is a +game. It isn't. There are those who think it's a science. But it +isn't that either. It's white magic, that's what it is. And you +can't learn it from books, any more than you can master trout +fishing from reading 'The Complete Angler.'" He swung about and +swept the beauty lotions before him in a little heap at the end of +his desk. "Here, take this stuff. And get chummy with it. Eat it, +if necessary; learn it somehow." + +Jock stood up, a little dazed. "But, what!--How?--I mean--" + +Sam Hupp glanced up at him. "Sending you down there isn't my idea. +It's the Old Man's. He's got an idea that you--" He paused and put +a detaining hand on Jock McChesney's arm. "Look here. You think I +know a little something about advertising, don't you?" + +"You!" laughed Jock. "You're the guy who put the whitening in the +Great White Way. Everybody knows you were the--" + +"M-m-m, thanks," interrupted Sam Hupp, a little dryly. "Let me +tell you something, young 'un. I've got what you might call a +thirty-horse-power mind. I keep it running on high all the time, +with the muffler cut out, and you can hear me coming for miles. +But the Old Man,"--he leaned forward impressively,--"the Old Man, +boy, has the eighty-power kind, built like a watch--no smoke, no +dripping, and you can't even hear the engine purr. But when he +throws her open! Well, he can pass everything on the road. Don't +forget that." He turned to his desk again and reached for a stack +of papers and cuts. "Good luck to you. If you want any further +details you can get 'em from Hayes." He plunged into his work. + +There arose in Jock McChesney's mind that instinct of the man in +his hour of triumph--the desire to tell a woman of his greatness. +He paused a second outside Sam Hupp's office, turned, and walked +quickly down the length of the great central room. He stopped +before a little glass door at the end, tapped lightly, and +entered. + +Grace Galt, copy-writer, looked up, frowning a little. Then she +smiled. Miss Galt had a complete layout on the desk before +her--scrap books, cuts, copy, magazines. There was a little smudge +on the end of her nose. Grace Galt was writing about magnetos. +She was writing about magnetos in a way to make you want to drop +your customer, or your ironing, or your game, and go downtown and +buy that particular kind of magneto at once. Which is the +secretest part of the wizardry of advertising copy. To look at +Grace Galt you would have thought that she should have been +writing about the rose-tinted jars in Jock McChesney's hands +instead of about such things as ignition, and insulation, and ball +bearings, and induction windings. But it was Grace Galt's gift +that she could take just such hard, dry, technical facts and weave +them into a story that you followed to the end. She could make you +see the romance in condensers and transformers. She had the power +that caused the reader to lose himself in the charm of magnetic +poles, and ball bearings, and high-tension sparks. + +"Just dropped in to say good-by," said Jock, very casually. "Going +to run up-state to see the Athena Company--toilette specialties, +you know. It ought to be a big account." + +"Athena?" Grace Galt regarded him absently, her mind still on her +work. Then her eyes cleared. "You mean at Tonawanda? And they're +sending you! Well!" She put out a congratulatory hand. Jock +gripped it gratefully. + +"Not so bad, eh?" he boasted. + +"Bad!" echoed Grace Galt. Her face became serious. "Do you realize +that there are men in this office who have been here for five +years, six years, or even more, and who have never been given a +chance to do anything but stenography, or perhaps some private +secretarying?" + +"I know it," agreed Jock. But there was no humbleness in his tone. +He radiated self-satisfaction. He seemed to grow and expand before +her eyes. A little shadow of doubt crept across Grace Galt's +expression of friendly interest. + +"Are you scared," she asked; "just the least bit?" + +Jock flushed a little. "Well," he confessed ruefully, "I don't +mind telling you I am--a little." + +"Good!" + +"Good?" + +"Yes. The head of that concern is a woman. That's one reason why +they didn't send me, I suppose. I--I'd like to say something, if +you don't mind." + +"Anything you like," said Jock graciously. + +"Well, then, don't be afraid of being embarrassed and fussed. If +you blush and stammer a little, she'll like it. Play up the coy +stuff." + +"The coy stuff!" echoed Jock. "I hadn't thought much about my +attitude toward the--er--the lady,"--a little stiffly. + +"Well, you'd better," answered Miss Galt crisply. She put out her +hand in much the same manner as Sam Hupp had used. "Good luck to +you. I'll have to ask you to go now. I'm trying to make this +magneto sound like something without which no home is complete, +and to make people see that there's as much difference between it +and every other magneto as there is between the steam shovels that +dug out the Panama Canal and the junk that the French left +there--" She stopped. Her eyes took on a far-away look. Her lips +were parted slightly. "Why, that's not a bad idea--that last. I'll +use that. I'll--" + + [Illustration: "With a jolt Jock realized she had forgotten all + about him"] + +She began to scribble rapidly on the sheet of paper before her. +With a jolt Jock McChesney realized that she had forgotten all +about him. He walked quietly to the door, opened it, shut it very +quietly, then made for the nearest telephone. He knew one woman he +could count on to be proud of him. He gave his number, waited a +little eager moment, then: + +"Featherloom Petticoat Company? Mrs. McChesney." And waited again. +Then he smiled. + +"You needn't sound so official," he laughed; "it's only your son. +Listen. I"--he took on an elaborate carelessness of tone--"I've +got to take a little jump out of town. On business. Oh, a day or +so. Rather important though. I'll have time to run up to the flat +and throw a few things into a bag. I'll tell you, I really ought +to keep a bag packed down here. In case of emergency, you know. +What? It's the Athena Toilette Preparations Company. Well, I +should say it is! I'll wire you. You bet. Thanks. My what? Oh, +toothbrush. No. Good-by." + +So it was that at three-ten Jock McChesney took himself, his +hopes, his dread, and his smart walrus bag aboard a train that +halted and snuffed and backed, and bumped and halted with +maddening frequency. But it landed him at last in a little town +bearing the characteristics of all American little towns. It was +surprisingly full of six-cylinder cars, and five and ten-cent +stores, and banks with Doric columns, and paved streets. + +After he had registered at the hotel, and as he was cleaning up a +bit, he passed an amused eye over the bare, ugly, fusty little +hotel bedroom. But somehow, as he stood in the middle of the room, +a graceful, pleasing figure of youth and confidence, the smile +faded. Towel in hand he surveyed the barrenness of it. He stared +at the impossible wall paper, at the battered furniture, the worn +carpet. He sniffed the stuffy smell of--what was that smell, +anyhow?--straw, and matting, and dust, and the ghost-odor of +hundreds who had occupied the room before him. It came over him +with something of a shock that this same sort of room had been his +mother's only home in the ten years she had spent on the road as a +traveling saleswoman for the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat +Company. This was what she had left in the morning. To this she +had come back at night. As he stared ahead of him there rose +before him a mental picture of her--the brightness of her, the +sunniness, the indomitable energy, and pluck, and courage. With a +sudden burst of new determination he wadded the towel into a moist +ball, flung it at the washstand, seized hat, coat, and gloves, and +was off down the hall. So it was with something of his mother's +splendid courage in his heart, but with nothing of her canny +knowledge in his head, Jock McChesney fared forth to do battle +with the merciless god Business. + +It was ten-thirty of a brilliant morning just two days later that +a buoyant young figure swung into an elevator in the great office +building that housed the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Just +one more grain of buoyant swing and the young man's walk might +have been termed a swagger. As it was, his walrus bag just saved +him. + +Stepping out of the lift he walked, as from habit, to the little +unlettered door which admitted employes to the big, bright, inner +office. But he did not use it. Instead he turned suddenly and +walked down the hall to the double door which led into the +reception room. He threw out his legs stiffly and came down rather +flat-footed, the way George Cohan does when he's pleased with +himself in the second act. + +"Hel-lo, Mack!" he called out jovially. + +Mack, the usher, so called from his Machiavellian qualities, +turned to survey the radiant young figure before him. + +"Good morning, Mr. McChesney," he made answer smoothly. Mack +never forgot himself. His keen eye saw the little halo of +self-satisfaction that hovered above Jock McChesney's head. "A +successful trip, I see." + +Jock McChesney laughed a little, pleased, conscious laugh. "Well, +raw-thah!" he drawled, and opened the door leading into the main +office. He had been loath to lose one crumb of the savor of it. + + [Illustration: "'Well, raw-thah!' he drawled"] + +Still smiling, he walked to his own desk, with a nod here and +there, dropped his bag, took off coat and hat, selected a +cigarette, tapped it smartly, lighted it, and was off down the big +room to the little cubby-hole at the other end. But Sam Hupp's +plump, keen, good-humored face did not greet him as he entered. +The little room was deserted. Frowning, Jock sank into the empty +desk chair. He cradled his head in his hands, tilted the chair, +pursed his mouth over the slender white cylinder and squinted his +eyes up toward the lazy blue spirals of smoke--the very picture +of content and satisfaction. + +Hupp was in attending some conference in the Old Man's office, of +course. He wished they'd hurry. The business of the week was being +boiled-down there. Those conferences were great cauldrons into +which the day's business, or the week's, was dumped, to be boiled, +simmered, stirred, skimmed, cooled. Jock had never been privileged +to attend one of these meetings. Perhaps by this time next week he +might have a spoon in the stirring too-- + +There came the murmur of voices as a door was opened. The voices +came nearer. Then quick footsteps. Jock recognized them. He rose, +smiling. Sam Hupp, vibrating electric energy, breezed in. + +"Oh--hello!" he said, surprised. Jock's smile widened to a grin. +"You back?" + +"Hello, Hupp," he said, coolly. It was the first time that he had +omitted the prefix. "You just bet I'm back." + +There flashed across Sam Hupp's face a curious little look. The +next instant it was gone. + +"Well," said Jock, and took a long breath. + +"Mr. Berg wants to see you." + +Hupp plunged into his work. + +"Me? The Old Man wants to see me?" + +"Yes," snapped Hupp shortly. Then, in a new tone, "Look here, son. +If he says--" He stopped, and turned back to his work again. + +"If he says what?" + +"Nothing. Better run along." + +"What's the hurry? I want to tell you about--" + +"Better tell him." + +"Oh, all right," said Jock stiffly. If that was the way they +treated a fellow who had turned his first real trick, why, very +well. He flung out of the little room and made straight for the +Old Man's office. + +Seated at his great flat table desk, Bartholomew Berg did not look +up as Jock entered. This was characteristic of the Old Man. +Everything about the chief was deliberate, sure, unhurried. He +finished the work in hand as though no other person stood there +waiting his pleasure. When at last he raised his massive head he +turned his penetrating pale blue eyes full on Jock. Jock was +conscious of a little tremor running through him. People were apt +to experience that feeling when that steady, unblinking gaze was +turned upon them. And yet it was just the clear, unwavering look +with which Bartholomew Berg, farmer boy, had been wont to gaze out +across the fresh-plowed fields to the horizon beyond which lay the +city he dreamed about. + +"Tell me your side of it," said Bartholomew Berg tersely. + +"All of it?" Jock's confidence was returning. + +"Till I stop you." + +"Well," began Jock. And standing there at the side of the Old +Man's desk, his legs wide apart, his face aglow, his hands on his +hips, he plunged into his tale. + +"It started off with a bang from the minute I walked into the +office of the plant and met Snyder, the advertising manager. We +shook hands and sparked--just like that." He snapped thumb and +finger. "What do you think! We belong to the same frat! He's '93. +Inside of ten minutes he and I were Si-washing around like mad. He +introduced me to his aunt. I told her who I was, and all that. But +I didn't start off by talking business. We got along from the +jump. They both insisted on showing me through the place. +I--well,"--he laughed a little ruefully,--"there's something +about being shown through a factory that sort of paralyzes my +brain. I always feel that I ought to be asking keen, alert, +intelligent questions like the ones Kipling always asks, or the +Japs when they're taken through the Stock Yards. But I never can +think of any. Well, we didn't talk business much. But I could see +that they were interested. They seemed to,"--he faltered and +blushed a little,--"to like me, you know. I played golf with +Snyder that afternoon and he beat me. Won two balls. The next +morning I found there's been a couple of other advertising men +there. And while I was talking to Snyder--he was telling me about +the time he climbed up and muffled the chapel bell--that fellow +Flynn, of the Dowd Agency, came in. Snyder excused himself, and +talked to him for--oh, half an hour, perhaps. But that was all. He +was back again in no time. After that it looked like plain +sailing. We got along wonderfully. When I left I said, 'I expect +to know you both better--'" + +"I guess," interrupted the Old Man slowly, "that you'll know them +better all right." He reached out with one broad freckled hand +and turned back the page of a desk memorandum. "The Athena account +was given to the Dowd Advertising Agency yesterday." + +It took Jock McChesney one minute--one long, sickening minute--to +grasp the full meaning of it all. He stared at the massive figure +before him, his mouth ludicrously open, his eyes round, his breath +for the moment suspended. Then, in a queer husky voice: + +"D'you mean--the Dowd--but--they couldn't--" + +"I mean," said Bartholomew Berg, "that you've scored what the +dramatic critics call a personal hit; but that doesn't get the box +office anything." + +"But, Mr. Berg, they said--" + +"Sit down a minute, boy." He waved one great heavy hand toward a +near-by chair. His eyes were not fixed on Jock. They gazed out of +the window toward the great white tower toward which hundreds of +thousands of eyes were turned daily--the tower, four-faced but +faithful. + +"McChesney, do you know why you fell down on that Athena account?" + +"Because I'm an idiot," blurted Jock. "Because I'm a +double-barreled, corn-fed, hand-picked chump and--" + +"That's one reason," drawled the Old Man grimly. "But it's not the +chief one. The real reason why you didn't land that account was +because you're too darned charming." + +"Charming!" Jock stared. + +"Just that. Personality's one of the biggest factors in business +to-day. But there are some men who are so likable that it actually +counts against them. The client he's trying to convince is so +taken with him that he actually forgets the business he +represents. We say of a man like that that he is personality plus. +Personality is like electricity, McChesney. It's got to be tamed +to be useful." + +"But I thought," said Jock, miserably, "that the idea was not to +talk business all the time." + +"You've got it," agreed Berg. "But you must think it all the time. +Every minute. It's got to be working away in the back of your +head. You know it isn't always the biggest noise that gets the +biggest result. The great American hen yields a bigger income than +the Steel Trust. Look at Miss Galt. When we have a job that needs +a woman's eye do we send her? No. Why? Because she's too blame +charming. Too much personality. A man just naturally refuses to +talk business to a pretty woman unless she's so smart that--" + +"My mother," interrupted Jock, suddenly, and then stopped, +surprised at himself. + +"Your mother," said Bartholomew Berg slowly, "is one woman in a +million. Don't ever forget that. They don't turn out models like +Emma McChesney more than once every blue moon." + +Jock got to his feet slowly. He felt heavy, old. "I suppose," he +began, "that this ends my--my advertising career." + +"Ends it!" The Old Man stood up and put a heavy hand on the boy's +shoulder. "It only begins it. Unless you want to lie down and +quit. Do you?" + +"Quit!" cried Jock McChesney. "Quit! Not on your white space!" + +"Good!" said Bartholomew Berg, and took Jock McChesney's hand in +his own great friendly grasp. + +An instinct as strong as that which had made him blatant in his +hour of triumph now caused him to avoid, in his hour of defeat, +the women-folk before whom he would fain be a hero. He avoided +Grace Galt all that long, dreary afternoon. He thought wildly of +staying down-town for the evening, of putting off the meeting with +his mother, of avoiding the dreaded explanations, excuses, +confessions. + +But when he let himself into the flat at five-thirty the place was +very quiet, except for Annie, humming in a sort of nasal singsong +of content in the kitchen. + +He flicked on the light in the living-room. A new magazine had +come. It lay on the table, its bright cover staring up invitingly. +He ran through its pages. By force of habit he turned to the back +pages. Ads started back at him--clothing ads, paint ads, motor +ads, ads of portable houses, and vacuum cleaners--and toilette +preparations. He shut the magazine with a vicious slap. + +He flicked off the light again, for no reason except that he +seemed to like the dusk. In his own bedroom it was very quiet. + +He turned on the light there, too, then turned it off. He sat down +at the edge of his bed. How was it in the stories? Oh, yes! The +cub always started out on an impossibly difficult business stunt +and came back triumphant, to be made a member of the firm at once. + +A vision of his own roseate hopes and dreams rose up before him. +It grew very dark in the little room, then altogether dark. Then +an impudent square of yellow from a light turned on in the +apartment next door flung itself on the bedroom floor. Jock stared +at it moodily. + +A key turned in the lock. A door opened and shut. A quick step. +Then: "Jock!" A light flashed in the living-room. + +Jock sat up suddenly. He opened his mouth to answer. There issued +from his throat a strange and absurd little croak. + +"Jock! Home?" + +"Yes," answered Jock, and straightened up. But before he could +flick on his own light his mother stood in the doorway, a tall, +straight, buoyant figure. + +"I got your wire and--Why, dear! In the dark! What--" + +"Must have fallen asleep, I guess," muttered Jock. Somehow he +dreaded to turn on the lights. + +And then, very quietly, Emma McChesney came in. She found him, +there in the dark, as surely as a mother bear finds her cubs in a +cave. She sat down beside him at the edge of the bed and put her +hand on his shoulder, and brought his head down gently to her +breast. And at that the room, which had been a man's room with its +pipe, its tobacco jar, its tie rack filled with cravats of +fascinating shapes and hues, became all at once a boy's room +again, and the man sitting there with straight, strong shoulders +and his little air of worldliness became in some miraculous way a +little boy again. + + [Illustration: "... became in some miraculous way a little boy + again"] + + + + +III + +DICTATED BUT NOT READ + + +About the time that Jock McChesney began to carry a yellow +walking-stick down to work each morning his mother noticed a +growing tendency on his part to patronize her. Now Mrs. Emma +McChesney, successful, capable business woman that she was, could +afford to regard her young son's attitude with a quiet and deep +amusement. In twelve years Emma McChesney had risen from the +humble position of stenographer in the office of the T.A. Buck +Featherloom Petticoat Company to the secretaryship of the firm. So +when her young son, backed by the profound business knowledge +gained in his one year with the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company, +hinted gently that her methods and training were archaic, +ineffectual, and lacking in those twin condiments known to the +twentieth century as pep and ginger, she would listen, eyebrows +raised, lower lip caught between her teeth--a trick which gives +a distorted expression to the features, calculated to hide any +lurking tendency to grin. Besides, though Emma McChesney was forty +she looked thirty-two (as business women do), and knew it. Her +hard-working life had brought her in contact with people, and +things, and events, and had kept her young. + + [Illustration: "Jock McChesney began to carry a yellow + walking-stick down to work"] + +"Thank fortune!" Mrs. McChesney often said, "that +I wasn't cursed with a life of ease. These +massage-at-ten-fitting-at-eleven-bridge-at-one women +always look such hags at thirty-five." + +But repetition will ruin the rarest of jokes. As the weeks went on +and Jock's attitude persisted, the twinkle in Emma McChesney's eye +died. The glow of growing resentment began to burn in its place. +Now and then there crept into her eyes a little look of doubt and +bewilderment. You sometimes see that same little shocked, dazed +expression in the eyes of a woman whose husband has just said, +"Isn't that hat too young for you?" + +Then, one evening, Emma McChesney's resentment flared into open +revolt. She had announced that she intended to rise half an hour +earlier each morning in order that she might walk a brisk mile or +so on her way down-town, before taking the subway. + +"But won't it tire you too much, Mother?" Jock had asked with +maddeningly tender solicitude. + +His mother's color heightened. Her blue eyes glowed dark. + +"Look here, Jock! Will you kindly stop this lean-on-me-grandma +stuff! To hear you talk one would think I was ready for a wheel +chair and gray woolen bedroom slippers." + +"Why, I didn't mean--I only thought that perhaps overexertion in a +woman of your--That is, you need your energy for--" + +"Don't wallow around in it," snapped Emma McChesney. "You'll only +sink in deeper in your efforts to crawl out. I merely want to warn +you that if you persist in this pose of tender solicitude for your +doddering old mother, I'll--I'll present you with a stepfather a +year younger than you. Don't laugh. Perhaps you think I couldn't +do it." + +"Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't mean it, but--" + +"Mean it! Cleverer women than I have been driven by their +children to marrying bell-boys in self-defense. I warn you!" + + [Illustration: "'Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't + mean it, but--'"] + +That stopped it--for a while. Jock ceased to bestow upon his +mother judicious advice from the vast storehouse of his own +experience. He refrained from breaking out with elaborate +advertising schemes whereby the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat +Company might grind every other skirt concern to dust. He gave +only a startled look when his mother mischievously suggested +raspberry as the color for her new autumn suit. Then, quite +suddenly, Circumstance caught Emma McChesney in the meshes and, +before she had fought her way free, wrought trouble and change +upon her. + +Jock McChesney was seated in the window of his mother's office at +noon of a brilliant autumn day. A little impatient frown was +forming between his eyes. He wanted his luncheon. He had called +around expressly to take his mother out to luncheon--always a +festive occasion when taken together. But Mrs. McChesney, seated +at her desk, was bent absorbedly over a sheet of paper whereon she +was adding up two columns of figures at a time--a trick on which +she rather prided herself. She was counting aloud, her mind +leaping agilely, thus: + +"Eleven, twenty-nine, forty-three, sixty, sixty-nine--" Her pencil +came down on the desk with a thwack. "SIXTY-NINE!" she repeated in +capital letters. She turned around to face Jock. "Sixty-nine!" Her +voice bristled with indignation. "Now what do you think of that!" + +"I think you'd better make it an even seventy, whatever it is +you're counting up, and come on out to luncheon. I've an +appointment at two-fifteen, you know." + +"Luncheon!"--she waved the paper in the air--"with this outrage on +my mind! Nectar would curdle in my system." + +Jock rose and strolled lazily over to the desk. "What is it?" He +glanced idly at the sheet of paper. "Sixty-nine what?" + +Mrs. McChesney pressed a buzzer at the side of her desk. +"Sixty-nine dollars, that's what! Representing two days' expenses +in the six weeks' missionary trip that Fat Ed Meyers just made for +us. And in Iowa, too." + +"When you gave that fellow the job," began Jock hotly, "I told +you, and Buck told you, that--" + +Mrs. McChesney interrupted wearily. "Yes, I know. You'll never +have a grander chance to say 'I told you so.' I hired him +because he was out of a job and we needed a man who knew the +Middle-Western trade, and then because--well, poor fellow, he +begged so and promised to keep straight. As though I oughtn't to +know that a pinochle-and-poker traveling man can never be anything +but a pinochle-and-poker traveling man--" + +The office door opened as there appeared in answer to the buzzer a +very alert, very smiling, and very tidy office girl. Emma +McChesney had tried office boys, and found them wanting. + +"Tell Mr. Meyers I want to see him." + +"Just going out to lunch,"--she turned like a race horse trembling +to be off,--"putting on his overcoat in the front office. Shall +I--" + +"Catch him." + +"Listen here," began Jock uncomfortably; "if you're going to call +him perhaps I'd better vanish." + +"To save Ed Meyers's tender feelings! You don't know him. Fat Ed +Meyers could be courtmartialed, tried, convicted, and publicly +disgraced, with his epaulets torn off, and his sword broken, and +likely as not he'd stoop down, pick up a splinter of steel to use +as a toothpick, and Castlewalk down the aisle to the tune with +which they were drumming him out of the regiment. Stay right +here. Meyers's explanation ought to be at least amusing, if not +educating." + +In the corridor outside could be heard some one blithely humming +in the throaty tenor of the fat man. The humming ceased with a +last high note as the door opened and there entered Fat Ed Meyers, +rosy, cherubic, smiling, his huge frame looming mountainous in the +rippling folds of a loose-hung London plaid topcoat. + +"Greetings!" boomed this cheery vision, raising one hand, palm +outward, in mystic salute. He beamed upon the frowning Jock. +"How's the infant prodigy!" The fact that Jock's frown deepened to +a scowl ruffled him not at all. "And what," went on he, crossing +his feet and leaning negligently against Mrs. McChesney's desk, +"and what can I do for thee, fair lady?" + + [Illustration: "'Greetings!'"] + +"For me?" said Emma McChesney, looking up at him through narrowed +eyelids. "I'll tell you what. You can explain to me, in what +they call a few well-chosen words, just how you, or any other +living creature, could manage to turn in an expense account like +that on a six-weeks' missionary trip through the Middle West." + +"Dear lady,"--in the bland tones that one uses to an unreasonable +child,--"you will need no explanation if you will just remember to +lay the stress on the word missionary. I went forth through the +Middle West to spread the light among the benighted skirt trade. +This wasn't a selling trip, dear lady. It was a buying expedition. +And I had to buy, didn't I? all the way from Michigan to Indiana." + +He smiled down at her, calm, self-assured, impudent. A little +flush grew in Emma McChesney's cheeks. + +"I've always said," she began, crisply, "that one could pretty +well judge a man's character, temperament, morals, and physical +make-up by just glancing at his expense account. The trouble with +you is that you haven't learned the art of spending money wisely. +It isn't always the man with the largest expense sheet that gets +the most business. And it isn't the man who leaves the greatest +number of circles on the table top in his hotel room, either." +She paused a moment. Ed Meyers's smile had lost some of its +heartiness. "Mr. Buck's out of town, as you know. He'll be back +next week. He wasn't in favor of--" + +"Now, Mrs. McChesney," interrupted Ed Meyers nervously, "you know +there's always one live one in every firm, just like there's +always one star in every family. You're the--" + +"I'm the one who wants to know how you could spend sixty-nine +dollars for two days' incidentals in Iowa. Iowa! Why, look here, +Ed Meyers, I made Iowa for ten years when I was on the road. You +know that. And you know, and I know, that in order to spend +sixty-nine dollars for incidentals in two days in Iowa you have to +call out the militia." + +"Not when you're trying to win the love of every skirt buyer from +Sioux City to Des Moines." + +Emma McChesney rose impatiently. "Oh, that's nonsense! You don't +need to do that these days. Those are old-fashioned methods. +They're out of date. They--" + +At that a little sound came from Jock. Emma heard it, glanced at +him, turned away again in confusion. + +"I was foolish enough in the first place to give you this job for +old times' sake," she continued hurriedly. + +Fat Ed Meyers' face drooped dolefully. He cocked his round head on +one side fatuously. "For old times' sake," he repeated, with +tremulous pathos, and heaved a gusty sigh. + +"Which goes to show that I need a guardian," finished Emma +McChesney cruelly. "The only old times that I can remember are +when I was selling Featherlooms, and you were out for the +Sans-Silk Skirt Company, both covering the same territory, and +both running a year-around race to see which could beat the other +at his own game. The only difference was that I always played +fair, while you played low-down whenever you had a chance." + +"Now, my dear Mrs. McChesney--" + +"That'll be all," said Emma McChesney, as one whose patience is +fast slipping away. "Mr. Buck will see you next week." Then, +turning to her son as the door closed on the drooping figure of +the erstwhile buoyant Meyers, "Where'll we lunch, Jock?" + +"Mother," Jock broke out hotly, "why in the name of all that's +foolish do you persist in using the methods of Methuselah! People +don't sell goods any more by sending out fat old ex-traveling men +to jolly up the trade." + +"Jock," repeated Emma McChesney slowly, "where--shall--we--lunch?" + +It was a grim little meal, eaten almost in silence. Emma McChesney +had made it a rule to use luncheon time as a recess. She played +mental tag and hop-scotch, so that, returning to her office +refreshed in mind and body, she could attack the afternoon's work +with new vigor. And never did she talk or think business. + +To-day she ate her luncheon with a forced appetite, glanced about +with a listlessness far removed from her usual alert interest, and +followed Jock's attempts at conversation with a polite effort that +was more insulting than downright inattention. + +"Dessert, Mother?" Jock had to say it twice before she heard. + +"What? Oh, no--I think not." + +The waiter hesitated, coughed discreetly, lifted his eyebrows +insinuatingly. "The French pastry's particularly nice to-day, +madam. If you'd care to try something? Eclair, madam--peach +tart--mocha tart--caramel--" + +Emma McChesney smiled. "It does sound tempting." She glanced at +Jock. "And we're wearing our gowns so floppy this year that it +makes no difference whether one's fat or not." She turned to the +waiter. "I never can tell till I see them. Bring your pastry tray, +will you?" + +Jock McChesney's finger and thumb came together with a snap. He +leaned across the table toward his mother, eyes glowing, lips +parted and eager. "There! you've proved my point." + +"Point?" + +"About advertising. No, don't stop me. Don't you see that what +applies to pastry applies to petticoats? You didn't think of +French pastry until he suggested it to you--advertised it, really. +And then you wanted a picture of them. You wanted to know +what they looked like before buying. That's all there is to +advertising. Telling people about a thing, making 'em want it, and +showing 'em how it will look when they have it. Get me?" + +Emma McChesney was gazing at Jock with a curious, fascinated +stare. It was a blank little look, such as we sometimes wear when +the mind is working furiously. If the insinuating waiter, +presenting the laden tray for her inspection, was startled by the +rapt expression which she turned upon the cunningly wrought wares, +he was too much a waiter to show it. + +A pause. "That one," said Mrs. McChesney, pointing to the least +ornate. She ate it, down to the last crumb, in a silence that was +pregnant with portent. She put down her fork and sat back. + +"Jock, you win. I--I suppose I have fallen out of step. Perhaps +I've been too busy watching my own feet. T.A. will be back next +week. Could your office have an advertising plan roughly sketched +by that time?" + +"Could they!" His tone was exultant. "Watch 'em! Hupp's been crazy +to make Featherlooms famous." + +"But look here, son. I want a hand in that copy. I know +Featherlooms better than your Sam Hupp will ever--" + +Jock shook his head. "They won't stand for that, Mother. It never +works. The manufacturer always thinks he can write magic stuff +because he knows his own product. But he never can. You see, he +knows too much. That's it. No perspective." + +"We'll see," said Emma McChesney curtly. + +So it was that ten days later the first important conference in +the interests of the Featherloom Petticoat Company's advertising +campaign was called. But in those ten days of hurried preparation +a little silent tragedy had come about. For the first time in her +brave, sunny life Emma McChesney had lost faith in herself. And +with such malicious humor does Fate work her will that she chose +Sam Hupp's new dictagraph as the instrument with which to prick +the bubble of Mrs. McChesney's self-confidence. + +Sam Hupp, one of the copy-writing marvels of the Berg, Shriner +firm, had a trick of forgetting to shut off certain necessary +currents when he paused in his dictation to throw in +conversational asides. The old and experienced stenographers, had +learned to look out for that, and to eliminate from their +typewritten letters certain irrelevant and sometimes irreverent +asides which Sam Hupp evidently had addressed to his pipe, or the +office boy, and not intended for the tube of the all-devouring +dictagraph. + +There was a new and nervous little stenographer in the outer +office, and she had not been warned of this. + +"We think very highly of the plan you suggest," Sam Hupp had said +into the dictagraph's mouthpiece. "In fact, in one of your +valuable copy suggestions you--" + +Without changing his tone he glanced over his shoulder at his +colleague, Hopper, who was listening and approving. + +"... Let the old girl think the idea is her own. She's virtually +the head of that concern, and they've spoiled her. Successful, and +used to being kowtowed to. Doesn't know her notions of copy are +ten years behind the advertising game--" + +And went on with his letter again. After which he left the office +to play golf. And the little blond numbskull in the outer office +dutifully took down what the instrument had to say, word for word, +marked it, "Dictated, but not read," signed neat initials, and +with a sigh went on with the rest of her sheaf of letters. + +Emma McChesney read the letter next morning. She read it down to +the end, and then again. The two readings were punctuated with a +little gasp, such as we give when an icy douche is suddenly +turned upon us. And that was all. + +A week later an intent little group formed a ragged circle about +the big table in the private office of Bartholomew Berg, head of +the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Bartholomew Berg himself, +massive, watchful, taciturn, managing to give an impression of +power by his very silence, sat at one side of the long table. Just +across from him a sleek-haired stenographer bent over her note +book, jotting down every word, that the conference might make +business history. Hopper, at one end of the room, studied his shoe +heel intently. He was unbelievably boyish looking to command the +fabulous salary reported to be his. Advertising men, mentioning +his name, pulled a figurative forelock as they did so. Near Mrs. +McChesney sat Sam Hupp, he of the lightning brain and the +sure-fire copy. Emma McChesney, strangely silent, kept her eyes +intent on the faces of the others. T.A. Buck, interested, +enthusiastic, but somewhat uncertain, glanced now and then at his +silent business partner, found no satisfaction in her set face, +and glanced away again. Grace Galt, unbelievably young and pretty +to have won a place for herself in that conference of business +people, smiled in secret at Jock McChesney's evident struggle to +conceal his elation at being present at this, his first staff +meeting. + +The conference had lasted one hour now. In that time Featherloom +petticoats had been picked to pieces, bit by bit, from hem to +waist-band. Nothing had been left untouched. Every angle had come +under the keen vision of the advertising experts--the comfort of +the garment, its durability, style, cheapness, service. Which to +emphasize? + +"H--m, novelty campaign, in my opinion," said Hopper, breaking one +of his long silences. "There's nothing new in petticoats +themselves, you know. You've got to give 'em a new angle." + +"Yep," agreed Hupp. "Start out with a feature skirt. Might +illustrate with one of those freak drawings they're crazy about +now--slinky figure, you know, hollow-chested, one foot trailing, +and all that. They're crazy, but they do attract attention, no +doubt of that." + +Bartholomew Berg turned his head slowly. "What's your opinion, +Mrs. McChesney?" he asked. + +"I--I'm afraid I haven't any," said Emma McChesney listlessly. +T.A. Buck stared at her in dismay and amazement. + +"How about you, Mr. Buck?" + +"Why--I--er--of course this advertising game's new to me. I'm +really leaving it in your hands. I really thought that Mrs. +McChesney's idea was to make a point of the fact that these +petticoats were not freak petticoats, but skirts for the everyday +women. She gave me what I thought was a splendid argument a week +ago." He turned to her helplessly. + +Mrs. McChesney sat silent. + +Bartholomew Berg leaned forward a little and smiled one of his +rare smiles. + +"Won't you tell us, Mrs. McChesney? We'd all like to hear what you +have to say." + +Mrs. McChesney looked down at her hands. Then she looked up, and +addressed what she had to say straight to Bartholomew Berg. + +"I--simply didn't want to interfere in this business. I know +nothing about it, really. Of course, I do know Featherloom +petticoats. I know all about them. It seemed to me that just +because the newspapers and magazines were full of pictures showing +spectacular creatures in impossible attitudes wearing tango tea +skirts, we are apt to forget that those types form only a thin +upper crust, and that down beneath there are millions and millions +of regular, everyday women doing regular everyday things in +regular everyday clothes. Women who wash on Monday, and iron on +Tuesday, and bake one-egg cakes, and who have to hurry home to get +supper when they go down-town in the afternoon. They're the kind +who go to market every morning, and take the baby along in the +go-cart, and they're not wearing crêpe de chine tango petticoats +to do it in, either. They're wearing skirts with a drawstring in +the back, and a label in the band, guaranteed to last one year. +Those are the people I'd like to reach, and hold." + +"Hm!" said Hopper, from his corner, cryptically. + +Bartholomew Berg looked at Emma McChesney admiringly. "Sounds +reasonable and logical," he said. + +Sam Hupp sat up with a jerk. + +"It does sound reasonable," he said briskly. "But it isn't. Pardon +me, won't you, Mrs. McChesney? But you must realize that this is +an extravagant age. The very workingmen's wives have caught the +spending fever. The time is past when you can attract people to +your goods with the promise of durability and wear. They don't +expect goods to wear. They'd resent it if they did. They get tired +of an article before it's worn out. They're looking for novelties. +They'd rather get two months' wear out of a skirt that's slashed a +new way, than a year's wear out of one that looks like the sort +that mother used to make." + +Mrs. McChesney, her cheeks very pink, her eyes very bright, +subsided into silence. In silence she sat throughout the rest of +the conference. In silence she descended in the elevator with T.A. +Buck, and in silence she stepped into his waiting car. + +T.A. Buck eyed her worriedly. "Well?" he said. Then, as Mrs. +McChesney shrugged noncommittal shoulders, "Tell me, how do you +feel about it?" + +Emma McChesney turned to face him, breathing rather quickly. + +"The last time I felt as I do just now was when Jock was a baby. +He took sick, and the doctors were puzzled. They thought it might +be something wrong with his spine. They had a consultation--five +of them--with the poor little chap on the bed, naked. They +wouldn't let me in, so I listened in the hallway, pressed against +the door with my face to the crack. They prodded him, and poked +him, and worked his little legs and arms, and every time he cried +I prayed, and wept, and clawed the door with my fingers, and +called them beasts and torturers and begged them to let me in, +though I wasn't conscious that I was doing those things--at the +time. I didn't know what they were doing to him, though they said +it was all for his good, and they were only trying to help him. +But I only knew that I wanted to rush in, and grab him up in my +arms, and run away with him--run, and run, and run." + +She stopped, lips trembling, eyes suspiciously bright. + +"And that's the way I felt in there--this afternoon." + +T.A. Buck reached up and patted her shoulder. "Don't, old girl! +It's going to work out splendidly, I'm sure. After all, those +chaps do know best." + +"They may know best, but they don't know Featherlooms," retorted +Emma McChesney. + +"True. But perhaps what Jock said when he walked with us to the +elevator was pretty nearly right. You know he said we were +criticising their copy the way a plumber would criticise the +Parthenon--so busy finding fault with the lack of drains that we +failed to see the beauty of the architecture." + +"T.A.," said Emma McChesney solemnly, "T.A., we're getting old." + +"Old! You! I! Ha!" + +"You may 'Ha!' all you like. But do you know what they thought of +us in there? They thought we were a couple of fogies, and they +humored us, that's what they did. I'll tell you, T.A., when the +time comes for me to give Jock up to some little pink-faced girl +I'll do it, and smile if it kills me. But to hand my Featherlooms +over to a lot of cold-blooded experts who--well--" she paused, +biting her lip. + +"We'll see, Emma; we'll see." + +They did see. The Featherloom petticoat campaign was launched with +a great splash. It sailed serenely into the sea of national +business. Then suddenly something seemed to go wrong with its +engines. It began to wobble and showed a decided list to port. +Jock, who at the beginning was so puffed with pride that his gold +fountain pen threatened to burst the confines of his very modishly +tight vest, lost two degrees of pompousness a day, and his +attitude toward his unreproachful mother was almost humble. + +A dozen times a week T.A. Buck would stroll casually into Mrs. +McChesney's office. "Think it's going to take hold?" he would ask. +"Our men say the dealers have laid in, but the public doesn't seem +to be tearing itself limb from limb to get to our stuff." + +Emma McChesney would smile, and shrug noncommittal shoulders. + +When it became very painfully apparent that it wasn't "taking +hold," T.A. Buck, after asking the same question, now worn and +frayed with asking, broke out, crossly: + +"Well, really, I don't mind the shrug, but I do wish you wouldn't +smile. After all, you know, this campaign is costing us +money--real money, and large chunks of it. It's very evident that +we shouldn't have tried to make a national campaign of this +thing." + +Whereupon Mrs. McChesney's smile grew into a laugh. "Forgive me, +T.A. I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing because--well, I can't +tell you why. It's a woman's reason, and you wouldn't think it a +reason at all. For that matter, I suppose it isn't, but--Anyway, +I've got something to tell you. The fault of this campaign has +been the copy. It was perfectly good advertising, but it left the +public cold. When they read those ads they might have been +impressed with the charm of the garment, but it didn't fill their +breasts with any wild longing to possess one. It didn't make the +women feel unhappy until they had one of those skirts hanging on +the third hook in their closet. The only kind of advertising that +is advertising is the kind that makes the reader say, 'I'll have +one of those.'" + +T.A. Buck threw out helpless hands. "What are we going to do about +it?" + +"Do? I've already done it." + +"Done what?" + +"Written the kind of copy that I think Featherlooms ought to have. +I just took my knowledge of Featherlooms, plus what I knew about +human nature, sprinkled in a handful of good humor and sincerity, +and they're going to feed it to the public. It's the same recipe +that I used to use in selling Featherlooms on the road. It used to +go by word of mouth. I don't see why it shouldn't go on paper. It +isn't classic advertising. It isn't scientific. It isn't even what +they call psychological, I suppose. But it's human. And it's going +to reach that great, big, solid, safe, spot-cash mass known as the +middle class. Of course my copy may be wrong. It may not go, after +all, but--" + +But it did go. It didn't go with a rush, or a bang. It went +slowly, surely, hand over hand, but it went, and it kept on going. +And watching it climb and take hold there came back to Emma +McChesney's eye the old sparkle, to her step the old buoyancy, to +her voice the old delightful ring. And now, when T.A. Buck +strolled into her office of a morning, with his, "It's taking +hold, Mrs. Mack," she would dimple like a girl as she laughed back +at him-- + +"With a grip that won't let go." + +"It looks very much as though we were going to be millionaires in +our old age, you and I?" went on Buck. + +Emma McChesney opened her eyes wide. + +"Old!" she mocked, "Old! You! I! Ha!" + + + + +IV + +THE MAN WITHIN HIM + + +They used to do it much more picturesquely. They rode in coats of +scarlet, in the crisp, clear morning, to the winding of horns and +the baying of hounds, to the thud-thud of hoofs, and the crackle +of underbrush. Across fresh-plowed fields they went, crashing +through forest paths, leaping ditches, taking fences, scrambling +up the inclines, pelting down the hillside, helter-skelter, until, +panting, wide-eyed, eager, blood-hungry, the hunt closed in at the +death. + +The scarlet coat has sobered down to the somber gray and the +snuffy brown of that unromantic garment known as the business +suit. The winding horn is become a goblet, and its notes are the +tinkle of ice against glass. The baying of hounds has harshened to +the squawk of the motor siren. The fresh-plowed field is a blue +print, the forest maze a roll of plans and specifications. Each +fence is a business barrier. Every ditch is of a competitor's +making, dug craftily so that the clumsy-footed may come a cropper. +All the romance is out of it, all the color, all the joy. But two +things remain the same: The look in the face of the hunter as he +closed in on the fox is the look in the face of him who sees the +coveted contract lying ready for the finishing stroke of his pen. +And his words are those of the hunter of long ago as, eyes +a-gleam, teeth bared, muscles still taut with the tenseness of the +chase, he waves the paper high in air and cries, "I've made a +killing!" + +For two years Jock McChesney had watched the field as it swept by +in its patient, devious, cruel game of Hunt the Contract. But he +had never been in at the death. Those two years had taught him how +to ride; to take a fence; to leap a ditch. He had had his awkward +bumps, and his clumsy falls. He had lost his way more than once. +But he had always groped his way back again, stumblingly, through +the dusk. Jock McChesney was the youngest man on the Berg, Shriner +Advertising Company's big staff of surprisingly young men. So +young that the casual glance did not reveal to you the marks that +the strain of those two years had left on his boyish face. But the +marks were there. + +Nature etches with the most delicate of points. She knows the +cunning secret of light and shadow. You scarcely realize that she +has been at work. A faint line about the mouth, a fairy tracing at +the corners of the eyes, a mere vague touch just at the +nostrils--and the thing is done. + +Even Emma McChesney's eyes--those mother-eyes which make the lynx +seem a mole--had failed to note the subtle change. Then, suddenly, +one night, the lines leaped out at her. + +They were seated at opposite sides of the book-littered library +table in the living-room of the cheerful up-town apartment which +was the realization of the nightly dream which Mrs. Emma McChesney +had had in her ten years on the road for the T.A. Buck Featherloom +Petticoat Company. Jock McChesney's side of the big table was +completely covered with the mass of copy-paper, rough sketches, +photographs and drawings which make up an advertising lay-out. He +was bent over the work, absorbed, intent, his forearms resting on +the table. Emma McChesney glanced up from her magazine just as +Jock bent forward to reach a scrap of paper that had fluttered +away. The lamplight fell full on his face. And Emma McChesney saw. +The hand that held the magazine fell to her lap. Her lips were +parted slightly. She sat very quietly, her eyes never leaving the +face that frowned so intently over the littered table. The room +had been very quiet before--Jock busy with his work, his mother +interested in her magazine. But this silence was different. There +was something electric in it. It was a silence that beats on the +brain like a noise. Jock McChesney, bent over his work, heard it, +felt it, and, oppressed by it, looked up suddenly. He met those +two eyes opposite. + +"Spooks? Or is it my godlike beauty which holds you thus? Or is my +face dirty?" + +Emma McChesney did not smile. She laid her magazine on the table, +face down, and leaned forward, her staring eyes still fixed on her +son's face. + +"Look here, young 'un. Are you working too hard?" + +"Me? Now? This stuff you mean--?" + +"No; I mean in the last year. Are they piling it up on you?" + +Jock laughed a laugh that was nothing less than a failure, so +little of real mirth did it contain. + +"Piling it up! Lord, no! I wish they would. That's the trouble. +They don't give me a chance." + +"A chance! Why, that's not true, son. You've said yourself that +there are men who have been in the office three times as long as +you have, who never have had the opportunities that they've given +you." + +It was as though she had touched a current that thrilled him to +action. He pushed back his chair and stood up, one hand thrust +into his pocket, the other passing quickly over his head from brow +to nape with a quick, nervous gesture that was new to him. + +"And why!" he flung out. "Why! Not because they like the way I +part my hair. They don't do business that way up there. It's +because I've made good, and those other dubs haven't. That's why. +They've let me sit in at the game. But they won't let me take any +tricks. I've been an apprentice hand for two years now. I'm tired +of it. I want to be in on a killing. I want to taste blood. I want +a chance at some of the money--real money." + +Emma McChesney sat back in her chair and surveyed the angry figure +before her with quiet, steady eyes. + +"I might have known that only one thing could bring those lines +into your face, son." She paused a moment. "So you want money as +badly as all that, do you?" + +Jock's hand came down with a thwack on the papers before him. + +"Want it! You just bet I want it." + +"Do I know her?" asked Emma McChesney quietly. + +Jock stopped short in his excited pacing up and down the room. + +"Do you know--Why, I didn't say there--What makes you think +that--?" + +"When a youngster like you, whose greatest worry has been whether +Harvard'll hold 'em again this year, with Baxter out, begins to +howl about not being appreciated in business, and to wear a late +fall line of wrinkles where he has been smooth before, I feel +justified in saying, 'Do I know her?'" + +"Well, it isn't any one--at least, it isn't what you mean you +think it is when you say you--" + +"Careful there! You'll trip. Never you mind what I mean I think it +is when I say. Count ten, and then just tell me what you think you +mean." + +Jock passed his hand over his head again with that nervous little +gesture. Then he sat down, a little wearily. He stared moodily +down at the pile of papers before him: His mother faced him +quietly across the table. + +"Grace Galt's getting twice as much as I am," Jock broke out, with +savage suddenness. "The first year I didn't mind. A fellow gets +accustomed, these days, to see women breaking into all the +professions and getting away with men-size salaries. But her pay +check doubles mine--more than doubles it." + +"It's been my experience," observed Emma McChesney, "that when a +firm condescends to pay a woman twice as much as a man, that means +she's worth six times as much." + +A painful red crept into Jock's face. "Maybe. Two years ago that +would have sounded reasonable to me. Two years ago, when I walked +down Broadway at night, a fifty-foot electric sign at Forty-second +was just an electric sign to me. Just part of the town's +decoration like the chorus girls, and the midnight theater crowds. +Now--well, now every blink of every red and yellow globe is +crammed full of meaning. I know the power that advertising has; +how it influences our manners, and our morals, and our minds, and +our health. It regulates the food we eat, and the clothes we wear, +and the books we read, and the entertainment we seek. It's +colossal, that's what it is! It's--" + +"Keep on like that for another two years, sonny, and no business +banquet will be complete without you. The next thing you know +you'll be addressing the Y.M.C.A. advertising classes on The Young +Man in Business." + +Jock laughed a rueful little laugh. "I didn't mean to make +a speech. I was just trying to say that I've served my +apprenticeship. It hurts a fellow's pride. You can't hold your +head up before a girl when you know her salary's twice yours, and +you know that she knows it. Why look at Mrs. Hoffman, who's with +the Dowd Agency. Of course she's a wonder, even if her face does +look like the fifty-eighth variety. She can write copy that lifts +a campaign right out of the humdrum class, and makes it luminous. +Her husband works in a bank somewhere. He earns about as much as +Mrs. Hoffman pays the least of her department subordinates. And +he's so subdued that he side-steps when he walks, and they call +him the human jelly-fish." + +Emma McChesney was regarding her son with a little puzzled frown. +Suddenly she reached out and tapped the topmost of the scribbled +sheets strewn the length of Jock's side of the table. + +"What's all this?" + +Jock tipped back his chair and surveyed the clutter before him. + +"That," said he, "is what is known on the stage as 'the papers.' +And it's the real plot of this piece." + +"M-m-m--I thought so. Just favor me with a scenario, will you?" + +Half-grinning, half-serious, Jock stuck his thumbs in the armholes +of his waistcoat, and began. + +"Scene: Offices of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Time, +the present. Characters: Jock McChesney, handsome, daring, +brilliant--" + +"Suppose you--er--skip the characters, however fascinating, and +get to the action." + +Jock McChesney brought the tipped chair down on all-fours with a +thud, and stood up. The grin was gone. He was as serious as he had +been in the midst of his tirade of five minutes before. + +"All right. Here it is. And don't blame me if it sounds like cheap +melodrama. This stuff," and he waved a hand toward the paper-laden +table, "is an advertising campaign plan for the Griebler Gum +Company, of St. Louis. Oh, don't look impressed. The office hasn't +handed me any such commission. I just got the idea like a flash, +and I've been working it out for the last two weeks. It worked +itself out, almost--the way a really scorching idea does, +sometimes. This Griebler has been advertising for years. You +know the Griebler gum. But it hasn't been the right sort of +advertising. Old Griebler, the original gum man, had fogy notions +about advertising, and as long as he lived they had to keep it +down. He died a few months ago--you must have read of it. Left a +regular mint. Ben Griebler, the oldest son, started right in to +clean out the cobwebs. Of course the advertising end of it has +come in for its share of the soap and water. He wants to make a +clean sweep of it. Every advertising firm in the country has been +angling for the contract. It's going to be a real one. Two-thirds +of the crowd have submitted plans. And that's just where my kick +comes in. The Berg, Shriner Company makes it a rule never to +submit advance plans." + +"Excuse me if I seem a trifle rude," interrupted Mrs. McChesney, +"but I'd like to know where you think you've been wronged in +this." + +"Right here!" replied Jock, and he slapped his pocket, "and here," +he pointed to his head. "Two spots so vital that they make old +Achilles's heel seem armor-plated. Ben Griebler is one of the +show-me kind. He wants value received for money expended, and +while everybody knows that he has a loving eye on the Berg, +Shriner crowd, he won't sign a thing until he knows what he's +getting. A firm's record, standing, staff, equipment, mean nothing +to him." + +"But, Jock, I still don't see--" + +Jock gathered up a sheaf of loose papers and brandished them in +the air. "This is where I come in. I've got a plan here that will +fetch this Griebler person. Oh, I'm not dreaming. I outlined it +for Sam Hupp, and he was crazy about it. Sam Hupp had some sort of +plan outlined himself. But he said this made his sound as dry as +cigars in Denver. And you know yourself that Sam Hupp's copy is so +brilliant that he could sell brewery advertising to a temperance +magazine." + +Emma McChesney stood up. She looked a little impatient, and a +trifle puzzled. "But why all this talk! I don't get you. Take your +plan to Mr. Berg. If it's what you think it is he'll see it +quicker than any other human being, and he'll probably fall on +your neck and invest you in royal robes and give you a mahogany +desk all your own." + +"Oh, what's the good!" retorted Jock disgustedly. "This Griebler +has an appointment at the office to-morrow. He'll be closeted with +the Old Man. They'll call in Hupp. But never a plan will they +reveal. It's against their code of ethics. Ethics! I'm sick of the +word. I suppose you'd say I'm lucky to be associated with a firm +like that, and I suppose I am. But I wish in the name of all the +gods of Business that they weren't so bloomin' conservative. +Ethics! They're all balled up in 'em, like Henry James in his +style." + +Emma McChesney came over from her side of the table and stood very +close to her son. She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and +looked up into the sullen, angry young face. + + [Illustration: "She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and + looked up into the sullen, angry young face"] + +"I've seen older men than you are, Jock, and better men, and +bigger men, wearing that same look, and for the same reason. Every +ambitious man or woman in business wears it at one time or +another. Sooner or later, Jock, you'll have your chance at the +money end of this game. If you don't care about the thing you call +ethics, it'll be sooner. If you do care, it will be later. It +rests with you, but it's bound to come, because you've got the +stuff in you." + +"Maybe," replied Jock the cynical. But his face lost some of its +sullenness as he looked down at that earnest, vivid countenance +up-turned to his. "Maybe. It sounds all right, Mother--in the +story books. But I'm not quite solid on it. These days it isn't +so much what you've got in you that counts as what you can bring +out. I know the young man's slogan used to be 'Work and Wait,' or +something pretty like that. But these days they've boiled it down +to one word--'Produce'!" + +"The marvel of it is that there aren't more of 'em," observed Emma +McChesney sadly. + +"More what?" + +"More lines. Here,"--she touched his forehead,--"and here,"--she +touched his eyes. + +"Lines!" Jock swung to face a mirror. "Good! I'm so infernally +young-looking that no one takes me seriously. It's darned hard +trying to convince people you're a captain of finance when you +look like an errand boy." + +From the center of the room Mrs. McChesney watched the boy as he +surveyed himself in the glass. And as she gazed there came a +frightened look into her eyes. It was gone in a minute, and in its +place came a curious little gleam, half amused, half pugnacious. + +"Jock McChesney, if I thought that you meant half of what you've +said to-night about honor, and ethics, and all that, I'd--" + +"Spank me, I suppose," said the young six-footer. + +"No," and all the humor had fled, "I--Jock, I've never said much +to you about your father. But I think you know that he was what he +was to the day of his death. You were just about eight when I made +up my mind that life with him was impossible. I said then--and you +were all I had, son--that I'd rather see you dead than to have you +turn out to be a son of your father. Don't make me remember that +wish, Jock." + +Two quick steps and his arms were about her. His face was all +contrition. "Why--Mother! I didn't mean--You see this is business, +and I'm crazy to make good, and it's such a fight--" + +"Don't I know it?" demanded Emma McChesney. "I guess your mother +hasn't been sitting home embroidering lunchcloths these last +fifteen years." She lifted her head from the boy's shoulder. "And +now, son, considering me, not as your doting mother, but in my +business capacity as secretary of the T.A. Buck Featherloom +Petticoat Company, suppose you reveal to me the inner workings of +this plan of yours. I'd like to know if you really are the +advertising wizard that you think you are." + +So it was that long after Annie's dinner dishes had ceased to +clatter in the kitchen; long after she had put her head in at the +door to ask, "Aigs 'r cakes for breakfast?" long after those two +busy brains should have rested in sleep, the two sat at either +side of the light-flooded table, the face of one glowing as he +talked, the face of the other sparkling as she listened. And at +midnight: + +"Why, you infant wonder!" exclaimed Emma McChesney. + +At nine o'clock next morning when Jock McChesney entered the +offices of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company he carried a +flat, compact bundle of papers under his arm encased in protecting +covers of pasteboard, and further secured by bands of elastic. +This he carried to his desk, deposited in a drawer, and locked the +drawer. + +By eleven o'clock the things which he had predicted the night +before had come to pass. A plump little man, with a fussy manner +and Western clothes had been ushered into Bartholomew Berg's +private office. Instinct told him that this was Griebler. Jock +left his desk and strolled up to get the switchboard operator's +confirmation of his guess. Half an hour later Sam Hupp hustled by +and disappeared into the Old Man's sanctum. + +Jock fingered the upper left-hand drawer of his desk. The +maddening blankness of that closed door! If only he could find +some excuse for walking into that room--any old excuse, no matter +how wild!--just to get a chance at it-- + +His telephone rang. He picked up the receiver, his eye on the +closed door, his thoughts inside that room. + +"Mr. Berg wants to see you right away," came the voice of the +switchboard operator. + +Something seemed to give way inside--something in the region of +his brain--no, his heart--no, his lungs-- + +"Well, can you beat that!" said Jock McChesney aloud, in a kind of +trance of joy. "Can--you--beat--that!" + +Then he buttoned the lower button of his coat, shrugged his +shoulders with an extra wriggle at the collar (the modern hero's +method of girding up his loins), and walked calmly into +Bartholomew Berg's very private office. + +In the second that elapsed between the opening and the closing of +the door Jock's glance swept the three men--Bartholomew Berg, +quiet, inscrutable, seated at his great table-desk; Griebler, lost +in the depths of a great leather chair, smoking fussily and +twitching with a hundred little restless, irritating gestures; Sam +Hupp, standing at the opposite side of the room, hands in pockets, +attitude argumentative. + +"This is Mr. McChesney," said Bartholomew Berg. "Mr. Griebler, +McChesney." + +Jock came forward, smiling that charming smile of his. "Mr. +Griebler," he said, extending his hand, "this is a great +pleasure." + +"Hm!" growled Ben Griebler, "I didn't know they picked 'em so +young." + +His voice was a piping falsetto that somehow seemed to match his +restless little eyes. + +Jock thrust his hands hurriedly into his pockets. He felt his face +getting scarlet. + +"They're--ah--using 'em young this year," said Bartholomew Berg. +His voice sounded bigger, and smoother, and pleasanter than ever +in contrast with that other's shrill tone. "I prefer 'em young, +myself. You'll never catch McChesney using 'in the last analysis' +to drive home an argument. He has a new idea about every nineteen +minutes, and every other one's a good one, and every nineteenth +or so's an inspiration." The Old Man laughed one of his low, +chuckling laughs. + +"Hm--that so?" piped Ben Griebler. "Up in my neck of the woods we +aren't so long on inspiration. We're just working men, and we wear +working clothes--" + +"Oh, now," protested Berg, his eyes twinkling, "McChesney's +necktie and socks and handkerchief may form one lovely, blissful +color scheme, but that doesn't signify that his advertising +schemes are not just as carefully and artistically blended." + +Ben Griebler looked shrewdly up at Jock through narrowed lids. +"Maybe. I'll talk to you in a minute, young man--that is--" he +turned quickly upon Berg--"if that isn't against your crazy +principles, too?" + +"Why, not at all," Bartholomew Berg assured him. "Not at all. You +do me an injustice." + +Griebler moved up closer to the broad table. The two fell into a +low-voiced talk. Jock looked rather helplessly around at Sam Hupp. +That alert gentleman was signaling him frantically with head and +wagging finger. Jock crossed the big room to Hupp's side. The two +moved off to a window at the far end. + +"Give heed to your Unkie," said Sam Hupp, talking very rapidly, +very softly, and out of one corner of his mouth. "This Griebler's +looking for an advertising manager. He's as pig-headed as +a--a--well, as a pig, I suppose. But it's a corking chance, +youngster, and the Old Man's just recommended you--strong. Now--" + +"Me--!" exploded Jock. + +"Shut up!" hissed Hupp. "Two or three years with that firm would +be the making of you--if you made good, of course. And you could. +They want to move their factory here from St. Louis within the +next few years. Now listen. When he talks to you, you play up the +keen, alert stuff with a dash of sophistication, see? If you can +keep your mouth shut and throw a kind of a canny, I-get-you, look +into your eyes, all the better. He's gabby enough for two. Try a +line of talk that is filled with the fire and enthusiasm of +youth, combined with the good judgment and experience of middle +age, and you've--" + +"Say, look here," stammered Jock. "Even if I was Warfield enough +to do all that, d'you honestly think--me an advertising +manager!--with a salary that Griebler--" + +"You nervy little shrimp, go in and win. He'll pay five thousand +if he pays a cent. But he wants value for money expended. Now I've +tipped you off. You make your killing--" + +"Oh, McChesney!" called Bartholomew Berg, glancing round. + +"Yes, sir!" said Jock, and stood before him in the same moment. + +"Mr. Griebler is looking for a competent, enthusiastic, +hard-working man as advertising manager. I've spoken to him of +you. I know what you can do. Mr. Griebler might trust my judgment +in this, but--" + +"I'll trust my own judgment," snapped Ben Griebler. "It's good +enough for me." + +"Very well," returned Bartholomew Berg suavely. "And if you decide +to place your advertising future in the hands of the Berg, Shriner +Company--" + +"Now look here," interrupted Ben Griebler again. "I'll tie up +with you people when you've shaken something out of your cuffs. +I'm not the kind that buys a pig in a poke. We're going to spend +money--real money--in this campaign of ours. But I'm not such a +come-on as to hand you half a million or so and get a promise in +return. I want your plans, and I want 'em in full." + +A little exclamation broke from Sam Hupp. He checked it, but not +before Berg's curiously penetrating pale blue eyes had glanced up +at him, and away again. + +"I've told you, Mr. Griebler," went on Bartholomew Berg's patient +voice, "just why the thing you insist on is impossible. This firm +does not submit advance copy. Every business commission that comes +to us is given all the skill, and thought, and enthusiasm, and +careful planning that this office is capable of. You know our +record. This is a business of ideas. And ideas are too precious, +too perishable, to spread in the market place for all to see." + +Ben Griebler stood up. His cigar waggled furiously between his +lips as he talked. + +"I know something else that don't stand spreading in the market +place, Berg. And that's money. It's too darned perishable, too." +He pointed a stubby finger at Jock. "Does this fool rule of yours +apply to this young fellow, too?" + +Bartholomew Berg seemed to grow more patient, more self-contained +as the other man's self-control slipped rapidly away. + +"It goes for every man and woman in this office, Mr. Griebler. +This young chap, McChesney here, might spend weeks and months +building up a comprehensive advertising plan for you. He'd spend +those weeks studying your business from every possible angle. +Perhaps it would be a plan that would require a year of waiting +before the actual advertising began to appear. And then you might +lose faith in the plan. A waiting game is a hard game to play. +Some other man's idea, that promised quicker action, might appeal +to you. And when it appeared we'd very likely find our own +original idea incorporated in--" + +"Say, look here!" squeaked Ben Griebler, his face dully red. +"D'you mean to imply that I'd steal your plan! D'you mean to sit +there and tell me to my face--" + +"Mr. Griebler, I mean that that thing happens constantly in this +business. We're almost powerless to stop it. Nothing spreads +quicker than a new idea. Compared to it a woman's secret is a +sealed book." + +Ben Griebler removed the cigar from his lips. He was stuttering +with anger. With a mingling of despair and boldness Jock saw the +advantage of that stuttering moment and seized on it. He stepped +close to the broad table-desk, resting both hands on it and +leaning forward slightly in his eagerness. + +"Mr. Berg--I have a plan. Mr. Hupp can tell you. It came to me +when I first heard that the Grieblers were going to broaden out. +It's a real idea. I'm sure of that. I've worked it out in detail. +Mr. Hupp himself said it--Why, I've got the actual copy. And it's +new. Absolutely. It never--" + +"Trot it out!" shouted Ben Griebler. "I'd like to see one idea +anyway, around this shop." + +"McChesney," said Bartholomew Berg, not raising his voice. His +eyes rested on Jock with the steady, penetrating gaze that was +peculiar to him. More foolhardy men than Jock McChesney had +faltered and paused, abashed, under those eyes. "McChesney, your +enthusiasm for your work is causing you to forget one thing that +must never be forgotten in this office." + +Jock stepped back. His lower lip was caught between his teeth. At +the same moment Ben Griebler snatched up his hat from the table, +clapped it on his head at an absurd angle and, bristling like a +fighting cock, confronted the three men. + +"I've got a couple of rules myself," he cried, "and don't you +forget it. When you get a little spare time, you look up St. Louis +and find out what state it's in. The slogan of that state is my +slogan, you bet. If you think I'm going to make you a present of +the money that it took my old man fifty years to pile up, then you +don't know that Griebler is a German name. Good day, gents." + +He stalked to the door. There he turned dramatically and leveled a +forefinger at Jock. "They've got you roped and tied. But I think +you're a comer. If you change your mind, kid, come and see me." + +The door slammed behind him. + +"Whew!" whistled Sam Hupp, passing a handkerchief over his bald +spot. + +Bartholomew Berg reached out with one great capable hand and swept +toward him a pile of papers. "Oh, well, you can't blame him. +Advertising has been a scream for so long. Griebler doesn't know +the difference between advertising, publicity, and bunk. He'll +learn. But it'll be an awfully expensive course. Now, Hupp, let's +go over this Kalamazoo account. That'll be all, McChesney." + +Jock turned without a word. He walked quickly through the outer +office, into the great main room. There he stopped at the +switchboard. + +"Er--Miss Grimes," he said, smiling charmingly. "Where's this Mr. +Griebler, of St. Louis, stopping; do you know?" + +"Say, where would he stop?" retorted the wise Miss Grimes. "Look +at him! The Waldorf, of course." + +"Thanks," said Jock, still smiling. And went back to his desk. + +At five Jock left the office. Under his arm he carried the flat +pasteboard package secured by elastic bands. At five-fifteen he +walked swiftly down the famous corridor of the great red stone +hotel. The colorful glittering crowd that surged all about him he +seemed not to see. He made straight for the main desk with its +battalion of clerks. + + [Illustration: "He made straight for the main desk with its + battalion of clerks"] + +"Mr. Griebler in? Mr. Ben Griebler, St. Louis?" + +The question set in motion the hotel's elaborate system of +investigation. At last: "Not in." + +"Do you know when he will be in?" That futile question. + +"Can't say. He left no word. Do you want to leave your name?" + +"N-no. Would he--does he stop at this desk when he comes in?" + +He was an unusually urbane hotel clerk. "Why, usually they leave +their keys and get their mail from the floor clerk. But Mr. +Griebler seems to prefer the main desk." + +"I'll--wait," said Jock. And seated in one of the great thronelike +chairs, he waited. He sat there, slim and boyish, while the +laughing, chattering crowd swept all about him. If you sit long +enough in that foyer you will learn all there is to learn about +life. An amazing sight it is--that crowd. Baraboo helps swell it, +and Spokane, and Berlin, and Budapest, and Pekin, and Paris, and +Waco, Texas. So varied it is, so cosmopolitan, that if you sit +there patiently enough, and watch sharply enough you will even see +a chance New Yorker. + +From door to desk Jock's eyes swept. The afternoon-tea crowd, in +paradise feathers, and furs, and frock coats swam back and forth. +He saw it give way to the dinner throng, satin-shod, bejeweled, +hurrying through its oysters, swallowing unbelievable numbers of +cloudy-amber drinks, and golden-brown drinks, and maroon drinks, +then gathering up its furs and rushing theaterwards. He was still +sitting there when that crowd, its eight o'clock freshness +somewhat sullied, its sparkle a trifle dimmed, swept back for more +oysters, more cloudy-amber and golden-brown drinks. + +At half-hour intervals, then at hourly intervals, the figure in +the great chair stirred, rose, and walked to the desk. + +"Has Mr. Griebler come in?" + +The supper throng, its laugh a little ribald, its talk a shade +high-pitched, drifted towards the street, or was wafted up in +elevators. The throng thinned to an occasional group. Then these +became rarer and rarer. The revolving door admitted one man, or +two, perhaps, who lingered not at all in the unaccustomed quiet of +the great glittering lobby. + +The figure of the watcher took on a pathetic droop. The eyelids +grew leaden. To open them meant an almost superhuman effort. The +stare of the new night clerks grew more and more hostile and +suspicious. A grayish pallor had settled down on the boy's face. +And those lines of the night before stood out for all to see. + +In the stillness of the place the big revolving door turned once +more, complainingly. For the thousandth time Jock's eyes +lifted heavily. Then they flew wide open. The drooping figure +straightened electrically. Half a dozen quick steps and Jock stood +in the pathway of Ben Griebler who, rather ruffled and untidy, had +blown in on the wings of the morning. + +He stared a moment. "Well, what--" + +"I've been waiting for you here since five o'clock last evening. +It will soon be five o'clock again. Will you let me show you those +plans now?" + +Ben Griebler had surveyed Jock with the stony calm of the +out-of-town visitor who is prepared to show surprise at nothing in +New York. + +"There's nothing like getting an early start," said Ben Griebler. +"Come on up to my room." Key in hand, he made for the elevator. +For an almost imperceptible moment Jock paused. Then, with a +little rush, he followed the short, thick-set figure. "I knew you +had it in you, McChesney. I said you looked like a comer, didn't +I?" + +Jock said nothing. He was silent while Griebler unlocked his door, +turned on the light, fumbled at the windows and shades, picked up +the telephone receiver. "What'll you have?" + +"Nothing." Jock had cleared the center table and was opening his +flat bundle of papers. He drew up two chairs. "Let's not waste any +time," he said. "I've had a twelve-hour wait for this." He seemed +to control the situation. Obediently Ben Griebler hung up the +receiver, came over, and took the chair very close to Jock. + + [Illustration: "'Let's not waste any time,' he said"] + +"There's nothing artistic about gum," began Jock McChesney; and +his manner was that of a man who is sure of himself. "It's a +shirt-sleeve product, and it ought to be handled from a +shirt-sleeve standpoint. Every gum concern in the country has +spent thousands on a 'better-than-candy' campaign before it +realized that gum is a candy and drug store article, and that no +man is going to push a five-cent package of gum at the sacrifice +of the sale of an eighty-cent box of candy. But the health note is +there, if only you strike it right. Now, here's my idea--" + +At six o'clock Ben Griebler, his little shrewd eyes sparkling, his +voice more squeakily falsetto than ever, surveyed the youngster +before him with a certain awe. + +"This--this thing will actually sell our stuff in Europe! No gum +concern has ever been able to make the stuff go outside of this +country. Why, inside of three years every 'Arry and 'Arriet in +England'll be chewing it on bank holidays. I don't know about +Germany, but--" He pushed back his chair and got up. "Well, I'm +solid on that. And what I say goes. Now I'll tell you what I'll +do, kid. I'll take you down to St. Louis with me, at a figure +that'll make your--" + +Jock looked up. + +"Or if you don't want the Berg, Shriner crowd to get wise, I'll +fix it this way. I'll go over there this morning and tell 'em I've +changed my mind, see? The campaign's theirs, see? Then I refuse +to consider any of their suggestions until I see your plan. And +when I see it I fall for it like a ton of bricks. Old Berg'll +never know. He's so darned high-principled--" + +Jock McChesney stood up. The little drawn pinched look which had +made his face so queerly old was gone. His eyes were bright. His +face was flushed. + +"There! You've said it. I didn't realize how raw this deal was +until you put it into words for me. I want to thank you. You're +right. Bartholomew Berg is so darned high-principled that two +muckers like you and me, groveling around in the dirt, can't even +see the tips of the heights to which his ideals have soared. Don't +stop me. I know I'm talking like a book. But I feel like something +that has just been kicked out into the sunshine after having been +in jail." + +"You're tired," said Ben Griebler. "It's been a strain. Something +always snaps after a long tension." + +Jock's flat palm came down among the papers with a crack. + +"You bet something snaps! It has just snapped inside me." He +began quietly to gather up the papers in an orderly little way. + +"What's that for?" inquired Griebler, coming forward. "You don't +mean--" + +"I mean that I'm going to go home and square this thing with a +lady you've never met. You and she wouldn't get on if you did. You +don't talk the same language. Then I'm going to have a cold bath, +and a hot breakfast. And then, Griebler, I'm going to take this +stuff to Bartholomew Berg and tell him the whole nasty business. +He'll see the humor of it. But I don't know whether he'll fire me, +or make me vice-president of the company. Now, if you want to come +over and talk to him, fair and square, why come." + +"Ten to one he fires you," remarked Griebler, as Jock reached the +door. + +"There's only one person I know who's game enough to take you up +on that. And it's going to take more nerve to face her at +six-thirty than it will to tackle a whole battalion of Bartholomew +Bergs at nine." + +"Well, I guess I can get in a three-hour sleep before--er--" + +"Before what?" said Jock McChesney from the door. + +Ben Griebler laughed a little shamefaced laugh. "Before I see you +at ten, sonny." + + + + +V + +THE SELF-STARTER + + +There is nothing in the sound of the shrill little bell to warn us +of the import of its message. More's the pity. It may be that bore +whose telephone conversation begins: "Well, what do you know +to-day?" It may be your lawyer to say you've inherited a million. +Hence the arrogance of the instrument. It knows its voice will +never wilfully go unanswered so long as the element of chance lies +concealed within it. + +Mrs. Emma McChesney heard the call of her telephone across the +hall. Seated in the office of her business partner, T.A. Buck, she +was fathoms deep in discussion of the T.A. Buck Featherloom +Petticoat Company's new spring line. The buzzer's insistent +voice brought her to her feet, even while she frowned at the +interruption. + +"That'll be Baumgartner 'phoning about those silk swatches. Back +in a minute," said Emma McChesney and hurried across the hall just +in time to break the second call. + +The perfunctory "Hello! Yes" was followed by a swift change of +countenance, a surprised little cry, then,--in quite another +tone--"Oh, it's you, Jock! I wasn't expecting ... No, not too +busy to talk to you, you young chump! Go on." A moment of silence, +while Mrs. McChesney's face smiled and glowed like a girl's as she +listened to the voice of her son. Then suddenly glow and smile +faded. She grew tense. Her head, that had been leaning so +carelessly on the hand that held the receiver, came up with a +jerk. "Jock McChesney!" she gasped, "you--why, you don't mean!--" + +Now, Emma McChesney was not a woman given to jerky conversations, +interspersed with exclamation points. Her poise and balance had +become a proverb in the business world. Yet her lips were +trembling now. Her eyes were very round and bright. Her face had +flushed, then grown white. Her voice shook a little. "Yes, of +course I am. Only, I'm so surprised. Yes, I'll be home early. +Five-thirty at the latest." + +She hung up the receiver with a little fumbling gesture. Her hand +dropped to her lap, then came up to her throat a moment, dropped +again. She sat staring straight ahead with eyes that saw one +thousand miles away. + +From his office across the hall T.A. Buck strolled in casually. + +"Did Baumgartner say he'd--?" He stopped as Mrs. McChesney looked +up at him. A quick step forward--"What's the matter, Emma?" + +"Jock--Jock--" + +"Jock! What's happened to the boy?" Then, as she still stared at +him, her face pitiful, his hand patted her shoulder. "Dear girl, +tell me." He bent over her, all solicitude. + +"Don't!" said Emma McChesney faintly, and shook off his hand. +"Your stenographer can see--What will the office think? Please--" + +"Oh, darn the stenographer! What's this bad news of Jock?" + +Emma McChesney sat up. She smiled a little nervously and passed +her handkerchief across her lips. "I didn't say it was bad, did I? +That is, not exactly bad, I suppose." + +T.A. Buck ran a frenzied hand over his head. "My dear child," +with careful politeness, "will you please try to be sane? I find +you sitting at your desk, staring into space, your face white as a +ghost's, your whole appearance that of a person who has received a +death-blow. And then you say, 'Not exactly bad'!" + +"It's this," explained Emma McChesney in a hollow tone: "The Berg, +Shriner Advertising Company has appointed Jock manager of their +new Western branch. They're opening offices in Chicago in March." +Her lower lip quivered. She caught it sharply between her teeth. + +For one surprised moment T.A. Buck stared in silence. Then a roar +broke from him. "Not exactly bad!" he boomed between laughs. "Not +exactly b--Not ex_act_ly, eh?" Then he was off again. + +Mrs. McChesney surveyed him in hurt and dignified silence. +Then--"Well, really, T.A., don't mind me. What you find so +exquisitely funny--" + +"That's the funniest part of it! That you, of all people, +shouldn't see the joke. Not exactly bad!" He wiped his eyes. "Why, +do you mean to tell me that because your young cub of a son, by a +heaven-sent stroke of good fortune, has landed a job that men +twice his age would give their eyeteeth to get, I find you sitting +at the telephone looking as if he had run off with Annie the cook, +or had had a leg cut off!" + +"I suppose it is funny. Only, the joke's on me. That's why I can't +see it. It means that I'm losing him." + +"That's the first selfish word I've ever heard you utter." + +"Oh, don't think I'm not happy at his success. Happy! Haven't I +hoped for it, and worked for it, and prayed for it! Haven't I +saved for it, and skimped for it! How do you think I could have +stood those years on the road if I hadn't kept up courage with the +thought that it was all for him? Don't I know how narrowly Jock +escaped being the wrong kind! I'm his mother, but I'm not quite +blind. I know he had the making of a first-class cad. I've seen +him start off in the wrong direction a hundred times." + +"If he has turned out a success, it's because you've steered him +right. I've watched you make him over. And now, when his big +chance has come, you--" + +"I don't expect you to understand," interrupted Emma McChesney a +little wearily. "I know it sounds crazy and unreasonable. There's +only one sort of human being who could understand what I mean. +That's a woman with a son." She laughed a little shamefacedly. +"I'm talking like the chorus of a minor-wail sob song, but it's +the truth." + +"If you feel like that, Emma, tell him to stay. The boy wouldn't +go if he thought it would make you unhappy." + +"Not go!" cried Emma McChesney sharply. "I'd like to see him dare +to refuse it!" + +"Well then, what in--" began Buck, bewildered. + +"Don't try to understand it, T.A. It's no use. Don't try to poke +your finger into the whirligig they call 'Woman's Sphere.' Its +mechanism is too complicated. It's the same quirk that makes women +pray for daughters and men for sons. It's the same kink that makes +women read the marriage and death notices first in a newspaper. +It's the same queer strain that causes a mother to lavish the most +love on the weakest, wilfullest child. Perhaps I wouldn't have +loved Jock so much if there hadn't been that streak of yellow in +him, and if I hadn't had to work so hard to dilute it until now +it's only a faint cream color. There ought to be a special prayer +for women who are bringing up their sons alone." + +Buck stirred a little uneasily. "I've never heard you talk like +this before." + +"You probably never will again." She swung round to her desk. + +T.A. Buck, strolling toward the door, still wore the puzzled look. + +"I don't know what makes you take this so seriously. Of course, +the boy will be a long way off. But then, you've been separated +from him before. What's the difference now?" + +"T.A.," said Emma McChesney solemnly, "Jock will be drawing a +man-size salary now. Something tells me I'll be a grandmother in +another two years. Girls aren't letting men like Jock run around +loose. He'll be gobbled up. Just you wait." + +"Oh, I don't know," drawled Buck mischievously. "You've just said +he's a headstrong young cub. He strikes me as the kind who'd +raise the dickens if his three-minute egg happened to be five +seconds overtime." + +Emma McChesney swung around in her chair. "Look here, T.A. As +business partners we've quarreled about everything from silk +samples to traveling men, and as friends we've wrangled on every +subject from weather to war. I've allowed you to criticise my soul +theories, and my new spring hat. But understand that I'm the only +living person who has the right to villify my son, Jock +McChesney." + +The telephone buzzed a punctuation to this period. + +"Baumgartner?" inquired Buck humbly. + +She listened a moment, then, over her shoulder, +"Baumgartner,"--grimly, her hand covering the mouthpiece--"and +if he thinks that he can work off a lot of last year's silk +swatches on--Hello! Yes, Mrs. McChesney talking. Look here, Mr. +Baumgartner--" + +And for the time being Emma McChesney, mother, was relegated to +the background, while Emma McChesney, secretary of the T.A. Buck +Featherloom Petticoat Company, held the stage. + +Having said that she would be home at five-thirty. Mrs. McChesney +was home at five-thirty, being that kind of a person. Jock came +in at six, breathless, bright-eyed, eager, and late, being that +kind of a person. + +He found his mother on the floor before the chiffonier in his +bedroom, surrounded by piles of pajamas, socks, shirts and +collars. + + [Illustration: "He found his mother on the floor ... surrounded + by piles of pajamas, socks, shirts and collars"] + +He swooped down upon her from the doorway. "What do you think of +your blue-eyed boy! Poor, eh?" + +Emma McChesney looked up absently. "Jock, these medium-weights of +yours didn't wear at all, and you paid five dollars for them." + +"Medium-weights! What in--" + +"You've enough silk socks to last you the rest of your natural +life. Handkerchiefs, too. But you'll need pajamas." + +Jock stooped, gathered up an armful of miscellaneous undergarments +and tossed them into an open drawer. Then he shut the drawer with +a bang, reached over, grasped his mother firmly under the arms and +brought her to her feet with a swing. + +"We will now consider the question of summer underwear ended. +Would it bore you too much to touch lightly on the subject of your +son's future?" + +Emma McChesney, tall, straight, handsome, looked up at her son, +taller, straighter, handsomer. Then she took him by the coat +lapels and hugged him. + +"You were so bursting with your own glory that I couldn't resist +teasing you. Besides, I had to do something to keep my mind +off--off--" + +"Why, Blonde dear, you're not--!" + +"No, I'm not," gulped Emma McChesney. "Don't flatter yourself, +young 'un. Tell me just how it happened. From the beginning." She +perched at the side of the bed. Jock, hands in pockets, hair a +little rumpled, paced excitedly up and down before her as he +talked. + +"There wasn't any beginning. That's the stunning part of it. I +just landed right into the middle of it with both feet. I knew +they had been planning to start a big Western branch. But we all +thought they'd pick some big man for it. There are plenty of +medium-class dubs to be had. The kind that answers the ad: +'Manager wanted, young man, preferably married, able to furnish +A-1 reference.' They're as thick as advertising men in Detroit on +Monday morning. But we knew that this Western branch was going to +be given an equal chance with the New York office. Those big +Western advertisers like to give their money to Western firms if +they can. So we figured that they'd pick a real top-notcher--even +Hopper, or Hupp, maybe--and start out with a bang. So when the Old +Man called me into his office this morning I was as unconscious as +a babe. Well, you know Berg. He's as unexpected as a summer shower +and twice as full of electricity. + +"'Morning, McChesney!' he said. 'That a New York necktie you're +wearing?' + +"'Strictly,' says I. + +"'Ever try any Chicago ties?' + +"'Not from choice. That time my suit case went astray--' + +"'M-m-m-m, yes.' He drummed his fingers on the table top a couple +of times. Then--McChesney, what have you learned about advertising +in the last two and a half years?' + +"I was wise enough as to Bartholomew Berg to know that he didn't +mean any cut-and-dried knowledge. He didn't mean rules of the +game. He meant tricks. + +"'Well,' I said, 'I've learned to watch a man's eyes when I'm +talking business to him. If the pupils of his eyes dilate he's +listening to you, and thinking about what you're saying. When they +contract it means that he's only faking interest, even though he's +looking straight at you and wearing a rapt expression. His +thoughts are miles away.' + +"'That so?' said Berg, and sort of grinned. 'What else?' + +"'I've learned that one negative argument is worth six positive +ones; that it never pays to knock your competitor; that it's wise +to fight shy of that joker known as "editorial coöperation."' + +"'That so?' said Berg. 'Anything else?' + +"I made up my mind I could play the game as long as he could. + +"'I've learned not to lose my temper when I'm in the middle of a +white-hot, impassioned business appeal and the office boy bounces +in to say to the boss: "Mrs. Jones is waiting. She says you were +going to help her pick out wall paper this morning;" and Jones +says, "Tell her I'll be there in five minutes."' + +"'Sure you've learned that?' said Berg. + +"'Sure,' says I. 'And I've learned to let the other fellow think +your argument's his own. He likes it. I've learned that the +surest kind of copy is the slow, insidious kind, like the +Featherloom Petticoat Company's campaign. That was an ideal +campaign because it didn't urge and insist that the public buy +Featherlooms. It just eased the idea to them. It started by +sketching a history of the petticoat, beginning with Eve's fig +leaf and working up. Before they knew it they were interested.' + +"'That so? That campaign was your mother's idea, McChesney.' You +know, Mother, he thinks you're a wonder." + +"So I am," agreed Emma McChesney calmly. "Go on." + +"Well, I went on. I told him that I'd learned to stand so that the +light wouldn't shine in my client's eyes when I was talking to +him. I lost a big order once because the glare from the window +irritated the man I was talking to. I told Berg all the tricks I'd +learned, and some I hadn't thought of till that minute. Berg put +in a word now and then. I thought he was sort of guying me, as he +sometimes does--not unkindly, you know, but in that quiet way he +has. Finally I stopped for breath, or something, and he said: + +"'Now let me talk a minute, McChesney. Anybody can teach you the +essentials of the advertising business, if you've any advertising +instinct in you. But it's what you pick up on the side, by your +own efforts and out of your own experience, that lifts you out of +the scrub class. Now I don't think you're an ideal advertising man +by any means, McChesney. You're shy on training and experience, +and you've just begun to acquire that golden quality known as +balance. I could name a hundred men that are better all-around +advertising men than you will ever be. Those men have advertising +ability that glows steadily and evenly, like a well-banked fire. +But you've got the kind of ability that flares up, dies down, +flares up. But every flare is a real blaze that lights things red +while it lasts, and sends a new glow through the veins of +business. You've got personality, and youth, and enthusiasm, and a +precious spark of the real thing known as advertising genius. +There's no describing it. You know what I mean. Also, you +know enough about actual advertising not to run an ad for a +five-thousand-dollar motor car in the "Police Gazette." All of +which leads up to this question: How would you like to buy your +neckties in Chicago, McChesney?' + +"'Chicago!' I blurted. + +"'We've taken a suite of offices in the new Lakeview Building on +Michigan Avenue. Would you like your office done in mahogany or +oak?'" + +Jock came to a full stop before his mother. His cheeks were +scarlet. Hers were pale. He was breathing quickly. She was very +quiet. His eyes glowed. So did hers, but the glow was dimmed by a +mist. + +"Mahogany's richer, but make it oak, son. It doesn't show +finger-marks so." Then, quite suddenly, she stood up, shaking a +little, and buried her face in the boy's shoulder. + +"Why--why, Mother! Don't! Don't, Blonde. We'll see each other +every few weeks. I'll be coming to New York to see the sights, +like the rest of the rubes, and I suppose the noise and lights +will confuse me so that I'll be glad to get back to the sylvan +quiet of Chicago. And then you'll run out there, eh? We'll have +regular bats, Mrs. Mack. Dinner and the theater and supper! Yes?" + +"Yes," said Emma McChesney, in muffled tones that totally lacked +enthusiasm. + +"Chicago's really only a suburb of New York, anyway, these days, +and--" + +Emma McChesney's head came up sharply. "Look here, son. If you're +going to live in Chicago I advise you to cut that suburb talk, and +sort of forget New York. Chicago's quite a village, for an inland +settlement, even if it has only two or three million people, and a +lake as big as all outdoors. That kind of talk won't elect you to +the University Club, son." + +So they talked, all through supper and during the evening. Rather, +Jock talked and his mother listened, interrupting with only an +occasional remark when the bubble of the boy's elation seemed to +grow too great. + +Quite suddenly Jock was silent. After the almost incessant rush of +conversation quiet settled down strangely on the two seated there +in the living-room with its soft-shaded lamps. Jock picked up a +magazine, twirled its pages, put it down, strolled into his own +room, and back again. + +"Mother," he said suddenly, standing before her, "there was a +time when you were afraid I wasn't going to pan out, wasn't +there?" + +"Not exactly afraid, dear, just a little doubtful, perhaps." + +Jock smiled a tolerant, forgiving smile. "You see, Mother, you +didn't understand, that's all. A woman doesn't. I was all right. A +man would have realized that. I don't mean, dear, that you haven't +always been wonderful, because you have. But it takes a man to +understand a man. When you thought I was going bad on your hands I +was just developing, that's all. Remember that time in Chicago, +Mother?" + +"Yes," answered Emma McChesney, "I remember." + +"Now a man would have understood that that was only kid +foolishness. If a fellow's got the stuff in him it'll show up, +sooner or later. If I hadn't had it in me I wouldn't be going to +Chicago as manager of the Berg, Shriner Western office, would I?" + +"No, dear." + +Jock looked at her. In an instant he was all contrition and +tenderness. "You're tired. I've talked you to death, haven't I? +Lordy, it's midnight! And I want to get down early to-morrow. +Conference with Mr. Berg, and Hupp." He tried not to sound too +important. + +Emma McChesney took his head between her two hands and kissed him +once on the lips, then, standing a-tiptoe, kissed his eyelids with +infinite gentleness as you kiss a baby's eyes. Then she brought +his cheek up against hers. And so they stood for a moment, +silently. + +Ten minutes later there came the sound of blithe whistling from +Jock's room. Jock always whistled when he went to bed and when he +rose. Even these years of living in a New York apartment had +not broken him of the habit. It was a cheerful, disconnected +whistling, sometimes high and clear, sometimes under the breath, +sometimes interspersed with song, and sometimes ceasing altogether +at critical moments, say, during shaving, or while bringing the +four-in-hand up tight and snug under the collar. It was one of +those comfortable little noises that indicate a masculine +presence; one of those pleasant, reassuring, man-in-the-house +noises that every woman loves. + +Emma McChesney, putting herself to bed in her room across the +hall, found herself listening, brush poised, lips parted, as +though to the exquisite strains of celestial music. There came the +thump of a shoe on the floor. An interval of quiet. Then another +thump. Without having been conscious of it, Emma McChesney had +grown to love the noises that accompanied Jock's retiring and +rising. His dressing was always signalized by bangings and +thumpings. His splashings in the tub were tremendous. His morning +plunge could be heard all over the six-room apartment. Mrs. +McChesney used to call gayly through the door: + +"Mercy, Jock! You sound like a school of whales coming up for +air." + +"You'll think I'm a school of sharks when it comes to breakfast," +Jock would call back. "Tell Annie to make enough toast, Mum. She's +the tightest thing with the toast I ever did--" + +The rest would be lost in a final surging splash. + +The noises in the room across the hall had subsided now. She +listened more intently. No, a drawer banged. Another. Then: + +"Hasn't my gray suit come back from the tailor's?" + +"It was to be sponged, too, you know. He said he'd bring it +Wednesday. This is Tuesday." + +"Oh!" Another bang. Then: '"Night, Mother!" + +"Good night, dear." Creaking sounds, then a long, comfortable sigh +of complete relaxation. + +Emma McChesney went on with her brushing. She brushed her hair +with the usual number of swift even strokes, from the top of the +shining head to the waist. She braided her hair into two plaits, +Gretchen fashion. Millions of scanty-locked women would have given +all they possessed to look as Emma McChesney looked standing there +in kimono and gown. She nicked out the light. Then she, too, +relaxed upon her pillow with a little sigh. Quiet fell on the +little apartment. The street noises came up to her, now roaring, +now growing faint. Emma McChesney lay there sleepless. She lay +flat, hands clasped across her breast, her braids spread out on +the pillow. In the darkness of the room the years rolled before +her in panorama: her girlhood, her marriage, her unhappiness, +Jock, the divorce, the struggle for work, those ten years on the +road. Those ten years on the road! How she had hated them--and +loved them. The stuffy trains, the jarring sleepers, the bare +little hotel bedrooms, the bad food, the irregular hours, the +loneliness, the hard work, the disappointments, the temptations. +Yes but the fascination of it, the dear friends she had made, the +great human lesson of it all! And all for Jock. That Jock might +have good schools, good clothes, good books, good surroundings, +happy times. Why, Jock had been the reason for it all! She had +swallowed insult because of Jock. She had borne the drudgery +because of Jock. She had resisted temptation, smiled under +hardship, worked, fought, saved, succeeded, all because of Jock. +And now this pivot about which her whole life had revolved was to +be pulled up, wrenched away. + +Over Emma McChesney, lying there in the dark, there swept one of +those unreasoning night-fears. The fear of living. The fear of +life. A straining of the eyeballs in the dark. The pounding of +heart-beats. + +She sat up in bed. Her hands went to her face. Her cheeks were +burning and her eyes smarted. She felt that she must see Jock. At +once. Just to be near him. To touch him. To take him in her arms, +with his head in the hollow of her breast, as she used to when he +was a baby. Why, he had been a baby only yesterday. And now he was +a man. Big enough to stand alone, to live alone, to do without +her. + +Emma McChesney flung aside the covers and sprang out of bed. She +thrust her feet in slippers, groped for the kimono at the foot of +the bed and tiptoed to the door. She listened. No sound from the +other room. She stole across the hall, stopped, listened, gained +the door. It was open an inch or more. Just to be near him, to +know that he lay there, sleeping! She pushed the door very, very +gently. Then she stood in the doorway a moment, scarcely +breathing, her head thrust forward, her whole body tense with +listening. She could not hear him breathe! She caught her breath +again in that unreasoning fear and took a quick step forward. + +"Stop or I'll shoot!" said a voice. Simultaneously the light +flashed on. Emma McChesney found herself blinking at a determined +young man who was steadily pointing a short, chubby, businesslike +looking steel affair in her direction. Then the hand that held the +steel dropped. + +"What is this, anyway?" demanded Jock rather crossly. "A George +Cohan comedy?" + +Emma McChesney leaned against the foot of the bed rather weakly. + +"What did you think--" + +"What would you think if you heard some one come sneaking along +the hall, stopping, listening, sneaking to your door, and then +opening it, and listening again, and sneaking in? What would you +think it was? How did I know you were going around making social +calls at two o'clock in the morning!" + +Suddenly Emma McChesney began to laugh. She leaned over the +footboard and laughed hysterically, her head in her arms. Jock +stared a moment in offended disapproval. Then the humor of it +caught him, and he buried his head in his pillow to stifle +unseemly shrieks. His legs kicked spasmodically beneath the +bedclothes. + +As suddenly as she had begun to laugh Mrs. McChesney became very +sober. + +"Stop it, Jock! Tell me, why weren't you sleeping?" + +"I don't know," replied Jock, as suddenly solemn. "I--sort +of--began to think, and I couldn't sleep." + +"What were you thinking of?" + +Jock looked down at the bedclothes and traced a pattern with one +forefinger on the sheet. Then he looked up. + +"Thinking of you." + +"Oh!" said Emma McChesney, like a bashful schoolgirl. "Of--me!" + +Jock sat up very straight and clasped his hands about his knees. +"I got to thinking of what I had said about having made good all +alone. That's rot. It isn't so. I was striped with yellow like a +stick of lemon candy. If I've got this far, it's all because of +you. I've been thinking all along that I was the original electric +self-starter, when you've really had to get out and crank me every +few miles." + +Into Emma McChesney's face there came a wonderful look. It was the +sort of look with which a newly-made angel might receive her +crown and harp. It was the look with which a war-hero sees the +medal pinned on his breast. It was the look of one who has come +into her Reward. Therefore: + +"What nonsense!" said Emma McChesney. "If you hadn't had it in +you, it wouldn't have come out." + +"It wasn't in me, in the first place," contested Jock stubbornly. +"You planted it." + +From her stand at the foot of the bed she looked at him, her eyes +glowing brighter and brighter with that wonderful look. + +"Now see here,"--severely--"I want you to go to sleep. I don't +intend to stand here and dispute about your ethical innards at +this hour. I'm going to kiss you again." + +"Oh, well, if you must," grinned Jock resignedly, and folded her +in a bear-hug. + +To Emma McChesney it seemed that the next three weeks leaped by, +not by days, but in one great bound. And the day came when a +little, chattering, animated group clustered about the slim young +chap who was fumbling with his tickets, glancing at his watch, +signaling a porter for his bags, talking, laughing, trying to hide +the pangs of departure under a cloak of gayety and badinage that +deceived no one. Least of all did it deceive the two women who +stood there. The eyes of the older woman never left his face. The +eyes of the younger one seldom were raised to his, but she saw his +every expression. Once Emma McChesney's eyes shifted a little so +as to include both the girl and the boy in her gaze. Grace Galt in +her blue serge and smart blue hat was worth a separate glance. + +Sam Hupp was there, T.A. Buck, Hopper, who was to be with him in +Chicago for the first few weeks, three or four of the younger men +in the office, frankly envious and heartily congratulatory. + +They followed him to his train, all laughter and animation. + +"If this train doesn't go in two minutes," said Jock, "I'll get +scared and chuck the whole business. Funny, but I'm not so keen on +going as I was three weeks ago." + +His eyes rested on the girl in the blue serge and the smart hat. +Emma McChesney saw that. She saw that his eyes still rested there +as he stood on the observation platform when the train pulled out. +The sight did not pain her as she thought it would. There was +success in every line of him as he stood there, hat in hand. There +was assurance in every breath of him. His clothes, his skin, his +clear eyes, his slim body, all were as they should be. He had +made a place in the world. He was to be a builder of ideas. She +thought of him, and of the girl in blue serge, and of their +children-to-be. + +Her breast swelled exultingly. Her head came up. + +This was her handiwork. She looked at it, and found that it was +good. + +"Let's strike for the afternoon and call it a holiday," suggested +Buck. + +Emma McChesney turned. The train was gone. "T.A., you'll never +grow up." + +"Never want to. Come on, let's play hooky, Emma." + +"Can't. I've a dozen letters to get out, and Miss Loeb wants to +show me that new knicker-bocker design of hers." + +They drove back to the office almost in silence. Emma McChesney +made straight for her desk and began dictating letters with an +energy that bordered on fury. At five o'clock she was still +working. At five-thirty T.A. Buck came in to find her still +surrounded by papers, samples, models. + +"What is this?" he demanded wrathfully, "an all-night session?" + +Emma McChesney looked up from her desk. Her face was flushed, her +eyes bright, but there was about her an indefinable air of +weariness. + +"T.A., I'm afraid to go home. I'll rattle around in that empty +flat like a hickory nut in a barrel." + +"We'll have dinner down-town and go to the theater." + +"No use. I'll have to go home sometime." + +"Now, Emma," remonstrated Buck, "you'll soon get used to it. Think +of all the years you got along without him. You were happy, +weren't you?" + +"Happy because I had somebody to work for, somebody to plan for, +somebody to worry about. When I think of what that flat will be +without him--Why, just to wake up and know that you can say good +morning to some one who cares! That's worth living for, isn't it?" + +"Emma," said T.A. evenly, "do you realize that you are virtually +hounding me into asking you to marry me?" + +"T.A.!" gasped Emma McChesney. + +"Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?" + + [Illustration: "'Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry + about, didn't you?'"] + +A little whimsical smile lay lightly on his lips. + +"Timothy Buck, I'm over forty years old." + +"Emma, in another minute I'm going to grow sentimental, and +nothing can stop me." + +She looked down at her hands. There fell a little silence. Buck +stirred, leaned forward. She looked up from the little watch that +ticked away at her wrist. + +"The minute's up, T.A.," said Emma McChesney. + + +THE END + + + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Personality Plus, by Edna Ferber + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12677 *** diff --git a/12677-h/12677-h.htm b/12677-h/12677-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8b6e968 --- /dev/null +++ b/12677-h/12677-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4126 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html lang="en"><!-- FIXME --> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" + content="text/html; charset=UTF-8"> +<meta content="pg2html (binary v0.16)" + name="generator"> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of + [illustration: 'What is this anyway? A George Cohan comedy?', + by Edna Ferber +</title> +<style type="text/css"> + <!-- +body { font-size: 100%; } + p { text-indent: 1.5em; + margin-left: 15%; + margin-right: 15%; + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { text-align: center; } + hr { width: 50%; } + hr.short {width: 20%; } + hr.full { width: 100%; } + p.toc { text-align: center; font-size: 90%; } + p.itoc {text-align: left; font-size: 90%; text-indent: -2em; + margin-left: 25%; margin-right: 25%; margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-top: .5em; } + p.note { text-indent: 0em; text-align: center; } + p.note2 {text-indent: 0em; text-align: center; font-size: 90%; } + p.block { text-indent: 0em; margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; } + pre {font-size: 9pt;} + CENTER { padding: 1em; } + a:link {color: blue; text-decoration:none; } + link {color: blue; text-decoration: none; } + a:visited {color: navy; text-decoration: none; } + a:hover {color: red; } + // --> +</style> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12677 ***</div> + +<div style="height: 8em;"><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br></div> + +<a name="image-0001"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp01.jpg" width="262" height="425" +alt="'What is this anyway? A George Cohan comedy?'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> + +<hr> +<br> +<h1> + PERSONALITY PLUS +</h1> +<h3>SOME EXPERIENCES OF EMMA McCHESNEY<br> + AND HER SON, JOCK</h3> +<br> +<h4> + BY +</h4> +<h2> + EDNA FERBER +</h2> +<p class="note2"> + AUTHOR OF "DAWN O'HARA," "BUTTERED SIDE DOWN,"<br> + "ROAST BEEF, MEDIUM," ETC. +</p> +<br> +<p class="note"> + <i>WITH FIFTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS BY + JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG</i> +</p> +<br> +<h5> + NEW YORK<br> + FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY <br> + 1914 +</h5> + + + +<hr> +<br> + <h3>CONTENTS</h3> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0001"> + I. MAKING GOOD WITH MOTHER</a> +</p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0002"> +II. PERSONALITY PLUS</a> +</p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0003"> +III. DICTATED BUT NOT READ</a> +</p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0004"> +IV. THE MAN WITHIN HIM</a> +</p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0005"> +V. THE SELF-STARTER</a> +</p> +<br> + + +<hr class="short"> +<h3>ILLUSTRATIONS</h3> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0001"> +"'What is this anyway? A George Cohan comedy?'" +</a> <I>Frontispiece</I> +</p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0002"> +"'You're a jealous blond,' he laughed" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0003"> +"He was the concentrated essence of do-it-now" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0004"> +"'Hi! Hold that pose!' called Von Herman" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0005"> +"With a jolt Jock realized she had forgotten all about him" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0006"> +"'Well, raw-thah!" he drawled" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0007"> +"... became in some miraculous way a little boy again" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0008"> +"Jock McChesney began to carry a yellow walking stick down to +work" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0009"> +"'Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't mean it, but—'" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0010"> +"'Greetings!'" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0011"> +"She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and looked up into the +sullen, angry young face" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0012"> +"He made straight for the main desk with its battalion of clerks" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0013"> +"'Let's not waste any time,' he said" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0014"> +"He found his mother on the floor ... surrounded by piles of +pajamas, socks, shirts and collars" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0015"> +"'Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?'" +</a></p> +<br> +<hr> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + + +<h2> + PERSONALITY PLUS +</h2> + +<a name="2H_4_0001"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 3em;"><br><br><br></div> + +<H2> + I +</h2> +<h3> + MAKING GOOD WITH MOTHER +</h3> +<br> +<p> + When men began to build cities vertically instead of horizontally + there passed from our highways a picturesque figure, and from our + language an expressive figure of speech. That oily-tongued, + persuasive, soft-stepping stranger in the rusty Prince Albert and + the black string tie who had been wont to haunt our back steps and + front offices with his carefully wrapped bundle, retreated in + bewildered defeat before the clanging blows of steel on steel that + meant the erection of the first twenty-story skyscraper. "As + slick," we used to say, "as a lightning-rod agent." Of what use + his wares on a building whose tower was robed in clouds and which + used the chain lightning for a necklace? The Fourth Avenue antique + dealer had another curio to add to his collection of andirons, + knockers, snuff boxes and warming pans. +</p> +<p> + But even as this quaint figure vanished there sprang up a new and + glittering one to take his place. He stood framed in the great + plate-glass window of the very building which had brought about + the defeat of his predecessor. A miracle of close shaving his face + was, and a marvel of immaculateness his linen. Dapper he was, and + dressy, albeit inclined to glittering effects and a certain + plethory at the back of the neck. Back of him stood shining shapes + that reflected his glory in enamel, and brass, and glass. His + language was floral, but choice; his talk was of gearings and + bearings and cylinders and magnetos; his method differed from that + of him who went before as the method of a skilled aëronaut differs + from that of the man who goes over Niagara in a barrel. And as he + multiplied and spread over the land we coined a new figure of + speech. "Smooth!" we chuckled. "As smooth as an automobile + salesman." +</p> +<p> + But even as we listened, fascinated by his fluent verbiage there + grew within us a certain resentment. Familiarity with his + glittering wares bred a contempt of them, so that he fell to + speaking of them as necessities instead of luxuries. He juggled + figures, and thought nothing of four of them in a row. We looked + at our five-thousand-dollar salary, so strangely shrunken and thin + now, and even as we looked we saw that the method of the unctuous, + anxious stranger had become antiquated in its turn. +</p> +<p> + Then from his ashes emerged a new being. Neither urger nor + spellbinder he. The twentieth century was stamped across his brow, + and on his lips was ever the word "Service." Silent, courteous, + watchful, alert, he listened, while you talked. His method, in + turn, made that of the silk-lined salesman sound like the hoarse + hoots of the ballyhoo man at a county fair. Blithely he accepted + five hundred thousand dollars and gave in return—a promise. And + when we would search our soul for a synonym to express all that + was low-voiced, and suave, and judicious, and patient, and sure, + we began to say, "As alert as an advertising expert." +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney, looking as fresh and clear-eyed as only twenty-one + and a cold shower can make one look, stood in the doorway of his + mother's bedroom. His toilette had halted abruptly at the + bathrobe stage. One of those bulky garments swathed his slim + figure, while over his left arm hung a gray tweed Norfolk coat. + From his right hand dangled a pair of trousers, in pattern a + modish black-and-white. +</p> +<p> + Jock regarded the gray garment on his arm with moody eyes. +</p> +<p> + "Well, I'd like to know what's the matter with it!" he demanded, a + trifle irritably. +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney, in the act of surveying her back hair in the + mirror, paused, hand glass poised half way, to regard her son. +</p> +<p> + "All right," she answered cheerfully. "I'll tell you. It's too + young." +</p> +<p> + "Young!" He held it at arm's length and stared at it. "What d'you + mean—young?" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney came forward, wrapping the folds of her kimono + about her. She took the disputed garment in one hand and held it + aloft. "I know that you look like a man on a magazine cover in it. + But Norfolk suits spell tennis, and seashore, and elegant leisure. + And you're going out this morning, Son, to interview business men. + You're going to try to impress the advertising world with the fact + that it needs your expert services. You walk into a business + office in a Norfolk suit, and everybody from the office boy to the + president of the company will ask you what your score is." +</p> +<p> + She tossed it back over his arm. +</p> +<p> + "I'll wear the black and white," said Jock resignedly, and turned + toward his own room. At his doorway he paused and raised his voice + slightly: "For that matter, they're looking for young men. + Everybody's young. Why, the biggest men in the advertising game + are just kids." He disappeared within his room, still talking. + "Look at McQuirk, advertising manager of the Combs Car Company. + He's so young he has to disguise himself in bone-trimmed + eye-glasses with a black ribbon to get away with it. Look at + Hopper, of the Berg, Shriner Company. Pulls down ninety thousand a + year, and if he's thirty-five I'll—" +</p> +<p> + "Well, you asked my advice," interrupted his mother's voice with + that muffled effect which is caused by a skirt being slipped over + the head, "and I gave it. Wear a white duck sailor suit with blue + anchors and carry a red tin pail and a shovel, if you want to look + young. Only get into it in a jiffy, Son, because breakfast will be + ready in ten minutes. I can tell by the way Annie's crashing the + cups. So step lively if you want to pay your lovely mother's + subway fare." +</p> +<p> + Ten minutes later the slim young figure, in its English-fitting + black and white, sat opposite Emma McChesney at the breakfast + table and between excited gulps of coffee outlined a meteoric + career in his chosen field. And the more he talked and the rosier + his figures of speech became, the more silent and thoughtful fell + his mother. She wondered if five o'clock would find a droop to the + set of those young shoulders; if the springy young legs in their + absurdly scant modish trousers would have lost some of their + elasticity; if the buoyant step in the flat-heeled shoes would not + drag a little. Thirteen years of business experience had taught + her to swallow smilingly the bitter pill of rebuff. But this boy + was to experience his first dose to-day. She felt again that + sensation of almost physical nausea—that sickness of heart and + spirit which had come over her when she had met her first sneer + and intolerant shrug. It had been her maiden trip on the road for + the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. She was secretary of + that company now, and moving spirit in its policy. But the wound + of that first insult still ached. A word from her would have + placed the boy and saved him from curt refusals. She withheld that + word. He must fight his fight alone. +</p> +<p> + "I want to write the kind of ad," Jock was saying excitedly, "that + you see 'em staring at in the subways, and street cars and + L-trains. I want to sit across the aisle and watch their up-turned + faces staring at that oblong, and reading it aloud to each other." +</p> +<p> + "Isn't that an awfully obvious necktie you're wearing, Jock?" + inquired his mother irrelevantly. +</p> +<p> + "This? You ought to see some of them. This is a Quaker stock in + comparison." He glanced down complacently at the vivid-hued silken + scarf that the season's mode demanded. Immediately he was off + again. "And the first thing you know, Mrs. McChesney, ma'am, we'll + have a motor truck backing up at the door once a month and six + strong men carrying my salary to the freight elevator in sacks." +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney buttered her bit of toast, then looked up to remark + quietly: +</p> +<p> + "Hadn't you better qualify for the trial heats, Jock, before you + jump into the finals?" +</p> +<p> + "Trial heats!" sneered Jock. "They're poky. I want real money. + Now! It isn't enough to be just well-to-do in these days. It needs + money. I want to be rich! Not just prosperous, but rich! So rich + that I can let the bath soap float around in the water without any + pricks of conscience. So successful that they'll say, 'And he's a + mere boy, too. Imagine!'" +</p> +<p> + And, "Jock dear," Emma McChesney said, "you've still to learn that + plans and ambitions are like soap bubbles. The harder you blow and + the more you inflate them, the quicker they burst. Plans and + ambitions are things to be kept locked away in your heart, Son, + with no one but yourself to take an occasional peep at them." +</p> +<p> + Jock leaned over the table, with his charming smile. "You're a + jealous blonde," he laughed. "Because I'm going to be a captain of + finance—an advertising wizard; you're afraid I'll grab the glory + all away from you." +</p> +<a name="image-0002"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp02.jpg" width="346" height="270" +alt="''You're a jealous blond,' he said'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + Mrs. McChesney folded her napkin and rose. She looked unbelievably + young, and trim, and radiant, to be the mother of this boasting + boy. +</p> +<p> + "I'm not afraid," she drawled, a wicked little glint in her blue + eyes. "You see, they'll only regard your feats and say, 'H'm, no + wonder. He ought to be able to sell ice to an Eskimo. His mother + was Emma McChesney.'" +</p> +<p> + And then, being a modern mother, she donned smart autumn hat and + tailored suit coat and stood ready to reach her office by + nine-thirty. But because she was as motherly as she was modern she + swung open the door between kitchen and dining-room to advise with + Annie, the adept. +</p> +<p> + "Lamb chops to-night, eh, Annie? And sweet potatoes. Jock loves + 'em. And corn au gratin and some head lettuce." She glanced toward + Jock in the hallway, then lowered her voice. "Annie," she teased, + "just give us one of your peach cobblers, will you? You see + he—he's going to be awfully—tired when he gets home." +</p> +<p> + So they went stepping off to work together, mother and son. A + mother of twenty-five years before would have watched her son + with tear-dimmed eyes from the vine-wreathed porch of a cottage. + There was no watching a son from the tenth floor of an up-town + apartment house. Besides, she had her work to do. The subway + swallowed both of them. Together they jostled and swung their way + down-town in the close packed train. At the Twenty-third Street + station Jock left her. +</p> +<p> + "You'll have dinner to-night with a full-fledged professional + gent," he bragged, in his youth and exuberance and was off down + the aisle and out on the platform. Emma McChesney managed to turn + in her nine-inch space of train seat so that she watched the slim, + buoyant young figure from the window until the train drew away and + he was lost in the stairway jam. Just so Rachel had watched the + boy Joseph go to meet the Persian caravans in the desert. +</p> +<p> + "Don't let them buffalo you, Jock," Emma had said, just before he + left her. "They'll try it. If they give you a broom and tell you + to sweep down the back stairs, take it, and sweep, and don't + forget the corners. And if, while you're sweeping, you notice that + that kind of broom isn't suited to the stairs go in and suggest a + new kind. They'll like it." +</p> +<p> + Brooms and back stairways had no place in Jock McChesney's mind as + the mahogany and gold elevator shot him up to the fourteenth floor + of the great office building that housed the Berg, Shriner + Company. Down the marble hallway he went and into the reception + room. A cruel test it was, that reception room, with the cruelty + peculiar to the modern in business. With its soft-shaded lamp, its + two-toned rug, its Jacobean chairs, its magazine-laden cathedral + oak table, its pot of bright flowers making a smart touch of color + in the somber richness of the room, it was no place for the + shabby, the down-and-out, the cringing, the rusty, or the + mendicant. +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney, from the tips of his twelve-dollar shoes to his + radiant face, took the test and stood it triumphantly. He had + entered with an air in which was mingled the briskness of + assurance with the languor of ease. There were times when Jock + McChesney was every inch the son of his mother. +</p> +<p> + There advanced toward Jock a large, plump, dignified personage, a + personage courteous, yet reserved, inquiring, yet not offensively + curious—a very Machiavelli of reception-room ushers. Even while + his lips questioned, his eyes appraised clothes, character, + conduct. +</p> +<p> + "Mr. Hupp, please," said Jock, serene in the perfection of his + shirt, tie, collar and scarf pin, upon which the appraising eye + now rested. "Mr. McChesney." He produced a card. +</p> +<p> + "Appointment?" +</p> +<p> + "No—but he'll see me." +</p> +<p> + But Machiavelli had seen too many overconfident callers. Their + very confidence had taught him caution. +</p> +<p> + "If you will please state your—ah—business—" +</p> +<p> + Jock smiled a little patient smile and brushed an imaginary fleck + of dust from the sleeve of his very correct coat. +</p> +<p> + "I want to ask him for a job as office boy," he jibed. +</p> +<p> + An answering grin overspread the fat features of the usher. Even + an usher likes his little joke. The sense of humor dies hard. +</p> +<p> + "I have a letter from him, asking me to call," said Jock, to + clinch it. +</p> +<p> + "This way." The keeper of the door led Jock toward the sacred + inner portal and held it open. "Mr. Hupp's is the last door to the + right." +</p> +<p> + The door closed behind him. Jock found himself in the big, busy, + light-flooded central office. Down either side of the great room + ran a row of tiny private offices, each partitioned off, each + outfitted with desk, and chairs, and a big, bright window. On his + way to the last door at the right Jock glanced into each tiny + office, glimpsing busy men bent absorbedly over papers, girls busy + with dictation, here and there a door revealing two men, or three, + deep in discussion of a problem, heads close together, voices + low, faces earnest. It came suddenly to the smartly modish, + overconfident boy walking the length of the long room that + the last person needed in this marvelously perfected and + smooth-running organization was a somewhat awed young man named + Jock McChesney. There came to him that strange sensation which + comes to every job-hunter; that feeling of having his spiritual + legs carry him out of the room, past the door, down the hall and + into the street, even as, in reality, they bore him on to the very + presence which he dreaded and yet wished to see. +</p> +<p> + Two steps more, and he stood in the last doorway, right. No + matinee idol, nervously awaiting his cue in the wings, could have + planned his entrance more carefully than Jock had planned this. + Ease was the thing; ease, bordering on nonchalance, mixed with a + brisk and businesslike assurance. +</p> +<p> + The entrance was lost on the man at the desk. He did not even look + up. If Jock had entered on all-fours, doing a double tango to + vocal accompaniment, it is doubtful if the man at the desk would + have looked up. Pencil between his fingers, head held a trifle to + one side in critical contemplation of the work before him, eyes + narrowed judicially, lips pursed, he was the concentrated essence + of do-it-now. +</p> +<a name="image-0003"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp03.jpg" width="270" height="344" +alt="'He was the concentrated essence of do-it-now'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + Jock waited a moment, in silence. The man at the desk worked on. + His head was semi-bald. Jock knew him to be thirty. Jock fixed his + eye on the semi-bald spot and spoke. +</p> +<p> + "My name's McChesney," he began. "I wrote you three days ago; you + probably will remember. You replied, asking me to call, and I—" +</p> +<p> + "Minute," exploded the man at the desk, still absorbed. +</p> +<p> + Jock faltered, stopped. The man at the desk did not look up. A + moment of silence, except for the sound of the busy pencil + traveling across the paper. Jock, glaring at the semi-bald spot, + spoke again. +</p> +<p> + "Of course, Mr. Hupp, if you're too busy to see me—" +</p> +<p> + "M-m-m-m," a preoccupied hum, such as a busy man makes when he is + trying to give attention to two interests. +</p> +<p> + "—why I suppose there's no sense in staying; but it seems to me + that common courtesy—" +</p> +<p> + The busy pencil paused, quivered in the making of a final period, + enclosed the dot in a proofreader's circle, and rolled away across + the desk, its work done. +</p> +<p> + "Now," said Sam Hupp, and swung around, smiling, to face the + affronted Jock. "I had to get that out. They're waiting for it." + He pressed a desk button. "What can I do for you? Sit down, sit + down." +</p> +<p> + There was a certain abrupt geniality about him. His + tortoise-rimmed glasses gave him an oddly owlish look, like a + small boy taking liberties with grandfather's spectacles. +</p> +<p> + Jock found himself sitting down, his anger slipping from him. +</p> +<p> + "My name's McChesney," he began. "I'm here because I want to work + for this concern." He braced himself to present the convincing, + reason-why arguments with which he had prepared himself. +</p> +<p> + Whereupon Sam Hupp, the brisk, proceeded to whisk his breath and + arguments away with an unexpected: +</p> +<p> + "All right. What do you want to do?" +</p> +<p> + Jock's mouth fell open. "Do!" he stammered. "Do! Why—anything—" +</p> +<p> + Sam Hupp's quick eye swept over the slim, attractive, radiant, + correctly-garbed young figure before him. Unconsciously he rubbed + his bald spot with a rueful hand. +</p> +<p> + "Know anything about writing, or advertising?" +</p> +<p> + Jock was at ease immediately. "Quite a lot; yes. I practically + rewrote the Gridiron play that we gave last year, and I was + assistant advertising manager of the college publications for + two years. That gives a fellow a pretty broad knowledge of + advertising." +</p> +<p> + "Oh, Lord!" groaned Sam Hupp, and covered his eyes with his hand, + as if in pain. +</p> +<p> + Jock stared. The affronted feeling was returning. Sam Hupp + recovered himself and smiled a little wistfully. +</p> +<p> + "McChesney, when I came up here twelve years ago I got a job as + reception-room usher. A reception-room usher is an office boy in + long pants. Sometimes, when I'm optimistic, I think that if I live + twelve years longer I'll begin to know something about the + rudiments of this game." +</p> +<p> + "Oh, of course," began Jock, apologetically. But Hupp's glance was + over his head. Involuntarily Jock turned to follow the direction + of his eyes. +</p> +<p> + "Busy?" said a voice from the doorway. +</p> +<p> + "Come in, Dutch! Come in!" boomed Hupp. +</p> +<p> + The man who entered was of the sort that the boldest might well + hesitate to address as "Dutch"—a tall, slim, elegant figure, + Van-dyked, bronzed. +</p> +<p> + "McChesney, this is Von Herman, head of our art department." +</p> +<p> + Their hands met in a brief clasp. Von Herman's thoughts were + evidently elsewhere. +</p> +<p> + "Just wanted to tell you that that cussed model's skipped out. + Gone with a show. Just when I had the whole series blocked out in + my mind. He was a wonder. No brains, but a marvel for looks and + style. These people want real stuff. Don't know how I'm going to + give it to them now." +</p> +<p> + Hupp sat up. "Got to!" he snapped. "Campaign's late, as it is. + Can't you get an ordinary man model and fake the Greek god + beauty?" +</p> +<p> + "Yes—but it'll look faked. If I could lay my hands on a chap who + could wear clothes as if they belonged to him—" +</p> +<p> + Hupp rose. "Here's your man," he cried, with a snap of his + fingers. "Clothes! Look at him. He invented 'em. Why, you could + photograph him and he'd look like a drawing." +</p> +<p> + Von Herman turned, surprised, incredulous, hopeful, his artist eye + brightening at the ease and grace and modishness of the smart, + well-knit figure before him. +</p> +<p> + "Me!" exploded Jock, his face suffused with a dull, painful red. + "Me! Pose! For a clothing ad!" +</p> +<p> + "Well," Hupp reminded him, "you said you'd do anything." +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney glared belligerently. Hupp returned the stare with + a faint gleam of amusement shining behind the absurd glasses. The + amused look changed to surprise as he beheld the glare in Jock's + eyes fading. For even as he glared there had come a warning to + Jock—a warning sent just in time from that wireless station + located in his subconscious mind. A vivid face, full of pride, and + hope, and encouragement flashed before him. +</p> +<p> + "Jock," it said, "don't let 'em buffalo you. They'll try it. If + they give you a broom and tell you to sweep down the back + stairs—" +</p> +<p> + Jock was smiling his charming, boyish smile. +</p> +<p> + "Lead me to your north light," he laughed at Von Herman. "Got any + Robert W. Chambers's heroines tucked away there?" +</p> +<p> + Hupp's broad hand came down on his shoulder with a thwack. "That's + the spirit, McChesney! That's the—" He stopped, abruptly. "Say, + are you related to Mrs. Emma McChesney, of the Featherloom Skirt + Company?" +</p> +<p> + "Slightly. She's my one and only mother." +</p> +<p> + "She—you mean—her son! Well I'll be darned!" He held out his + hand to Jock. "If you're a real son of your mother I wish you'd + just call the office boy as you step down the hall with Von Herman + and tell him to bring me a hammer and a couple of spikes. I'd + better nail down my desk." +</p> +<p> + "I'll promise not to crowd you for a year or two," grinned Jock + from the doorway, and was off with the pleased Von Herman. +</p> +<p> + Past the double row of beehives again, into the elevator, out + again, up a narrow iron stairway, into a busy, cluttered, + skylighted room. Pictures, posters, photographs hung all about. + Some of the pictures Jock recognized as old friends that had gazed + familiarly at him from subway trains and street cars and theater + programmes. Golf clubs, tennis rackets, walking sticks, billiard + cues were stacked up in corners. And yet there was a bare and + orderly look about the place. Two silent, shirt-sleeved men were + busy at drawing boards. Through a doorway beyond Jock could see + others similarly engaged in the next room. On a platform in one + corner of the room posed a young man in one of those costumes the + coat of which is a mongrel mixture of cutaway and sack. You see + them worn by clergymen with unsecular ideas in dress, and by the + leader of the counterfeiters' gang in the moving pictures. The + pose was that met with in the backs of magazines—the head lifted, + eyes fixed on an interesting object unseen, one arm crooked to + hold a cane, one foot advanced, the other trailing slightly to + give a Fifth Avenue four o'clock air. His face was expressionless. + On his head was a sadly unironed silk hat. +</p> +<p> + Von Herman glanced at the drawing tacked to the board of one of + the men. "That'll do, Flynn," he said to the model. He glanced + again at the drawing. "Bring out the hat a little more, Mack. They + won't burnish it if you don't,"—to the artist. Then, turning + about, "Where's that girl?" +</p> +<p> + From a far corner, sheltered by long green curtains, stepped a + graceful almost childishly slim figure in a bronze-green Norfolk + suit and close-fitting hat from beneath which curled a fluff of + bright golden hair. Von Herman stared at her. +</p> +<p> + "You're not the girl," he said. "You won't do." +</p> +<p> + "You sent for me," retorted the girl. "I'm Miss Michelin—Gelda + Michelin. I posed for you six months ago, but I've been out of + town with the show since then." +</p> +<p> + Von Herman, frowning, opened a table drawer, pulled out a card + index, ran his long fingers through it and extracted a card. He + glanced at it, and then, the frown deepening, read it aloud. +</p> +<p> + "'Michelin, Gelda. Telephone Bryant 4759. Brunette. Medium build. + Good neck and eyes. Good figure. Good clothes.'" +</p> +<p> + He glanced up. "Well?" +</p> +<p> + "That's me," said Miss Michelin calmly. "I've got the same + telephone number and eyes and neck and clothes. Of course my hair + is different and I am thinner, but that's business. I'd like to + know what chance a fat girl would have in the chorus these days." +</p> +<p> + Von Herman groaned. "I'll pay you for the time you've waited and + for your trouble. Can't use you for these pictures." Then as she + left he turned a comically despairing face to the two men at the + drawing boards. "What are we going to do? We've got to make a + start on these pictures and everything has gone wrong. They want + something special. Two figures, young man and woman. Said + expressly they didn't want a chicken. No romping curls and none of + that eyes and lips fool-girl stuff. This chap's ideal for the + man." He pointed to Jock. +</p> +<p> + Jock had been staring, fascinated, at the shaded, zigzag marks + which the artist—dark-skinned, velvet-eyed, foreign-looking + youth—was making on the sheet of paper before him. He had + scarcely glanced up during the entire scene. Now he looked briefly + and coolly at Jock. +</p> +<p> + "Where did you get him?" he asked, with the precise enunciation of + the foreign-born. "Good figure. And he wears his clothes not like + a cab driver, as the others do." +</p> +<p> + "Thanks," drawled Jock, flushing a little. Then, boyish curiosity + getting the better of him, "Say, tell me, what in the world are + you doing to that drawing?" +</p> +<p> + He of the velvety eyes smiled a twisted little smile. His slim + brown fingers never stopped in their work of guiding the pen in + its zigzag path. +</p> +<p> + "It is work," he sneered, "to delight the soul of an artist. I am + now engaged in the pleasing task of putting the bones in a + herringbone suit." +</p> +<p> + But Jock did not smile. Here was another man, he thought, who had + been given a broom and told to sweep down the stairway. +</p> +<p> + Von Herman was regarding him almost wistfully. "I hate to let you + slip," he said. Then, his face brightening, "By Jove! I wonder if + Miss Galt would pose for us if we told her what a fix we were in." +</p> +<p> + He picked up the telephone receiver. "Miss Galt, please," he said. + Then, aside, "Of course it's nerve to ask a girl who's earning + three thousand a year to leave her desk and come up and pose + for—Hello! Miss Galt?" +</p> +<p> + Jock, seated on the edge of the models' platform, was beginning to + enjoy himself. Even this end of the advertising business had its + interesting side, he thought. Ten minutes later he knew it had. +</p> +<p> + Ten minutes later there appeared Miss Galt. Jock left off + swinging his legs from the platform and stood up. Miss Galt was + that kind of girl. Smooth black hair parted and coiled low as only + an exquisitely shaped head can dare to wear its glory-crown. A + face whose expression was sweetly serious in spite of its youth. A + girl whose clothes were the sort of clothes that girls ought to + wear in offices, and don't. +</p> +<p> + "This is mighty good of you, Miss Galt," began Von Herman. "It's + the Kool Komfort Klothes Company's summer campaign stuff. We'll + only need you for an hour or so—to get the expression and general + outline. Poster stuff, really. Then this young man will pose for + the summer union suit pictures." +</p> +<p> + "Don't apologize," said Miss Galt. "We had a hard enough time to + get that Kool Komfort account. We don't want to start wrong with + the pictures. Besides, I think posing's real fun." +</p> +<p> + Jock thought so too, quite suddenly. Just as suddenly Von Herman + remembered the conventions and introduced them. +</p> +<p> + "McChesney?" repeated Miss Galt, crisply. "I know a Mrs. + McChesney, of the T.A. Buck—" +</p> +<p> + "My mother," proudly. +</p> +<p> + "Your mother! Then why—" She stopped. +</p> +<p> + "Because," said Jock, "I'm the rawest rooky in the Berg, Shriner + Company. And when I begin to realize what I don't know about + advertising I'll probably want to plunge off the Palisades." +</p> +<p> + Miss Galt smiled up at him, her clear, frank eyes meeting his. +</p> +<p> + "You'll win," she said. +</p> +<p> + "Even if I lose—I win now," said Jock, suddenly audacious. +</p> +<p> + "Hi! Hold that pose!" called Von Herman, happily. +</p> +<a name="image-0004"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp04.jpg" width="339" height="270" +alt="''Hi! hold that pose!' called Von Herman'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<a name="2H_4_0002"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + II +</h2> +<h3> + PERSONALITY PLUS +</h3> +<br> +<p> + There are seven stages in the evolution of that individual whose + appearance is the signal for a listless "Who-do-you-want-to-see?" + from the white-bloused, drab-haired, anæmic little girl who sits + in the outer office forever reading last month's magazines. The + badge of fear brands the novice. Standing hat in hand, nervous, + apprehensive, gulpy, with the elevator door clanging behind him, + and the sacred inner door closed before him, he offers up a silent + and paradoxical "Thank heaven!" at the office girl's languid "Not + in," and dives into the friendly shelter of the next elevator + going down. When, at that same message, he can smile, as with a + certain grim agreeableness he says, "I'll wait," then has he + reached the seventh stage, and taken the orders of the regularly + ordained. +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney had learned to judge an unknown prospective by + glancing at his hall rug and stenographer, which marks the fifth + stage. He had learned to regard office boys with something less + than white-hot hate. He had learned to let the other fellow do the + talking. He had learned to condense a written report into + twenty-five words. And he had learned that there was as much + difference between the profession of advertising as he had thought + of it and advertising as it really was, as there is between a + steam calliope and a cathedral pipe organ. +</p> +<p> + In the big office of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company they + had begun to chuckle a bit over the McChesney solicitor's reports. + Those same reports indicated that young McChesney was beginning to + find the key to that maddening jumble of complexities known as + human nature. Big Sam Hupp, who was the pet caged copy-writing + genius of the place, used even to bring an occasional example of + Jock's business badinage into the Old Man's office, and the two + would grin in secret. As when they ran thus: +</p> +<p class="block"> + <i>Pepsinale Manufacturing Company</i>: <br><br> + + Mr. Bowser is the kind of gentleman who curses his + subordinates in front of the whole office force. Very touchy. + Crumpled his advertising manager. Our chance to get at him is + when he is in one of his rare good humors. +</p> +<p> + Or: +</p> +<p class="block"> + <i>E.V. Kreiss Company</i>:<br><br> + + Kreiss very difficult to reach. Permanent address seems to be + Italy, Egypt, and other foreign ports. Occasionally his + instructions come from Palm Beach. +</p> +<p> + At which there rose up before the reader a vision of Kreiss + himself—baggy-eyed, cultivated English accent, interested in + polo, fast growing contemptuous of things American. +</p> +<p> + Or still another: +</p> +<p class="block"> + <i>Hodge Manufacturing Company:</i><br><br> + + Mr. Hodge is a very conservative gentleman. Sits still and + lets others do the talking. Has gained quite a reputation for + business acumen with this one attribute. Spent $500 last year. + Holding his breath preparatory to taking another plunge. +</p> +<p> + It was about the time that Jock McChesney had got over the novelty + of paying for his own clothes, and had begun to talk business in a + slightly patronizing way to his clever and secretly amused mother, + Mrs. Emma McChesney, secretary of the T.A. Buck Featherloom + Petticoat Company, that Sam Hupp noticed a rather cocky + over-assurance in Jock's attitude toward the world in general. + Whereupon he sent for him. +</p> +<p> + On Sam Hupp's broad flat desk stood an array of diminutive jars, + and bottles, and tiny pots that would have shamed the toilette + table of a musical comedy star's dressing-room. There were + rose-tinted salves in white bottles. There were white creams in + rose-tinted jars. There were tins of ointment and boxes of + fragrant soap. +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney, entering briskly, eyed the array in some surprise. + Then he grinned, and glanced wickedly at Sam Hupp's prematurely + bald head. +</p> +<p> + "No use, Mr. Hupp. They say if it's once gone it's gone. Get a + toupee." +</p> +<p> + "Shut up!" growled Sam Hupp, good-humoredly. "Stay in this game + long enough and you'll be a hairless wonder yourself. Ten years + ago the girls used to have to tie their hands or wear mittens to + keep from running their white fingers through my waving silken + locks. Sit down a minute." +</p> +<p> + Jock reached forward and took up a jar of cream. He frowned in + thought. Then: "Thought I recognized this stuff. Mother uses it. + I've seen it on the bathroom shelf." +</p> +<p> + "You bet she uses it," retorted Sam Hupp. "What's more, millions + of other women will be using it in the next few years. This + woman," he pointed to the name on the label, "has hit upon the + real thing in toilette flub-dub. She's made a little fortune + already, and if she don't look out she'll be rich. They've got + quite a plant. When she started she used to put the stuff together + herself over the kitchen stove. They say it's made of cottage + cheese, stirred smooth and tinted pink. Well, anyway they're + nationally known now—or will be when they start to advertise + right." +</p> +<p> + "I've seen some of their stuff advertised—somewhere," interrupted + Jock, "but I don't remember—" +</p> +<p> + "There you are. You see the head of this concern is a little bit + frightened at the way she seems slated to become a lady cold cream + magnate. They say she's scared pink for fear somebody will steal + her recipes. She has a kid nephew who acts as general manager, and + they're both on the job all the time. They say the lady herself + looks like the spinster in a b'gosh drama. You can get a boy to + look up your train schedule." +</p> +<p> + Train! Schedule! Across Jock McChesney's mind there flashed a + vision of himself, alert, confident, brisk, taking the luxurious + nine o'clock for Philadelphia. Or, maybe, the Limited to Chicago. + Dashing down to the station in a taxi, of course. Strolling down + the car aisle to take his place among those other thoroughbreds of + commerce—men whose chamois gloves and walking sticks, and talk of + golf and baseball and motoring spelled elegant leisure, even as + their keen eyes and shrewd faces and low-voiced exchange of such + terms as "stocks," and "sales" and "propositions" proclaimed them + intent on bagging the day's business. Sam Hupp's next words + brought him back to reality with a jerk. +</p> +<p> + "I think you have to change at Buffalo. It gets you to Tonawanda + in the morning. Rotten train." +</p> +<p> + "Tonawanda!" repeated Jock. +</p> +<p> + "Now listen, kid." Sam Hupp leaned forward, and his eyes behind + their great round black-rimmed glasses were intent on Jock. "I'm + not going to try to steer you. You think that advertising is a + game. It isn't. There are those who think it's a science. But it + isn't that either. It's white magic, that's what it is. And you + can't learn it from books, any more than you can master trout + fishing from reading 'The Complete Angler.'" He swung about and + swept the beauty lotions before him in a little heap at the end of + his desk. "Here, take this stuff. And get chummy with it. Eat it, + if necessary; learn it somehow." +</p> +<p> + Jock stood up, a little dazed. "But, what!—How?—I mean—" +</p> +<p> + Sam Hupp glanced up at him. "Sending you down there isn't my idea. + It's the Old Man's. He's got an idea that you—" He paused and put + a detaining hand on Jock McChesney's arm. "Look here. You think I + know a little something about advertising, don't you?" +</p> +<p> + "You!" laughed Jock. "You're the guy who put the whitening in the + Great White Way. Everybody knows you were the—" +</p> +<p> + "M-m-m, thanks," interrupted Sam Hupp, a little dryly. "Let me + tell you something, young 'un. I've got what you might call a + thirty-horse-power mind. I keep it running on high all the time, + with the muffler cut out, and you can hear me coming for miles. + But the Old Man,"—he leaned forward impressively,—"the Old Man, + boy, has the eighty-power kind, built like a watch—no smoke, no + dripping, and you can't even hear the engine purr. But when he + throws her open! Well, he can pass everything on the road. Don't + forget that." He turned to his desk again and reached for a stack + of papers and cuts. "Good luck to you. If you want any further + details you can get 'em from Hayes." He plunged into his work. +</p> +<p> + There arose in Jock McChesney's mind that instinct of the man in + his hour of triumph—the desire to tell a woman of his greatness. + He paused a second outside Sam Hupp's office, turned, and walked + quickly down the length of the great central room. He stopped + before a little glass door at the end, tapped lightly, and + entered. +</p> +<p> + Grace Galt, copy-writer, looked up, frowning a little. Then she + smiled. Miss Galt had a complete layout on the desk before + her—scrap books, cuts, copy, magazines. There was a little smudge + on the end of her nose. Grace Galt was writing about magnetos. + She was writing about magnetos in a way to make you want to drop + your customer, or your ironing, or your game, and go downtown and + buy that particular kind of magneto at once. Which is the + secretest part of the wizardry of advertising copy. To look at + Grace Galt you would have thought that she should have been + writing about the rose-tinted jars in Jock McChesney's hands + instead of about such things as ignition, and insulation, and ball + bearings, and induction windings. But it was Grace Galt's gift + that she could take just such hard, dry, technical facts and weave + them into a story that you followed to the end. She could make you + see the romance in condensers and transformers. She had the power + that caused the reader to lose himself in the charm of magnetic + poles, and ball bearings, and high-tension sparks. +</p> +<p> + "Just dropped in to say good-by," said Jock, very casually. "Going + to run up-state to see the Athena Company—toilette specialties, + you know. It ought to be a big account." +</p> +<p> + "Athena?" Grace Galt regarded him absently, her mind still on her + work. Then her eyes cleared. "You mean at Tonawanda? And they're + sending you! Well!" She put out a congratulatory hand. Jock + gripped it gratefully. +</p> +<p> + "Not so bad, eh?" he boasted. +</p> +<p> + "Bad!" echoed Grace Galt. Her face became serious. "Do you realize + that there are men in this office who have been here for five + years, six years, or even more, and who have never been given a + chance to do anything but stenography, or perhaps some private + secretarying?" +</p> +<p> + "I know it," agreed Jock. But there was no humbleness in his tone. + He radiated self-satisfaction. He seemed to grow and expand before + her eyes. A little shadow of doubt crept across Grace Galt's + expression of friendly interest. +</p> +<p> + "Are you scared," she asked; "just the least bit?" +</p> +<p> + Jock flushed a little. "Well," he confessed ruefully, "I don't + mind telling you I am—a little." +</p> +<p> + "Good!" +</p> +<p> + "Good?" +</p> +<p> + "Yes. The head of that concern is a woman. That's one reason why + they didn't send me, I suppose. I—I'd like to say something, if + you don't mind." +</p> +<p> + "Anything you like," said Jock graciously. +</p> +<p> + "Well, then, don't be afraid of being embarrassed and fussed. If + you blush and stammer a little, she'll like it. Play up the coy + stuff." +</p> +<p> + "The coy stuff!" echoed Jock. "I hadn't thought much about my + attitude toward the—er—the lady,"—a little stiffly. +</p> +<p> + "Well, you'd better," answered Miss Galt crisply. She put out her + hand in much the same manner as Sam Hupp had used. "Good luck to + you. I'll have to ask you to go now. I'm trying to make this + magneto sound like something without which no home is complete, + and to make people see that there's as much difference between it + and every other magneto as there is between the steam shovels that + dug out the Panama Canal and the junk that the French left + there—" She stopped. Her eyes took on a far-away look. Her lips + were parted slightly. "Why, that's not a bad idea—that last. I'll + use that. I'll—" +</p> +<a name="image-0005"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp05.jpg" width="270" height="363" +alt="'With a jolt Jock realized she had forgotten all +about him'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + She began to scribble rapidly on the sheet of paper before her. + With a jolt Jock McChesney realized that she had forgotten all + about him. He walked quietly to the door, opened it, shut it very + quietly, then made for the nearest telephone. He knew one woman he + could count on to be proud of him. He gave his number, waited a + little eager moment, then: +</p> +<p> + "Featherloom Petticoat Company? Mrs. McChesney." And waited again. + Then he smiled. +</p> +<p> + "You needn't sound so official," he laughed; "it's only your son. + Listen. I"—he took on an elaborate carelessness of tone—"I've + got to take a little jump out of town. On business. Oh, a day or + so. Rather important though. I'll have time to run up to the flat + and throw a few things into a bag. I'll tell you, I really ought + to keep a bag packed down here. In case of emergency, you know. + What? It's the Athena Toilette Preparations Company. Well, I + should say it is! I'll wire you. You bet. Thanks. My what? Oh, + toothbrush. No. Good-by." +</p> +<p> + So it was that at three-ten Jock McChesney took himself, his + hopes, his dread, and his smart walrus bag aboard a train that + halted and snuffed and backed, and bumped and halted with + maddening frequency. But it landed him at last in a little town + bearing the characteristics of all American little towns. It was + surprisingly full of six-cylinder cars, and five and ten-cent + stores, and banks with Doric columns, and paved streets. +</p> +<p> + After he had registered at the hotel, and as he was cleaning up a + bit, he passed an amused eye over the bare, ugly, fusty little + hotel bedroom. But somehow, as he stood in the middle of the room, + a graceful, pleasing figure of youth and confidence, the smile + faded. Towel in hand he surveyed the barrenness of it. He stared + at the impossible wall paper, at the battered furniture, the worn + carpet. He sniffed the stuffy smell of—what was that smell, + anyhow?—straw, and matting, and dust, and the ghost-odor of + hundreds who had occupied the room before him. It came over him + with something of a shock that this same sort of room had been his + mother's only home in the ten years she had spent on the road as a + traveling saleswoman for the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat + Company. This was what she had left in the morning. To this she + had come back at night. As he stared ahead of him there rose + before him a mental picture of her—the brightness of her, the + sunniness, the indomitable energy, and pluck, and courage. With a + sudden burst of new determination he wadded the towel into a moist + ball, flung it at the washstand, seized hat, coat, and gloves, and + was off down the hall. So it was with something of his mother's + splendid courage in his heart, but with nothing of her canny + knowledge in his head, Jock McChesney fared forth to do battle + with the merciless god Business. +</p> +<p> + It was ten-thirty of a brilliant morning just two days later that + a buoyant young figure swung into an elevator in the great office + building that housed the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Just + one more grain of buoyant swing and the young man's walk might + have been termed a swagger. As it was, his walrus bag just saved + him. +</p> +<p> + Stepping out of the lift he walked, as from habit, to the little + unlettered door which admitted employes to the big, bright, inner + office. But he did not use it. Instead he turned suddenly and + walked down the hall to the double door which led into the + reception room. He threw out his legs stiffly and came down rather + flat-footed, the way George Cohan does when he's pleased with + himself in the second act. +</p> +<p> + "Hel-lo, Mack!" he called out jovially. +</p> +<p> + Mack, the usher, so called from his Machiavellian qualities, + turned to survey the radiant young figure before him. +</p> +<p> + "Good morning, Mr. McChesney," he made answer smoothly. Mack + never forgot himself. His keen eye saw the little halo of + self-satisfaction that hovered above Jock McChesney's head. "A + successful trip, I see." +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney laughed a little, pleased, conscious laugh. "Well, + raw-thah!" he drawled, and opened the door leading into the main + office. He had been loath to lose one crumb of the savor of it. +</p> +<a name="image-0006"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp06.jpg" width="270" height="381" +alt="''Well, raw-thah!' he drawled'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + Still smiling, he walked to his own desk, with a nod here and + there, dropped his bag, took off coat and hat, selected a + cigarette, tapped it smartly, lighted it, and was off down the big + room to the little cubby-hole at the other end. But Sam Hupp's + plump, keen, good-humored face did not greet him as he entered. + The little room was deserted. Frowning, Jock sank into the empty + desk chair. He cradled his head in his hands, tilted the chair, + pursed his mouth over the slender white cylinder and squinted his + eyes up toward the lazy blue spirals of smoke—the very picture + of content and satisfaction. +</p> +<p> + Hupp was in attending some conference in the Old Man's office, of + course. He wished they'd hurry. The business of the week was being + boiled-down there. Those conferences were great cauldrons into + which the day's business, or the week's, was dumped, to be boiled, + simmered, stirred, skimmed, cooled. Jock had never been privileged + to attend one of these meetings. Perhaps by this time next week he + might have a spoon in the stirring too— +</p> +<p> + There came the murmur of voices as a door was opened. The voices + came nearer. Then quick footsteps. Jock recognized them. He rose, + smiling. Sam Hupp, vibrating electric energy, breezed in. +</p> +<p> + "Oh—hello!" he said, surprised. Jock's smile widened to a grin. + "You back?" +</p> +<p> + "Hello, Hupp," he said, coolly. It was the first time that he had + omitted the prefix. "You just bet I'm back." +</p> +<p> + There flashed across Sam Hupp's face a curious little look. The + next instant it was gone. +</p> +<p> + "Well," said Jock, and took a long breath. +</p> +<p> + "Mr. Berg wants to see you." +</p> +<p> + Hupp plunged into his work. +</p> +<p> + "Me? The Old Man wants to see me?" +</p> +<p> + "Yes," snapped Hupp shortly. Then, in a new tone, "Look here, son. + If he says—" He stopped, and turned back to his work again. +</p> +<p> + "If he says what?" +</p> +<p> + "Nothing. Better run along." +</p> +<p> + "What's the hurry? I want to tell you about—" +</p> +<p> + "Better tell him." +</p> +<p> + "Oh, all right," said Jock stiffly. If that was the way they + treated a fellow who had turned his first real trick, why, very + well. He flung out of the little room and made straight for the + Old Man's office. +</p> +<p> + Seated at his great flat table desk, Bartholomew Berg did not look + up as Jock entered. This was characteristic of the Old Man. + Everything about the chief was deliberate, sure, unhurried. He + finished the work in hand as though no other person stood there + waiting his pleasure. When at last he raised his massive head he + turned his penetrating pale blue eyes full on Jock. Jock was + conscious of a little tremor running through him. People were apt + to experience that feeling when that steady, unblinking gaze was + turned upon them. And yet it was just the clear, unwavering look + with which Bartholomew Berg, farmer boy, had been wont to gaze out + across the fresh-plowed fields to the horizon beyond which lay the + city he dreamed about. +</p> +<p> + "Tell me your side of it," said Bartholomew Berg tersely. +</p> +<p> + "All of it?" Jock's confidence was returning. +</p> +<p> + "Till I stop you." +</p> +<p> + "Well," began Jock. And standing there at the side of the Old + Man's desk, his legs wide apart, his face aglow, his hands on his + hips, he plunged into his tale. +</p> +<p> + "It started off with a bang from the minute I walked into the + office of the plant and met Snyder, the advertising manager. We + shook hands and sparked—just like that." He snapped thumb and + finger. "What do you think! We belong to the same frat! He's '93. + Inside of ten minutes he and I were Si-washing around like mad. He + introduced me to his aunt. I told her who I was, and all that. But + I didn't start off by talking business. We got along from the + jump. They both insisted on showing me through the place. + I—well,"—he laughed a little ruefully,—"there's something + about being shown through a factory that sort of paralyzes my + brain. I always feel that I ought to be asking keen, alert, + intelligent questions like the ones Kipling always asks, or the + Japs when they're taken through the Stock Yards. But I never can + think of any. Well, we didn't talk business much. But I could see + that they were interested. They seemed to,"—he faltered and + blushed a little,—"to like me, you know. I played golf with + Snyder that afternoon and he beat me. Won two balls. The next + morning I found there's been a couple of other advertising men + there. And while I was talking to Snyder—he was telling me about + the time he climbed up and muffled the chapel bell—that fellow + Flynn, of the Dowd Agency, came in. Snyder excused himself, and + talked to him for—oh, half an hour, perhaps. But that was all. He + was back again in no time. After that it looked like plain + sailing. We got along wonderfully. When I left I said, 'I expect + to know you both better—'" +</p> +<p> + "I guess," interrupted the Old Man slowly, "that you'll know them + better all right." He reached out with one broad freckled hand + and turned back the page of a desk memorandum. "The Athena account + was given to the Dowd Advertising Agency yesterday." +</p> +<p> + It took Jock McChesney one minute—one long, sickening minute—to + grasp the full meaning of it all. He stared at the massive figure + before him, his mouth ludicrously open, his eyes round, his breath + for the moment suspended. Then, in a queer husky voice: +</p> +<p> + "D'you mean—the Dowd—but—they couldn't—" +</p> +<p> + "I mean," said Bartholomew Berg, "that you've scored what the + dramatic critics call a personal hit; but that doesn't get the box + office anything." +</p> +<p> + "But, Mr. Berg, they said—" +</p> +<p> + "Sit down a minute, boy." He waved one great heavy hand toward a + near-by chair. His eyes were not fixed on Jock. They gazed out of + the window toward the great white tower toward which hundreds of + thousands of eyes were turned daily—the tower, four-faced but + faithful. +</p> +<p> + "McChesney, do you know why you fell down on that Athena account?" +</p> +<p> + "Because I'm an idiot," blurted Jock. "Because I'm a + double-barreled, corn-fed, hand-picked chump and—" +</p> +<p> + "That's one reason," drawled the Old Man grimly. "But it's not the + chief one. The real reason why you didn't land that account was + because you're too darned charming." +</p> +<p> + "Charming!" Jock stared. +</p> +<p> + "Just that. Personality's one of the biggest factors in business + to-day. But there are some men who are so likable that it actually + counts against them. The client he's trying to convince is so + taken with him that he actually forgets the business he + represents. We say of a man like that that he is personality plus. + Personality is like electricity, McChesney. It's got to be tamed + to be useful." +</p> +<p> + "But I thought," said Jock, miserably, "that the idea was not to + talk business all the time." +</p> +<p> + "You've got it," agreed Berg. "But you must think it all the time. + Every minute. It's got to be working away in the back of your + head. You know it isn't always the biggest noise that gets the + biggest result. The great American hen yields a bigger income than + the Steel Trust. Look at Miss Galt. When we have a job that needs + a woman's eye do we send her? No. Why? Because she's too blame + charming. Too much personality. A man just naturally refuses to + talk business to a pretty woman unless she's so smart that—" +</p> +<p> + "My mother," interrupted Jock, suddenly, and then stopped, + surprised at himself. +</p> +<p> + "Your mother," said Bartholomew Berg slowly, "is one woman in a + million. Don't ever forget that. They don't turn out models like + Emma McChesney more than once every blue moon." +</p> +<p> + Jock got to his feet slowly. He felt heavy, old. "I suppose," he + began, "that this ends my—my advertising career." +</p> +<p> + "Ends it!" The Old Man stood up and put a heavy hand on the boy's + shoulder. "It only begins it. Unless you want to lie down and + quit. Do you?" +</p> +<p> + "Quit!" cried Jock McChesney. "Quit! Not on your white space!" +</p> +<p> + "Good!" said Bartholomew Berg, and took Jock McChesney's hand in + his own great friendly grasp. +</p> +<p> + An instinct as strong as that which had made him blatant in his + hour of triumph now caused him to avoid, in his hour of defeat, + the women-folk before whom he would fain be a hero. He avoided + Grace Galt all that long, dreary afternoon. He thought wildly of + staying down-town for the evening, of putting off the meeting with + his mother, of avoiding the dreaded explanations, excuses, + confessions. +</p> +<p> + But when he let himself into the flat at five-thirty the place was + very quiet, except for Annie, humming in a sort of nasal singsong + of content in the kitchen. +</p> +<p> + He flicked on the light in the living-room. A new magazine had + come. It lay on the table, its bright cover staring up invitingly. + He ran through its pages. By force of habit he turned to the back + pages. Ads started back at him—clothing ads, paint ads, motor + ads, ads of portable houses, and vacuum cleaners—and toilette + preparations. He shut the magazine with a vicious slap. +</p> +<p> + He flicked off the light again, for no reason except that he + seemed to like the dusk. In his own bedroom it was very quiet. +</p> +<p> + He turned on the light there, too, then turned it off. He sat down + at the edge of his bed. How was it in the stories? Oh, yes! The + cub always started out on an impossibly difficult business stunt + and came back triumphant, to be made a member of the firm at once. +</p> +<p> + A vision of his own roseate hopes and dreams rose up before him. + It grew very dark in the little room, then altogether dark. Then + an impudent square of yellow from a light turned on in the + apartment next door flung itself on the bedroom floor. Jock stared + at it moodily. +</p> +<p> + A key turned in the lock. A door opened and shut. A quick step. + Then: "Jock!" A light flashed in the living-room. +</p> +<p> + Jock sat up suddenly. He opened his mouth to answer. There issued + from his throat a strange and absurd little croak. +</p> +<p> + "Jock! Home?" +</p> +<p> + "Yes," answered Jock, and straightened up. But before he could + flick on his own light his mother stood in the doorway, a tall, + straight, buoyant figure. +</p> +<p> + "I got your wire and—Why, dear! In the dark! What—" +</p> +<p> + "Must have fallen asleep, I guess," muttered Jock. Somehow he + dreaded to turn on the lights. +</p> +<p> + And then, very quietly, Emma McChesney came in. She found him, + there in the dark, as surely as a mother bear finds her cubs in a + cave. She sat down beside him at the edge of the bed and put her + hand on his shoulder, and brought his head down gently to her + breast. And at that the room, which had been a man's room with its + pipe, its tobacco jar, its tie rack filled with cravats of + fascinating shapes and hues, became all at once a boy's room + again, and the man sitting there with straight, strong shoulders + and his little air of worldliness became in some miraculous way a + little boy again. +</p> +<a name="image-0007"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp07.jpg" width="270" height="386" +alt="'... became in some miraculous way a little boy +again'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<a name="2H_4_0003"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + III +</h2> +<h3> + DICTATED BUT NOT READ +</h3> +<br> +<p> + About the time that Jock McChesney began to carry a yellow + walking-stick down to work each morning his mother noticed a + growing tendency on his part to patronize her. Now Mrs. Emma + McChesney, successful, capable business woman that she was, could + afford to regard her young son's attitude with a quiet and deep + amusement. In twelve years Emma McChesney had risen from the + humble position of stenographer in the office of the T.A. Buck + Featherloom Petticoat Company to the secretaryship of the firm. So + when her young son, backed by the profound business knowledge + gained in his one year with the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company, + hinted gently that her methods and training were archaic, + ineffectual, and lacking in those twin condiments known to the + twentieth century as pep and ginger, she would listen, eyebrows + raised, lower lip caught between her teeth—a trick which gives + a distorted expression to the features, calculated to hide any + lurking tendency to grin. Besides, though Emma McChesney was forty + she looked thirty-two (as business women do), and knew it. Her + hard-working life had brought her in contact with people, and + things, and events, and had kept her young. +</p> +<a name="image-0008"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp08.jpg" width="270" height="432" +alt="'Jock Mcchesney began to carry a yellow +walking-stick down to work'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + "Thank fortune!" Mrs. McChesney often said, "that + I wasn't cursed with a life of ease. These + massage-at-ten-fitting-at-eleven-bridge-at-one women + always look such hags at thirty-five." +</p> +<p> + But repetition will ruin the rarest of jokes. As the weeks went on + and Jock's attitude persisted, the twinkle in Emma McChesney's eye + died. The glow of growing resentment began to burn in its place. + Now and then there crept into her eyes a little look of doubt and + bewilderment. You sometimes see that same little shocked, dazed + expression in the eyes of a woman whose husband has just said, + "Isn't that hat too young for you?" +</p> +<p> + Then, one evening, Emma McChesney's resentment flared into open + revolt. She had announced that she intended to rise half an hour + earlier each morning in order that she might walk a brisk mile or + so on her way down-town, before taking the subway. +</p> +<p> + "But won't it tire you too much, Mother?" Jock had asked with + maddeningly tender solicitude. +</p> +<p> + His mother's color heightened. Her blue eyes glowed dark. +</p> +<p> + "Look here, Jock! Will you kindly stop this lean-on-me-grandma + stuff! To hear you talk one would think I was ready for a wheel + chair and gray woolen bedroom slippers." +</p> +<p> + "Why, I didn't mean—I only thought that perhaps overexertion in a + woman of your—That is, you need your energy for—" +</p> +<p> + "Don't wallow around in it," snapped Emma McChesney. "You'll only + sink in deeper in your efforts to crawl out. I merely want to warn + you that if you persist in this pose of tender solicitude for your + doddering old mother, I'll—I'll present you with a stepfather a + year younger than you. Don't laugh. Perhaps you think I couldn't + do it." +</p> +<p> + "Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't mean it, but—" +</p> +<p> + "Mean it! Cleverer women than I have been driven by their + children to marrying bell-boys in self-defense. I warn you!" +</p> +<a name="image-0009"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp09.jpg" width="270" height="295" +alt="''Good Lord, Mother! of course you don't mean it, +but--''"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + That stopped it—for a while. Jock ceased to bestow upon his + mother judicious advice from the vast storehouse of his own + experience. He refrained from breaking out with elaborate + advertising schemes whereby the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat + Company might grind every other skirt concern to dust. He gave + only a startled look when his mother mischievously suggested + raspberry as the color for her new autumn suit. Then, quite + suddenly, Circumstance caught Emma McChesney in the meshes and, + before she had fought her way free, wrought trouble and change + upon her. +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney was seated in the window of his mother's office at + noon of a brilliant autumn day. A little impatient frown was + forming between his eyes. He wanted his luncheon. He had called + around expressly to take his mother out to luncheon—always a + festive occasion when taken together. But Mrs. McChesney, seated + at her desk, was bent absorbedly over a sheet of paper whereon she + was adding up two columns of figures at a time—a trick on which + she rather prided herself. She was counting aloud, her mind + leaping agilely, thus: +</p> +<p> + "Eleven, twenty-nine, forty-three, sixty, sixty-nine—" Her pencil + came down on the desk with a thwack. "SIXTY-NINE!" she repeated in + capital letters. She turned around to face Jock. "Sixty-nine!" Her + voice bristled with indignation. "Now what do you think of that!" +</p> +<p> + "I think you'd better make it an even seventy, whatever it is + you're counting up, and come on out to luncheon. I've an + appointment at two-fifteen, you know." +</p> +<p> + "Luncheon!"—she waved the paper in the air—"with this outrage on + my mind! Nectar would curdle in my system." +</p> +<p> + Jock rose and strolled lazily over to the desk. "What is it?" He + glanced idly at the sheet of paper. "Sixty-nine what?" +</p> +<p> + Mrs. McChesney pressed a buzzer at the side of her desk. + "Sixty-nine dollars, that's what! Representing two days' expenses + in the six weeks' missionary trip that Fat Ed Meyers just made for + us. And in Iowa, too." +</p> +<p> + "When you gave that fellow the job," began Jock hotly, "I told + you, and Buck told you, that—" +</p> +<p> + Mrs. McChesney interrupted wearily. "Yes, I know. You'll never + have a grander chance to say 'I told you so.' I hired him + because he was out of a job and we needed a man who knew the + Middle-Western trade, and then because—well, poor fellow, he + begged so and promised to keep straight. As though I oughtn't to + know that a pinochle-and-poker traveling man can never be anything + but a pinochle-and-poker traveling man—" +</p> +<p> + The office door opened as there appeared in answer to the buzzer a + very alert, very smiling, and very tidy office girl. Emma + McChesney had tried office boys, and found them wanting. +</p> +<p> + "Tell Mr. Meyers I want to see him." +</p> +<p> + "Just going out to lunch,"—she turned like a race horse trembling + to be off,—"putting on his overcoat in the front office. Shall + I—" +</p> +<p> + "Catch him." +</p> +<p> + "Listen here," began Jock uncomfortably; "if you're going to call + him perhaps I'd better vanish." +</p> +<p> + "To save Ed Meyers's tender feelings! You don't know him. Fat Ed + Meyers could be courtmartialed, tried, convicted, and publicly + disgraced, with his epaulets torn off, and his sword broken, and + likely as not he'd stoop down, pick up a splinter of steel to use + as a toothpick, and Castlewalk down the aisle to the tune with + which they were drumming him out of the regiment. Stay right + here. Meyers's explanation ought to be at least amusing, if not + educating." +</p> +<p> + In the corridor outside could be heard some one blithely humming + in the throaty tenor of the fat man. The humming ceased with a + last high note as the door opened and there entered Fat Ed Meyers, + rosy, cherubic, smiling, his huge frame looming mountainous in the + rippling folds of a loose-hung London plaid topcoat. +</p> +<p> + "Greetings!" boomed this cheery vision, raising one hand, palm + outward, in mystic salute. He beamed upon the frowning Jock. + "How's the infant prodigy!" The fact that Jock's frown deepened to + a scowl ruffled him not at all. "And what," went on he, crossing + his feet and leaning negligently against Mrs. McChesney's desk, + "and what can I do for thee, fair lady?" +</p> +<a name="image-0010"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp10.jpg" width="365" height="270" +alt="'Greetings!'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + "For me?" said Emma McChesney, looking up at him through narrowed + eyelids. "I'll tell you what. You can explain to me, in what + they call a few well-chosen words, just how you, or any other + living creature, could manage to turn in an expense account like + that on a six-weeks' missionary trip through the Middle West." +</p> +<p> + "Dear lady,"—in the bland tones that one uses to an unreasonable + child,—"you will need no explanation if you will just remember to + lay the stress on the word missionary. I went forth through the + Middle West to spread the light among the benighted skirt trade. + This wasn't a selling trip, dear lady. It was a buying expedition. + And I had to buy, didn't I? all the way from Michigan to Indiana." +</p> +<p> + He smiled down at her, calm, self-assured, impudent. A little + flush grew in Emma McChesney's cheeks. +</p> +<p> + "I've always said," she began, crisply, "that one could pretty + well judge a man's character, temperament, morals, and physical + make-up by just glancing at his expense account. The trouble with + you is that you haven't learned the art of spending money wisely. + It isn't always the man with the largest expense sheet that gets + the most business. And it isn't the man who leaves the greatest + number of circles on the table top in his hotel room, either." + She paused a moment. Ed Meyers's smile had lost some of its + heartiness. "Mr. Buck's out of town, as you know. He'll be back + next week. He wasn't in favor of—" +</p> +<p> + "Now, Mrs. McChesney," interrupted Ed Meyers nervously, "you know + there's always one live one in every firm, just like there's + always one star in every family. You're the—" +</p> +<p> + "I'm the one who wants to know how you could spend sixty-nine + dollars for two days' incidentals in Iowa. Iowa! Why, look here, + Ed Meyers, I made Iowa for ten years when I was on the road. You + know that. And you know, and I know, that in order to spend + sixty-nine dollars for incidentals in two days in Iowa you have to + call out the militia." +</p> +<p> + "Not when you're trying to win the love of every skirt buyer from + Sioux City to Des Moines." +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney rose impatiently. "Oh, that's nonsense! You don't + need to do that these days. Those are old-fashioned methods. + They're out of date. They—" +</p> +<p> + At that a little sound came from Jock. Emma heard it, glanced at + him, turned away again in confusion. +</p> +<p> + "I was foolish enough in the first place to give you this job for + old times' sake," she continued hurriedly. +</p> +<p> + Fat Ed Meyers' face drooped dolefully. He cocked his round head on + one side fatuously. "For old times' sake," he repeated, with + tremulous pathos, and heaved a gusty sigh. +</p> +<p> + "Which goes to show that I need a guardian," finished Emma + McChesney cruelly. "The only old times that I can remember are + when I was selling Featherlooms, and you were out for the + Sans-Silk Skirt Company, both covering the same territory, and + both running a year-around race to see which could beat the other + at his own game. The only difference was that I always played + fair, while you played low-down whenever you had a chance." +</p> +<p> + "Now, my dear Mrs. McChesney—" +</p> +<p> + "That'll be all," said Emma McChesney, as one whose patience is + fast slipping away. "Mr. Buck will see you next week." Then, + turning to her son as the door closed on the drooping figure of + the erstwhile buoyant Meyers, "Where'll we lunch, Jock?" +</p> +<p> + "Mother," Jock broke out hotly, "why in the name of all that's + foolish do you persist in using the methods of Methuselah! People + don't sell goods any more by sending out fat old ex-traveling men + to jolly up the trade." +</p> +<p> + "Jock," repeated Emma McChesney slowly, "where—shall—we—lunch?" +</p> +<p> + It was a grim little meal, eaten almost in silence. Emma McChesney + had made it a rule to use luncheon time as a recess. She played + mental tag and hop-scotch, so that, returning to her office + refreshed in mind and body, she could attack the afternoon's work + with new vigor. And never did she talk or think business. +</p> +<p> + To-day she ate her luncheon with a forced appetite, glanced about + with a listlessness far removed from her usual alert interest, and + followed Jock's attempts at conversation with a polite effort that + was more insulting than downright inattention. +</p> +<p> + "Dessert, Mother?" Jock had to say it twice before she heard. +</p> +<p> + "What? Oh, no—I think not." +</p> +<p> + The waiter hesitated, coughed discreetly, lifted his eyebrows + insinuatingly. "The French pastry's particularly nice to-day, + madam. If you'd care to try something? Eclair, madam—peach + tart—mocha tart—caramel—" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney smiled. "It does sound tempting." She glanced at + Jock. "And we're wearing our gowns so floppy this year that it + makes no difference whether one's fat or not." She turned to the + waiter. "I never can tell till I see them. Bring your pastry tray, + will you?" +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney's finger and thumb came together with a snap. He + leaned across the table toward his mother, eyes glowing, lips + parted and eager. "There! you've proved my point." +</p> +<p> + "Point?" +</p> +<p> + "About advertising. No, don't stop me. Don't you see that what + applies to pastry applies to petticoats? You didn't think of + French pastry until he suggested it to you—advertised it, really. + And then you wanted a picture of them. You wanted to know + what they looked like before buying. That's all there is to + advertising. Telling people about a thing, making 'em want it, and + showing 'em how it will look when they have it. Get me?" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney was gazing at Jock with a curious, fascinated + stare. It was a blank little look, such as we sometimes wear when + the mind is working furiously. If the insinuating waiter, + presenting the laden tray for her inspection, was startled by the + rapt expression which she turned upon the cunningly wrought wares, + he was too much a waiter to show it. +</p> +<p> + A pause. "That one," said Mrs. McChesney, pointing to the least + ornate. She ate it, down to the last crumb, in a silence that was + pregnant with portent. She put down her fork and sat back. +</p> +<p> + "Jock, you win. I—I suppose I have fallen out of step. Perhaps + I've been too busy watching my own feet. T.A. will be back next + week. Could your office have an advertising plan roughly sketched + by that time?" +</p> +<p> + "Could they!" His tone was exultant. "Watch 'em! Hupp's been crazy + to make Featherlooms famous." +</p> +<p> + "But look here, son. I want a hand in that copy. I know + Featherlooms better than your Sam Hupp will ever—" +</p> +<p> + Jock shook his head. "They won't stand for that, Mother. It never + works. The manufacturer always thinks he can write magic stuff + because he knows his own product. But he never can. You see, he + knows too much. That's it. No perspective." +</p> +<p> + "We'll see," said Emma McChesney curtly. +</p> +<p> + So it was that ten days later the first important conference in + the interests of the Featherloom Petticoat Company's advertising + campaign was called. But in those ten days of hurried preparation + a little silent tragedy had come about. For the first time in her + brave, sunny life Emma McChesney had lost faith in herself. And + with such malicious humor does Fate work her will that she chose + Sam Hupp's new dictagraph as the instrument with which to prick + the bubble of Mrs. McChesney's self-confidence. +</p> +<p> + Sam Hupp, one of the copy-writing marvels of the Berg, Shriner + firm, had a trick of forgetting to shut off certain necessary + currents when he paused in his dictation to throw in + conversational asides. The old and experienced stenographers, had + learned to look out for that, and to eliminate from their + typewritten letters certain irrelevant and sometimes irreverent + asides which Sam Hupp evidently had addressed to his pipe, or the + office boy, and not intended for the tube of the all-devouring + dictagraph. +</p> +<p> + There was a new and nervous little stenographer in the outer + office, and she had not been warned of this. +</p> +<p> + "We think very highly of the plan you suggest," Sam Hupp had said + into the dictagraph's mouthpiece. "In fact, in one of your + valuable copy suggestions you—" +</p> +<p> + Without changing his tone he glanced over his shoulder at his + colleague, Hopper, who was listening and approving. +</p> +<p> + "... Let the old girl think the idea is her own. She's virtually + the head of that concern, and they've spoiled her. Successful, and + used to being kowtowed to. Doesn't know her notions of copy are + ten years behind the advertising game—" +</p> +<p> + And went on with his letter again. After which he left the office + to play golf. And the little blond numbskull in the outer office + dutifully took down what the instrument had to say, word for word, + marked it, "Dictated, but not read," signed neat initials, and + with a sigh went on with the rest of her sheaf of letters. +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney read the letter next morning. She read it down to + the end, and then again. The two readings were punctuated with a + little gasp, such as we give when an icy douche is suddenly + turned upon us. And that was all. +</p> +<p> + A week later an intent little group formed a ragged circle about + the big table in the private office of Bartholomew Berg, head of + the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Bartholomew Berg himself, + massive, watchful, taciturn, managing to give an impression of + power by his very silence, sat at one side of the long table. Just + across from him a sleek-haired stenographer bent over her note + book, jotting down every word, that the conference might make + business history. Hopper, at one end of the room, studied his shoe + heel intently. He was unbelievably boyish looking to command the + fabulous salary reported to be his. Advertising men, mentioning + his name, pulled a figurative forelock as they did so. Near Mrs. + McChesney sat Sam Hupp, he of the lightning brain and the + sure-fire copy. Emma McChesney, strangely silent, kept her eyes + intent on the faces of the others. T.A. Buck, interested, + enthusiastic, but somewhat uncertain, glanced now and then at his + silent business partner, found no satisfaction in her set face, + and glanced away again. Grace Galt, unbelievably young and pretty + to have won a place for herself in that conference of business + people, smiled in secret at Jock McChesney's evident struggle to + conceal his elation at being present at this, his first staff + meeting. +</p> +<p> + The conference had lasted one hour now. In that time Featherloom + petticoats had been picked to pieces, bit by bit, from hem to + waist-band. Nothing had been left untouched. Every angle had come + under the keen vision of the advertising experts—the comfort of + the garment, its durability, style, cheapness, service. Which to + emphasize? +</p> +<p> + "H—m, novelty campaign, in my opinion," said Hopper, breaking one + of his long silences. "There's nothing new in petticoats + themselves, you know. You've got to give 'em a new angle." +</p> +<p> + "Yep," agreed Hupp. "Start out with a feature skirt. Might + illustrate with one of those freak drawings they're crazy about + now—slinky figure, you know, hollow-chested, one foot trailing, + and all that. They're crazy, but they do attract attention, no + doubt of that." +</p> +<p> + Bartholomew Berg turned his head slowly. "What's your opinion, + Mrs. McChesney?" he asked. +</p> +<p> + "I—I'm afraid I haven't any," said Emma McChesney listlessly. + T.A. Buck stared at her in dismay and amazement. +</p> +<p> + "How about you, Mr. Buck?" +</p> +<p> + "Why—I—er—of course this advertising game's new to me. I'm + really leaving it in your hands. I really thought that Mrs. + McChesney's idea was to make a point of the fact that these + petticoats were not freak petticoats, but skirts for the everyday + women. She gave me what I thought was a splendid argument a week + ago." He turned to her helplessly. +</p> +<p> + Mrs. McChesney sat silent. +</p> +<p> + Bartholomew Berg leaned forward a little and smiled one of his + rare smiles. +</p> +<p> + "Won't you tell us, Mrs. McChesney? We'd all like to hear what you + have to say." +</p> +<p> + Mrs. McChesney looked down at her hands. Then she looked up, and + addressed what she had to say straight to Bartholomew Berg. +</p> +<p> + "I—simply didn't want to interfere in this business. I know + nothing about it, really. Of course, I do know Featherloom + petticoats. I know all about them. It seemed to me that just + because the newspapers and magazines were full of pictures showing + spectacular creatures in impossible attitudes wearing tango tea + skirts, we are apt to forget that those types form only a thin + upper crust, and that down beneath there are millions and millions + of regular, everyday women doing regular everyday things in + regular everyday clothes. Women who wash on Monday, and iron on + Tuesday, and bake one-egg cakes, and who have to hurry home to get + supper when they go down-town in the afternoon. They're the kind + who go to market every morning, and take the baby along in the + go-cart, and they're not wearing crêpe de chine tango petticoats + to do it in, either. They're wearing skirts with a drawstring in + the back, and a label in the band, guaranteed to last one year. + Those are the people I'd like to reach, and hold." +</p> +<p> + "Hm!" said Hopper, from his corner, cryptically. +</p> +<p> + Bartholomew Berg looked at Emma McChesney admiringly. "Sounds + reasonable and logical," he said. +</p> +<p> + Sam Hupp sat up with a jerk. +</p> +<p> + "It does sound reasonable," he said briskly. "But it isn't. Pardon + me, won't you, Mrs. McChesney? But you must realize that this is + an extravagant age. The very workingmen's wives have caught the + spending fever. The time is past when you can attract people to + your goods with the promise of durability and wear. They don't + expect goods to wear. They'd resent it if they did. They get tired + of an article before it's worn out. They're looking for novelties. + They'd rather get two months' wear out of a skirt that's slashed a + new way, than a year's wear out of one that looks like the sort + that mother used to make." +</p> +<p> + Mrs. McChesney, her cheeks very pink, her eyes very bright, + subsided into silence. In silence she sat throughout the rest of + the conference. In silence she descended in the elevator with T.A. + Buck, and in silence she stepped into his waiting car. +</p> +<p> + T.A. Buck eyed her worriedly. "Well?" he said. Then, as Mrs. + McChesney shrugged noncommittal shoulders, "Tell me, how do you + feel about it?" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney turned to face him, breathing rather quickly. +</p> +<p> + "The last time I felt as I do just now was when Jock was a baby. + He took sick, and the doctors were puzzled. They thought it might + be something wrong with his spine. They had a consultation—five + of them—with the poor little chap on the bed, naked. They + wouldn't let me in, so I listened in the hallway, pressed against + the door with my face to the crack. They prodded him, and poked + him, and worked his little legs and arms, and every time he cried + I prayed, and wept, and clawed the door with my fingers, and + called them beasts and torturers and begged them to let me in, + though I wasn't conscious that I was doing those things—at the + time. I didn't know what they were doing to him, though they said + it was all for his good, and they were only trying to help him. + But I only knew that I wanted to rush in, and grab him up in my + arms, and run away with him—run, and run, and run." +</p> +<p> + She stopped, lips trembling, eyes suspiciously bright. +</p> +<p> + "And that's the way I felt in there—this afternoon." +</p> +<p> + T.A. Buck reached up and patted her shoulder. "Don't, old girl! + It's going to work out splendidly, I'm sure. After all, those + chaps do know best." +</p> +<p> + "They may know best, but they don't know Featherlooms," retorted + Emma McChesney. +</p> +<p> + "True. But perhaps what Jock said when he walked with us to the + elevator was pretty nearly right. You know he said we were + criticising their copy the way a plumber would criticise the + Parthenon—so busy finding fault with the lack of drains that we + failed to see the beauty of the architecture." +</p> +<p> + "T.A.," said Emma McChesney solemnly, "T.A., we're getting old." +</p> +<p> + "Old! You! I! Ha!" +</p> +<p> + "You may 'Ha!' all you like. But do you know what they thought of + us in there? They thought we were a couple of fogies, and they + humored us, that's what they did. I'll tell you, T.A., when the + time comes for me to give Jock up to some little pink-faced girl + I'll do it, and smile if it kills me. But to hand my Featherlooms + over to a lot of cold-blooded experts who—well—" she paused, + biting her lip. +</p> +<p> + "We'll see, Emma; we'll see." +</p> +<p> + They did see. The Featherloom petticoat campaign was launched with + a great splash. It sailed serenely into the sea of national + business. Then suddenly something seemed to go wrong with its + engines. It began to wobble and showed a decided list to port. + Jock, who at the beginning was so puffed with pride that his gold + fountain pen threatened to burst the confines of his very modishly + tight vest, lost two degrees of pompousness a day, and his + attitude toward his unreproachful mother was almost humble. +</p> +<p> + A dozen times a week T.A. Buck would stroll casually into Mrs. + McChesney's office. "Think it's going to take hold?" he would ask. + "Our men say the dealers have laid in, but the public doesn't seem + to be tearing itself limb from limb to get to our stuff." +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney would smile, and shrug noncommittal shoulders. +</p> +<p> + When it became very painfully apparent that it wasn't "taking + hold," T.A. Buck, after asking the same question, now worn and + frayed with asking, broke out, crossly: +</p> +<p> + "Well, really, I don't mind the shrug, but I do wish you wouldn't + smile. After all, you know, this campaign is costing us + money—real money, and large chunks of it. It's very evident that + we shouldn't have tried to make a national campaign of this + thing." +</p> +<p> + Whereupon Mrs. McChesney's smile grew into a laugh. "Forgive me, + T.A. I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing because—well, I can't + tell you why. It's a woman's reason, and you wouldn't think it a + reason at all. For that matter, I suppose it isn't, but—Anyway, + I've got something to tell you. The fault of this campaign has + been the copy. It was perfectly good advertising, but it left the + public cold. When they read those ads they might have been + impressed with the charm of the garment, but it didn't fill their + breasts with any wild longing to possess one. It didn't make the + women feel unhappy until they had one of those skirts hanging on + the third hook in their closet. The only kind of advertising that + is advertising is the kind that makes the reader say, 'I'll have + one of those.'" +</p> +<p> + T.A. Buck threw out helpless hands. "What are we going to do about + it?" +</p> +<p> + "Do? I've already done it." +</p> +<p> + "Done what?" +</p> +<p> + "Written the kind of copy that I think Featherlooms ought to have. + I just took my knowledge of Featherlooms, plus what I knew about + human nature, sprinkled in a handful of good humor and sincerity, + and they're going to feed it to the public. It's the same recipe + that I used to use in selling Featherlooms on the road. It used to + go by word of mouth. I don't see why it shouldn't go on paper. It + isn't classic advertising. It isn't scientific. It isn't even what + they call psychological, I suppose. But it's human. And it's going + to reach that great, big, solid, safe, spot-cash mass known as the + middle class. Of course my copy may be wrong. It may not go, after + all, but—" +</p> +<p> + But it did go. It didn't go with a rush, or a bang. It went + slowly, surely, hand over hand, but it went, and it kept on going. + And watching it climb and take hold there came back to Emma + McChesney's eye the old sparkle, to her step the old buoyancy, to + her voice the old delightful ring. And now, when T.A. Buck + strolled into her office of a morning, with his, "It's taking + hold, Mrs. Mack," she would dimple like a girl as she laughed back + at him— +</p> +<p> + "With a grip that won't let go." +</p> +<p> + "It looks very much as though we were going to be millionaires in + our old age, you and I?" went on Buck. +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney opened her eyes wide. +</p> +<p> + "Old!" she mocked, "Old! You! I! Ha!" +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0004"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + IV +</h2> +<h3> + THE MAN WITHIN HIM +</h3> +<br> +<p> + They used to do it much more picturesquely. They rode in coats of + scarlet, in the crisp, clear morning, to the winding of horns and + the baying of hounds, to the thud-thud of hoofs, and the crackle + of underbrush. Across fresh-plowed fields they went, crashing + through forest paths, leaping ditches, taking fences, scrambling + up the inclines, pelting down the hillside, helter-skelter, until, + panting, wide-eyed, eager, blood-hungry, the hunt closed in at the + death. +</p> +<p> + The scarlet coat has sobered down to the somber gray and the + snuffy brown of that unromantic garment known as the business + suit. The winding horn is become a goblet, and its notes are the + tinkle of ice against glass. The baying of hounds has harshened to + the squawk of the motor siren. The fresh-plowed field is a blue + print, the forest maze a roll of plans and specifications. Each + fence is a business barrier. Every ditch is of a competitor's + making, dug craftily so that the clumsy-footed may come a cropper. + All the romance is out of it, all the color, all the joy. But two + things remain the same: The look in the face of the hunter as he + closed in on the fox is the look in the face of him who sees the + coveted contract lying ready for the finishing stroke of his pen. + And his words are those of the hunter of long ago as, eyes + a-gleam, teeth bared, muscles still taut with the tenseness of the + chase, he waves the paper high in air and cries, "I've made a + killing!" +</p> +<p> + For two years Jock McChesney had watched the field as it swept by + in its patient, devious, cruel game of Hunt the Contract. But he + had never been in at the death. Those two years had taught him how + to ride; to take a fence; to leap a ditch. He had had his awkward + bumps, and his clumsy falls. He had lost his way more than once. + But he had always groped his way back again, stumblingly, through + the dusk. Jock McChesney was the youngest man on the Berg, Shriner + Advertising Company's big staff of surprisingly young men. So + young that the casual glance did not reveal to you the marks that + the strain of those two years had left on his boyish face. But the + marks were there. +</p> +<p> + Nature etches with the most delicate of points. She knows the + cunning secret of light and shadow. You scarcely realize that she + has been at work. A faint line about the mouth, a fairy tracing at + the corners of the eyes, a mere vague touch just at the + nostrils—and the thing is done. +</p> +<p> + Even Emma McChesney's eyes—those mother-eyes which make the lynx + seem a mole—had failed to note the subtle change. Then, suddenly, + one night, the lines leaped out at her. +</p> +<p> + They were seated at opposite sides of the book-littered library + table in the living-room of the cheerful up-town apartment which + was the realization of the nightly dream which Mrs. Emma McChesney + had had in her ten years on the road for the T.A. Buck Featherloom + Petticoat Company. Jock McChesney's side of the big table was + completely covered with the mass of copy-paper, rough sketches, + photographs and drawings which make up an advertising lay-out. He + was bent over the work, absorbed, intent, his forearms resting on + the table. Emma McChesney glanced up from her magazine just as + Jock bent forward to reach a scrap of paper that had fluttered + away. The lamplight fell full on his face. And Emma McChesney saw. + The hand that held the magazine fell to her lap. Her lips were + parted slightly. She sat very quietly, her eyes never leaving the + face that frowned so intently over the littered table. The room + had been very quiet before—Jock busy with his work, his mother + interested in her magazine. But this silence was different. There + was something electric in it. It was a silence that beats on the + brain like a noise. Jock McChesney, bent over his work, heard it, + felt it, and, oppressed by it, looked up suddenly. He met those + two eyes opposite. +</p> +<p> + "Spooks? Or is it my godlike beauty which holds you thus? Or is my + face dirty?" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney did not smile. She laid her magazine on the table, + face down, and leaned forward, her staring eyes still fixed on her + son's face. +</p> +<p> + "Look here, young 'un. Are you working too hard?" +</p> +<p> + "Me? Now? This stuff you mean—?" +</p> +<p> + "No; I mean in the last year. Are they piling it up on you?" +</p> +<p> + Jock laughed a laugh that was nothing less than a failure, so + little of real mirth did it contain. +</p> +<p> + "Piling it up! Lord, no! I wish they would. That's the trouble. + They don't give me a chance." +</p> +<p> + "A chance! Why, that's not true, son. You've said yourself that + there are men who have been in the office three times as long as + you have, who never have had the opportunities that they've given + you." +</p> +<p> + It was as though she had touched a current that thrilled him to + action. He pushed back his chair and stood up, one hand thrust + into his pocket, the other passing quickly over his head from brow + to nape with a quick, nervous gesture that was new to him. +</p> +<p> + "And why!" he flung out. "Why! Not because they like the way I + part my hair. They don't do business that way up there. It's + because I've made good, and those other dubs haven't. That's why. + They've let me sit in at the game. But they won't let me take any + tricks. I've been an apprentice hand for two years now. I'm tired + of it. I want to be in on a killing. I want to taste blood. I want + a chance at some of the money—real money." +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney sat back in her chair and surveyed the angry figure + before her with quiet, steady eyes. +</p> +<p> + "I might have known that only one thing could bring those lines + into your face, son." She paused a moment. "So you want money as + badly as all that, do you?" +</p> +<p> + Jock's hand came down with a thwack on the papers before him. +</p> +<p> + "Want it! You just bet I want it." +</p> +<p> + "Do I know her?" asked Emma McChesney quietly. +</p> +<p> + Jock stopped short in his excited pacing up and down the room. +</p> +<p> + "Do you know—Why, I didn't say there—What makes you think + that—?" +</p> +<p> + "When a youngster like you, whose greatest worry has been whether + Harvard'll hold 'em again this year, with Baxter out, begins to + howl about not being appreciated in business, and to wear a late + fall line of wrinkles where he has been smooth before, I feel + justified in saying, 'Do I know her?'" +</p> +<p> + "Well, it isn't any one—at least, it isn't what you mean you + think it is when you say you—" +</p> +<p> + "Careful there! You'll trip. Never you mind what I mean I think it + is when I say. Count ten, and then just tell me what you think you + mean." +</p> +<p> + Jock passed his hand over his head again with that nervous little + gesture. Then he sat down, a little wearily. He stared moodily + down at the pile of papers before him: His mother faced him + quietly across the table. +</p> +<p> + "Grace Galt's getting twice as much as I am," Jock broke out, with + savage suddenness. "The first year I didn't mind. A fellow gets + accustomed, these days, to see women breaking into all the + professions and getting away with men-size salaries. But her pay + check doubles mine—more than doubles it." +</p> +<p> + "It's been my experience," observed Emma McChesney, "that when a + firm condescends to pay a woman twice as much as a man, that means + she's worth six times as much." +</p> +<p> + A painful red crept into Jock's face. "Maybe. Two years ago that + would have sounded reasonable to me. Two years ago, when I walked + down Broadway at night, a fifty-foot electric sign at Forty-second + was just an electric sign to me. Just part of the town's + decoration like the chorus girls, and the midnight theater crowds. + Now—well, now every blink of every red and yellow globe is + crammed full of meaning. I know the power that advertising has; + how it influences our manners, and our morals, and our minds, and + our health. It regulates the food we eat, and the clothes we wear, + and the books we read, and the entertainment we seek. It's + colossal, that's what it is! It's—" +</p> +<p> + "Keep on like that for another two years, sonny, and no business + banquet will be complete without you. The next thing you know + you'll be addressing the Y.M.C.A. advertising classes on The Young + Man in Business." +</p> +<p> + Jock laughed a rueful little laugh. "I didn't mean to make + a speech. I was just trying to say that I've served my + apprenticeship. It hurts a fellow's pride. You can't hold your + head up before a girl when you know her salary's twice yours, and + you know that she knows it. Why look at Mrs. Hoffman, who's with + the Dowd Agency. Of course she's a wonder, even if her face does + look like the fifty-eighth variety. She can write copy that lifts + a campaign right out of the humdrum class, and makes it luminous. + Her husband works in a bank somewhere. He earns about as much as + Mrs. Hoffman pays the least of her department subordinates. And + he's so subdued that he side-steps when he walks, and they call + him the human jelly-fish." +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney was regarding her son with a little puzzled frown. + Suddenly she reached out and tapped the topmost of the scribbled + sheets strewn the length of Jock's side of the table. +</p> +<p> + "What's all this?" +</p> +<p> + Jock tipped back his chair and surveyed the clutter before him. +</p> +<p> + "That," said he, "is what is known on the stage as 'the papers.' + And it's the real plot of this piece." +</p> +<p> + "M-m-m—I thought so. Just favor me with a scenario, will you?" +</p> +<p> + Half-grinning, half-serious, Jock stuck his thumbs in the armholes + of his waistcoat, and began. +</p> +<p> + "Scene: Offices of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Time, + the present. Characters: Jock McChesney, handsome, daring, + brilliant—" +</p> +<p> + "Suppose you—er—skip the characters, however fascinating, and + get to the action." +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney brought the tipped chair down on all-fours with a + thud, and stood up. The grin was gone. He was as serious as he had + been in the midst of his tirade of five minutes before. +</p> +<p> + "All right. Here it is. And don't blame me if it sounds like cheap + melodrama. This stuff," and he waved a hand toward the paper-laden + table, "is an advertising campaign plan for the Griebler Gum + Company, of St. Louis. Oh, don't look impressed. The office hasn't + handed me any such commission. I just got the idea like a flash, + and I've been working it out for the last two weeks. It worked + itself out, almost—the way a really scorching idea does, + sometimes. This Griebler has been advertising for years. You + know the Griebler gum. But it hasn't been the right sort of + advertising. Old Griebler, the original gum man, had fogy notions + about advertising, and as long as he lived they had to keep it + down. He died a few months ago—you must have read of it. Left a + regular mint. Ben Griebler, the oldest son, started right in to + clean out the cobwebs. Of course the advertising end of it has + come in for its share of the soap and water. He wants to make a + clean sweep of it. Every advertising firm in the country has been + angling for the contract. It's going to be a real one. Two-thirds + of the crowd have submitted plans. And that's just where my kick + comes in. The Berg, Shriner Company makes it a rule never to + submit advance plans." +</p> +<p> + "Excuse me if I seem a trifle rude," interrupted Mrs. McChesney, + "but I'd like to know where you think you've been wronged in + this." +</p> +<p> + "Right here!" replied Jock, and he slapped his pocket, "and here," + he pointed to his head. "Two spots so vital that they make old + Achilles's heel seem armor-plated. Ben Griebler is one of the + show-me kind. He wants value received for money expended, and + while everybody knows that he has a loving eye on the Berg, + Shriner crowd, he won't sign a thing until he knows what he's + getting. A firm's record, standing, staff, equipment, mean nothing + to him." +</p> +<p> + "But, Jock, I still don't see—" +</p> +<p> + Jock gathered up a sheaf of loose papers and brandished them in + the air. "This is where I come in. I've got a plan here that will + fetch this Griebler person. Oh, I'm not dreaming. I outlined it + for Sam Hupp, and he was crazy about it. Sam Hupp had some sort of + plan outlined himself. But he said this made his sound as dry as + cigars in Denver. And you know yourself that Sam Hupp's copy is so + brilliant that he could sell brewery advertising to a temperance + magazine." +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney stood up. She looked a little impatient, and a + trifle puzzled. "But why all this talk! I don't get you. Take your + plan to Mr. Berg. If it's what you think it is he'll see it + quicker than any other human being, and he'll probably fall on + your neck and invest you in royal robes and give you a mahogany + desk all your own." +</p> +<p> + "Oh, what's the good!" retorted Jock disgustedly. "This Griebler + has an appointment at the office to-morrow. He'll be closeted with + the Old Man. They'll call in Hupp. But never a plan will they + reveal. It's against their code of ethics. Ethics! I'm sick of the + word. I suppose you'd say I'm lucky to be associated with a firm + like that, and I suppose I am. But I wish in the name of all the + gods of Business that they weren't so bloomin' conservative. + Ethics! They're all balled up in 'em, like Henry James in his + style." +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney came over from her side of the table and stood very + close to her son. She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and + looked up into the sullen, angry young face. +</p> +<a name="image-0011"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp11.jpg" width="270" height="415" +alt="'She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and +looked up into the sullen, angry young face'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + "I've seen older men than you are, Jock, and better men, and + bigger men, wearing that same look, and for the same reason. Every + ambitious man or woman in business wears it at one time or + another. Sooner or later, Jock, you'll have your chance at the + money end of this game. If you don't care about the thing you call + ethics, it'll be sooner. If you do care, it will be later. It + rests with you, but it's bound to come, because you've got the + stuff in you." +</p> +<p> + "Maybe," replied Jock the cynical. But his face lost some of its + sullenness as he looked down at that earnest, vivid countenance + up-turned to his. "Maybe. It sounds all right, Mother—in the + story books. But I'm not quite solid on it. These days it isn't + so much what you've got in you that counts as what you can bring + out. I know the young man's slogan used to be 'Work and Wait,' or + something pretty like that. But these days they've boiled it down + to one word—'Produce'!" +</p> +<p> + "The marvel of it is that there aren't more of 'em," observed Emma + McChesney sadly. +</p> +<p> + "More what?" +</p> +<p> + "More lines. Here,"—she touched his forehead,—"and here,"—she + touched his eyes. +</p> +<p> + "Lines!" Jock swung to face a mirror. "Good! I'm so infernally + young-looking that no one takes me seriously. It's darned hard + trying to convince people you're a captain of finance when you + look like an errand boy." +</p> +<p> + From the center of the room Mrs. McChesney watched the boy as he + surveyed himself in the glass. And as she gazed there came a + frightened look into her eyes. It was gone in a minute, and in its + place came a curious little gleam, half amused, half pugnacious. +</p> +<p> + "Jock McChesney, if I thought that you meant half of what you've + said to-night about honor, and ethics, and all that, I'd—" +</p> +<p> + "Spank me, I suppose," said the young six-footer. +</p> +<p> + "No," and all the humor had fled, "I—Jock, I've never said much + to you about your father. But I think you know that he was what he + was to the day of his death. You were just about eight when I made + up my mind that life with him was impossible. I said then—and you + were all I had, son—that I'd rather see you dead than to have you + turn out to be a son of your father. Don't make me remember that + wish, Jock." +</p> +<p> + Two quick steps and his arms were about her. His face was all + contrition. "Why—Mother! I didn't mean—You see this is business, + and I'm crazy to make good, and it's such a fight—" +</p> +<p> + "Don't I know it?" demanded Emma McChesney. "I guess your mother + hasn't been sitting home embroidering lunchcloths these last + fifteen years." She lifted her head from the boy's shoulder. "And + now, son, considering me, not as your doting mother, but in my + business capacity as secretary of the T.A. Buck Featherloom + Petticoat Company, suppose you reveal to me the inner workings of + this plan of yours. I'd like to know if you really are the + advertising wizard that you think you are." +</p> +<p> + So it was that long after Annie's dinner dishes had ceased to + clatter in the kitchen; long after she had put her head in at the + door to ask, "Aigs 'r cakes for breakfast?" long after those two + busy brains should have rested in sleep, the two sat at either + side of the light-flooded table, the face of one glowing as he + talked, the face of the other sparkling as she listened. And at + midnight: +</p> +<p> + "Why, you infant wonder!" exclaimed Emma McChesney. +</p> +<p> + At nine o'clock next morning when Jock McChesney entered the + offices of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company he carried a + flat, compact bundle of papers under his arm encased in protecting + covers of pasteboard, and further secured by bands of elastic. + This he carried to his desk, deposited in a drawer, and locked the + drawer. +</p> +<p> + By eleven o'clock the things which he had predicted the night + before had come to pass. A plump little man, with a fussy manner + and Western clothes had been ushered into Bartholomew Berg's + private office. Instinct told him that this was Griebler. Jock + left his desk and strolled up to get the switchboard operator's + confirmation of his guess. Half an hour later Sam Hupp hustled by + and disappeared into the Old Man's sanctum. +</p> +<p> + Jock fingered the upper left-hand drawer of his desk. The + maddening blankness of that closed door! If only he could find + some excuse for walking into that room—any old excuse, no matter + how wild!—just to get a chance at it— +</p> +<p> + His telephone rang. He picked up the receiver, his eye on the + closed door, his thoughts inside that room. +</p> +<p> + "Mr. Berg wants to see you right away," came the voice of the + switchboard operator. +</p> +<p> + Something seemed to give way inside—something in the region of + his brain—no, his heart—no, his lungs— +</p> +<p> + "Well, can you beat that!" said Jock McChesney aloud, in a kind of + trance of joy. "Can—you—beat—that!" +</p> +<p> + Then he buttoned the lower button of his coat, shrugged his + shoulders with an extra wriggle at the collar (the modern hero's + method of girding up his loins), and walked calmly into + Bartholomew Berg's very private office. +</p> +<p> + In the second that elapsed between the opening and the closing of + the door Jock's glance swept the three men—Bartholomew Berg, + quiet, inscrutable, seated at his great table-desk; Griebler, lost + in the depths of a great leather chair, smoking fussily and + twitching with a hundred little restless, irritating gestures; Sam + Hupp, standing at the opposite side of the room, hands in pockets, + attitude argumentative. +</p> +<p> + "This is Mr. McChesney," said Bartholomew Berg. "Mr. Griebler, + McChesney." +</p> +<p> + Jock came forward, smiling that charming smile of his. "Mr. + Griebler," he said, extending his hand, "this is a great + pleasure." +</p> +<p> + "Hm!" growled Ben Griebler, "I didn't know they picked 'em so + young." +</p> +<p> + His voice was a piping falsetto that somehow seemed to match his + restless little eyes. +</p> +<p> + Jock thrust his hands hurriedly into his pockets. He felt his face + getting scarlet. +</p> +<p> + "They're—ah—using 'em young this year," said Bartholomew Berg. + His voice sounded bigger, and smoother, and pleasanter than ever + in contrast with that other's shrill tone. "I prefer 'em young, + myself. You'll never catch McChesney using 'in the last analysis' + to drive home an argument. He has a new idea about every nineteen + minutes, and every other one's a good one, and every nineteenth + or so's an inspiration." The Old Man laughed one of his low, + chuckling laughs. +</p> +<p> + "Hm—that so?" piped Ben Griebler. "Up in my neck of the woods we + aren't so long on inspiration. We're just working men, and we wear + working clothes—" +</p> +<p> + "Oh, now," protested Berg, his eyes twinkling, "McChesney's + necktie and socks and handkerchief may form one lovely, blissful + color scheme, but that doesn't signify that his advertising + schemes are not just as carefully and artistically blended." +</p> +<p> + Ben Griebler looked shrewdly up at Jock through narrowed lids. + "Maybe. I'll talk to you in a minute, young man—that is—" he + turned quickly upon Berg—"if that isn't against your crazy + principles, too?" +</p> +<p> + "Why, not at all," Bartholomew Berg assured him. "Not at all. You + do me an injustice." +</p> +<p> + Griebler moved up closer to the broad table. The two fell into a + low-voiced talk. Jock looked rather helplessly around at Sam Hupp. + That alert gentleman was signaling him frantically with head and + wagging finger. Jock crossed the big room to Hupp's side. The two + moved off to a window at the far end. +</p> +<p> + "Give heed to your Unkie," said Sam Hupp, talking very rapidly, + very softly, and out of one corner of his mouth. "This Griebler's + looking for an advertising manager. He's as pig-headed as + a—a—well, as a pig, I suppose. But it's a corking chance, + youngster, and the Old Man's just recommended you—strong. Now—" +</p> +<p> + "Me—!" exploded Jock. +</p> +<p> + "Shut up!" hissed Hupp. "Two or three years with that firm would + be the making of you—if you made good, of course. And you could. + They want to move their factory here from St. Louis within the + next few years. Now listen. When he talks to you, you play up the + keen, alert stuff with a dash of sophistication, see? If you can + keep your mouth shut and throw a kind of a canny, I-get-you, look + into your eyes, all the better. He's gabby enough for two. Try a + line of talk that is filled with the fire and enthusiasm of + youth, combined with the good judgment and experience of middle + age, and you've—" +</p> +<p> + "Say, look here," stammered Jock. "Even if I was Warfield enough + to do all that, d'you honestly think—me an advertising + manager!—with a salary that Griebler—" +</p> +<p> + "You nervy little shrimp, go in and win. He'll pay five thousand + if he pays a cent. But he wants value for money expended. Now I've + tipped you off. You make your killing—" +</p> +<p> + "Oh, McChesney!" called Bartholomew Berg, glancing round. +</p> +<p> + "Yes, sir!" said Jock, and stood before him in the same moment. +</p> +<p> + "Mr. Griebler is looking for a competent, enthusiastic, + hard-working man as advertising manager. I've spoken to him of + you. I know what you can do. Mr. Griebler might trust my judgment + in this, but—" +</p> +<p> + "I'll trust my own judgment," snapped Ben Griebler. "It's good + enough for me." +</p> +<p> + "Very well," returned Bartholomew Berg suavely. "And if you decide + to place your advertising future in the hands of the Berg, Shriner + Company—" +</p> +<p> + "Now look here," interrupted Ben Griebler again. "I'll tie up + with you people when you've shaken something out of your cuffs. + I'm not the kind that buys a pig in a poke. We're going to spend + money—real money—in this campaign of ours. But I'm not such a + come-on as to hand you half a million or so and get a promise in + return. I want your plans, and I want 'em in full." +</p> +<p> + A little exclamation broke from Sam Hupp. He checked it, but not + before Berg's curiously penetrating pale blue eyes had glanced up + at him, and away again. +</p> +<p> + "I've told you, Mr. Griebler," went on Bartholomew Berg's patient + voice, "just why the thing you insist on is impossible. This firm + does not submit advance copy. Every business commission that comes + to us is given all the skill, and thought, and enthusiasm, and + careful planning that this office is capable of. You know our + record. This is a business of ideas. And ideas are too precious, + too perishable, to spread in the market place for all to see." +</p> +<p> + Ben Griebler stood up. His cigar waggled furiously between his + lips as he talked. +</p> +<p> + "I know something else that don't stand spreading in the market + place, Berg. And that's money. It's too darned perishable, too." + He pointed a stubby finger at Jock. "Does this fool rule of yours + apply to this young fellow, too?" +</p> +<p> + Bartholomew Berg seemed to grow more patient, more self-contained + as the other man's self-control slipped rapidly away. +</p> +<p> + "It goes for every man and woman in this office, Mr. Griebler. + This young chap, McChesney here, might spend weeks and months + building up a comprehensive advertising plan for you. He'd spend + those weeks studying your business from every possible angle. + Perhaps it would be a plan that would require a year of waiting + before the actual advertising began to appear. And then you might + lose faith in the plan. A waiting game is a hard game to play. + Some other man's idea, that promised quicker action, might appeal + to you. And when it appeared we'd very likely find our own + original idea incorporated in—" +</p> +<p> + "Say, look here!" squeaked Ben Griebler, his face dully red. + "D'you mean to imply that I'd steal your plan! D'you mean to sit + there and tell me to my face—" +</p> +<p> + "Mr. Griebler, I mean that that thing happens constantly in this + business. We're almost powerless to stop it. Nothing spreads + quicker than a new idea. Compared to it a woman's secret is a + sealed book." +</p> +<p> + Ben Griebler removed the cigar from his lips. He was stuttering + with anger. With a mingling of despair and boldness Jock saw the + advantage of that stuttering moment and seized on it. He stepped + close to the broad table-desk, resting both hands on it and + leaning forward slightly in his eagerness. +</p> +<p> + "Mr. Berg—I have a plan. Mr. Hupp can tell you. It came to me + when I first heard that the Grieblers were going to broaden out. + It's a real idea. I'm sure of that. I've worked it out in detail. + Mr. Hupp himself said it—Why, I've got the actual copy. And it's + new. Absolutely. It never—" +</p> +<p> + "Trot it out!" shouted Ben Griebler. "I'd like to see one idea + anyway, around this shop." +</p> +<p> + "McChesney," said Bartholomew Berg, not raising his voice. His + eyes rested on Jock with the steady, penetrating gaze that was + peculiar to him. More foolhardy men than Jock McChesney had + faltered and paused, abashed, under those eyes. "McChesney, your + enthusiasm for your work is causing you to forget one thing that + must never be forgotten in this office." +</p> +<p> + Jock stepped back. His lower lip was caught between his teeth. At + the same moment Ben Griebler snatched up his hat from the table, + clapped it on his head at an absurd angle and, bristling like a + fighting cock, confronted the three men. +</p> +<p> + "I've got a couple of rules myself," he cried, "and don't you + forget it. When you get a little spare time, you look up St. Louis + and find out what state it's in. The slogan of that state is my + slogan, you bet. If you think I'm going to make you a present of + the money that it took my old man fifty years to pile up, then you + don't know that Griebler is a German name. Good day, gents." +</p> +<p> + He stalked to the door. There he turned dramatically and leveled a + forefinger at Jock. "They've got you roped and tied. But I think + you're a comer. If you change your mind, kid, come and see me." +</p> +<p> + The door slammed behind him. +</p> +<p> + "Whew!" whistled Sam Hupp, passing a handkerchief over his bald + spot. +</p> +<p> + Bartholomew Berg reached out with one great capable hand and swept + toward him a pile of papers. "Oh, well, you can't blame him. + Advertising has been a scream for so long. Griebler doesn't know + the difference between advertising, publicity, and bunk. He'll + learn. But it'll be an awfully expensive course. Now, Hupp, let's + go over this Kalamazoo account. That'll be all, McChesney." +</p> +<p> + Jock turned without a word. He walked quickly through the outer + office, into the great main room. There he stopped at the + switchboard. +</p> +<p> + "Er—Miss Grimes," he said, smiling charmingly. "Where's this Mr. + Griebler, of St. Louis, stopping; do you know?" +</p> +<p> + "Say, where would he stop?" retorted the wise Miss Grimes. "Look + at him! The Waldorf, of course." +</p> +<p> + "Thanks," said Jock, still smiling. And went back to his desk. +</p> +<p> + At five Jock left the office. Under his arm he carried the flat + pasteboard package secured by elastic bands. At five-fifteen he + walked swiftly down the famous corridor of the great red stone + hotel. The colorful glittering crowd that surged all about him he + seemed not to see. He made straight for the main desk with its + battalion of clerks. +</p> +<a name="image-0012"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp12.jpg" width="270" height="438" +alt="'He made straight for the main desk with its +battalion of clerks'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + "Mr. Griebler in? Mr. Ben Griebler, St. Louis?" +</p> +<p> + The question set in motion the hotel's elaborate system of + investigation. At last: "Not in." +</p> +<p> + "Do you know when he will be in?" That futile question. +</p> +<p> + "Can't say. He left no word. Do you want to leave your name?" +</p> +<p> + "N-no. Would he—does he stop at this desk when he comes in?" +</p> +<p> + He was an unusually urbane hotel clerk. "Why, usually they leave + their keys and get their mail from the floor clerk. But Mr. + Griebler seems to prefer the main desk." +</p> +<p> + "I'll—wait," said Jock. And seated in one of the great thronelike + chairs, he waited. He sat there, slim and boyish, while the + laughing, chattering crowd swept all about him. If you sit long + enough in that foyer you will learn all there is to learn about + life. An amazing sight it is—that crowd. Baraboo helps swell it, + and Spokane, and Berlin, and Budapest, and Pekin, and Paris, and + Waco, Texas. So varied it is, so cosmopolitan, that if you sit + there patiently enough, and watch sharply enough you will even see + a chance New Yorker. +</p> +<p> + From door to desk Jock's eyes swept. The afternoon-tea crowd, in + paradise feathers, and furs, and frock coats swam back and forth. + He saw it give way to the dinner throng, satin-shod, bejeweled, + hurrying through its oysters, swallowing unbelievable numbers of + cloudy-amber drinks, and golden-brown drinks, and maroon drinks, + then gathering up its furs and rushing theaterwards. He was still + sitting there when that crowd, its eight o'clock freshness + somewhat sullied, its sparkle a trifle dimmed, swept back for more + oysters, more cloudy-amber and golden-brown drinks. +</p> +<p> + At half-hour intervals, then at hourly intervals, the figure in + the great chair stirred, rose, and walked to the desk. +</p> +<p> + "Has Mr. Griebler come in?" +</p> +<p> + The supper throng, its laugh a little ribald, its talk a shade + high-pitched, drifted towards the street, or was wafted up in + elevators. The throng thinned to an occasional group. Then these + became rarer and rarer. The revolving door admitted one man, or + two, perhaps, who lingered not at all in the unaccustomed quiet of + the great glittering lobby. +</p> +<p> + The figure of the watcher took on a pathetic droop. The eyelids + grew leaden. To open them meant an almost superhuman effort. The + stare of the new night clerks grew more and more hostile and + suspicious. A grayish pallor had settled down on the boy's face. + And those lines of the night before stood out for all to see. +</p> +<p> + In the stillness of the place the big revolving door turned once + more, complainingly. For the thousandth time Jock's eyes + lifted heavily. Then they flew wide open. The drooping figure + straightened electrically. Half a dozen quick steps and Jock stood + in the pathway of Ben Griebler who, rather ruffled and untidy, had + blown in on the wings of the morning. +</p> +<p> + He stared a moment. "Well, what—" +</p> +<p> + "I've been waiting for you here since five o'clock last evening. + It will soon be five o'clock again. Will you let me show you those + plans now?" +</p> +<p> + Ben Griebler had surveyed Jock with the stony calm of the + out-of-town visitor who is prepared to show surprise at nothing in + New York. +</p> +<p> + "There's nothing like getting an early start," said Ben Griebler. + "Come on up to my room." Key in hand, he made for the elevator. + For an almost imperceptible moment Jock paused. Then, with a + little rush, he followed the short, thick-set figure. "I knew you + had it in you, McChesney. I said you looked like a comer, didn't + I?" +</p> +<p> + Jock said nothing. He was silent while Griebler unlocked his door, + turned on the light, fumbled at the windows and shades, picked up + the telephone receiver. "What'll you have?" +</p> +<p> + "Nothing." Jock had cleared the center table and was opening his + flat bundle of papers. He drew up two chairs. "Let's not waste any + time," he said. "I've had a twelve-hour wait for this." He seemed + to control the situation. Obediently Ben Griebler hung up the + receiver, came over, and took the chair very close to Jock. +</p> +<a name="image-0013"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp13.jpg" width="363" height="270" +alt="''Let's not waste any time,' he said'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + "There's nothing artistic about gum," began Jock McChesney; and + his manner was that of a man who is sure of himself. "It's a + shirt-sleeve product, and it ought to be handled from a + shirt-sleeve standpoint. Every gum concern in the country has + spent thousands on a 'better-than-candy' campaign before it + realized that gum is a candy and drug store article, and that no + man is going to push a five-cent package of gum at the sacrifice + of the sale of an eighty-cent box of candy. But the health note is + there, if only you strike it right. Now, here's my idea—" +</p> +<p> + At six o'clock Ben Griebler, his little shrewd eyes sparkling, his + voice more squeakily falsetto than ever, surveyed the youngster + before him with a certain awe. +</p> +<p> + "This—this thing will actually sell our stuff in Europe! No gum + concern has ever been able to make the stuff go outside of this + country. Why, inside of three years every 'Arry and 'Arriet in + England'll be chewing it on bank holidays. I don't know about + Germany, but—" He pushed back his chair and got up. "Well, I'm + solid on that. And what I say goes. Now I'll tell you what I'll + do, kid. I'll take you down to St. Louis with me, at a figure + that'll make your—" +</p> +<p> + Jock looked up. +</p> +<p> + "Or if you don't want the Berg, Shriner crowd to get wise, I'll + fix it this way. I'll go over there this morning and tell 'em I've + changed my mind, see? The campaign's theirs, see? Then I refuse + to consider any of their suggestions until I see your plan. And + when I see it I fall for it like a ton of bricks. Old Berg'll + never know. He's so darned high-principled—" +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney stood up. The little drawn pinched look which had + made his face so queerly old was gone. His eyes were bright. His + face was flushed. +</p> +<p> + "There! You've said it. I didn't realize how raw this deal was + until you put it into words for me. I want to thank you. You're + right. Bartholomew Berg is so darned high-principled that two + muckers like you and me, groveling around in the dirt, can't even + see the tips of the heights to which his ideals have soared. Don't + stop me. I know I'm talking like a book. But I feel like something + that has just been kicked out into the sunshine after having been + in jail." +</p> +<p> + "You're tired," said Ben Griebler. "It's been a strain. Something + always snaps after a long tension." +</p> +<p> + Jock's flat palm came down among the papers with a crack. +</p> +<p> + "You bet something snaps! It has just snapped inside me." He + began quietly to gather up the papers in an orderly little way. +</p> +<p> + "What's that for?" inquired Griebler, coming forward. "You don't + mean—" +</p> +<p> + "I mean that I'm going to go home and square this thing with a + lady you've never met. You and she wouldn't get on if you did. You + don't talk the same language. Then I'm going to have a cold bath, + and a hot breakfast. And then, Griebler, I'm going to take this + stuff to Bartholomew Berg and tell him the whole nasty business. + He'll see the humor of it. But I don't know whether he'll fire me, + or make me vice-president of the company. Now, if you want to come + over and talk to him, fair and square, why come." +</p> +<p> + "Ten to one he fires you," remarked Griebler, as Jock reached the + door. +</p> +<p> + "There's only one person I know who's game enough to take you up + on that. And it's going to take more nerve to face her at + six-thirty than it will to tackle a whole battalion of Bartholomew + Bergs at nine." +</p> +<p> + "Well, I guess I can get in a three-hour sleep before—er—" +</p> +<p> + "Before what?" said Jock McChesney from the door. +</p> +<p> + Ben Griebler laughed a little shamefaced laugh. "Before I see you + at ten, sonny." +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0005"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + V +</h2> +<h3> + THE SELF-STARTER +</h3> +<br> +<p> + There is nothing in the sound of the shrill little bell to warn us + of the import of its message. More's the pity. It may be that bore + whose telephone conversation begins: "Well, what do you know + to-day?" It may be your lawyer to say you've inherited a million. + Hence the arrogance of the instrument. It knows its voice will + never wilfully go unanswered so long as the element of chance lies + concealed within it. +</p> +<p> + Mrs. Emma McChesney heard the call of her telephone across the + hall. Seated in the office of her business partner, T.A. Buck, she + was fathoms deep in discussion of the T.A. Buck Featherloom + Petticoat Company's new spring line. The buzzer's insistent + voice brought her to her feet, even while she frowned at the + interruption. +</p> +<p> + "That'll be Baumgartner 'phoning about those silk swatches. Back + in a minute," said Emma McChesney and hurried across the hall just + in time to break the second call. +</p> +<p> + The perfunctory "Hello! Yes" was followed by a swift change of + countenance, a surprised little cry, then,—in quite another + tone—"Oh, it's you, Jock! I wasn't expecting ... No, not too + busy to talk to you, you young chump! Go on." A moment of silence, + while Mrs. McChesney's face smiled and glowed like a girl's as she + listened to the voice of her son. Then suddenly glow and smile + faded. She grew tense. Her head, that had been leaning so + carelessly on the hand that held the receiver, came up with a + jerk. "Jock McChesney!" she gasped, "you—why, you don't mean!—" +</p> +<p> + Now, Emma McChesney was not a woman given to jerky conversations, + interspersed with exclamation points. Her poise and balance had + become a proverb in the business world. Yet her lips were + trembling now. Her eyes were very round and bright. Her face had + flushed, then grown white. Her voice shook a little. "Yes, of + course I am. Only, I'm so surprised. Yes, I'll be home early. + Five-thirty at the latest." +</p> +<p> + She hung up the receiver with a little fumbling gesture. Her hand + dropped to her lap, then came up to her throat a moment, dropped + again. She sat staring straight ahead with eyes that saw one + thousand miles away. +</p> +<p> + From his office across the hall T.A. Buck strolled in casually. +</p> +<p> + "Did Baumgartner say he'd—?" He stopped as Mrs. McChesney looked + up at him. A quick step forward—"What's the matter, Emma?" +</p> +<p> + "Jock—Jock—" +</p> +<p> + "Jock! What's happened to the boy?" Then, as she still stared at + him, her face pitiful, his hand patted her shoulder. "Dear girl, + tell me." He bent over her, all solicitude. +</p> +<p> + "Don't!" said Emma McChesney faintly, and shook off his hand. + "Your stenographer can see—What will the office think? Please—" +</p> +<p> + "Oh, darn the stenographer! What's this bad news of Jock?" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney sat up. She smiled a little nervously and passed + her handkerchief across her lips. "I didn't say it was bad, did I? + That is, not exactly bad, I suppose." +</p> +<p> + T.A. Buck ran a frenzied hand over his head. "My dear child," + with careful politeness, "will you please try to be sane? I find + you sitting at your desk, staring into space, your face white as a + ghost's, your whole appearance that of a person who has received a + death-blow. And then you say, 'Not exactly bad'!" +</p> +<p> + "It's this," explained Emma McChesney in a hollow tone: "The Berg, + Shriner Advertising Company has appointed Jock manager of their + new Western branch. They're opening offices in Chicago in March." + Her lower lip quivered. She caught it sharply between her teeth. +</p> +<p> + For one surprised moment T.A. Buck stared in silence. Then a roar + broke from him. "Not exactly bad!" he boomed between laughs. "Not + exactly b—Not ex<i>act</i>ly, eh?" Then he was off again. +</p> +<p> + Mrs. McChesney surveyed him in hurt and dignified silence. + Then—"Well, really, T.A., don't mind me. What you find so + exquisitely funny—" +</p> +<p> + "That's the funniest part of it! That you, of all people, + shouldn't see the joke. Not exactly bad!" He wiped his eyes. "Why, + do you mean to tell me that because your young cub of a son, by a + heaven-sent stroke of good fortune, has landed a job that men + twice his age would give their eyeteeth to get, I find you sitting + at the telephone looking as if he had run off with Annie the cook, + or had had a leg cut off!" +</p> +<p> + "I suppose it is funny. Only, the joke's on me. That's why I can't + see it. It means that I'm losing him." +</p> +<p> + "That's the first selfish word I've ever heard you utter." +</p> +<p> + "Oh, don't think I'm not happy at his success. Happy! Haven't I + hoped for it, and worked for it, and prayed for it! Haven't I + saved for it, and skimped for it! How do you think I could have + stood those years on the road if I hadn't kept up courage with the + thought that it was all for him? Don't I know how narrowly Jock + escaped being the wrong kind! I'm his mother, but I'm not quite + blind. I know he had the making of a first-class cad. I've seen + him start off in the wrong direction a hundred times." +</p> +<p> + "If he has turned out a success, it's because you've steered him + right. I've watched you make him over. And now, when his big + chance has come, you—" +</p> +<p> + "I don't expect you to understand," interrupted Emma McChesney a + little wearily. "I know it sounds crazy and unreasonable. There's + only one sort of human being who could understand what I mean. + That's a woman with a son." She laughed a little shamefacedly. + "I'm talking like the chorus of a minor-wail sob song, but it's + the truth." +</p> +<p> + "If you feel like that, Emma, tell him to stay. The boy wouldn't + go if he thought it would make you unhappy." +</p> +<p> + "Not go!" cried Emma McChesney sharply. "I'd like to see him dare + to refuse it!" +</p> +<p> + "Well then, what in—" began Buck, bewildered. +</p> +<p> + "Don't try to understand it, T.A. It's no use. Don't try to poke + your finger into the whirligig they call 'Woman's Sphere.' Its + mechanism is too complicated. It's the same quirk that makes women + pray for daughters and men for sons. It's the same kink that makes + women read the marriage and death notices first in a newspaper. + It's the same queer strain that causes a mother to lavish the most + love on the weakest, wilfullest child. Perhaps I wouldn't have + loved Jock so much if there hadn't been that streak of yellow in + him, and if I hadn't had to work so hard to dilute it until now + it's only a faint cream color. There ought to be a special prayer + for women who are bringing up their sons alone." +</p> +<p> + Buck stirred a little uneasily. "I've never heard you talk like + this before." +</p> +<p> + "You probably never will again." She swung round to her desk. +</p> +<p> + T.A. Buck, strolling toward the door, still wore the puzzled look. +</p> +<p> + "I don't know what makes you take this so seriously. Of course, + the boy will be a long way off. But then, you've been separated + from him before. What's the difference now?" +</p> +<p> + "T.A.," said Emma McChesney solemnly, "Jock will be drawing a + man-size salary now. Something tells me I'll be a grandmother in + another two years. Girls aren't letting men like Jock run around + loose. He'll be gobbled up. Just you wait." +</p> +<p> + "Oh, I don't know," drawled Buck mischievously. "You've just said + he's a headstrong young cub. He strikes me as the kind who'd + raise the dickens if his three-minute egg happened to be five + seconds overtime." +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney swung around in her chair. "Look here, T.A. As + business partners we've quarreled about everything from silk + samples to traveling men, and as friends we've wrangled on every + subject from weather to war. I've allowed you to criticise my soul + theories, and my new spring hat. But understand that I'm the only + living person who has the right to villify my son, Jock + McChesney." +</p> +<p> + The telephone buzzed a punctuation to this period. +</p> +<p> + "Baumgartner?" inquired Buck humbly. +</p> +<p> + She listened a moment, then, over her shoulder, + "Baumgartner,"—grimly, her hand covering the mouthpiece—"and + if he thinks that he can work off a lot of last year's silk + swatches on—Hello! Yes, Mrs. McChesney talking. Look here, Mr. + Baumgartner—" +</p> +<p> + And for the time being Emma McChesney, mother, was relegated to + the background, while Emma McChesney, secretary of the T.A. Buck + Featherloom Petticoat Company, held the stage. +</p> +<p> + Having said that she would be home at five-thirty. Mrs. McChesney + was home at five-thirty, being that kind of a person. Jock came + in at six, breathless, bright-eyed, eager, and late, being that + kind of a person. +</p> +<p> + He found his mother on the floor before the chiffonier in his + bedroom, surrounded by piles of pajamas, socks, shirts and + collars. +</p> +<a name="image-0014"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp14.jpg" width="328" height="270" +alt="'He found his mother on the floor ... surrounded by +piles of pajamas, socks, shirts and collars'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + He swooped down upon her from the doorway. "What do you think of + your blue-eyed boy! Poor, eh?" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney looked up absently. "Jock, these medium-weights of + yours didn't wear at all, and you paid five dollars for them." +</p> +<p> + "Medium-weights! What in—" +</p> +<p> + "You've enough silk socks to last you the rest of your natural + life. Handkerchiefs, too. But you'll need pajamas." +</p> +<p> + Jock stooped, gathered up an armful of miscellaneous undergarments + and tossed them into an open drawer. Then he shut the drawer with + a bang, reached over, grasped his mother firmly under the arms and + brought her to her feet with a swing. +</p> +<p> + "We will now consider the question of summer underwear ended. + Would it bore you too much to touch lightly on the subject of your + son's future?" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney, tall, straight, handsome, looked up at her son, + taller, straighter, handsomer. Then she took him by the coat + lapels and hugged him. +</p> +<p> + "You were so bursting with your own glory that I couldn't resist + teasing you. Besides, I had to do something to keep my mind + off—off—" +</p> +<p> + "Why, Blonde dear, you're not—!" +</p> +<p> + "No, I'm not," gulped Emma McChesney. "Don't flatter yourself, + young 'un. Tell me just how it happened. From the beginning." She + perched at the side of the bed. Jock, hands in pockets, hair a + little rumpled, paced excitedly up and down before her as he + talked. +</p> +<p> + "There wasn't any beginning. That's the stunning part of it. I + just landed right into the middle of it with both feet. I knew + they had been planning to start a big Western branch. But we all + thought they'd pick some big man for it. There are plenty of + medium-class dubs to be had. The kind that answers the ad: + 'Manager wanted, young man, preferably married, able to furnish + A-1 reference.' They're as thick as advertising men in Detroit on + Monday morning. But we knew that this Western branch was going to + be given an equal chance with the New York office. Those big + Western advertisers like to give their money to Western firms if + they can. So we figured that they'd pick a real top-notcher—even + Hopper, or Hupp, maybe—and start out with a bang. So when the Old + Man called me into his office this morning I was as unconscious as + a babe. Well, you know Berg. He's as unexpected as a summer shower + and twice as full of electricity. +</p> +<p> + "'Morning, McChesney!' he said. 'That a New York necktie you're + wearing?' +</p> +<p> + "'Strictly,' says I. +</p> +<p> + "'Ever try any Chicago ties?' +</p> +<p> + "'Not from choice. That time my suit case went astray—' +</p> +<p> + "'M-m-m-m, yes.' He drummed his fingers on the table top a couple + of times. Then—McChesney, what have you learned about advertising + in the last two and a half years?' +</p> +<p> + "I was wise enough as to Bartholomew Berg to know that he didn't + mean any cut-and-dried knowledge. He didn't mean rules of the + game. He meant tricks. +</p> +<p> + "'Well,' I said, 'I've learned to watch a man's eyes when I'm + talking business to him. If the pupils of his eyes dilate he's + listening to you, and thinking about what you're saying. When they + contract it means that he's only faking interest, even though he's + looking straight at you and wearing a rapt expression. His + thoughts are miles away.' +</p> +<p> + "'That so?' said Berg, and sort of grinned. 'What else?' +</p> +<p> + "'I've learned that one negative argument is worth six positive + ones; that it never pays to knock your competitor; that it's wise + to fight shy of that joker known as "editorial coöperation."' +</p> +<p> + "'That so?' said Berg. 'Anything else?' +</p> +<p> + "I made up my mind I could play the game as long as he could. +</p> +<p> + "'I've learned not to lose my temper when I'm in the middle of a + white-hot, impassioned business appeal and the office boy bounces + in to say to the boss: "Mrs. Jones is waiting. She says you were + going to help her pick out wall paper this morning;" and Jones + says, "Tell her I'll be there in five minutes."' +</p> +<p> + "'Sure you've learned that?' said Berg. +</p> +<p> + "'Sure,' says I. 'And I've learned to let the other fellow think + your argument's his own. He likes it. I've learned that the + surest kind of copy is the slow, insidious kind, like the + Featherloom Petticoat Company's campaign. That was an ideal + campaign because it didn't urge and insist that the public buy + Featherlooms. It just eased the idea to them. It started by + sketching a history of the petticoat, beginning with Eve's fig + leaf and working up. Before they knew it they were interested.' +</p> +<p> + "'That so? That campaign was your mother's idea, McChesney.' You + know, Mother, he thinks you're a wonder." +</p> +<p> + "So I am," agreed Emma McChesney calmly. "Go on." +</p> +<p> + "Well, I went on. I told him that I'd learned to stand so that the + light wouldn't shine in my client's eyes when I was talking to + him. I lost a big order once because the glare from the window + irritated the man I was talking to. I told Berg all the tricks I'd + learned, and some I hadn't thought of till that minute. Berg put + in a word now and then. I thought he was sort of guying me, as he + sometimes does—not unkindly, you know, but in that quiet way he + has. Finally I stopped for breath, or something, and he said: +</p> +<p> + "'Now let me talk a minute, McChesney. Anybody can teach you the + essentials of the advertising business, if you've any advertising + instinct in you. But it's what you pick up on the side, by your + own efforts and out of your own experience, that lifts you out of + the scrub class. Now I don't think you're an ideal advertising man + by any means, McChesney. You're shy on training and experience, + and you've just begun to acquire that golden quality known as + balance. I could name a hundred men that are better all-around + advertising men than you will ever be. Those men have advertising + ability that glows steadily and evenly, like a well-banked fire. + But you've got the kind of ability that flares up, dies down, + flares up. But every flare is a real blaze that lights things red + while it lasts, and sends a new glow through the veins of + business. You've got personality, and youth, and enthusiasm, and a + precious spark of the real thing known as advertising genius. + There's no describing it. You know what I mean. Also, you + know enough about actual advertising not to run an ad for a + five-thousand-dollar motor car in the "Police Gazette." All of + which leads up to this question: How would you like to buy your + neckties in Chicago, McChesney?' +</p> +<p> + "'Chicago!' I blurted. +</p> +<p> + "'We've taken a suite of offices in the new Lakeview Building on + Michigan Avenue. Would you like your office done in mahogany or + oak?'" +</p> +<p> + Jock came to a full stop before his mother. His cheeks were + scarlet. Hers were pale. He was breathing quickly. She was very + quiet. His eyes glowed. So did hers, but the glow was dimmed by a + mist. +</p> +<p> + "Mahogany's richer, but make it oak, son. It doesn't show + finger-marks so." Then, quite suddenly, she stood up, shaking a + little, and buried her face in the boy's shoulder. +</p> +<p> + "Why—why, Mother! Don't! Don't, Blonde. We'll see each other + every few weeks. I'll be coming to New York to see the sights, + like the rest of the rubes, and I suppose the noise and lights + will confuse me so that I'll be glad to get back to the sylvan + quiet of Chicago. And then you'll run out there, eh? We'll have + regular bats, Mrs. Mack. Dinner and the theater and supper! Yes?" +</p> +<p> + "Yes," said Emma McChesney, in muffled tones that totally lacked + enthusiasm. +</p> +<p> + "Chicago's really only a suburb of New York, anyway, these days, + and—" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney's head came up sharply. "Look here, son. If you're + going to live in Chicago I advise you to cut that suburb talk, and + sort of forget New York. Chicago's quite a village, for an inland + settlement, even if it has only two or three million people, and a + lake as big as all outdoors. That kind of talk won't elect you to + the University Club, son." +</p> +<p> + So they talked, all through supper and during the evening. Rather, + Jock talked and his mother listened, interrupting with only an + occasional remark when the bubble of the boy's elation seemed to + grow too great. +</p> +<p> + Quite suddenly Jock was silent. After the almost incessant rush of + conversation quiet settled down strangely on the two seated there + in the living-room with its soft-shaded lamps. Jock picked up a + magazine, twirled its pages, put it down, strolled into his own + room, and back again. +</p> +<p> + "Mother," he said suddenly, standing before her, "there was a + time when you were afraid I wasn't going to pan out, wasn't + there?" +</p> +<p> + "Not exactly afraid, dear, just a little doubtful, perhaps." +</p> +<p> + Jock smiled a tolerant, forgiving smile. "You see, Mother, you + didn't understand, that's all. A woman doesn't. I was all right. A + man would have realized that. I don't mean, dear, that you haven't + always been wonderful, because you have. But it takes a man to + understand a man. When you thought I was going bad on your hands I + was just developing, that's all. Remember that time in Chicago, + Mother?" +</p> +<p> + "Yes," answered Emma McChesney, "I remember." +</p> +<p> + "Now a man would have understood that that was only kid + foolishness. If a fellow's got the stuff in him it'll show up, + sooner or later. If I hadn't had it in me I wouldn't be going to + Chicago as manager of the Berg, Shriner Western office, would I?" +</p> +<p> + "No, dear." +</p> +<p> + Jock looked at her. In an instant he was all contrition and + tenderness. "You're tired. I've talked you to death, haven't I? + Lordy, it's midnight! And I want to get down early to-morrow. + Conference with Mr. Berg, and Hupp." He tried not to sound too + important. +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney took his head between her two hands and kissed him + once on the lips, then, standing a-tiptoe, kissed his eyelids with + infinite gentleness as you kiss a baby's eyes. Then she brought + his cheek up against hers. And so they stood for a moment, + silently. +</p> +<p> + Ten minutes later there came the sound of blithe whistling from + Jock's room. Jock always whistled when he went to bed and when he + rose. Even these years of living in a New York apartment had + not broken him of the habit. It was a cheerful, disconnected + whistling, sometimes high and clear, sometimes under the breath, + sometimes interspersed with song, and sometimes ceasing altogether + at critical moments, say, during shaving, or while bringing the + four-in-hand up tight and snug under the collar. It was one of + those comfortable little noises that indicate a masculine + presence; one of those pleasant, reassuring, man-in-the-house + noises that every woman loves. +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney, putting herself to bed in her room across the + hall, found herself listening, brush poised, lips parted, as + though to the exquisite strains of celestial music. There came the + thump of a shoe on the floor. An interval of quiet. Then another + thump. Without having been conscious of it, Emma McChesney had + grown to love the noises that accompanied Jock's retiring and + rising. His dressing was always signalized by bangings and + thumpings. His splashings in the tub were tremendous. His morning + plunge could be heard all over the six-room apartment. Mrs. + McChesney used to call gayly through the door: +</p> +<p> + "Mercy, Jock! You sound like a school of whales coming up for + air." +</p> +<p> + "You'll think I'm a school of sharks when it comes to breakfast," + Jock would call back. "Tell Annie to make enough toast, Mum. She's + the tightest thing with the toast I ever did—" +</p> +<p> + The rest would be lost in a final surging splash. +</p> +<p> + The noises in the room across the hall had subsided now. She + listened more intently. No, a drawer banged. Another. Then: +</p> +<p> + "Hasn't my gray suit come back from the tailor's?" +</p> +<p> + "It was to be sponged, too, you know. He said he'd bring it + Wednesday. This is Tuesday." +</p> +<p> + "Oh!" Another bang. Then: '"Night, Mother!" +</p> +<p> + "Good night, dear." Creaking sounds, then a long, comfortable sigh + of complete relaxation. +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney went on with her brushing. She brushed her hair + with the usual number of swift even strokes, from the top of the + shining head to the waist. She braided her hair into two plaits, + Gretchen fashion. Millions of scanty-locked women would have given + all they possessed to look as Emma McChesney looked standing there + in kimono and gown. She nicked out the light. Then she, too, + relaxed upon her pillow with a little sigh. Quiet fell on the + little apartment. The street noises came up to her, now roaring, + now growing faint. Emma McChesney lay there sleepless. She lay + flat, hands clasped across her breast, her braids spread out on + the pillow. In the darkness of the room the years rolled before + her in panorama: her girlhood, her marriage, her unhappiness, + Jock, the divorce, the struggle for work, those ten years on the + road. Those ten years on the road! How she had hated them—and + loved them. The stuffy trains, the jarring sleepers, the bare + little hotel bedrooms, the bad food, the irregular hours, the + loneliness, the hard work, the disappointments, the temptations. + Yes but the fascination of it, the dear friends she had made, the + great human lesson of it all! And all for Jock. That Jock might + have good schools, good clothes, good books, good surroundings, + happy times. Why, Jock had been the reason for it all! She had + swallowed insult because of Jock. She had borne the drudgery + because of Jock. She had resisted temptation, smiled under + hardship, worked, fought, saved, succeeded, all because of Jock. + And now this pivot about which her whole life had revolved was to + be pulled up, wrenched away. +</p> +<p> + Over Emma McChesney, lying there in the dark, there swept one of + those unreasoning night-fears. The fear of living. The fear of + life. A straining of the eyeballs in the dark. The pounding of + heart-beats. +</p> +<p> + She sat up in bed. Her hands went to her face. Her cheeks were + burning and her eyes smarted. She felt that she must see Jock. At + once. Just to be near him. To touch him. To take him in her arms, + with his head in the hollow of her breast, as she used to when he + was a baby. Why, he had been a baby only yesterday. And now he was + a man. Big enough to stand alone, to live alone, to do without + her. +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney flung aside the covers and sprang out of bed. She + thrust her feet in slippers, groped for the kimono at the foot of + the bed and tiptoed to the door. She listened. No sound from the + other room. She stole across the hall, stopped, listened, gained + the door. It was open an inch or more. Just to be near him, to + know that he lay there, sleeping! She pushed the door very, very + gently. Then she stood in the doorway a moment, scarcely + breathing, her head thrust forward, her whole body tense with + listening. She could not hear him breathe! She caught her breath + again in that unreasoning fear and took a quick step forward. +</p> +<p> + "Stop or I'll shoot!" said a voice. Simultaneously the light + flashed on. Emma McChesney found herself blinking at a determined + young man who was steadily pointing a short, chubby, businesslike + looking steel affair in her direction. Then the hand that held the + steel dropped. +</p> +<p> + "What is this, anyway?" demanded Jock rather crossly. "A George + Cohan comedy?" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney leaned against the foot of the bed rather weakly. +</p> +<p> + "What did you think—" +</p> +<p> + "What would you think if you heard some one come sneaking along + the hall, stopping, listening, sneaking to your door, and then + opening it, and listening again, and sneaking in? What would you + think it was? How did I know you were going around making social + calls at two o'clock in the morning!" +</p> +<p> + Suddenly Emma McChesney began to laugh. She leaned over the + footboard and laughed hysterically, her head in her arms. Jock + stared a moment in offended disapproval. Then the humor of it + caught him, and he buried his head in his pillow to stifle + unseemly shrieks. His legs kicked spasmodically beneath the + bedclothes. +</p> +<p> + As suddenly as she had begun to laugh Mrs. McChesney became very + sober. +</p> +<p> + "Stop it, Jock! Tell me, why weren't you sleeping?" +</p> +<p> + "I don't know," replied Jock, as suddenly solemn. "I—sort + of—began to think, and I couldn't sleep." +</p> +<p> + "What were you thinking of?" +</p> +<p> + Jock looked down at the bedclothes and traced a pattern with one + forefinger on the sheet. Then he looked up. +</p> +<p> + "Thinking of you." +</p> +<p> + "Oh!" said Emma McChesney, like a bashful schoolgirl. "Of—me!" +</p> +<p> + Jock sat up very straight and clasped his hands about his knees. + "I got to thinking of what I had said about having made good all + alone. That's rot. It isn't so. I was striped with yellow like a + stick of lemon candy. If I've got this far, it's all because of + you. I've been thinking all along that I was the original electric + self-starter, when you've really had to get out and crank me every + few miles." +</p> +<p> + Into Emma McChesney's face there came a wonderful look. It was the + sort of look with which a newly-made angel might receive her + crown and harp. It was the look with which a war-hero sees the + medal pinned on his breast. It was the look of one who has come + into her Reward. Therefore: +</p> +<p> + "What nonsense!" said Emma McChesney. "If you hadn't had it in + you, it wouldn't have come out." +</p> +<p> + "It wasn't in me, in the first place," contested Jock stubbornly. + "You planted it." +</p> +<p> + From her stand at the foot of the bed she looked at him, her eyes + glowing brighter and brighter with that wonderful look. +</p> +<p> + "Now see here,"—severely—"I want you to go to sleep. I don't + intend to stand here and dispute about your ethical innards at + this hour. I'm going to kiss you again." +</p> +<p> + "Oh, well, if you must," grinned Jock resignedly, and folded her + in a bear-hug. +</p> +<p> + To Emma McChesney it seemed that the next three weeks leaped by, + not by days, but in one great bound. And the day came when a + little, chattering, animated group clustered about the slim young + chap who was fumbling with his tickets, glancing at his watch, + signaling a porter for his bags, talking, laughing, trying to hide + the pangs of departure under a cloak of gayety and badinage that + deceived no one. Least of all did it deceive the two women who + stood there. The eyes of the older woman never left his face. The + eyes of the younger one seldom were raised to his, but she saw his + every expression. Once Emma McChesney's eyes shifted a little so + as to include both the girl and the boy in her gaze. Grace Galt in + her blue serge and smart blue hat was worth a separate glance. +</p> +<p> + Sam Hupp was there, T.A. Buck, Hopper, who was to be with him in + Chicago for the first few weeks, three or four of the younger men + in the office, frankly envious and heartily congratulatory. +</p> +<p> + They followed him to his train, all laughter and animation. +</p> +<p> + "If this train doesn't go in two minutes," said Jock, "I'll get + scared and chuck the whole business. Funny, but I'm not so keen on + going as I was three weeks ago." +</p> +<p> + His eyes rested on the girl in the blue serge and the smart hat. + Emma McChesney saw that. She saw that his eyes still rested there + as he stood on the observation platform when the train pulled out. + The sight did not pain her as she thought it would. There was + success in every line of him as he stood there, hat in hand. There + was assurance in every breath of him. His clothes, his skin, his + clear eyes, his slim body, all were as they should be. He had + made a place in the world. He was to be a builder of ideas. She + thought of him, and of the girl in blue serge, and of their + children-to-be. +</p> +<p> + Her breast swelled exultingly. Her head came up. +</p> +<p> + This was her handiwork. She looked at it, and found that it was + good. +</p> +<p> + "Let's strike for the afternoon and call it a holiday," suggested + Buck. +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney turned. The train was gone. "T.A., you'll never + grow up." +</p> +<p> + "Never want to. Come on, let's play hooky, Emma." +</p> +<p> + "Can't. I've a dozen letters to get out, and Miss Loeb wants to + show me that new knicker-bocker design of hers." +</p> +<p> + They drove back to the office almost in silence. Emma McChesney + made straight for her desk and began dictating letters with an + energy that bordered on fury. At five o'clock she was still + working. At five-thirty T.A. Buck came in to find her still + surrounded by papers, samples, models. +</p> +<p> + "What is this?" he demanded wrathfully, "an all-night session?" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney looked up from her desk. Her face was flushed, her + eyes bright, but there was about her an indefinable air of + weariness. +</p> +<p> + "T.A., I'm afraid to go home. I'll rattle around in that empty + flat like a hickory nut in a barrel." +</p> +<p> + "We'll have dinner down-town and go to the theater." +</p> +<p> + "No use. I'll have to go home sometime." +</p> +<p> + "Now, Emma," remonstrated Buck, "you'll soon get used to it. Think + of all the years you got along without him. You were happy, + weren't you?" +</p> +<p> + "Happy because I had somebody to work for, somebody to plan for, + somebody to worry about. When I think of what that flat will be + without him—Why, just to wake up and know that you can say good + morning to some one who cares! That's worth living for, isn't it?" +</p> +<p> + "Emma," said T.A. evenly, "do you realize that you are virtually + hounding me into asking you to marry me?" +</p> +<p> + "T.A.!" gasped Emma McChesney. +</p> +<p> + "Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?" +</p> +<a name="image-0015"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp15.jpg" width="270" height="384" +alt="''Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry +about, didn't you?''"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + A little whimsical smile lay lightly on his lips. +</p> +<p> + "Timothy Buck, I'm over forty years old." +</p> +<p> + "Emma, in another minute I'm going to grow sentimental, and + nothing can stop me." +</p> +<p> + She looked down at her hands. There fell a little silence. Buck + stirred, leaned forward. She looked up from the little watch that + ticked away at her wrist. +</p> +<p> + "The minute's up, T.A.," said Emma McChesney. +</p> +<br> +<h4> + THE END +</h4> + + +<div style="height: 6em;"><br><br><br><br><br><br></div> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12677 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/12677-h/images/pp01.jpg b/12677-h/images/pp01.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..de24fc4 --- /dev/null +++ b/12677-h/images/pp01.jpg diff --git a/12677-h/images/pp02.jpg b/12677-h/images/pp02.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e9ad1bc --- /dev/null +++ b/12677-h/images/pp02.jpg diff --git a/12677-h/images/pp03.jpg b/12677-h/images/pp03.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..51582dd --- /dev/null +++ b/12677-h/images/pp03.jpg diff --git a/12677-h/images/pp04.jpg b/12677-h/images/pp04.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1ecccd5 --- /dev/null +++ b/12677-h/images/pp04.jpg diff --git a/12677-h/images/pp05.jpg b/12677-h/images/pp05.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..65fd2b8 --- /dev/null +++ b/12677-h/images/pp05.jpg diff --git a/12677-h/images/pp06.jpg b/12677-h/images/pp06.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c13114d --- /dev/null +++ b/12677-h/images/pp06.jpg diff --git a/12677-h/images/pp07.jpg b/12677-h/images/pp07.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9fcd099 --- /dev/null +++ b/12677-h/images/pp07.jpg diff --git a/12677-h/images/pp08.jpg b/12677-h/images/pp08.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..7937882 --- /dev/null +++ b/12677-h/images/pp08.jpg diff --git a/12677-h/images/pp09.jpg b/12677-h/images/pp09.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..dd21b06 --- /dev/null +++ b/12677-h/images/pp09.jpg diff --git a/12677-h/images/pp10.jpg b/12677-h/images/pp10.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..11f8c4e --- /dev/null +++ b/12677-h/images/pp10.jpg diff --git a/12677-h/images/pp11.jpg b/12677-h/images/pp11.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ca0e3ac --- /dev/null +++ b/12677-h/images/pp11.jpg diff --git a/12677-h/images/pp12.jpg b/12677-h/images/pp12.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6b7f7ed --- /dev/null +++ b/12677-h/images/pp12.jpg diff --git a/12677-h/images/pp13.jpg b/12677-h/images/pp13.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..7477414 --- /dev/null +++ b/12677-h/images/pp13.jpg diff --git a/12677-h/images/pp14.jpg b/12677-h/images/pp14.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d812490 --- /dev/null +++ b/12677-h/images/pp14.jpg diff --git a/12677-h/images/pp15.jpg b/12677-h/images/pp15.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5027c9a --- /dev/null +++ b/12677-h/images/pp15.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e2dd7fc --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #12677 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12677) diff --git a/old/12677-8.txt b/old/12677-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..abef9fd --- /dev/null +++ b/old/12677-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3734 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Personality Plus, by Edna Ferber + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Personality Plus + Some Experiences of Emma McChesney and Her Son, Jock + +Author: Edna Ferber + +Release Date: June 22, 2004 [EBook #12677] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PERSONALITY PLUS *** + + + + +Produced by Janet Kegg and the Project Gutenberg Distributed +Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + [Illustration: "'What is this anyway? A George Cohan comedy?'"] + + +PERSONALITY PLUS + + SOME EXPERIENCES OF EMMA McCHESNEY + AND HER SON, JOCK + + +By + +EDNA FERBER + +AUTHOR OF "DAWN O'HARA," "BUTTERED SIDE DOWN," +"ROAST BEEF, MEDIUM," ETC. + + +_WITH FIFTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS BY +JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG_ + + +NEW YORK +FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY +1914 + + + + +CONTENTS + + +CHAPTER + I. MAKING GOOD WITH MOTHER + + II. PERSONALITY PLUS + +III. DICTATED BUT NOT READ + + IV. THE MAN WITHIN HIM + + V. THE SELF-STARTER + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + +"'What is this anyway? A George Cohan comedy?'" _Frontispiece_ + +"'You're a jealous blond,' he laughed" + +"He was the concentrated essence of do-it-now" + +"'Hi! Hold that pose!' called Von Herman" + +"With a jolt Jock realized she had forgotten all about him" + +"'Well, raw-thah!' he drawled" + +"... became in some miraculous way a little boy again" + +"Jock McChesney began to carry a yellow walking stick down to +work" + +"'Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't mean it, but--'" + +"'Greetings!'" + +"She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and looked up into the +sullen, angry young face" + +"He made straight for the main desk with its battalion of clerks" + +"'Let's not waste any time,' he said" + +"He found his mother on the floor ... surrounded by piles of +pajamas, socks, shirts and collars" + +"'Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?'" + + + + + +PERSONALITY PLUS + + + + +I + +MAKING GOOD WITH MOTHER + + +When men began to build cities vertically instead of horizontally +there passed from our highways a picturesque figure, and from our +language an expressive figure of speech. That oily-tongued, +persuasive, soft-stepping stranger in the rusty Prince Albert and +the black string tie who had been wont to haunt our back steps and +front offices with his carefully wrapped bundle, retreated in +bewildered defeat before the clanging blows of steel on steel that +meant the erection of the first twenty-story skyscraper. "As +slick," we used to say, "as a lightning-rod agent." Of what use +his wares on a building whose tower was robed in clouds and which +used the chain lightning for a necklace? The Fourth Avenue antique +dealer had another curio to add to his collection of andirons, +knockers, snuff boxes and warming pans. + +But even as this quaint figure vanished there sprang up a new and +glittering one to take his place. He stood framed in the great +plate-glass window of the very building which had brought about +the defeat of his predecessor. A miracle of close shaving his face +was, and a marvel of immaculateness his linen. Dapper he was, and +dressy, albeit inclined to glittering effects and a certain +plethory at the back of the neck. Back of him stood shining shapes +that reflected his glory in enamel, and brass, and glass. His +language was floral, but choice; his talk was of gearings and +bearings and cylinders and magnetos; his method differed from that +of him who went before as the method of a skilled aëronaut differs +from that of the man who goes over Niagara in a barrel. And as he +multiplied and spread over the land we coined a new figure of +speech. "Smooth!" we chuckled. "As smooth as an automobile +salesman." + +But even as we listened, fascinated by his fluent verbiage there +grew within us a certain resentment. Familiarity with his +glittering wares bred a contempt of them, so that he fell to +speaking of them as necessities instead of luxuries. He juggled +figures, and thought nothing of four of them in a row. We looked +at our five-thousand-dollar salary, so strangely shrunken and thin +now, and even as we looked we saw that the method of the unctuous, +anxious stranger had become antiquated in its turn. + +Then from his ashes emerged a new being. Neither urger nor +spellbinder he. The twentieth century was stamped across his brow, +and on his lips was ever the word "Service." Silent, courteous, +watchful, alert, he listened, while you talked. His method, in +turn, made that of the silk-lined salesman sound like the hoarse +hoots of the ballyhoo man at a county fair. Blithely he accepted +five hundred thousand dollars and gave in return--a promise. And +when we would search our soul for a synonym to express all that +was low-voiced, and suave, and judicious, and patient, and sure, +we began to say, "As alert as an advertising expert." + +Jock McChesney, looking as fresh and clear-eyed as only twenty-one +and a cold shower can make one look, stood in the doorway of his +mother's bedroom. His toilette had halted abruptly at the +bathrobe stage. One of those bulky garments swathed his slim +figure, while over his left arm hung a gray tweed Norfolk coat. +From his right hand dangled a pair of trousers, in pattern a +modish black-and-white. + +Jock regarded the gray garment on his arm with moody eyes. + +"Well, I'd like to know what's the matter with it!" he demanded, a +trifle irritably. + +Emma McChesney, in the act of surveying her back hair in the +mirror, paused, hand glass poised half way, to regard her son. + +"All right," she answered cheerfully. "I'll tell you. It's too +young." + +"Young!" He held it at arm's length and stared at it. "What d'you +mean--young?" + +Emma McChesney came forward, wrapping the folds of her kimono +about her. She took the disputed garment in one hand and held it +aloft. "I know that you look like a man on a magazine cover in it. +But Norfolk suits spell tennis, and seashore, and elegant leisure. +And you're going out this morning, Son, to interview business men. +You're going to try to impress the advertising world with the fact +that it needs your expert services. You walk into a business +office in a Norfolk suit, and everybody from the office boy to the +president of the company will ask you what your score is." + +She tossed it back over his arm. + +"I'll wear the black and white," said Jock resignedly, and turned +toward his own room. At his doorway he paused and raised his voice +slightly: "For that matter, they're looking for young men. +Everybody's young. Why, the biggest men in the advertising game +are just kids." He disappeared within his room, still talking. +"Look at McQuirk, advertising manager of the Combs Car Company. +He's so young he has to disguise himself in bone-trimmed +eye-glasses with a black ribbon to get away with it. Look at +Hopper, of the Berg, Shriner Company. Pulls down ninety thousand a +year, and if he's thirty-five I'll--" + +"Well, you asked my advice," interrupted his mother's voice with +that muffled effect which is caused by a skirt being slipped over +the head, "and I gave it. Wear a white duck sailor suit with blue +anchors and carry a red tin pail and a shovel, if you want to look +young. Only get into it in a jiffy, Son, because breakfast will be +ready in ten minutes. I can tell by the way Annie's crashing the +cups. So step lively if you want to pay your lovely mother's +subway fare." + +Ten minutes later the slim young figure, in its English-fitting +black and white, sat opposite Emma McChesney at the breakfast +table and between excited gulps of coffee outlined a meteoric +career in his chosen field. And the more he talked and the rosier +his figures of speech became, the more silent and thoughtful fell +his mother. She wondered if five o'clock would find a droop to the +set of those young shoulders; if the springy young legs in their +absurdly scant modish trousers would have lost some of their +elasticity; if the buoyant step in the flat-heeled shoes would not +drag a little. Thirteen years of business experience had taught +her to swallow smilingly the bitter pill of rebuff. But this boy +was to experience his first dose to-day. She felt again that +sensation of almost physical nausea--that sickness of heart and +spirit which had come over her when she had met her first sneer +and intolerant shrug. It had been her maiden trip on the road for +the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. She was secretary of +that company now, and moving spirit in its policy. But the wound +of that first insult still ached. A word from her would have +placed the boy and saved him from curt refusals. She withheld that +word. He must fight his fight alone. + +"I want to write the kind of ad," Jock was saying excitedly, "that +you see 'em staring at in the subways, and street cars and +L-trains. I want to sit across the aisle and watch their up-turned +faces staring at that oblong, and reading it aloud to each other." + +"Isn't that an awfully obvious necktie you're wearing, Jock?" +inquired his mother irrelevantly. + +"This? You ought to see some of them. This is a Quaker stock in +comparison." He glanced down complacently at the vivid-hued silken +scarf that the season's mode demanded. Immediately he was off +again. "And the first thing you know, Mrs. McChesney, ma'am, we'll +have a motor truck backing up at the door once a month and six +strong men carrying my salary to the freight elevator in sacks." + +Emma McChesney buttered her bit of toast, then looked up to remark +quietly: + +"Hadn't you better qualify for the trial heats, Jock, before you +jump into the finals?" + +"Trial heats!" sneered Jock. "They're poky. I want real money. +Now! It isn't enough to be just well-to-do in these days. It needs +money. I want to be rich! Not just prosperous, but rich! So rich +that I can let the bath soap float around in the water without any +pricks of conscience. So successful that they'll say, 'And he's a +mere boy, too. Imagine!'" + +And, "Jock dear," Emma McChesney said, "you've still to learn that +plans and ambitions are like soap bubbles. The harder you blow and +the more you inflate them, the quicker they burst. Plans and +ambitions are things to be kept locked away in your heart, Son, +with no one but yourself to take an occasional peep at them." + +Jock leaned over the table, with his charming smile. "You're a +jealous blonde," he laughed. "Because I'm going to be a captain of +finance--an advertising wizard; you're afraid I'll grab the glory +all away from you." + + [Illustration: "'You're a jealous blond,' he said"] + +Mrs. McChesney folded her napkin and rose. She looked unbelievably +young, and trim, and radiant, to be the mother of this boasting +boy. + +"I'm not afraid," she drawled, a wicked little glint in her blue +eyes. "You see, they'll only regard your feats and say, 'H'm, no +wonder. He ought to be able to sell ice to an Eskimo. His mother +was Emma McChesney.'" + +And then, being a modern mother, she donned smart autumn hat and +tailored suit coat and stood ready to reach her office by +nine-thirty. But because she was as motherly as she was modern she +swung open the door between kitchen and dining-room to advise with +Annie, the adept. + +"Lamb chops to-night, eh, Annie? And sweet potatoes. Jock loves +'em. And corn au gratin and some head lettuce." She glanced toward +Jock in the hallway, then lowered her voice. "Annie," she teased, +"just give us one of your peach cobblers, will you? You see +he--he's going to be awfully--tired when he gets home." + +So they went stepping off to work together, mother and son. A +mother of twenty-five years before would have watched her son +with tear-dimmed eyes from the vine-wreathed porch of a cottage. +There was no watching a son from the tenth floor of an up-town +apartment house. Besides, she had her work to do. The subway +swallowed both of them. Together they jostled and swung their way +down-town in the close packed train. At the Twenty-third Street +station Jock left her. + +"You'll have dinner to-night with a full-fledged professional +gent," he bragged, in his youth and exuberance and was off down +the aisle and out on the platform. Emma McChesney managed to turn +in her nine-inch space of train seat so that she watched the slim, +buoyant young figure from the window until the train drew away and +he was lost in the stairway jam. Just so Rachel had watched the +boy Joseph go to meet the Persian caravans in the desert. + +"Don't let them buffalo you, Jock," Emma had said, just before he +left her. "They'll try it. If they give you a broom and tell you +to sweep down the back stairs, take it, and sweep, and don't +forget the corners. And if, while you're sweeping, you notice that +that kind of broom isn't suited to the stairs go in and suggest a +new kind. They'll like it." + +Brooms and back stairways had no place in Jock McChesney's mind as +the mahogany and gold elevator shot him up to the fourteenth floor +of the great office building that housed the Berg, Shriner +Company. Down the marble hallway he went and into the reception +room. A cruel test it was, that reception room, with the cruelty +peculiar to the modern in business. With its soft-shaded lamp, its +two-toned rug, its Jacobean chairs, its magazine-laden cathedral +oak table, its pot of bright flowers making a smart touch of color +in the somber richness of the room, it was no place for the +shabby, the down-and-out, the cringing, the rusty, or the +mendicant. + +Jock McChesney, from the tips of his twelve-dollar shoes to his +radiant face, took the test and stood it triumphantly. He had +entered with an air in which was mingled the briskness of +assurance with the languor of ease. There were times when Jock +McChesney was every inch the son of his mother. + +There advanced toward Jock a large, plump, dignified personage, a +personage courteous, yet reserved, inquiring, yet not offensively +curious--a very Machiavelli of reception-room ushers. Even while +his lips questioned, his eyes appraised clothes, character, +conduct. + +"Mr. Hupp, please," said Jock, serene in the perfection of his +shirt, tie, collar and scarf pin, upon which the appraising eye +now rested. "Mr. McChesney." He produced a card. + +"Appointment?" + +"No--but he'll see me." + +But Machiavelli had seen too many overconfident callers. Their +very confidence had taught him caution. + +"If you will please state your--ah--business--" + +Jock smiled a little patient smile and brushed an imaginary fleck +of dust from the sleeve of his very correct coat. + +"I want to ask him for a job as office boy," he jibed. + +An answering grin overspread the fat features of the usher. Even +an usher likes his little joke. The sense of humor dies hard. + +"I have a letter from him, asking me to call," said Jock, to +clinch it. + +"This way." The keeper of the door led Jock toward the sacred +inner portal and held it open. "Mr. Hupp's is the last door to the +right." + +The door closed behind him. Jock found himself in the big, busy, +light-flooded central office. Down either side of the great room +ran a row of tiny private offices, each partitioned off, each +outfitted with desk, and chairs, and a big, bright window. On his +way to the last door at the right Jock glanced into each tiny +office, glimpsing busy men bent absorbedly over papers, girls busy +with dictation, here and there a door revealing two men, or three, +deep in discussion of a problem, heads close together, voices +low, faces earnest. It came suddenly to the smartly modish, +overconfident boy walking the length of the long room that +the last person needed in this marvelously perfected and +smooth-running organization was a somewhat awed young man named +Jock McChesney. There came to him that strange sensation which +comes to every job-hunter; that feeling of having his spiritual +legs carry him out of the room, past the door, down the hall and +into the street, even as, in reality, they bore him on to the very +presence which he dreaded and yet wished to see. + +Two steps more, and he stood in the last doorway, right. No +matinee idol, nervously awaiting his cue in the wings, could have +planned his entrance more carefully than Jock had planned this. +Ease was the thing; ease, bordering on nonchalance, mixed with a +brisk and businesslike assurance. + +The entrance was lost on the man at the desk. He did not even look +up. If Jock had entered on all-fours, doing a double tango to +vocal accompaniment, it is doubtful if the man at the desk would +have looked up. Pencil between his fingers, head held a trifle to +one side in critical contemplation of the work before him, eyes +narrowed judicially, lips pursed, he was the concentrated essence +of do-it-now. + + [Illustration: "He was the concentrated essence of do-it-now"] + +Jock waited a moment, in silence. The man at the desk worked on. +His head was semi-bald. Jock knew him to be thirty. Jock fixed his +eye on the semi-bald spot and spoke. + +"My name's McChesney," he began. "I wrote you three days ago; you +probably will remember. You replied, asking me to call, and I--" + +"Minute," exploded the man at the desk, still absorbed. + +Jock faltered, stopped. The man at the desk did not look up. A +moment of silence, except for the sound of the busy pencil +traveling across the paper. Jock, glaring at the semi-bald spot, +spoke again. + +"Of course, Mr. Hupp, if you're too busy to see me--" + +"M-m-m-m," a preoccupied hum, such as a busy man makes when he is +trying to give attention to two interests. + +"--why I suppose there's no sense in staying; but it seems to me +that common courtesy--" + +The busy pencil paused, quivered in the making of a final period, +enclosed the dot in a proofreader's circle, and rolled away across +the desk, its work done. + +"Now," said Sam Hupp, and swung around, smiling, to face the +affronted Jock. "I had to get that out. They're waiting for it." +He pressed a desk button. "What can I do for you? Sit down, sit +down." + +There was a certain abrupt geniality about him. His +tortoise-rimmed glasses gave him an oddly owlish look, like a +small boy taking liberties with grandfather's spectacles. + +Jock found himself sitting down, his anger slipping from him. + +"My name's McChesney," he began. "I'm here because I want to work +for this concern." He braced himself to present the convincing, +reason-why arguments with which he had prepared himself. + +Whereupon Sam Hupp, the brisk, proceeded to whisk his breath and +arguments away with an unexpected: + +"All right. What do you want to do?" + +Jock's mouth fell open. "Do!" he stammered. "Do! Why--anything--" + +Sam Hupp's quick eye swept over the slim, attractive, radiant, +correctly-garbed young figure before him. Unconsciously he rubbed +his bald spot with a rueful hand. + +"Know anything about writing, or advertising?" + +Jock was at ease immediately. "Quite a lot; yes. I practically +rewrote the Gridiron play that we gave last year, and I was +assistant advertising manager of the college publications for +two years. That gives a fellow a pretty broad knowledge of +advertising." + +"Oh, Lord!" groaned Sam Hupp, and covered his eyes with his hand, +as if in pain. + +Jock stared. The affronted feeling was returning. Sam Hupp +recovered himself and smiled a little wistfully. + +"McChesney, when I came up here twelve years ago I got a job as +reception-room usher. A reception-room usher is an office boy in +long pants. Sometimes, when I'm optimistic, I think that if I live +twelve years longer I'll begin to know something about the +rudiments of this game." + +"Oh, of course," began Jock, apologetically. But Hupp's glance was +over his head. Involuntarily Jock turned to follow the direction +of his eyes. + +"Busy?" said a voice from the doorway. + +"Come in, Dutch! Come in!" boomed Hupp. + +The man who entered was of the sort that the boldest might well +hesitate to address as "Dutch"--a tall, slim, elegant figure, +Van-dyked, bronzed. + +"McChesney, this is Von Herman, head of our art department." + +Their hands met in a brief clasp. Von Herman's thoughts were +evidently elsewhere. + +"Just wanted to tell you that that cussed model's skipped out. +Gone with a show. Just when I had the whole series blocked out in +my mind. He was a wonder. No brains, but a marvel for looks and +style. These people want real stuff. Don't know how I'm going to +give it to them now." + +Hupp sat up. "Got to!" he snapped. "Campaign's late, as it is. +Can't you get an ordinary man model and fake the Greek god +beauty?" + +"Yes--but it'll look faked. If I could lay my hands on a chap who +could wear clothes as if they belonged to him--" + +Hupp rose. "Here's your man," he cried, with a snap of his +fingers. "Clothes! Look at him. He invented 'em. Why, you could +photograph him and he'd look like a drawing." + +Von Herman turned, surprised, incredulous, hopeful, his artist eye +brightening at the ease and grace and modishness of the smart, +well-knit figure before him. + +"Me!" exploded Jock, his face suffused with a dull, painful red. +"Me! Pose! For a clothing ad!" + +"Well," Hupp reminded him, "you said you'd do anything." + +Jock McChesney glared belligerently. Hupp returned the stare with +a faint gleam of amusement shining behind the absurd glasses. The +amused look changed to surprise as he beheld the glare in Jock's +eyes fading. For even as he glared there had come a warning to +Jock--a warning sent just in time from that wireless station +located in his subconscious mind. A vivid face, full of pride, and +hope, and encouragement flashed before him. + +"Jock," it said, "don't let 'em buffalo you. They'll try it. If +they give you a broom and tell you to sweep down the back +stairs--" + +Jock was smiling his charming, boyish smile. + +"Lead me to your north light," he laughed at Von Herman. "Got any +Robert W. Chambers's heroines tucked away there?" + +Hupp's broad hand came down on his shoulder with a thwack. "That's +the spirit, McChesney! That's the--" He stopped, abruptly. "Say, +are you related to Mrs. Emma McChesney, of the Featherloom Skirt +Company?" + +"Slightly. She's my one and only mother." + +"She--you mean--her son! Well I'll be darned!" He held out his +hand to Jock. "If you're a real son of your mother I wish you'd +just call the office boy as you step down the hall with Von Herman +and tell him to bring me a hammer and a couple of spikes. I'd +better nail down my desk." + +"I'll promise not to crowd you for a year or two," grinned Jock +from the doorway, and was off with the pleased Von Herman. + +Past the double row of beehives again, into the elevator, out +again, up a narrow iron stairway, into a busy, cluttered, +skylighted room. Pictures, posters, photographs hung all about. +Some of the pictures Jock recognized as old friends that had gazed +familiarly at him from subway trains and street cars and theater +programmes. Golf clubs, tennis rackets, walking sticks, billiard +cues were stacked up in corners. And yet there was a bare and +orderly look about the place. Two silent, shirt-sleeved men were +busy at drawing boards. Through a doorway beyond Jock could see +others similarly engaged in the next room. On a platform in one +corner of the room posed a young man in one of those costumes the +coat of which is a mongrel mixture of cutaway and sack. You see +them worn by clergymen with unsecular ideas in dress, and by the +leader of the counterfeiters' gang in the moving pictures. The +pose was that met with in the backs of magazines--the head lifted, +eyes fixed on an interesting object unseen, one arm crooked to +hold a cane, one foot advanced, the other trailing slightly to +give a Fifth Avenue four o'clock air. His face was expressionless. +On his head was a sadly unironed silk hat. + +Von Herman glanced at the drawing tacked to the board of one of +the men. "That'll do, Flynn," he said to the model. He glanced +again at the drawing. "Bring out the hat a little more, Mack. They +won't burnish it if you don't,"--to the artist. Then, turning +about, "Where's that girl?" + +From a far corner, sheltered by long green curtains, stepped a +graceful almost childishly slim figure in a bronze-green Norfolk +suit and close-fitting hat from beneath which curled a fluff of +bright golden hair. Von Herman stared at her. + +"You're not the girl," he said. "You won't do." + +"You sent for me," retorted the girl. "I'm Miss Michelin--Gelda +Michelin. I posed for you six months ago, but I've been out of +town with the show since then." + +Von Herman, frowning, opened a table drawer, pulled out a card +index, ran his long fingers through it and extracted a card. He +glanced at it, and then, the frown deepening, read it aloud. + +"'Michelin, Gelda. Telephone Bryant 4759. Brunette. Medium build. +Good neck and eyes. Good figure. Good clothes.'" + +He glanced up. "Well?" + +"That's me," said Miss Michelin calmly. "I've got the same +telephone number and eyes and neck and clothes. Of course my hair +is different and I am thinner, but that's business. I'd like to +know what chance a fat girl would have in the chorus these days." + +Von Herman groaned. "I'll pay you for the time you've waited and +for your trouble. Can't use you for these pictures." Then as she +left he turned a comically despairing face to the two men at the +drawing boards. "What are we going to do? We've got to make a +start on these pictures and everything has gone wrong. They want +something special. Two figures, young man and woman. Said +expressly they didn't want a chicken. No romping curls and none of +that eyes and lips fool-girl stuff. This chap's ideal for the +man." He pointed to Jock. + +Jock had been staring, fascinated, at the shaded, zigzag marks +which the artist--dark-skinned, velvet-eyed, foreign-looking +youth--was making on the sheet of paper before him. He had +scarcely glanced up during the entire scene. Now he looked briefly +and coolly at Jock. + +"Where did you get him?" he asked, with the precise enunciation of +the foreign-born. "Good figure. And he wears his clothes not like +a cab driver, as the others do." + +"Thanks," drawled Jock, flushing a little. Then, boyish curiosity +getting the better of him, "Say, tell me, what in the world are +you doing to that drawing?" + +He of the velvety eyes smiled a twisted little smile. His slim +brown fingers never stopped in their work of guiding the pen in +its zigzag path. + +"It is work," he sneered, "to delight the soul of an artist. I am +now engaged in the pleasing task of putting the bones in a +herringbone suit." + +But Jock did not smile. Here was another man, he thought, who had +been given a broom and told to sweep down the stairway. + +Von Herman was regarding him almost wistfully. "I hate to let you +slip," he said. Then, his face brightening, "By Jove! I wonder if +Miss Galt would pose for us if we told her what a fix we were in." + +He picked up the telephone receiver. "Miss Galt, please," he said. +Then, aside, "Of course it's nerve to ask a girl who's earning +three thousand a year to leave her desk and come up and pose +for--Hello! Miss Galt?" + +Jock, seated on the edge of the models' platform, was beginning to +enjoy himself. Even this end of the advertising business had its +interesting side, he thought. Ten minutes later he knew it had. + +Ten minutes later there appeared Miss Galt. Jock left off +swinging his legs from the platform and stood up. Miss Galt was +that kind of girl. Smooth black hair parted and coiled low as only +an exquisitely shaped head can dare to wear its glory-crown. A +face whose expression was sweetly serious in spite of its youth. A +girl whose clothes were the sort of clothes that girls ought to +wear in offices, and don't. + +"This is mighty good of you, Miss Galt," began Von Herman. "It's +the Kool Komfort Klothes Company's summer campaign stuff. We'll +only need you for an hour or so--to get the expression and general +outline. Poster stuff, really. Then this young man will pose for +the summer union suit pictures." + +"Don't apologize," said Miss Galt. "We had a hard enough time to +get that Kool Komfort account. We don't want to start wrong with +the pictures. Besides, I think posing's real fun." + +Jock thought so too, quite suddenly. Just as suddenly Von Herman +remembered the conventions and introduced them. + +"McChesney?" repeated Miss Galt, crisply. "I know a Mrs. +McChesney, of the T.A. Buck--" + +"My mother," proudly. + +"Your mother! Then why--" She stopped. + +"Because," said Jock, "I'm the rawest rooky in the Berg, Shriner +Company. And when I begin to realize what I don't know about +advertising I'll probably want to plunge off the Palisades." + +Miss Galt smiled up at him, her clear, frank eyes meeting his. + +"You'll win," she said. + +"Even if I lose--I win now," said Jock, suddenly audacious. + +"Hi! Hold that pose!" called Von Herman, happily. + + [Illustration: "'Hi! Hold that pose!' called Von Herman"] + + + + +II + +PERSONALITY PLUS + +There are seven stages in the evolution of that individual whose +appearance is the signal for a listless "Who-do-you-want-to-see?" +from the white-bloused, drab-haired, anæmic little girl who sits +in the outer office forever reading last month's magazines. The +badge of fear brands the novice. Standing hat in hand, nervous, +apprehensive, gulpy, with the elevator door clanging behind him, +and the sacred inner door closed before him, he offers up a silent +and paradoxical "Thank heaven!" at the office girl's languid "Not +in," and dives into the friendly shelter of the next elevator +going down. When, at that same message, he can smile, as with a +certain grim agreeableness he says, "I'll wait," then has he +reached the seventh stage, and taken the orders of the regularly +ordained. + +Jock McChesney had learned to judge an unknown prospective by +glancing at his hall rug and stenographer, which marks the fifth +stage. He had learned to regard office boys with something less +than white-hot hate. He had learned to let the other fellow do the +talking. He had learned to condense a written report into +twenty-five words. And he had learned that there was as much +difference between the profession of advertising as he had thought +of it and advertising as it really was, as there is between a +steam calliope and a cathedral pipe organ. + +In the big office of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company they +had begun to chuckle a bit over the McChesney solicitor's reports. +Those same reports indicated that young McChesney was beginning to +find the key to that maddening jumble of complexities known as +human nature. Big Sam Hupp, who was the pet caged copy-writing +genius of the place, used even to bring an occasional example of +Jock's business badinage into the Old Man's office, and the two +would grin in secret. As when they ran thus: + + _Pepsinale Manufacturing Company_: + + Mr. Bowser is the kind of gentleman who curses his + subordinates in front of the whole office force. Very touchy. + Crumpled his advertising manager. Our chance to get at him is + when he is in one of his rare good humors. + +Or: + + _E.V. Kreiss Company_: + + Kreiss very difficult to reach. Permanent address seems to be + Italy, Egypt, and other foreign ports. Occasionally his + instructions come from Palm Beach. + +At which there rose up before the reader a vision of Kreiss +himself--baggy-eyed, cultivated English accent, interested in +polo, fast growing contemptuous of things American. + +Or still another: + + _Hodge Manufacturing Company:_ + + Mr. Hodge is a very conservative gentleman. Sits still and + lets others do the talking. Has gained quite a reputation for + business acumen with this one attribute. Spent $500 last year. + Holding his breath preparatory to taking another plunge. + +It was about the time that Jock McChesney had got over the novelty +of paying for his own clothes, and had begun to talk business in a +slightly patronizing way to his clever and secretly amused mother, +Mrs. Emma McChesney, secretary of the T.A. Buck Featherloom +Petticoat Company, that Sam Hupp noticed a rather cocky +over-assurance in Jock's attitude toward the world in general. +Whereupon he sent for him. + +On Sam Hupp's broad flat desk stood an array of diminutive jars, +and bottles, and tiny pots that would have shamed the toilette +table of a musical comedy star's dressing-room. There were +rose-tinted salves in white bottles. There were white creams in +rose-tinted jars. There were tins of ointment and boxes of +fragrant soap. + +Jock McChesney, entering briskly, eyed the array in some surprise. +Then he grinned, and glanced wickedly at Sam Hupp's prematurely +bald head. + +"No use, Mr. Hupp. They say if it's once gone it's gone. Get a +toupee." + +"Shut up!" growled Sam Hupp, good-humoredly. "Stay in this game +long enough and you'll be a hairless wonder yourself. Ten years +ago the girls used to have to tie their hands or wear mittens to +keep from running their white fingers through my waving silken +locks. Sit down a minute." + +Jock reached forward and took up a jar of cream. He frowned in +thought. Then: "Thought I recognized this stuff. Mother uses it. +I've seen it on the bathroom shelf." + +"You bet she uses it," retorted Sam Hupp. "What's more, millions +of other women will be using it in the next few years. This +woman," he pointed to the name on the label, "has hit upon the +real thing in toilette flub-dub. She's made a little fortune +already, and if she don't look out she'll be rich. They've got +quite a plant. When she started she used to put the stuff together +herself over the kitchen stove. They say it's made of cottage +cheese, stirred smooth and tinted pink. Well, anyway they're +nationally known now--or will be when they start to advertise +right." + +"I've seen some of their stuff advertised--somewhere," interrupted +Jock, "but I don't remember--" + +"There you are. You see the head of this concern is a little bit +frightened at the way she seems slated to become a lady cold cream +magnate. They say she's scared pink for fear somebody will steal +her recipes. She has a kid nephew who acts as general manager, and +they're both on the job all the time. They say the lady herself +looks like the spinster in a b'gosh drama. You can get a boy to +look up your train schedule." + +Train! Schedule! Across Jock McChesney's mind there flashed a +vision of himself, alert, confident, brisk, taking the luxurious +nine o'clock for Philadelphia. Or, maybe, the Limited to Chicago. +Dashing down to the station in a taxi, of course. Strolling down +the car aisle to take his place among those other thoroughbreds of +commerce--men whose chamois gloves and walking sticks, and talk of +golf and baseball and motoring spelled elegant leisure, even as +their keen eyes and shrewd faces and low-voiced exchange of such +terms as "stocks," and "sales" and "propositions" proclaimed them +intent on bagging the day's business. Sam Hupp's next words +brought him back to reality with a jerk. + +"I think you have to change at Buffalo. It gets you to Tonawanda +in the morning. Rotten train." + +"Tonawanda!" repeated Jock. + +"Now listen, kid." Sam Hupp leaned forward, and his eyes behind +their great round black-rimmed glasses were intent on Jock. "I'm +not going to try to steer you. You think that advertising is a +game. It isn't. There are those who think it's a science. But it +isn't that either. It's white magic, that's what it is. And you +can't learn it from books, any more than you can master trout +fishing from reading 'The Complete Angler.'" He swung about and +swept the beauty lotions before him in a little heap at the end of +his desk. "Here, take this stuff. And get chummy with it. Eat it, +if necessary; learn it somehow." + +Jock stood up, a little dazed. "But, what!--How?--I mean--" + +Sam Hupp glanced up at him. "Sending you down there isn't my idea. +It's the Old Man's. He's got an idea that you--" He paused and put +a detaining hand on Jock McChesney's arm. "Look here. You think I +know a little something about advertising, don't you?" + +"You!" laughed Jock. "You're the guy who put the whitening in the +Great White Way. Everybody knows you were the--" + +"M-m-m, thanks," interrupted Sam Hupp, a little dryly. "Let me +tell you something, young 'un. I've got what you might call a +thirty-horse-power mind. I keep it running on high all the time, +with the muffler cut out, and you can hear me coming for miles. +But the Old Man,"--he leaned forward impressively,--"the Old Man, +boy, has the eighty-power kind, built like a watch--no smoke, no +dripping, and you can't even hear the engine purr. But when he +throws her open! Well, he can pass everything on the road. Don't +forget that." He turned to his desk again and reached for a stack +of papers and cuts. "Good luck to you. If you want any further +details you can get 'em from Hayes." He plunged into his work. + +There arose in Jock McChesney's mind that instinct of the man in +his hour of triumph--the desire to tell a woman of his greatness. +He paused a second outside Sam Hupp's office, turned, and walked +quickly down the length of the great central room. He stopped +before a little glass door at the end, tapped lightly, and +entered. + +Grace Galt, copy-writer, looked up, frowning a little. Then she +smiled. Miss Galt had a complete layout on the desk before +her--scrap books, cuts, copy, magazines. There was a little smudge +on the end of her nose. Grace Galt was writing about magnetos. +She was writing about magnetos in a way to make you want to drop +your customer, or your ironing, or your game, and go downtown and +buy that particular kind of magneto at once. Which is the +secretest part of the wizardry of advertising copy. To look at +Grace Galt you would have thought that she should have been +writing about the rose-tinted jars in Jock McChesney's hands +instead of about such things as ignition, and insulation, and ball +bearings, and induction windings. But it was Grace Galt's gift +that she could take just such hard, dry, technical facts and weave +them into a story that you followed to the end. She could make you +see the romance in condensers and transformers. She had the power +that caused the reader to lose himself in the charm of magnetic +poles, and ball bearings, and high-tension sparks. + +"Just dropped in to say good-by," said Jock, very casually. "Going +to run up-state to see the Athena Company--toilette specialties, +you know. It ought to be a big account." + +"Athena?" Grace Galt regarded him absently, her mind still on her +work. Then her eyes cleared. "You mean at Tonawanda? And they're +sending you! Well!" She put out a congratulatory hand. Jock +gripped it gratefully. + +"Not so bad, eh?" he boasted. + +"Bad!" echoed Grace Galt. Her face became serious. "Do you realize +that there are men in this office who have been here for five +years, six years, or even more, and who have never been given a +chance to do anything but stenography, or perhaps some private +secretarying?" + +"I know it," agreed Jock. But there was no humbleness in his tone. +He radiated self-satisfaction. He seemed to grow and expand before +her eyes. A little shadow of doubt crept across Grace Galt's +expression of friendly interest. + +"Are you scared," she asked; "just the least bit?" + +Jock flushed a little. "Well," he confessed ruefully, "I don't +mind telling you I am--a little." + +"Good!" + +"Good?" + +"Yes. The head of that concern is a woman. That's one reason why +they didn't send me, I suppose. I--I'd like to say something, if +you don't mind." + +"Anything you like," said Jock graciously. + +"Well, then, don't be afraid of being embarrassed and fussed. If +you blush and stammer a little, she'll like it. Play up the coy +stuff." + +"The coy stuff!" echoed Jock. "I hadn't thought much about my +attitude toward the--er--the lady,"--a little stiffly. + +"Well, you'd better," answered Miss Galt crisply. She put out her +hand in much the same manner as Sam Hupp had used. "Good luck to +you. I'll have to ask you to go now. I'm trying to make this +magneto sound like something without which no home is complete, +and to make people see that there's as much difference between it +and every other magneto as there is between the steam shovels that +dug out the Panama Canal and the junk that the French left +there--" She stopped. Her eyes took on a far-away look. Her lips +were parted slightly. "Why, that's not a bad idea--that last. I'll +use that. I'll--" + + [Illustration: "With a jolt Jock realized she had forgotten all + about him"] + +She began to scribble rapidly on the sheet of paper before her. +With a jolt Jock McChesney realized that she had forgotten all +about him. He walked quietly to the door, opened it, shut it very +quietly, then made for the nearest telephone. He knew one woman he +could count on to be proud of him. He gave his number, waited a +little eager moment, then: + +"Featherloom Petticoat Company? Mrs. McChesney." And waited again. +Then he smiled. + +"You needn't sound so official," he laughed; "it's only your son. +Listen. I"--he took on an elaborate carelessness of tone--"I've +got to take a little jump out of town. On business. Oh, a day or +so. Rather important though. I'll have time to run up to the flat +and throw a few things into a bag. I'll tell you, I really ought +to keep a bag packed down here. In case of emergency, you know. +What? It's the Athena Toilette Preparations Company. Well, I +should say it is! I'll wire you. You bet. Thanks. My what? Oh, +toothbrush. No. Good-by." + +So it was that at three-ten Jock McChesney took himself, his +hopes, his dread, and his smart walrus bag aboard a train that +halted and snuffed and backed, and bumped and halted with +maddening frequency. But it landed him at last in a little town +bearing the characteristics of all American little towns. It was +surprisingly full of six-cylinder cars, and five and ten-cent +stores, and banks with Doric columns, and paved streets. + +After he had registered at the hotel, and as he was cleaning up a +bit, he passed an amused eye over the bare, ugly, fusty little +hotel bedroom. But somehow, as he stood in the middle of the room, +a graceful, pleasing figure of youth and confidence, the smile +faded. Towel in hand he surveyed the barrenness of it. He stared +at the impossible wall paper, at the battered furniture, the worn +carpet. He sniffed the stuffy smell of--what was that smell, +anyhow?--straw, and matting, and dust, and the ghost-odor of +hundreds who had occupied the room before him. It came over him +with something of a shock that this same sort of room had been his +mother's only home in the ten years she had spent on the road as a +traveling saleswoman for the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat +Company. This was what she had left in the morning. To this she +had come back at night. As he stared ahead of him there rose +before him a mental picture of her--the brightness of her, the +sunniness, the indomitable energy, and pluck, and courage. With a +sudden burst of new determination he wadded the towel into a moist +ball, flung it at the washstand, seized hat, coat, and gloves, and +was off down the hall. So it was with something of his mother's +splendid courage in his heart, but with nothing of her canny +knowledge in his head, Jock McChesney fared forth to do battle +with the merciless god Business. + +It was ten-thirty of a brilliant morning just two days later that +a buoyant young figure swung into an elevator in the great office +building that housed the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Just +one more grain of buoyant swing and the young man's walk might +have been termed a swagger. As it was, his walrus bag just saved +him. + +Stepping out of the lift he walked, as from habit, to the little +unlettered door which admitted employes to the big, bright, inner +office. But he did not use it. Instead he turned suddenly and +walked down the hall to the double door which led into the +reception room. He threw out his legs stiffly and came down rather +flat-footed, the way George Cohan does when he's pleased with +himself in the second act. + +"Hel-lo, Mack!" he called out jovially. + +Mack, the usher, so called from his Machiavellian qualities, +turned to survey the radiant young figure before him. + +"Good morning, Mr. McChesney," he made answer smoothly. Mack +never forgot himself. His keen eye saw the little halo of +self-satisfaction that hovered above Jock McChesney's head. "A +successful trip, I see." + +Jock McChesney laughed a little, pleased, conscious laugh. "Well, +raw-thah!" he drawled, and opened the door leading into the main +office. He had been loath to lose one crumb of the savor of it. + + [Illustration: "'Well, raw-thah!' he drawled"] + +Still smiling, he walked to his own desk, with a nod here and +there, dropped his bag, took off coat and hat, selected a +cigarette, tapped it smartly, lighted it, and was off down the big +room to the little cubby-hole at the other end. But Sam Hupp's +plump, keen, good-humored face did not greet him as he entered. +The little room was deserted. Frowning, Jock sank into the empty +desk chair. He cradled his head in his hands, tilted the chair, +pursed his mouth over the slender white cylinder and squinted his +eyes up toward the lazy blue spirals of smoke--the very picture +of content and satisfaction. + +Hupp was in attending some conference in the Old Man's office, of +course. He wished they'd hurry. The business of the week was being +boiled-down there. Those conferences were great cauldrons into +which the day's business, or the week's, was dumped, to be boiled, +simmered, stirred, skimmed, cooled. Jock had never been privileged +to attend one of these meetings. Perhaps by this time next week he +might have a spoon in the stirring too-- + +There came the murmur of voices as a door was opened. The voices +came nearer. Then quick footsteps. Jock recognized them. He rose, +smiling. Sam Hupp, vibrating electric energy, breezed in. + +"Oh--hello!" he said, surprised. Jock's smile widened to a grin. +"You back?" + +"Hello, Hupp," he said, coolly. It was the first time that he had +omitted the prefix. "You just bet I'm back." + +There flashed across Sam Hupp's face a curious little look. The +next instant it was gone. + +"Well," said Jock, and took a long breath. + +"Mr. Berg wants to see you." + +Hupp plunged into his work. + +"Me? The Old Man wants to see me?" + +"Yes," snapped Hupp shortly. Then, in a new tone, "Look here, son. +If he says--" He stopped, and turned back to his work again. + +"If he says what?" + +"Nothing. Better run along." + +"What's the hurry? I want to tell you about--" + +"Better tell him." + +"Oh, all right," said Jock stiffly. If that was the way they +treated a fellow who had turned his first real trick, why, very +well. He flung out of the little room and made straight for the +Old Man's office. + +Seated at his great flat table desk, Bartholomew Berg did not look +up as Jock entered. This was characteristic of the Old Man. +Everything about the chief was deliberate, sure, unhurried. He +finished the work in hand as though no other person stood there +waiting his pleasure. When at last he raised his massive head he +turned his penetrating pale blue eyes full on Jock. Jock was +conscious of a little tremor running through him. People were apt +to experience that feeling when that steady, unblinking gaze was +turned upon them. And yet it was just the clear, unwavering look +with which Bartholomew Berg, farmer boy, had been wont to gaze out +across the fresh-plowed fields to the horizon beyond which lay the +city he dreamed about. + +"Tell me your side of it," said Bartholomew Berg tersely. + +"All of it?" Jock's confidence was returning. + +"Till I stop you." + +"Well," began Jock. And standing there at the side of the Old +Man's desk, his legs wide apart, his face aglow, his hands on his +hips, he plunged into his tale. + +"It started off with a bang from the minute I walked into the +office of the plant and met Snyder, the advertising manager. We +shook hands and sparked--just like that." He snapped thumb and +finger. "What do you think! We belong to the same frat! He's '93. +Inside of ten minutes he and I were Si-washing around like mad. He +introduced me to his aunt. I told her who I was, and all that. But +I didn't start off by talking business. We got along from the +jump. They both insisted on showing me through the place. +I--well,"--he laughed a little ruefully,--"there's something +about being shown through a factory that sort of paralyzes my +brain. I always feel that I ought to be asking keen, alert, +intelligent questions like the ones Kipling always asks, or the +Japs when they're taken through the Stock Yards. But I never can +think of any. Well, we didn't talk business much. But I could see +that they were interested. They seemed to,"--he faltered and +blushed a little,--"to like me, you know. I played golf with +Snyder that afternoon and he beat me. Won two balls. The next +morning I found there's been a couple of other advertising men +there. And while I was talking to Snyder--he was telling me about +the time he climbed up and muffled the chapel bell--that fellow +Flynn, of the Dowd Agency, came in. Snyder excused himself, and +talked to him for--oh, half an hour, perhaps. But that was all. He +was back again in no time. After that it looked like plain +sailing. We got along wonderfully. When I left I said, 'I expect +to know you both better--'" + +"I guess," interrupted the Old Man slowly, "that you'll know them +better all right." He reached out with one broad freckled hand +and turned back the page of a desk memorandum. "The Athena account +was given to the Dowd Advertising Agency yesterday." + +It took Jock McChesney one minute--one long, sickening minute--to +grasp the full meaning of it all. He stared at the massive figure +before him, his mouth ludicrously open, his eyes round, his breath +for the moment suspended. Then, in a queer husky voice: + +"D'you mean--the Dowd--but--they couldn't--" + +"I mean," said Bartholomew Berg, "that you've scored what the +dramatic critics call a personal hit; but that doesn't get the box +office anything." + +"But, Mr. Berg, they said--" + +"Sit down a minute, boy." He waved one great heavy hand toward a +near-by chair. His eyes were not fixed on Jock. They gazed out of +the window toward the great white tower toward which hundreds of +thousands of eyes were turned daily--the tower, four-faced but +faithful. + +"McChesney, do you know why you fell down on that Athena account?" + +"Because I'm an idiot," blurted Jock. "Because I'm a +double-barreled, corn-fed, hand-picked chump and--" + +"That's one reason," drawled the Old Man grimly. "But it's not the +chief one. The real reason why you didn't land that account was +because you're too darned charming." + +"Charming!" Jock stared. + +"Just that. Personality's one of the biggest factors in business +to-day. But there are some men who are so likable that it actually +counts against them. The client he's trying to convince is so +taken with him that he actually forgets the business he +represents. We say of a man like that that he is personality plus. +Personality is like electricity, McChesney. It's got to be tamed +to be useful." + +"But I thought," said Jock, miserably, "that the idea was not to +talk business all the time." + +"You've got it," agreed Berg. "But you must think it all the time. +Every minute. It's got to be working away in the back of your +head. You know it isn't always the biggest noise that gets the +biggest result. The great American hen yields a bigger income than +the Steel Trust. Look at Miss Galt. When we have a job that needs +a woman's eye do we send her? No. Why? Because she's too blame +charming. Too much personality. A man just naturally refuses to +talk business to a pretty woman unless she's so smart that--" + +"My mother," interrupted Jock, suddenly, and then stopped, +surprised at himself. + +"Your mother," said Bartholomew Berg slowly, "is one woman in a +million. Don't ever forget that. They don't turn out models like +Emma McChesney more than once every blue moon." + +Jock got to his feet slowly. He felt heavy, old. "I suppose," he +began, "that this ends my--my advertising career." + +"Ends it!" The Old Man stood up and put a heavy hand on the boy's +shoulder. "It only begins it. Unless you want to lie down and +quit. Do you?" + +"Quit!" cried Jock McChesney. "Quit! Not on your white space!" + +"Good!" said Bartholomew Berg, and took Jock McChesney's hand in +his own great friendly grasp. + +An instinct as strong as that which had made him blatant in his +hour of triumph now caused him to avoid, in his hour of defeat, +the women-folk before whom he would fain be a hero. He avoided +Grace Galt all that long, dreary afternoon. He thought wildly of +staying down-town for the evening, of putting off the meeting with +his mother, of avoiding the dreaded explanations, excuses, +confessions. + +But when he let himself into the flat at five-thirty the place was +very quiet, except for Annie, humming in a sort of nasal singsong +of content in the kitchen. + +He flicked on the light in the living-room. A new magazine had +come. It lay on the table, its bright cover staring up invitingly. +He ran through its pages. By force of habit he turned to the back +pages. Ads started back at him--clothing ads, paint ads, motor +ads, ads of portable houses, and vacuum cleaners--and toilette +preparations. He shut the magazine with a vicious slap. + +He flicked off the light again, for no reason except that he +seemed to like the dusk. In his own bedroom it was very quiet. + +He turned on the light there, too, then turned it off. He sat down +at the edge of his bed. How was it in the stories? Oh, yes! The +cub always started out on an impossibly difficult business stunt +and came back triumphant, to be made a member of the firm at once. + +A vision of his own roseate hopes and dreams rose up before him. +It grew very dark in the little room, then altogether dark. Then +an impudent square of yellow from a light turned on in the +apartment next door flung itself on the bedroom floor. Jock stared +at it moodily. + +A key turned in the lock. A door opened and shut. A quick step. +Then: "Jock!" A light flashed in the living-room. + +Jock sat up suddenly. He opened his mouth to answer. There issued +from his throat a strange and absurd little croak. + +"Jock! Home?" + +"Yes," answered Jock, and straightened up. But before he could +flick on his own light his mother stood in the doorway, a tall, +straight, buoyant figure. + +"I got your wire and--Why, dear! In the dark! What--" + +"Must have fallen asleep, I guess," muttered Jock. Somehow he +dreaded to turn on the lights. + +And then, very quietly, Emma McChesney came in. She found him, +there in the dark, as surely as a mother bear finds her cubs in a +cave. She sat down beside him at the edge of the bed and put her +hand on his shoulder, and brought his head down gently to her +breast. And at that the room, which had been a man's room with its +pipe, its tobacco jar, its tie rack filled with cravats of +fascinating shapes and hues, became all at once a boy's room +again, and the man sitting there with straight, strong shoulders +and his little air of worldliness became in some miraculous way a +little boy again. + + [Illustration: "... became in some miraculous way a little boy + again"] + + + + +III + +DICTATED BUT NOT READ + + +About the time that Jock McChesney began to carry a yellow +walking-stick down to work each morning his mother noticed a +growing tendency on his part to patronize her. Now Mrs. Emma +McChesney, successful, capable business woman that she was, could +afford to regard her young son's attitude with a quiet and deep +amusement. In twelve years Emma McChesney had risen from the +humble position of stenographer in the office of the T.A. Buck +Featherloom Petticoat Company to the secretaryship of the firm. So +when her young son, backed by the profound business knowledge +gained in his one year with the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company, +hinted gently that her methods and training were archaic, +ineffectual, and lacking in those twin condiments known to the +twentieth century as pep and ginger, she would listen, eyebrows +raised, lower lip caught between her teeth--a trick which gives +a distorted expression to the features, calculated to hide any +lurking tendency to grin. Besides, though Emma McChesney was forty +she looked thirty-two (as business women do), and knew it. Her +hard-working life had brought her in contact with people, and +things, and events, and had kept her young. + + [Illustration: "Jock McChesney began to carry a yellow + walking-stick down to work"] + +"Thank fortune!" Mrs. McChesney often said, "that +I wasn't cursed with a life of ease. These +massage-at-ten-fitting-at-eleven-bridge-at-one women +always look such hags at thirty-five." + +But repetition will ruin the rarest of jokes. As the weeks went on +and Jock's attitude persisted, the twinkle in Emma McChesney's eye +died. The glow of growing resentment began to burn in its place. +Now and then there crept into her eyes a little look of doubt and +bewilderment. You sometimes see that same little shocked, dazed +expression in the eyes of a woman whose husband has just said, +"Isn't that hat too young for you?" + +Then, one evening, Emma McChesney's resentment flared into open +revolt. She had announced that she intended to rise half an hour +earlier each morning in order that she might walk a brisk mile or +so on her way down-town, before taking the subway. + +"But won't it tire you too much, Mother?" Jock had asked with +maddeningly tender solicitude. + +His mother's color heightened. Her blue eyes glowed dark. + +"Look here, Jock! Will you kindly stop this lean-on-me-grandma +stuff! To hear you talk one would think I was ready for a wheel +chair and gray woolen bedroom slippers." + +"Why, I didn't mean--I only thought that perhaps overexertion in a +woman of your--That is, you need your energy for--" + +"Don't wallow around in it," snapped Emma McChesney. "You'll only +sink in deeper in your efforts to crawl out. I merely want to warn +you that if you persist in this pose of tender solicitude for your +doddering old mother, I'll--I'll present you with a stepfather a +year younger than you. Don't laugh. Perhaps you think I couldn't +do it." + +"Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't mean it, but--" + +"Mean it! Cleverer women than I have been driven by their +children to marrying bell-boys in self-defense. I warn you!" + + [Illustration: "'Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't + mean it, but--'"] + +That stopped it--for a while. Jock ceased to bestow upon his +mother judicious advice from the vast storehouse of his own +experience. He refrained from breaking out with elaborate +advertising schemes whereby the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat +Company might grind every other skirt concern to dust. He gave +only a startled look when his mother mischievously suggested +raspberry as the color for her new autumn suit. Then, quite +suddenly, Circumstance caught Emma McChesney in the meshes and, +before she had fought her way free, wrought trouble and change +upon her. + +Jock McChesney was seated in the window of his mother's office at +noon of a brilliant autumn day. A little impatient frown was +forming between his eyes. He wanted his luncheon. He had called +around expressly to take his mother out to luncheon--always a +festive occasion when taken together. But Mrs. McChesney, seated +at her desk, was bent absorbedly over a sheet of paper whereon she +was adding up two columns of figures at a time--a trick on which +she rather prided herself. She was counting aloud, her mind +leaping agilely, thus: + +"Eleven, twenty-nine, forty-three, sixty, sixty-nine--" Her pencil +came down on the desk with a thwack. "SIXTY-NINE!" she repeated in +capital letters. She turned around to face Jock. "Sixty-nine!" Her +voice bristled with indignation. "Now what do you think of that!" + +"I think you'd better make it an even seventy, whatever it is +you're counting up, and come on out to luncheon. I've an +appointment at two-fifteen, you know." + +"Luncheon!"--she waved the paper in the air--"with this outrage on +my mind! Nectar would curdle in my system." + +Jock rose and strolled lazily over to the desk. "What is it?" He +glanced idly at the sheet of paper. "Sixty-nine what?" + +Mrs. McChesney pressed a buzzer at the side of her desk. +"Sixty-nine dollars, that's what! Representing two days' expenses +in the six weeks' missionary trip that Fat Ed Meyers just made for +us. And in Iowa, too." + +"When you gave that fellow the job," began Jock hotly, "I told +you, and Buck told you, that--" + +Mrs. McChesney interrupted wearily. "Yes, I know. You'll never +have a grander chance to say 'I told you so.' I hired him +because he was out of a job and we needed a man who knew the +Middle-Western trade, and then because--well, poor fellow, he +begged so and promised to keep straight. As though I oughtn't to +know that a pinochle-and-poker traveling man can never be anything +but a pinochle-and-poker traveling man--" + +The office door opened as there appeared in answer to the buzzer a +very alert, very smiling, and very tidy office girl. Emma +McChesney had tried office boys, and found them wanting. + +"Tell Mr. Meyers I want to see him." + +"Just going out to lunch,"--she turned like a race horse trembling +to be off,--"putting on his overcoat in the front office. Shall +I--" + +"Catch him." + +"Listen here," began Jock uncomfortably; "if you're going to call +him perhaps I'd better vanish." + +"To save Ed Meyers's tender feelings! You don't know him. Fat Ed +Meyers could be courtmartialed, tried, convicted, and publicly +disgraced, with his epaulets torn off, and his sword broken, and +likely as not he'd stoop down, pick up a splinter of steel to use +as a toothpick, and Castlewalk down the aisle to the tune with +which they were drumming him out of the regiment. Stay right +here. Meyers's explanation ought to be at least amusing, if not +educating." + +In the corridor outside could be heard some one blithely humming +in the throaty tenor of the fat man. The humming ceased with a +last high note as the door opened and there entered Fat Ed Meyers, +rosy, cherubic, smiling, his huge frame looming mountainous in the +rippling folds of a loose-hung London plaid topcoat. + +"Greetings!" boomed this cheery vision, raising one hand, palm +outward, in mystic salute. He beamed upon the frowning Jock. +"How's the infant prodigy!" The fact that Jock's frown deepened to +a scowl ruffled him not at all. "And what," went on he, crossing +his feet and leaning negligently against Mrs. McChesney's desk, +"and what can I do for thee, fair lady?" + + [Illustration: "'Greetings!'"] + +"For me?" said Emma McChesney, looking up at him through narrowed +eyelids. "I'll tell you what. You can explain to me, in what +they call a few well-chosen words, just how you, or any other +living creature, could manage to turn in an expense account like +that on a six-weeks' missionary trip through the Middle West." + +"Dear lady,"--in the bland tones that one uses to an unreasonable +child,--"you will need no explanation if you will just remember to +lay the stress on the word missionary. I went forth through the +Middle West to spread the light among the benighted skirt trade. +This wasn't a selling trip, dear lady. It was a buying expedition. +And I had to buy, didn't I? all the way from Michigan to Indiana." + +He smiled down at her, calm, self-assured, impudent. A little +flush grew in Emma McChesney's cheeks. + +"I've always said," she began, crisply, "that one could pretty +well judge a man's character, temperament, morals, and physical +make-up by just glancing at his expense account. The trouble with +you is that you haven't learned the art of spending money wisely. +It isn't always the man with the largest expense sheet that gets +the most business. And it isn't the man who leaves the greatest +number of circles on the table top in his hotel room, either." +She paused a moment. Ed Meyers's smile had lost some of its +heartiness. "Mr. Buck's out of town, as you know. He'll be back +next week. He wasn't in favor of--" + +"Now, Mrs. McChesney," interrupted Ed Meyers nervously, "you know +there's always one live one in every firm, just like there's +always one star in every family. You're the--" + +"I'm the one who wants to know how you could spend sixty-nine +dollars for two days' incidentals in Iowa. Iowa! Why, look here, +Ed Meyers, I made Iowa for ten years when I was on the road. You +know that. And you know, and I know, that in order to spend +sixty-nine dollars for incidentals in two days in Iowa you have to +call out the militia." + +"Not when you're trying to win the love of every skirt buyer from +Sioux City to Des Moines." + +Emma McChesney rose impatiently. "Oh, that's nonsense! You don't +need to do that these days. Those are old-fashioned methods. +They're out of date. They--" + +At that a little sound came from Jock. Emma heard it, glanced at +him, turned away again in confusion. + +"I was foolish enough in the first place to give you this job for +old times' sake," she continued hurriedly. + +Fat Ed Meyers' face drooped dolefully. He cocked his round head on +one side fatuously. "For old times' sake," he repeated, with +tremulous pathos, and heaved a gusty sigh. + +"Which goes to show that I need a guardian," finished Emma +McChesney cruelly. "The only old times that I can remember are +when I was selling Featherlooms, and you were out for the +Sans-Silk Skirt Company, both covering the same territory, and +both running a year-around race to see which could beat the other +at his own game. The only difference was that I always played +fair, while you played low-down whenever you had a chance." + +"Now, my dear Mrs. McChesney--" + +"That'll be all," said Emma McChesney, as one whose patience is +fast slipping away. "Mr. Buck will see you next week." Then, +turning to her son as the door closed on the drooping figure of +the erstwhile buoyant Meyers, "Where'll we lunch, Jock?" + +"Mother," Jock broke out hotly, "why in the name of all that's +foolish do you persist in using the methods of Methuselah! People +don't sell goods any more by sending out fat old ex-traveling men +to jolly up the trade." + +"Jock," repeated Emma McChesney slowly, "where--shall--we--lunch?" + +It was a grim little meal, eaten almost in silence. Emma McChesney +had made it a rule to use luncheon time as a recess. She played +mental tag and hop-scotch, so that, returning to her office +refreshed in mind and body, she could attack the afternoon's work +with new vigor. And never did she talk or think business. + +To-day she ate her luncheon with a forced appetite, glanced about +with a listlessness far removed from her usual alert interest, and +followed Jock's attempts at conversation with a polite effort that +was more insulting than downright inattention. + +"Dessert, Mother?" Jock had to say it twice before she heard. + +"What? Oh, no--I think not." + +The waiter hesitated, coughed discreetly, lifted his eyebrows +insinuatingly. "The French pastry's particularly nice to-day, +madam. If you'd care to try something? Eclair, madam--peach +tart--mocha tart--caramel--" + +Emma McChesney smiled. "It does sound tempting." She glanced at +Jock. "And we're wearing our gowns so floppy this year that it +makes no difference whether one's fat or not." She turned to the +waiter. "I never can tell till I see them. Bring your pastry tray, +will you?" + +Jock McChesney's finger and thumb came together with a snap. He +leaned across the table toward his mother, eyes glowing, lips +parted and eager. "There! you've proved my point." + +"Point?" + +"About advertising. No, don't stop me. Don't you see that what +applies to pastry applies to petticoats? You didn't think of +French pastry until he suggested it to you--advertised it, really. +And then you wanted a picture of them. You wanted to know +what they looked like before buying. That's all there is to +advertising. Telling people about a thing, making 'em want it, and +showing 'em how it will look when they have it. Get me?" + +Emma McChesney was gazing at Jock with a curious, fascinated +stare. It was a blank little look, such as we sometimes wear when +the mind is working furiously. If the insinuating waiter, +presenting the laden tray for her inspection, was startled by the +rapt expression which she turned upon the cunningly wrought wares, +he was too much a waiter to show it. + +A pause. "That one," said Mrs. McChesney, pointing to the least +ornate. She ate it, down to the last crumb, in a silence that was +pregnant with portent. She put down her fork and sat back. + +"Jock, you win. I--I suppose I have fallen out of step. Perhaps +I've been too busy watching my own feet. T.A. will be back next +week. Could your office have an advertising plan roughly sketched +by that time?" + +"Could they!" His tone was exultant. "Watch 'em! Hupp's been crazy +to make Featherlooms famous." + +"But look here, son. I want a hand in that copy. I know +Featherlooms better than your Sam Hupp will ever--" + +Jock shook his head. "They won't stand for that, Mother. It never +works. The manufacturer always thinks he can write magic stuff +because he knows his own product. But he never can. You see, he +knows too much. That's it. No perspective." + +"We'll see," said Emma McChesney curtly. + +So it was that ten days later the first important conference in +the interests of the Featherloom Petticoat Company's advertising +campaign was called. But in those ten days of hurried preparation +a little silent tragedy had come about. For the first time in her +brave, sunny life Emma McChesney had lost faith in herself. And +with such malicious humor does Fate work her will that she chose +Sam Hupp's new dictagraph as the instrument with which to prick +the bubble of Mrs. McChesney's self-confidence. + +Sam Hupp, one of the copy-writing marvels of the Berg, Shriner +firm, had a trick of forgetting to shut off certain necessary +currents when he paused in his dictation to throw in +conversational asides. The old and experienced stenographers, had +learned to look out for that, and to eliminate from their +typewritten letters certain irrelevant and sometimes irreverent +asides which Sam Hupp evidently had addressed to his pipe, or the +office boy, and not intended for the tube of the all-devouring +dictagraph. + +There was a new and nervous little stenographer in the outer +office, and she had not been warned of this. + +"We think very highly of the plan you suggest," Sam Hupp had said +into the dictagraph's mouthpiece. "In fact, in one of your +valuable copy suggestions you--" + +Without changing his tone he glanced over his shoulder at his +colleague, Hopper, who was listening and approving. + +"... Let the old girl think the idea is her own. She's virtually +the head of that concern, and they've spoiled her. Successful, and +used to being kowtowed to. Doesn't know her notions of copy are +ten years behind the advertising game--" + +And went on with his letter again. After which he left the office +to play golf. And the little blond numbskull in the outer office +dutifully took down what the instrument had to say, word for word, +marked it, "Dictated, but not read," signed neat initials, and +with a sigh went on with the rest of her sheaf of letters. + +Emma McChesney read the letter next morning. She read it down to +the end, and then again. The two readings were punctuated with a +little gasp, such as we give when an icy douche is suddenly +turned upon us. And that was all. + +A week later an intent little group formed a ragged circle about +the big table in the private office of Bartholomew Berg, head of +the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Bartholomew Berg himself, +massive, watchful, taciturn, managing to give an impression of +power by his very silence, sat at one side of the long table. Just +across from him a sleek-haired stenographer bent over her note +book, jotting down every word, that the conference might make +business history. Hopper, at one end of the room, studied his shoe +heel intently. He was unbelievably boyish looking to command the +fabulous salary reported to be his. Advertising men, mentioning +his name, pulled a figurative forelock as they did so. Near Mrs. +McChesney sat Sam Hupp, he of the lightning brain and the +sure-fire copy. Emma McChesney, strangely silent, kept her eyes +intent on the faces of the others. T.A. Buck, interested, +enthusiastic, but somewhat uncertain, glanced now and then at his +silent business partner, found no satisfaction in her set face, +and glanced away again. Grace Galt, unbelievably young and pretty +to have won a place for herself in that conference of business +people, smiled in secret at Jock McChesney's evident struggle to +conceal his elation at being present at this, his first staff +meeting. + +The conference had lasted one hour now. In that time Featherloom +petticoats had been picked to pieces, bit by bit, from hem to +waist-band. Nothing had been left untouched. Every angle had come +under the keen vision of the advertising experts--the comfort of +the garment, its durability, style, cheapness, service. Which to +emphasize? + +"H--m, novelty campaign, in my opinion," said Hopper, breaking one +of his long silences. "There's nothing new in petticoats +themselves, you know. You've got to give 'em a new angle." + +"Yep," agreed Hupp. "Start out with a feature skirt. Might +illustrate with one of those freak drawings they're crazy about +now--slinky figure, you know, hollow-chested, one foot trailing, +and all that. They're crazy, but they do attract attention, no +doubt of that." + +Bartholomew Berg turned his head slowly. "What's your opinion, +Mrs. McChesney?" he asked. + +"I--I'm afraid I haven't any," said Emma McChesney listlessly. +T.A. Buck stared at her in dismay and amazement. + +"How about you, Mr. Buck?" + +"Why--I--er--of course this advertising game's new to me. I'm +really leaving it in your hands. I really thought that Mrs. +McChesney's idea was to make a point of the fact that these +petticoats were not freak petticoats, but skirts for the everyday +women. She gave me what I thought was a splendid argument a week +ago." He turned to her helplessly. + +Mrs. McChesney sat silent. + +Bartholomew Berg leaned forward a little and smiled one of his +rare smiles. + +"Won't you tell us, Mrs. McChesney? We'd all like to hear what you +have to say." + +Mrs. McChesney looked down at her hands. Then she looked up, and +addressed what she had to say straight to Bartholomew Berg. + +"I--simply didn't want to interfere in this business. I know +nothing about it, really. Of course, I do know Featherloom +petticoats. I know all about them. It seemed to me that just +because the newspapers and magazines were full of pictures showing +spectacular creatures in impossible attitudes wearing tango tea +skirts, we are apt to forget that those types form only a thin +upper crust, and that down beneath there are millions and millions +of regular, everyday women doing regular everyday things in +regular everyday clothes. Women who wash on Monday, and iron on +Tuesday, and bake one-egg cakes, and who have to hurry home to get +supper when they go down-town in the afternoon. They're the kind +who go to market every morning, and take the baby along in the +go-cart, and they're not wearing crêpe de chine tango petticoats +to do it in, either. They're wearing skirts with a drawstring in +the back, and a label in the band, guaranteed to last one year. +Those are the people I'd like to reach, and hold." + +"Hm!" said Hopper, from his corner, cryptically. + +Bartholomew Berg looked at Emma McChesney admiringly. "Sounds +reasonable and logical," he said. + +Sam Hupp sat up with a jerk. + +"It does sound reasonable," he said briskly. "But it isn't. Pardon +me, won't you, Mrs. McChesney? But you must realize that this is +an extravagant age. The very workingmen's wives have caught the +spending fever. The time is past when you can attract people to +your goods with the promise of durability and wear. They don't +expect goods to wear. They'd resent it if they did. They get tired +of an article before it's worn out. They're looking for novelties. +They'd rather get two months' wear out of a skirt that's slashed a +new way, than a year's wear out of one that looks like the sort +that mother used to make." + +Mrs. McChesney, her cheeks very pink, her eyes very bright, +subsided into silence. In silence she sat throughout the rest of +the conference. In silence she descended in the elevator with T.A. +Buck, and in silence she stepped into his waiting car. + +T.A. Buck eyed her worriedly. "Well?" he said. Then, as Mrs. +McChesney shrugged noncommittal shoulders, "Tell me, how do you +feel about it?" + +Emma McChesney turned to face him, breathing rather quickly. + +"The last time I felt as I do just now was when Jock was a baby. +He took sick, and the doctors were puzzled. They thought it might +be something wrong with his spine. They had a consultation--five +of them--with the poor little chap on the bed, naked. They +wouldn't let me in, so I listened in the hallway, pressed against +the door with my face to the crack. They prodded him, and poked +him, and worked his little legs and arms, and every time he cried +I prayed, and wept, and clawed the door with my fingers, and +called them beasts and torturers and begged them to let me in, +though I wasn't conscious that I was doing those things--at the +time. I didn't know what they were doing to him, though they said +it was all for his good, and they were only trying to help him. +But I only knew that I wanted to rush in, and grab him up in my +arms, and run away with him--run, and run, and run." + +She stopped, lips trembling, eyes suspiciously bright. + +"And that's the way I felt in there--this afternoon." + +T.A. Buck reached up and patted her shoulder. "Don't, old girl! +It's going to work out splendidly, I'm sure. After all, those +chaps do know best." + +"They may know best, but they don't know Featherlooms," retorted +Emma McChesney. + +"True. But perhaps what Jock said when he walked with us to the +elevator was pretty nearly right. You know he said we were +criticising their copy the way a plumber would criticise the +Parthenon--so busy finding fault with the lack of drains that we +failed to see the beauty of the architecture." + +"T.A.," said Emma McChesney solemnly, "T.A., we're getting old." + +"Old! You! I! Ha!" + +"You may 'Ha!' all you like. But do you know what they thought of +us in there? They thought we were a couple of fogies, and they +humored us, that's what they did. I'll tell you, T.A., when the +time comes for me to give Jock up to some little pink-faced girl +I'll do it, and smile if it kills me. But to hand my Featherlooms +over to a lot of cold-blooded experts who--well--" she paused, +biting her lip. + +"We'll see, Emma; we'll see." + +They did see. The Featherloom petticoat campaign was launched with +a great splash. It sailed serenely into the sea of national +business. Then suddenly something seemed to go wrong with its +engines. It began to wobble and showed a decided list to port. +Jock, who at the beginning was so puffed with pride that his gold +fountain pen threatened to burst the confines of his very modishly +tight vest, lost two degrees of pompousness a day, and his +attitude toward his unreproachful mother was almost humble. + +A dozen times a week T.A. Buck would stroll casually into Mrs. +McChesney's office. "Think it's going to take hold?" he would ask. +"Our men say the dealers have laid in, but the public doesn't seem +to be tearing itself limb from limb to get to our stuff." + +Emma McChesney would smile, and shrug noncommittal shoulders. + +When it became very painfully apparent that it wasn't "taking +hold," T.A. Buck, after asking the same question, now worn and +frayed with asking, broke out, crossly: + +"Well, really, I don't mind the shrug, but I do wish you wouldn't +smile. After all, you know, this campaign is costing us +money--real money, and large chunks of it. It's very evident that +we shouldn't have tried to make a national campaign of this +thing." + +Whereupon Mrs. McChesney's smile grew into a laugh. "Forgive me, +T.A. I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing because--well, I can't +tell you why. It's a woman's reason, and you wouldn't think it a +reason at all. For that matter, I suppose it isn't, but--Anyway, +I've got something to tell you. The fault of this campaign has +been the copy. It was perfectly good advertising, but it left the +public cold. When they read those ads they might have been +impressed with the charm of the garment, but it didn't fill their +breasts with any wild longing to possess one. It didn't make the +women feel unhappy until they had one of those skirts hanging on +the third hook in their closet. The only kind of advertising that +is advertising is the kind that makes the reader say, 'I'll have +one of those.'" + +T.A. Buck threw out helpless hands. "What are we going to do about +it?" + +"Do? I've already done it." + +"Done what?" + +"Written the kind of copy that I think Featherlooms ought to have. +I just took my knowledge of Featherlooms, plus what I knew about +human nature, sprinkled in a handful of good humor and sincerity, +and they're going to feed it to the public. It's the same recipe +that I used to use in selling Featherlooms on the road. It used to +go by word of mouth. I don't see why it shouldn't go on paper. It +isn't classic advertising. It isn't scientific. It isn't even what +they call psychological, I suppose. But it's human. And it's going +to reach that great, big, solid, safe, spot-cash mass known as the +middle class. Of course my copy may be wrong. It may not go, after +all, but--" + +But it did go. It didn't go with a rush, or a bang. It went +slowly, surely, hand over hand, but it went, and it kept on going. +And watching it climb and take hold there came back to Emma +McChesney's eye the old sparkle, to her step the old buoyancy, to +her voice the old delightful ring. And now, when T.A. Buck +strolled into her office of a morning, with his, "It's taking +hold, Mrs. Mack," she would dimple like a girl as she laughed back +at him-- + +"With a grip that won't let go." + +"It looks very much as though we were going to be millionaires in +our old age, you and I?" went on Buck. + +Emma McChesney opened her eyes wide. + +"Old!" she mocked, "Old! You! I! Ha!" + + + + +IV + +THE MAN WITHIN HIM + + +They used to do it much more picturesquely. They rode in coats of +scarlet, in the crisp, clear morning, to the winding of horns and +the baying of hounds, to the thud-thud of hoofs, and the crackle +of underbrush. Across fresh-plowed fields they went, crashing +through forest paths, leaping ditches, taking fences, scrambling +up the inclines, pelting down the hillside, helter-skelter, until, +panting, wide-eyed, eager, blood-hungry, the hunt closed in at the +death. + +The scarlet coat has sobered down to the somber gray and the +snuffy brown of that unromantic garment known as the business +suit. The winding horn is become a goblet, and its notes are the +tinkle of ice against glass. The baying of hounds has harshened to +the squawk of the motor siren. The fresh-plowed field is a blue +print, the forest maze a roll of plans and specifications. Each +fence is a business barrier. Every ditch is of a competitor's +making, dug craftily so that the clumsy-footed may come a cropper. +All the romance is out of it, all the color, all the joy. But two +things remain the same: The look in the face of the hunter as he +closed in on the fox is the look in the face of him who sees the +coveted contract lying ready for the finishing stroke of his pen. +And his words are those of the hunter of long ago as, eyes +a-gleam, teeth bared, muscles still taut with the tenseness of the +chase, he waves the paper high in air and cries, "I've made a +killing!" + +For two years Jock McChesney had watched the field as it swept by +in its patient, devious, cruel game of Hunt the Contract. But he +had never been in at the death. Those two years had taught him how +to ride; to take a fence; to leap a ditch. He had had his awkward +bumps, and his clumsy falls. He had lost his way more than once. +But he had always groped his way back again, stumblingly, through +the dusk. Jock McChesney was the youngest man on the Berg, Shriner +Advertising Company's big staff of surprisingly young men. So +young that the casual glance did not reveal to you the marks that +the strain of those two years had left on his boyish face. But the +marks were there. + +Nature etches with the most delicate of points. She knows the +cunning secret of light and shadow. You scarcely realize that she +has been at work. A faint line about the mouth, a fairy tracing at +the corners of the eyes, a mere vague touch just at the +nostrils--and the thing is done. + +Even Emma McChesney's eyes--those mother-eyes which make the lynx +seem a mole--had failed to note the subtle change. Then, suddenly, +one night, the lines leaped out at her. + +They were seated at opposite sides of the book-littered library +table in the living-room of the cheerful up-town apartment which +was the realization of the nightly dream which Mrs. Emma McChesney +had had in her ten years on the road for the T.A. Buck Featherloom +Petticoat Company. Jock McChesney's side of the big table was +completely covered with the mass of copy-paper, rough sketches, +photographs and drawings which make up an advertising lay-out. He +was bent over the work, absorbed, intent, his forearms resting on +the table. Emma McChesney glanced up from her magazine just as +Jock bent forward to reach a scrap of paper that had fluttered +away. The lamplight fell full on his face. And Emma McChesney saw. +The hand that held the magazine fell to her lap. Her lips were +parted slightly. She sat very quietly, her eyes never leaving the +face that frowned so intently over the littered table. The room +had been very quiet before--Jock busy with his work, his mother +interested in her magazine. But this silence was different. There +was something electric in it. It was a silence that beats on the +brain like a noise. Jock McChesney, bent over his work, heard it, +felt it, and, oppressed by it, looked up suddenly. He met those +two eyes opposite. + +"Spooks? Or is it my godlike beauty which holds you thus? Or is my +face dirty?" + +Emma McChesney did not smile. She laid her magazine on the table, +face down, and leaned forward, her staring eyes still fixed on her +son's face. + +"Look here, young 'un. Are you working too hard?" + +"Me? Now? This stuff you mean--?" + +"No; I mean in the last year. Are they piling it up on you?" + +Jock laughed a laugh that was nothing less than a failure, so +little of real mirth did it contain. + +"Piling it up! Lord, no! I wish they would. That's the trouble. +They don't give me a chance." + +"A chance! Why, that's not true, son. You've said yourself that +there are men who have been in the office three times as long as +you have, who never have had the opportunities that they've given +you." + +It was as though she had touched a current that thrilled him to +action. He pushed back his chair and stood up, one hand thrust +into his pocket, the other passing quickly over his head from brow +to nape with a quick, nervous gesture that was new to him. + +"And why!" he flung out. "Why! Not because they like the way I +part my hair. They don't do business that way up there. It's +because I've made good, and those other dubs haven't. That's why. +They've let me sit in at the game. But they won't let me take any +tricks. I've been an apprentice hand for two years now. I'm tired +of it. I want to be in on a killing. I want to taste blood. I want +a chance at some of the money--real money." + +Emma McChesney sat back in her chair and surveyed the angry figure +before her with quiet, steady eyes. + +"I might have known that only one thing could bring those lines +into your face, son." She paused a moment. "So you want money as +badly as all that, do you?" + +Jock's hand came down with a thwack on the papers before him. + +"Want it! You just bet I want it." + +"Do I know her?" asked Emma McChesney quietly. + +Jock stopped short in his excited pacing up and down the room. + +"Do you know--Why, I didn't say there--What makes you think +that--?" + +"When a youngster like you, whose greatest worry has been whether +Harvard'll hold 'em again this year, with Baxter out, begins to +howl about not being appreciated in business, and to wear a late +fall line of wrinkles where he has been smooth before, I feel +justified in saying, 'Do I know her?'" + +"Well, it isn't any one--at least, it isn't what you mean you +think it is when you say you--" + +"Careful there! You'll trip. Never you mind what I mean I think it +is when I say. Count ten, and then just tell me what you think you +mean." + +Jock passed his hand over his head again with that nervous little +gesture. Then he sat down, a little wearily. He stared moodily +down at the pile of papers before him: His mother faced him +quietly across the table. + +"Grace Galt's getting twice as much as I am," Jock broke out, with +savage suddenness. "The first year I didn't mind. A fellow gets +accustomed, these days, to see women breaking into all the +professions and getting away with men-size salaries. But her pay +check doubles mine--more than doubles it." + +"It's been my experience," observed Emma McChesney, "that when a +firm condescends to pay a woman twice as much as a man, that means +she's worth six times as much." + +A painful red crept into Jock's face. "Maybe. Two years ago that +would have sounded reasonable to me. Two years ago, when I walked +down Broadway at night, a fifty-foot electric sign at Forty-second +was just an electric sign to me. Just part of the town's +decoration like the chorus girls, and the midnight theater crowds. +Now--well, now every blink of every red and yellow globe is +crammed full of meaning. I know the power that advertising has; +how it influences our manners, and our morals, and our minds, and +our health. It regulates the food we eat, and the clothes we wear, +and the books we read, and the entertainment we seek. It's +colossal, that's what it is! It's--" + +"Keep on like that for another two years, sonny, and no business +banquet will be complete without you. The next thing you know +you'll be addressing the Y.M.C.A. advertising classes on The Young +Man in Business." + +Jock laughed a rueful little laugh. "I didn't mean to make +a speech. I was just trying to say that I've served my +apprenticeship. It hurts a fellow's pride. You can't hold your +head up before a girl when you know her salary's twice yours, and +you know that she knows it. Why look at Mrs. Hoffman, who's with +the Dowd Agency. Of course she's a wonder, even if her face does +look like the fifty-eighth variety. She can write copy that lifts +a campaign right out of the humdrum class, and makes it luminous. +Her husband works in a bank somewhere. He earns about as much as +Mrs. Hoffman pays the least of her department subordinates. And +he's so subdued that he side-steps when he walks, and they call +him the human jelly-fish." + +Emma McChesney was regarding her son with a little puzzled frown. +Suddenly she reached out and tapped the topmost of the scribbled +sheets strewn the length of Jock's side of the table. + +"What's all this?" + +Jock tipped back his chair and surveyed the clutter before him. + +"That," said he, "is what is known on the stage as 'the papers.' +And it's the real plot of this piece." + +"M-m-m--I thought so. Just favor me with a scenario, will you?" + +Half-grinning, half-serious, Jock stuck his thumbs in the armholes +of his waistcoat, and began. + +"Scene: Offices of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Time, +the present. Characters: Jock McChesney, handsome, daring, +brilliant--" + +"Suppose you--er--skip the characters, however fascinating, and +get to the action." + +Jock McChesney brought the tipped chair down on all-fours with a +thud, and stood up. The grin was gone. He was as serious as he had +been in the midst of his tirade of five minutes before. + +"All right. Here it is. And don't blame me if it sounds like cheap +melodrama. This stuff," and he waved a hand toward the paper-laden +table, "is an advertising campaign plan for the Griebler Gum +Company, of St. Louis. Oh, don't look impressed. The office hasn't +handed me any such commission. I just got the idea like a flash, +and I've been working it out for the last two weeks. It worked +itself out, almost--the way a really scorching idea does, +sometimes. This Griebler has been advertising for years. You +know the Griebler gum. But it hasn't been the right sort of +advertising. Old Griebler, the original gum man, had fogy notions +about advertising, and as long as he lived they had to keep it +down. He died a few months ago--you must have read of it. Left a +regular mint. Ben Griebler, the oldest son, started right in to +clean out the cobwebs. Of course the advertising end of it has +come in for its share of the soap and water. He wants to make a +clean sweep of it. Every advertising firm in the country has been +angling for the contract. It's going to be a real one. Two-thirds +of the crowd have submitted plans. And that's just where my kick +comes in. The Berg, Shriner Company makes it a rule never to +submit advance plans." + +"Excuse me if I seem a trifle rude," interrupted Mrs. McChesney, +"but I'd like to know where you think you've been wronged in +this." + +"Right here!" replied Jock, and he slapped his pocket, "and here," +he pointed to his head. "Two spots so vital that they make old +Achilles's heel seem armor-plated. Ben Griebler is one of the +show-me kind. He wants value received for money expended, and +while everybody knows that he has a loving eye on the Berg, +Shriner crowd, he won't sign a thing until he knows what he's +getting. A firm's record, standing, staff, equipment, mean nothing +to him." + +"But, Jock, I still don't see--" + +Jock gathered up a sheaf of loose papers and brandished them in +the air. "This is where I come in. I've got a plan here that will +fetch this Griebler person. Oh, I'm not dreaming. I outlined it +for Sam Hupp, and he was crazy about it. Sam Hupp had some sort of +plan outlined himself. But he said this made his sound as dry as +cigars in Denver. And you know yourself that Sam Hupp's copy is so +brilliant that he could sell brewery advertising to a temperance +magazine." + +Emma McChesney stood up. She looked a little impatient, and a +trifle puzzled. "But why all this talk! I don't get you. Take your +plan to Mr. Berg. If it's what you think it is he'll see it +quicker than any other human being, and he'll probably fall on +your neck and invest you in royal robes and give you a mahogany +desk all your own." + +"Oh, what's the good!" retorted Jock disgustedly. "This Griebler +has an appointment at the office to-morrow. He'll be closeted with +the Old Man. They'll call in Hupp. But never a plan will they +reveal. It's against their code of ethics. Ethics! I'm sick of the +word. I suppose you'd say I'm lucky to be associated with a firm +like that, and I suppose I am. But I wish in the name of all the +gods of Business that they weren't so bloomin' conservative. +Ethics! They're all balled up in 'em, like Henry James in his +style." + +Emma McChesney came over from her side of the table and stood very +close to her son. She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and +looked up into the sullen, angry young face. + + [Illustration: "She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and + looked up into the sullen, angry young face"] + +"I've seen older men than you are, Jock, and better men, and +bigger men, wearing that same look, and for the same reason. Every +ambitious man or woman in business wears it at one time or +another. Sooner or later, Jock, you'll have your chance at the +money end of this game. If you don't care about the thing you call +ethics, it'll be sooner. If you do care, it will be later. It +rests with you, but it's bound to come, because you've got the +stuff in you." + +"Maybe," replied Jock the cynical. But his face lost some of its +sullenness as he looked down at that earnest, vivid countenance +up-turned to his. "Maybe. It sounds all right, Mother--in the +story books. But I'm not quite solid on it. These days it isn't +so much what you've got in you that counts as what you can bring +out. I know the young man's slogan used to be 'Work and Wait,' or +something pretty like that. But these days they've boiled it down +to one word--'Produce'!" + +"The marvel of it is that there aren't more of 'em," observed Emma +McChesney sadly. + +"More what?" + +"More lines. Here,"--she touched his forehead,--"and here,"--she +touched his eyes. + +"Lines!" Jock swung to face a mirror. "Good! I'm so infernally +young-looking that no one takes me seriously. It's darned hard +trying to convince people you're a captain of finance when you +look like an errand boy." + +From the center of the room Mrs. McChesney watched the boy as he +surveyed himself in the glass. And as she gazed there came a +frightened look into her eyes. It was gone in a minute, and in its +place came a curious little gleam, half amused, half pugnacious. + +"Jock McChesney, if I thought that you meant half of what you've +said to-night about honor, and ethics, and all that, I'd--" + +"Spank me, I suppose," said the young six-footer. + +"No," and all the humor had fled, "I--Jock, I've never said much +to you about your father. But I think you know that he was what he +was to the day of his death. You were just about eight when I made +up my mind that life with him was impossible. I said then--and you +were all I had, son--that I'd rather see you dead than to have you +turn out to be a son of your father. Don't make me remember that +wish, Jock." + +Two quick steps and his arms were about her. His face was all +contrition. "Why--Mother! I didn't mean--You see this is business, +and I'm crazy to make good, and it's such a fight--" + +"Don't I know it?" demanded Emma McChesney. "I guess your mother +hasn't been sitting home embroidering lunchcloths these last +fifteen years." She lifted her head from the boy's shoulder. "And +now, son, considering me, not as your doting mother, but in my +business capacity as secretary of the T.A. Buck Featherloom +Petticoat Company, suppose you reveal to me the inner workings of +this plan of yours. I'd like to know if you really are the +advertising wizard that you think you are." + +So it was that long after Annie's dinner dishes had ceased to +clatter in the kitchen; long after she had put her head in at the +door to ask, "Aigs 'r cakes for breakfast?" long after those two +busy brains should have rested in sleep, the two sat at either +side of the light-flooded table, the face of one glowing as he +talked, the face of the other sparkling as she listened. And at +midnight: + +"Why, you infant wonder!" exclaimed Emma McChesney. + +At nine o'clock next morning when Jock McChesney entered the +offices of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company he carried a +flat, compact bundle of papers under his arm encased in protecting +covers of pasteboard, and further secured by bands of elastic. +This he carried to his desk, deposited in a drawer, and locked the +drawer. + +By eleven o'clock the things which he had predicted the night +before had come to pass. A plump little man, with a fussy manner +and Western clothes had been ushered into Bartholomew Berg's +private office. Instinct told him that this was Griebler. Jock +left his desk and strolled up to get the switchboard operator's +confirmation of his guess. Half an hour later Sam Hupp hustled by +and disappeared into the Old Man's sanctum. + +Jock fingered the upper left-hand drawer of his desk. The +maddening blankness of that closed door! If only he could find +some excuse for walking into that room--any old excuse, no matter +how wild!--just to get a chance at it-- + +His telephone rang. He picked up the receiver, his eye on the +closed door, his thoughts inside that room. + +"Mr. Berg wants to see you right away," came the voice of the +switchboard operator. + +Something seemed to give way inside--something in the region of +his brain--no, his heart--no, his lungs-- + +"Well, can you beat that!" said Jock McChesney aloud, in a kind of +trance of joy. "Can--you--beat--that!" + +Then he buttoned the lower button of his coat, shrugged his +shoulders with an extra wriggle at the collar (the modern hero's +method of girding up his loins), and walked calmly into +Bartholomew Berg's very private office. + +In the second that elapsed between the opening and the closing of +the door Jock's glance swept the three men--Bartholomew Berg, +quiet, inscrutable, seated at his great table-desk; Griebler, lost +in the depths of a great leather chair, smoking fussily and +twitching with a hundred little restless, irritating gestures; Sam +Hupp, standing at the opposite side of the room, hands in pockets, +attitude argumentative. + +"This is Mr. McChesney," said Bartholomew Berg. "Mr. Griebler, +McChesney." + +Jock came forward, smiling that charming smile of his. "Mr. +Griebler," he said, extending his hand, "this is a great +pleasure." + +"Hm!" growled Ben Griebler, "I didn't know they picked 'em so +young." + +His voice was a piping falsetto that somehow seemed to match his +restless little eyes. + +Jock thrust his hands hurriedly into his pockets. He felt his face +getting scarlet. + +"They're--ah--using 'em young this year," said Bartholomew Berg. +His voice sounded bigger, and smoother, and pleasanter than ever +in contrast with that other's shrill tone. "I prefer 'em young, +myself. You'll never catch McChesney using 'in the last analysis' +to drive home an argument. He has a new idea about every nineteen +minutes, and every other one's a good one, and every nineteenth +or so's an inspiration." The Old Man laughed one of his low, +chuckling laughs. + +"Hm--that so?" piped Ben Griebler. "Up in my neck of the woods we +aren't so long on inspiration. We're just working men, and we wear +working clothes--" + +"Oh, now," protested Berg, his eyes twinkling, "McChesney's +necktie and socks and handkerchief may form one lovely, blissful +color scheme, but that doesn't signify that his advertising +schemes are not just as carefully and artistically blended." + +Ben Griebler looked shrewdly up at Jock through narrowed lids. +"Maybe. I'll talk to you in a minute, young man--that is--" he +turned quickly upon Berg--"if that isn't against your crazy +principles, too?" + +"Why, not at all," Bartholomew Berg assured him. "Not at all. You +do me an injustice." + +Griebler moved up closer to the broad table. The two fell into a +low-voiced talk. Jock looked rather helplessly around at Sam Hupp. +That alert gentleman was signaling him frantically with head and +wagging finger. Jock crossed the big room to Hupp's side. The two +moved off to a window at the far end. + +"Give heed to your Unkie," said Sam Hupp, talking very rapidly, +very softly, and out of one corner of his mouth. "This Griebler's +looking for an advertising manager. He's as pig-headed as +a--a--well, as a pig, I suppose. But it's a corking chance, +youngster, and the Old Man's just recommended you--strong. Now--" + +"Me--!" exploded Jock. + +"Shut up!" hissed Hupp. "Two or three years with that firm would +be the making of you--if you made good, of course. And you could. +They want to move their factory here from St. Louis within the +next few years. Now listen. When he talks to you, you play up the +keen, alert stuff with a dash of sophistication, see? If you can +keep your mouth shut and throw a kind of a canny, I-get-you, look +into your eyes, all the better. He's gabby enough for two. Try a +line of talk that is filled with the fire and enthusiasm of +youth, combined with the good judgment and experience of middle +age, and you've--" + +"Say, look here," stammered Jock. "Even if I was Warfield enough +to do all that, d'you honestly think--me an advertising +manager!--with a salary that Griebler--" + +"You nervy little shrimp, go in and win. He'll pay five thousand +if he pays a cent. But he wants value for money expended. Now I've +tipped you off. You make your killing--" + +"Oh, McChesney!" called Bartholomew Berg, glancing round. + +"Yes, sir!" said Jock, and stood before him in the same moment. + +"Mr. Griebler is looking for a competent, enthusiastic, +hard-working man as advertising manager. I've spoken to him of +you. I know what you can do. Mr. Griebler might trust my judgment +in this, but--" + +"I'll trust my own judgment," snapped Ben Griebler. "It's good +enough for me." + +"Very well," returned Bartholomew Berg suavely. "And if you decide +to place your advertising future in the hands of the Berg, Shriner +Company--" + +"Now look here," interrupted Ben Griebler again. "I'll tie up +with you people when you've shaken something out of your cuffs. +I'm not the kind that buys a pig in a poke. We're going to spend +money--real money--in this campaign of ours. But I'm not such a +come-on as to hand you half a million or so and get a promise in +return. I want your plans, and I want 'em in full." + +A little exclamation broke from Sam Hupp. He checked it, but not +before Berg's curiously penetrating pale blue eyes had glanced up +at him, and away again. + +"I've told you, Mr. Griebler," went on Bartholomew Berg's patient +voice, "just why the thing you insist on is impossible. This firm +does not submit advance copy. Every business commission that comes +to us is given all the skill, and thought, and enthusiasm, and +careful planning that this office is capable of. You know our +record. This is a business of ideas. And ideas are too precious, +too perishable, to spread in the market place for all to see." + +Ben Griebler stood up. His cigar waggled furiously between his +lips as he talked. + +"I know something else that don't stand spreading in the market +place, Berg. And that's money. It's too darned perishable, too." +He pointed a stubby finger at Jock. "Does this fool rule of yours +apply to this young fellow, too?" + +Bartholomew Berg seemed to grow more patient, more self-contained +as the other man's self-control slipped rapidly away. + +"It goes for every man and woman in this office, Mr. Griebler. +This young chap, McChesney here, might spend weeks and months +building up a comprehensive advertising plan for you. He'd spend +those weeks studying your business from every possible angle. +Perhaps it would be a plan that would require a year of waiting +before the actual advertising began to appear. And then you might +lose faith in the plan. A waiting game is a hard game to play. +Some other man's idea, that promised quicker action, might appeal +to you. And when it appeared we'd very likely find our own +original idea incorporated in--" + +"Say, look here!" squeaked Ben Griebler, his face dully red. +"D'you mean to imply that I'd steal your plan! D'you mean to sit +there and tell me to my face--" + +"Mr. Griebler, I mean that that thing happens constantly in this +business. We're almost powerless to stop it. Nothing spreads +quicker than a new idea. Compared to it a woman's secret is a +sealed book." + +Ben Griebler removed the cigar from his lips. He was stuttering +with anger. With a mingling of despair and boldness Jock saw the +advantage of that stuttering moment and seized on it. He stepped +close to the broad table-desk, resting both hands on it and +leaning forward slightly in his eagerness. + +"Mr. Berg--I have a plan. Mr. Hupp can tell you. It came to me +when I first heard that the Grieblers were going to broaden out. +It's a real idea. I'm sure of that. I've worked it out in detail. +Mr. Hupp himself said it--Why, I've got the actual copy. And it's +new. Absolutely. It never--" + +"Trot it out!" shouted Ben Griebler. "I'd like to see one idea +anyway, around this shop." + +"McChesney," said Bartholomew Berg, not raising his voice. His +eyes rested on Jock with the steady, penetrating gaze that was +peculiar to him. More foolhardy men than Jock McChesney had +faltered and paused, abashed, under those eyes. "McChesney, your +enthusiasm for your work is causing you to forget one thing that +must never be forgotten in this office." + +Jock stepped back. His lower lip was caught between his teeth. At +the same moment Ben Griebler snatched up his hat from the table, +clapped it on his head at an absurd angle and, bristling like a +fighting cock, confronted the three men. + +"I've got a couple of rules myself," he cried, "and don't you +forget it. When you get a little spare time, you look up St. Louis +and find out what state it's in. The slogan of that state is my +slogan, you bet. If you think I'm going to make you a present of +the money that it took my old man fifty years to pile up, then you +don't know that Griebler is a German name. Good day, gents." + +He stalked to the door. There he turned dramatically and leveled a +forefinger at Jock. "They've got you roped and tied. But I think +you're a comer. If you change your mind, kid, come and see me." + +The door slammed behind him. + +"Whew!" whistled Sam Hupp, passing a handkerchief over his bald +spot. + +Bartholomew Berg reached out with one great capable hand and swept +toward him a pile of papers. "Oh, well, you can't blame him. +Advertising has been a scream for so long. Griebler doesn't know +the difference between advertising, publicity, and bunk. He'll +learn. But it'll be an awfully expensive course. Now, Hupp, let's +go over this Kalamazoo account. That'll be all, McChesney." + +Jock turned without a word. He walked quickly through the outer +office, into the great main room. There he stopped at the +switchboard. + +"Er--Miss Grimes," he said, smiling charmingly. "Where's this Mr. +Griebler, of St. Louis, stopping; do you know?" + +"Say, where would he stop?" retorted the wise Miss Grimes. "Look +at him! The Waldorf, of course." + +"Thanks," said Jock, still smiling. And went back to his desk. + +At five Jock left the office. Under his arm he carried the flat +pasteboard package secured by elastic bands. At five-fifteen he +walked swiftly down the famous corridor of the great red stone +hotel. The colorful glittering crowd that surged all about him he +seemed not to see. He made straight for the main desk with its +battalion of clerks. + + [Illustration: "He made straight for the main desk with its + battalion of clerks"] + +"Mr. Griebler in? Mr. Ben Griebler, St. Louis?" + +The question set in motion the hotel's elaborate system of +investigation. At last: "Not in." + +"Do you know when he will be in?" That futile question. + +"Can't say. He left no word. Do you want to leave your name?" + +"N-no. Would he--does he stop at this desk when he comes in?" + +He was an unusually urbane hotel clerk. "Why, usually they leave +their keys and get their mail from the floor clerk. But Mr. +Griebler seems to prefer the main desk." + +"I'll--wait," said Jock. And seated in one of the great thronelike +chairs, he waited. He sat there, slim and boyish, while the +laughing, chattering crowd swept all about him. If you sit long +enough in that foyer you will learn all there is to learn about +life. An amazing sight it is--that crowd. Baraboo helps swell it, +and Spokane, and Berlin, and Budapest, and Pekin, and Paris, and +Waco, Texas. So varied it is, so cosmopolitan, that if you sit +there patiently enough, and watch sharply enough you will even see +a chance New Yorker. + +From door to desk Jock's eyes swept. The afternoon-tea crowd, in +paradise feathers, and furs, and frock coats swam back and forth. +He saw it give way to the dinner throng, satin-shod, bejeweled, +hurrying through its oysters, swallowing unbelievable numbers of +cloudy-amber drinks, and golden-brown drinks, and maroon drinks, +then gathering up its furs and rushing theaterwards. He was still +sitting there when that crowd, its eight o'clock freshness +somewhat sullied, its sparkle a trifle dimmed, swept back for more +oysters, more cloudy-amber and golden-brown drinks. + +At half-hour intervals, then at hourly intervals, the figure in +the great chair stirred, rose, and walked to the desk. + +"Has Mr. Griebler come in?" + +The supper throng, its laugh a little ribald, its talk a shade +high-pitched, drifted towards the street, or was wafted up in +elevators. The throng thinned to an occasional group. Then these +became rarer and rarer. The revolving door admitted one man, or +two, perhaps, who lingered not at all in the unaccustomed quiet of +the great glittering lobby. + +The figure of the watcher took on a pathetic droop. The eyelids +grew leaden. To open them meant an almost superhuman effort. The +stare of the new night clerks grew more and more hostile and +suspicious. A grayish pallor had settled down on the boy's face. +And those lines of the night before stood out for all to see. + +In the stillness of the place the big revolving door turned once +more, complainingly. For the thousandth time Jock's eyes +lifted heavily. Then they flew wide open. The drooping figure +straightened electrically. Half a dozen quick steps and Jock stood +in the pathway of Ben Griebler who, rather ruffled and untidy, had +blown in on the wings of the morning. + +He stared a moment. "Well, what--" + +"I've been waiting for you here since five o'clock last evening. +It will soon be five o'clock again. Will you let me show you those +plans now?" + +Ben Griebler had surveyed Jock with the stony calm of the +out-of-town visitor who is prepared to show surprise at nothing in +New York. + +"There's nothing like getting an early start," said Ben Griebler. +"Come on up to my room." Key in hand, he made for the elevator. +For an almost imperceptible moment Jock paused. Then, with a +little rush, he followed the short, thick-set figure. "I knew you +had it in you, McChesney. I said you looked like a comer, didn't +I?" + +Jock said nothing. He was silent while Griebler unlocked his door, +turned on the light, fumbled at the windows and shades, picked up +the telephone receiver. "What'll you have?" + +"Nothing." Jock had cleared the center table and was opening his +flat bundle of papers. He drew up two chairs. "Let's not waste any +time," he said. "I've had a twelve-hour wait for this." He seemed +to control the situation. Obediently Ben Griebler hung up the +receiver, came over, and took the chair very close to Jock. + + [Illustration: "'Let's not waste any time,' he said"] + +"There's nothing artistic about gum," began Jock McChesney; and +his manner was that of a man who is sure of himself. "It's a +shirt-sleeve product, and it ought to be handled from a +shirt-sleeve standpoint. Every gum concern in the country has +spent thousands on a 'better-than-candy' campaign before it +realized that gum is a candy and drug store article, and that no +man is going to push a five-cent package of gum at the sacrifice +of the sale of an eighty-cent box of candy. But the health note is +there, if only you strike it right. Now, here's my idea--" + +At six o'clock Ben Griebler, his little shrewd eyes sparkling, his +voice more squeakily falsetto than ever, surveyed the youngster +before him with a certain awe. + +"This--this thing will actually sell our stuff in Europe! No gum +concern has ever been able to make the stuff go outside of this +country. Why, inside of three years every 'Arry and 'Arriet in +England'll be chewing it on bank holidays. I don't know about +Germany, but--" He pushed back his chair and got up. "Well, I'm +solid on that. And what I say goes. Now I'll tell you what I'll +do, kid. I'll take you down to St. Louis with me, at a figure +that'll make your--" + +Jock looked up. + +"Or if you don't want the Berg, Shriner crowd to get wise, I'll +fix it this way. I'll go over there this morning and tell 'em I've +changed my mind, see? The campaign's theirs, see? Then I refuse +to consider any of their suggestions until I see your plan. And +when I see it I fall for it like a ton of bricks. Old Berg'll +never know. He's so darned high-principled--" + +Jock McChesney stood up. The little drawn pinched look which had +made his face so queerly old was gone. His eyes were bright. His +face was flushed. + +"There! You've said it. I didn't realize how raw this deal was +until you put it into words for me. I want to thank you. You're +right. Bartholomew Berg is so darned high-principled that two +muckers like you and me, groveling around in the dirt, can't even +see the tips of the heights to which his ideals have soared. Don't +stop me. I know I'm talking like a book. But I feel like something +that has just been kicked out into the sunshine after having been +in jail." + +"You're tired," said Ben Griebler. "It's been a strain. Something +always snaps after a long tension." + +Jock's flat palm came down among the papers with a crack. + +"You bet something snaps! It has just snapped inside me." He +began quietly to gather up the papers in an orderly little way. + +"What's that for?" inquired Griebler, coming forward. "You don't +mean--" + +"I mean that I'm going to go home and square this thing with a +lady you've never met. You and she wouldn't get on if you did. You +don't talk the same language. Then I'm going to have a cold bath, +and a hot breakfast. And then, Griebler, I'm going to take this +stuff to Bartholomew Berg and tell him the whole nasty business. +He'll see the humor of it. But I don't know whether he'll fire me, +or make me vice-president of the company. Now, if you want to come +over and talk to him, fair and square, why come." + +"Ten to one he fires you," remarked Griebler, as Jock reached the +door. + +"There's only one person I know who's game enough to take you up +on that. And it's going to take more nerve to face her at +six-thirty than it will to tackle a whole battalion of Bartholomew +Bergs at nine." + +"Well, I guess I can get in a three-hour sleep before--er--" + +"Before what?" said Jock McChesney from the door. + +Ben Griebler laughed a little shamefaced laugh. "Before I see you +at ten, sonny." + + + + +V + +THE SELF-STARTER + + +There is nothing in the sound of the shrill little bell to warn us +of the import of its message. More's the pity. It may be that bore +whose telephone conversation begins: "Well, what do you know +to-day?" It may be your lawyer to say you've inherited a million. +Hence the arrogance of the instrument. It knows its voice will +never wilfully go unanswered so long as the element of chance lies +concealed within it. + +Mrs. Emma McChesney heard the call of her telephone across the +hall. Seated in the office of her business partner, T.A. Buck, she +was fathoms deep in discussion of the T.A. Buck Featherloom +Petticoat Company's new spring line. The buzzer's insistent +voice brought her to her feet, even while she frowned at the +interruption. + +"That'll be Baumgartner 'phoning about those silk swatches. Back +in a minute," said Emma McChesney and hurried across the hall just +in time to break the second call. + +The perfunctory "Hello! Yes" was followed by a swift change of +countenance, a surprised little cry, then,--in quite another +tone--"Oh, it's you, Jock! I wasn't expecting ... No, not too +busy to talk to you, you young chump! Go on." A moment of silence, +while Mrs. McChesney's face smiled and glowed like a girl's as she +listened to the voice of her son. Then suddenly glow and smile +faded. She grew tense. Her head, that had been leaning so +carelessly on the hand that held the receiver, came up with a +jerk. "Jock McChesney!" she gasped, "you--why, you don't mean!--" + +Now, Emma McChesney was not a woman given to jerky conversations, +interspersed with exclamation points. Her poise and balance had +become a proverb in the business world. Yet her lips were +trembling now. Her eyes were very round and bright. Her face had +flushed, then grown white. Her voice shook a little. "Yes, of +course I am. Only, I'm so surprised. Yes, I'll be home early. +Five-thirty at the latest." + +She hung up the receiver with a little fumbling gesture. Her hand +dropped to her lap, then came up to her throat a moment, dropped +again. She sat staring straight ahead with eyes that saw one +thousand miles away. + +From his office across the hall T.A. Buck strolled in casually. + +"Did Baumgartner say he'd--?" He stopped as Mrs. McChesney looked +up at him. A quick step forward--"What's the matter, Emma?" + +"Jock--Jock--" + +"Jock! What's happened to the boy?" Then, as she still stared at +him, her face pitiful, his hand patted her shoulder. "Dear girl, +tell me." He bent over her, all solicitude. + +"Don't!" said Emma McChesney faintly, and shook off his hand. +"Your stenographer can see--What will the office think? Please--" + +"Oh, darn the stenographer! What's this bad news of Jock?" + +Emma McChesney sat up. She smiled a little nervously and passed +her handkerchief across her lips. "I didn't say it was bad, did I? +That is, not exactly bad, I suppose." + +T.A. Buck ran a frenzied hand over his head. "My dear child," +with careful politeness, "will you please try to be sane? I find +you sitting at your desk, staring into space, your face white as a +ghost's, your whole appearance that of a person who has received a +death-blow. And then you say, 'Not exactly bad'!" + +"It's this," explained Emma McChesney in a hollow tone: "The Berg, +Shriner Advertising Company has appointed Jock manager of their +new Western branch. They're opening offices in Chicago in March." +Her lower lip quivered. She caught it sharply between her teeth. + +For one surprised moment T.A. Buck stared in silence. Then a roar +broke from him. "Not exactly bad!" he boomed between laughs. "Not +exactly b--Not ex_act_ly, eh?" Then he was off again. + +Mrs. McChesney surveyed him in hurt and dignified silence. +Then--"Well, really, T.A., don't mind me. What you find so +exquisitely funny--" + +"That's the funniest part of it! That you, of all people, +shouldn't see the joke. Not exactly bad!" He wiped his eyes. "Why, +do you mean to tell me that because your young cub of a son, by a +heaven-sent stroke of good fortune, has landed a job that men +twice his age would give their eyeteeth to get, I find you sitting +at the telephone looking as if he had run off with Annie the cook, +or had had a leg cut off!" + +"I suppose it is funny. Only, the joke's on me. That's why I can't +see it. It means that I'm losing him." + +"That's the first selfish word I've ever heard you utter." + +"Oh, don't think I'm not happy at his success. Happy! Haven't I +hoped for it, and worked for it, and prayed for it! Haven't I +saved for it, and skimped for it! How do you think I could have +stood those years on the road if I hadn't kept up courage with the +thought that it was all for him? Don't I know how narrowly Jock +escaped being the wrong kind! I'm his mother, but I'm not quite +blind. I know he had the making of a first-class cad. I've seen +him start off in the wrong direction a hundred times." + +"If he has turned out a success, it's because you've steered him +right. I've watched you make him over. And now, when his big +chance has come, you--" + +"I don't expect you to understand," interrupted Emma McChesney a +little wearily. "I know it sounds crazy and unreasonable. There's +only one sort of human being who could understand what I mean. +That's a woman with a son." She laughed a little shamefacedly. +"I'm talking like the chorus of a minor-wail sob song, but it's +the truth." + +"If you feel like that, Emma, tell him to stay. The boy wouldn't +go if he thought it would make you unhappy." + +"Not go!" cried Emma McChesney sharply. "I'd like to see him dare +to refuse it!" + +"Well then, what in--" began Buck, bewildered. + +"Don't try to understand it, T.A. It's no use. Don't try to poke +your finger into the whirligig they call 'Woman's Sphere.' Its +mechanism is too complicated. It's the same quirk that makes women +pray for daughters and men for sons. It's the same kink that makes +women read the marriage and death notices first in a newspaper. +It's the same queer strain that causes a mother to lavish the most +love on the weakest, wilfullest child. Perhaps I wouldn't have +loved Jock so much if there hadn't been that streak of yellow in +him, and if I hadn't had to work so hard to dilute it until now +it's only a faint cream color. There ought to be a special prayer +for women who are bringing up their sons alone." + +Buck stirred a little uneasily. "I've never heard you talk like +this before." + +"You probably never will again." She swung round to her desk. + +T.A. Buck, strolling toward the door, still wore the puzzled look. + +"I don't know what makes you take this so seriously. Of course, +the boy will be a long way off. But then, you've been separated +from him before. What's the difference now?" + +"T.A.," said Emma McChesney solemnly, "Jock will be drawing a +man-size salary now. Something tells me I'll be a grandmother in +another two years. Girls aren't letting men like Jock run around +loose. He'll be gobbled up. Just you wait." + +"Oh, I don't know," drawled Buck mischievously. "You've just said +he's a headstrong young cub. He strikes me as the kind who'd +raise the dickens if his three-minute egg happened to be five +seconds overtime." + +Emma McChesney swung around in her chair. "Look here, T.A. As +business partners we've quarreled about everything from silk +samples to traveling men, and as friends we've wrangled on every +subject from weather to war. I've allowed you to criticise my soul +theories, and my new spring hat. But understand that I'm the only +living person who has the right to villify my son, Jock +McChesney." + +The telephone buzzed a punctuation to this period. + +"Baumgartner?" inquired Buck humbly. + +She listened a moment, then, over her shoulder, +"Baumgartner,"--grimly, her hand covering the mouthpiece--"and +if he thinks that he can work off a lot of last year's silk +swatches on--Hello! Yes, Mrs. McChesney talking. Look here, Mr. +Baumgartner--" + +And for the time being Emma McChesney, mother, was relegated to +the background, while Emma McChesney, secretary of the T.A. Buck +Featherloom Petticoat Company, held the stage. + +Having said that she would be home at five-thirty. Mrs. McChesney +was home at five-thirty, being that kind of a person. Jock came +in at six, breathless, bright-eyed, eager, and late, being that +kind of a person. + +He found his mother on the floor before the chiffonier in his +bedroom, surrounded by piles of pajamas, socks, shirts and +collars. + + [Illustration: "He found his mother on the floor ... surrounded + by piles of pajamas, socks, shirts and collars"] + +He swooped down upon her from the doorway. "What do you think of +your blue-eyed boy! Poor, eh?" + +Emma McChesney looked up absently. "Jock, these medium-weights of +yours didn't wear at all, and you paid five dollars for them." + +"Medium-weights! What in--" + +"You've enough silk socks to last you the rest of your natural +life. Handkerchiefs, too. But you'll need pajamas." + +Jock stooped, gathered up an armful of miscellaneous undergarments +and tossed them into an open drawer. Then he shut the drawer with +a bang, reached over, grasped his mother firmly under the arms and +brought her to her feet with a swing. + +"We will now consider the question of summer underwear ended. +Would it bore you too much to touch lightly on the subject of your +son's future?" + +Emma McChesney, tall, straight, handsome, looked up at her son, +taller, straighter, handsomer. Then she took him by the coat +lapels and hugged him. + +"You were so bursting with your own glory that I couldn't resist +teasing you. Besides, I had to do something to keep my mind +off--off--" + +"Why, Blonde dear, you're not--!" + +"No, I'm not," gulped Emma McChesney. "Don't flatter yourself, +young 'un. Tell me just how it happened. From the beginning." She +perched at the side of the bed. Jock, hands in pockets, hair a +little rumpled, paced excitedly up and down before her as he +talked. + +"There wasn't any beginning. That's the stunning part of it. I +just landed right into the middle of it with both feet. I knew +they had been planning to start a big Western branch. But we all +thought they'd pick some big man for it. There are plenty of +medium-class dubs to be had. The kind that answers the ad: +'Manager wanted, young man, preferably married, able to furnish +A-1 reference.' They're as thick as advertising men in Detroit on +Monday morning. But we knew that this Western branch was going to +be given an equal chance with the New York office. Those big +Western advertisers like to give their money to Western firms if +they can. So we figured that they'd pick a real top-notcher--even +Hopper, or Hupp, maybe--and start out with a bang. So when the Old +Man called me into his office this morning I was as unconscious as +a babe. Well, you know Berg. He's as unexpected as a summer shower +and twice as full of electricity. + +"'Morning, McChesney!' he said. 'That a New York necktie you're +wearing?' + +"'Strictly,' says I. + +"'Ever try any Chicago ties?' + +"'Not from choice. That time my suit case went astray--' + +"'M-m-m-m, yes.' He drummed his fingers on the table top a couple +of times. Then--McChesney, what have you learned about advertising +in the last two and a half years?' + +"I was wise enough as to Bartholomew Berg to know that he didn't +mean any cut-and-dried knowledge. He didn't mean rules of the +game. He meant tricks. + +"'Well,' I said, 'I've learned to watch a man's eyes when I'm +talking business to him. If the pupils of his eyes dilate he's +listening to you, and thinking about what you're saying. When they +contract it means that he's only faking interest, even though he's +looking straight at you and wearing a rapt expression. His +thoughts are miles away.' + +"'That so?' said Berg, and sort of grinned. 'What else?' + +"'I've learned that one negative argument is worth six positive +ones; that it never pays to knock your competitor; that it's wise +to fight shy of that joker known as "editorial coöperation."' + +"'That so?' said Berg. 'Anything else?' + +"I made up my mind I could play the game as long as he could. + +"'I've learned not to lose my temper when I'm in the middle of a +white-hot, impassioned business appeal and the office boy bounces +in to say to the boss: "Mrs. Jones is waiting. She says you were +going to help her pick out wall paper this morning;" and Jones +says, "Tell her I'll be there in five minutes."' + +"'Sure you've learned that?' said Berg. + +"'Sure,' says I. 'And I've learned to let the other fellow think +your argument's his own. He likes it. I've learned that the +surest kind of copy is the slow, insidious kind, like the +Featherloom Petticoat Company's campaign. That was an ideal +campaign because it didn't urge and insist that the public buy +Featherlooms. It just eased the idea to them. It started by +sketching a history of the petticoat, beginning with Eve's fig +leaf and working up. Before they knew it they were interested.' + +"'That so? That campaign was your mother's idea, McChesney.' You +know, Mother, he thinks you're a wonder." + +"So I am," agreed Emma McChesney calmly. "Go on." + +"Well, I went on. I told him that I'd learned to stand so that the +light wouldn't shine in my client's eyes when I was talking to +him. I lost a big order once because the glare from the window +irritated the man I was talking to. I told Berg all the tricks I'd +learned, and some I hadn't thought of till that minute. Berg put +in a word now and then. I thought he was sort of guying me, as he +sometimes does--not unkindly, you know, but in that quiet way he +has. Finally I stopped for breath, or something, and he said: + +"'Now let me talk a minute, McChesney. Anybody can teach you the +essentials of the advertising business, if you've any advertising +instinct in you. But it's what you pick up on the side, by your +own efforts and out of your own experience, that lifts you out of +the scrub class. Now I don't think you're an ideal advertising man +by any means, McChesney. You're shy on training and experience, +and you've just begun to acquire that golden quality known as +balance. I could name a hundred men that are better all-around +advertising men than you will ever be. Those men have advertising +ability that glows steadily and evenly, like a well-banked fire. +But you've got the kind of ability that flares up, dies down, +flares up. But every flare is a real blaze that lights things red +while it lasts, and sends a new glow through the veins of +business. You've got personality, and youth, and enthusiasm, and a +precious spark of the real thing known as advertising genius. +There's no describing it. You know what I mean. Also, you +know enough about actual advertising not to run an ad for a +five-thousand-dollar motor car in the "Police Gazette." All of +which leads up to this question: How would you like to buy your +neckties in Chicago, McChesney?' + +"'Chicago!' I blurted. + +"'We've taken a suite of offices in the new Lakeview Building on +Michigan Avenue. Would you like your office done in mahogany or +oak?'" + +Jock came to a full stop before his mother. His cheeks were +scarlet. Hers were pale. He was breathing quickly. She was very +quiet. His eyes glowed. So did hers, but the glow was dimmed by a +mist. + +"Mahogany's richer, but make it oak, son. It doesn't show +finger-marks so." Then, quite suddenly, she stood up, shaking a +little, and buried her face in the boy's shoulder. + +"Why--why, Mother! Don't! Don't, Blonde. We'll see each other +every few weeks. I'll be coming to New York to see the sights, +like the rest of the rubes, and I suppose the noise and lights +will confuse me so that I'll be glad to get back to the sylvan +quiet of Chicago. And then you'll run out there, eh? We'll have +regular bats, Mrs. Mack. Dinner and the theater and supper! Yes?" + +"Yes," said Emma McChesney, in muffled tones that totally lacked +enthusiasm. + +"Chicago's really only a suburb of New York, anyway, these days, +and--" + +Emma McChesney's head came up sharply. "Look here, son. If you're +going to live in Chicago I advise you to cut that suburb talk, and +sort of forget New York. Chicago's quite a village, for an inland +settlement, even if it has only two or three million people, and a +lake as big as all outdoors. That kind of talk won't elect you to +the University Club, son." + +So they talked, all through supper and during the evening. Rather, +Jock talked and his mother listened, interrupting with only an +occasional remark when the bubble of the boy's elation seemed to +grow too great. + +Quite suddenly Jock was silent. After the almost incessant rush of +conversation quiet settled down strangely on the two seated there +in the living-room with its soft-shaded lamps. Jock picked up a +magazine, twirled its pages, put it down, strolled into his own +room, and back again. + +"Mother," he said suddenly, standing before her, "there was a +time when you were afraid I wasn't going to pan out, wasn't +there?" + +"Not exactly afraid, dear, just a little doubtful, perhaps." + +Jock smiled a tolerant, forgiving smile. "You see, Mother, you +didn't understand, that's all. A woman doesn't. I was all right. A +man would have realized that. I don't mean, dear, that you haven't +always been wonderful, because you have. But it takes a man to +understand a man. When you thought I was going bad on your hands I +was just developing, that's all. Remember that time in Chicago, +Mother?" + +"Yes," answered Emma McChesney, "I remember." + +"Now a man would have understood that that was only kid +foolishness. If a fellow's got the stuff in him it'll show up, +sooner or later. If I hadn't had it in me I wouldn't be going to +Chicago as manager of the Berg, Shriner Western office, would I?" + +"No, dear." + +Jock looked at her. In an instant he was all contrition and +tenderness. "You're tired. I've talked you to death, haven't I? +Lordy, it's midnight! And I want to get down early to-morrow. +Conference with Mr. Berg, and Hupp." He tried not to sound too +important. + +Emma McChesney took his head between her two hands and kissed him +once on the lips, then, standing a-tiptoe, kissed his eyelids with +infinite gentleness as you kiss a baby's eyes. Then she brought +his cheek up against hers. And so they stood for a moment, +silently. + +Ten minutes later there came the sound of blithe whistling from +Jock's room. Jock always whistled when he went to bed and when he +rose. Even these years of living in a New York apartment had +not broken him of the habit. It was a cheerful, disconnected +whistling, sometimes high and clear, sometimes under the breath, +sometimes interspersed with song, and sometimes ceasing altogether +at critical moments, say, during shaving, or while bringing the +four-in-hand up tight and snug under the collar. It was one of +those comfortable little noises that indicate a masculine +presence; one of those pleasant, reassuring, man-in-the-house +noises that every woman loves. + +Emma McChesney, putting herself to bed in her room across the +hall, found herself listening, brush poised, lips parted, as +though to the exquisite strains of celestial music. There came the +thump of a shoe on the floor. An interval of quiet. Then another +thump. Without having been conscious of it, Emma McChesney had +grown to love the noises that accompanied Jock's retiring and +rising. His dressing was always signalized by bangings and +thumpings. His splashings in the tub were tremendous. His morning +plunge could be heard all over the six-room apartment. Mrs. +McChesney used to call gayly through the door: + +"Mercy, Jock! You sound like a school of whales coming up for +air." + +"You'll think I'm a school of sharks when it comes to breakfast," +Jock would call back. "Tell Annie to make enough toast, Mum. She's +the tightest thing with the toast I ever did--" + +The rest would be lost in a final surging splash. + +The noises in the room across the hall had subsided now. She +listened more intently. No, a drawer banged. Another. Then: + +"Hasn't my gray suit come back from the tailor's?" + +"It was to be sponged, too, you know. He said he'd bring it +Wednesday. This is Tuesday." + +"Oh!" Another bang. Then: '"Night, Mother!" + +"Good night, dear." Creaking sounds, then a long, comfortable sigh +of complete relaxation. + +Emma McChesney went on with her brushing. She brushed her hair +with the usual number of swift even strokes, from the top of the +shining head to the waist. She braided her hair into two plaits, +Gretchen fashion. Millions of scanty-locked women would have given +all they possessed to look as Emma McChesney looked standing there +in kimono and gown. She nicked out the light. Then she, too, +relaxed upon her pillow with a little sigh. Quiet fell on the +little apartment. The street noises came up to her, now roaring, +now growing faint. Emma McChesney lay there sleepless. She lay +flat, hands clasped across her breast, her braids spread out on +the pillow. In the darkness of the room the years rolled before +her in panorama: her girlhood, her marriage, her unhappiness, +Jock, the divorce, the struggle for work, those ten years on the +road. Those ten years on the road! How she had hated them--and +loved them. The stuffy trains, the jarring sleepers, the bare +little hotel bedrooms, the bad food, the irregular hours, the +loneliness, the hard work, the disappointments, the temptations. +Yes but the fascination of it, the dear friends she had made, the +great human lesson of it all! And all for Jock. That Jock might +have good schools, good clothes, good books, good surroundings, +happy times. Why, Jock had been the reason for it all! She had +swallowed insult because of Jock. She had borne the drudgery +because of Jock. She had resisted temptation, smiled under +hardship, worked, fought, saved, succeeded, all because of Jock. +And now this pivot about which her whole life had revolved was to +be pulled up, wrenched away. + +Over Emma McChesney, lying there in the dark, there swept one of +those unreasoning night-fears. The fear of living. The fear of +life. A straining of the eyeballs in the dark. The pounding of +heart-beats. + +She sat up in bed. Her hands went to her face. Her cheeks were +burning and her eyes smarted. She felt that she must see Jock. At +once. Just to be near him. To touch him. To take him in her arms, +with his head in the hollow of her breast, as she used to when he +was a baby. Why, he had been a baby only yesterday. And now he was +a man. Big enough to stand alone, to live alone, to do without +her. + +Emma McChesney flung aside the covers and sprang out of bed. She +thrust her feet in slippers, groped for the kimono at the foot of +the bed and tiptoed to the door. She listened. No sound from the +other room. She stole across the hall, stopped, listened, gained +the door. It was open an inch or more. Just to be near him, to +know that he lay there, sleeping! She pushed the door very, very +gently. Then she stood in the doorway a moment, scarcely +breathing, her head thrust forward, her whole body tense with +listening. She could not hear him breathe! She caught her breath +again in that unreasoning fear and took a quick step forward. + +"Stop or I'll shoot!" said a voice. Simultaneously the light +flashed on. Emma McChesney found herself blinking at a determined +young man who was steadily pointing a short, chubby, businesslike +looking steel affair in her direction. Then the hand that held the +steel dropped. + +"What is this, anyway?" demanded Jock rather crossly. "A George +Cohan comedy?" + +Emma McChesney leaned against the foot of the bed rather weakly. + +"What did you think--" + +"What would you think if you heard some one come sneaking along +the hall, stopping, listening, sneaking to your door, and then +opening it, and listening again, and sneaking in? What would you +think it was? How did I know you were going around making social +calls at two o'clock in the morning!" + +Suddenly Emma McChesney began to laugh. She leaned over the +footboard and laughed hysterically, her head in her arms. Jock +stared a moment in offended disapproval. Then the humor of it +caught him, and he buried his head in his pillow to stifle +unseemly shrieks. His legs kicked spasmodically beneath the +bedclothes. + +As suddenly as she had begun to laugh Mrs. McChesney became very +sober. + +"Stop it, Jock! Tell me, why weren't you sleeping?" + +"I don't know," replied Jock, as suddenly solemn. "I--sort +of--began to think, and I couldn't sleep." + +"What were you thinking of?" + +Jock looked down at the bedclothes and traced a pattern with one +forefinger on the sheet. Then he looked up. + +"Thinking of you." + +"Oh!" said Emma McChesney, like a bashful schoolgirl. "Of--me!" + +Jock sat up very straight and clasped his hands about his knees. +"I got to thinking of what I had said about having made good all +alone. That's rot. It isn't so. I was striped with yellow like a +stick of lemon candy. If I've got this far, it's all because of +you. I've been thinking all along that I was the original electric +self-starter, when you've really had to get out and crank me every +few miles." + +Into Emma McChesney's face there came a wonderful look. It was the +sort of look with which a newly-made angel might receive her +crown and harp. It was the look with which a war-hero sees the +medal pinned on his breast. It was the look of one who has come +into her Reward. Therefore: + +"What nonsense!" said Emma McChesney. "If you hadn't had it in +you, it wouldn't have come out." + +"It wasn't in me, in the first place," contested Jock stubbornly. +"You planted it." + +From her stand at the foot of the bed she looked at him, her eyes +glowing brighter and brighter with that wonderful look. + +"Now see here,"--severely--"I want you to go to sleep. I don't +intend to stand here and dispute about your ethical innards at +this hour. I'm going to kiss you again." + +"Oh, well, if you must," grinned Jock resignedly, and folded her +in a bear-hug. + +To Emma McChesney it seemed that the next three weeks leaped by, +not by days, but in one great bound. And the day came when a +little, chattering, animated group clustered about the slim young +chap who was fumbling with his tickets, glancing at his watch, +signaling a porter for his bags, talking, laughing, trying to hide +the pangs of departure under a cloak of gayety and badinage that +deceived no one. Least of all did it deceive the two women who +stood there. The eyes of the older woman never left his face. The +eyes of the younger one seldom were raised to his, but she saw his +every expression. Once Emma McChesney's eyes shifted a little so +as to include both the girl and the boy in her gaze. Grace Galt in +her blue serge and smart blue hat was worth a separate glance. + +Sam Hupp was there, T.A. Buck, Hopper, who was to be with him in +Chicago for the first few weeks, three or four of the younger men +in the office, frankly envious and heartily congratulatory. + +They followed him to his train, all laughter and animation. + +"If this train doesn't go in two minutes," said Jock, "I'll get +scared and chuck the whole business. Funny, but I'm not so keen on +going as I was three weeks ago." + +His eyes rested on the girl in the blue serge and the smart hat. +Emma McChesney saw that. She saw that his eyes still rested there +as he stood on the observation platform when the train pulled out. +The sight did not pain her as she thought it would. There was +success in every line of him as he stood there, hat in hand. There +was assurance in every breath of him. His clothes, his skin, his +clear eyes, his slim body, all were as they should be. He had +made a place in the world. He was to be a builder of ideas. She +thought of him, and of the girl in blue serge, and of their +children-to-be. + +Her breast swelled exultingly. Her head came up. + +This was her handiwork. She looked at it, and found that it was +good. + +"Let's strike for the afternoon and call it a holiday," suggested +Buck. + +Emma McChesney turned. The train was gone. "T.A., you'll never +grow up." + +"Never want to. Come on, let's play hooky, Emma." + +"Can't. I've a dozen letters to get out, and Miss Loeb wants to +show me that new knicker-bocker design of hers." + +They drove back to the office almost in silence. Emma McChesney +made straight for her desk and began dictating letters with an +energy that bordered on fury. At five o'clock she was still +working. At five-thirty T.A. Buck came in to find her still +surrounded by papers, samples, models. + +"What is this?" he demanded wrathfully, "an all-night session?" + +Emma McChesney looked up from her desk. Her face was flushed, her +eyes bright, but there was about her an indefinable air of +weariness. + +"T.A., I'm afraid to go home. I'll rattle around in that empty +flat like a hickory nut in a barrel." + +"We'll have dinner down-town and go to the theater." + +"No use. I'll have to go home sometime." + +"Now, Emma," remonstrated Buck, "you'll soon get used to it. Think +of all the years you got along without him. You were happy, +weren't you?" + +"Happy because I had somebody to work for, somebody to plan for, +somebody to worry about. When I think of what that flat will be +without him--Why, just to wake up and know that you can say good +morning to some one who cares! That's worth living for, isn't it?" + +"Emma," said T.A. evenly, "do you realize that you are virtually +hounding me into asking you to marry me?" + +"T.A.!" gasped Emma McChesney. + +"Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?" + + [Illustration: "'Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry + about, didn't you?'"] + +A little whimsical smile lay lightly on his lips. + +"Timothy Buck, I'm over forty years old." + +"Emma, in another minute I'm going to grow sentimental, and +nothing can stop me." + +She looked down at her hands. There fell a little silence. Buck +stirred, leaned forward. She looked up from the little watch that +ticked away at her wrist. + +"The minute's up, T.A.," said Emma McChesney. + + +THE END + + + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Personality Plus, by Edna Ferber + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PERSONALITY PLUS *** + +***** This file should be named 12677-8.txt or 12677-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/6/7/12677/ + +Produced by Janet Kegg and the Project Gutenberg Distributed +Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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A George Cohan comedy?', + by Edna Ferber +</title> +<style type="text/css"> + <!-- +body { font-size: 100%; } + p { text-indent: 1.5em; + margin-left: 15%; + margin-right: 15%; + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { text-align: center; } + hr { width: 50%; } + hr.short {width: 20%; } + hr.full { width: 100%; } + p.toc { text-align: center; font-size: 90%; } + p.itoc {text-align: left; font-size: 90%; text-indent: -2em; + margin-left: 25%; margin-right: 25%; margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-top: .5em; } + p.note { text-indent: 0em; text-align: center; } + p.note2 {text-indent: 0em; text-align: center; font-size: 90%; } + p.block { text-indent: 0em; margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; } + pre {font-size: 9pt;} + CENTER { padding: 1em; } + a:link {color: blue; text-decoration:none; } + link {color: blue; text-decoration: none; } + a:visited {color: navy; text-decoration: none; } + a:hover {color: red; } + // --> +</style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Personality Plus, by Edna Ferber + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Personality Plus + Some Experiences of Emma McChesney and Her Son, Jock + +Author: Edna Ferber + +Release Date: June 22, 2004 [EBook #12677] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PERSONALITY PLUS *** + + + + +Produced by Janet Kegg and the Project Gutenberg Distributed +Proofreading Team + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div style="height: 8em;"><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br></div> + +<a name="image-0001"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp01.jpg" width="262" height="425" +alt="'What is this anyway? A George Cohan comedy?'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> + +<hr> +<br> +<h1> + PERSONALITY PLUS +</h1> +<h3>SOME EXPERIENCES OF EMMA McCHESNEY<br> + AND HER SON, JOCK</h3> +<br> +<h4> + BY +</h4> +<h2> + EDNA FERBER +</h2> +<p class="note2"> + AUTHOR OF "DAWN O'HARA," "BUTTERED SIDE DOWN,"<br> + "ROAST BEEF, MEDIUM," ETC. +</p> +<br> +<p class="note"> + <i>WITH FIFTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS BY + JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG</i> +</p> +<br> +<h5> + NEW YORK<br> + FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY <br> + 1914 +</h5> + + + +<hr> +<br> + <h3>CONTENTS</h3> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0001"> + I. MAKING GOOD WITH MOTHER</a> +</p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0002"> +II. PERSONALITY PLUS</a> +</p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0003"> +III. DICTATED BUT NOT READ</a> +</p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0004"> +IV. THE MAN WITHIN HIM</a> +</p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0005"> +V. THE SELF-STARTER</a> +</p> +<br> + + +<hr class="short"> +<h3>ILLUSTRATIONS</h3> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0001"> +"'What is this anyway? A George Cohan comedy?'" +</a> <I>Frontispiece</I> +</p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0002"> +"'You're a jealous blond,' he laughed" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0003"> +"He was the concentrated essence of do-it-now" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0004"> +"'Hi! Hold that pose!' called Von Herman" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0005"> +"With a jolt Jock realized she had forgotten all about him" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0006"> +"'Well, raw-thah!" he drawled" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0007"> +"... became in some miraculous way a little boy again" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0008"> +"Jock McChesney began to carry a yellow walking stick down to +work" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0009"> +"'Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't mean it, but—'" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0010"> +"'Greetings!'" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0011"> +"She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and looked up into the +sullen, angry young face" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0012"> +"He made straight for the main desk with its battalion of clerks" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0013"> +"'Let's not waste any time,' he said" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0014"> +"He found his mother on the floor ... surrounded by piles of +pajamas, socks, shirts and collars" +</a></p> +<p class="itoc"><a href="#image-0015"> +"'Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?'" +</a></p> +<br> +<hr> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + + +<h2> + PERSONALITY PLUS +</h2> + +<a name="2H_4_0001"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 3em;"><br><br><br></div> + +<H2> + I +</h2> +<h3> + MAKING GOOD WITH MOTHER +</h3> +<br> +<p> + When men began to build cities vertically instead of horizontally + there passed from our highways a picturesque figure, and from our + language an expressive figure of speech. That oily-tongued, + persuasive, soft-stepping stranger in the rusty Prince Albert and + the black string tie who had been wont to haunt our back steps and + front offices with his carefully wrapped bundle, retreated in + bewildered defeat before the clanging blows of steel on steel that + meant the erection of the first twenty-story skyscraper. "As + slick," we used to say, "as a lightning-rod agent." Of what use + his wares on a building whose tower was robed in clouds and which + used the chain lightning for a necklace? The Fourth Avenue antique + dealer had another curio to add to his collection of andirons, + knockers, snuff boxes and warming pans. +</p> +<p> + But even as this quaint figure vanished there sprang up a new and + glittering one to take his place. He stood framed in the great + plate-glass window of the very building which had brought about + the defeat of his predecessor. A miracle of close shaving his face + was, and a marvel of immaculateness his linen. Dapper he was, and + dressy, albeit inclined to glittering effects and a certain + plethory at the back of the neck. Back of him stood shining shapes + that reflected his glory in enamel, and brass, and glass. His + language was floral, but choice; his talk was of gearings and + bearings and cylinders and magnetos; his method differed from that + of him who went before as the method of a skilled aëronaut differs + from that of the man who goes over Niagara in a barrel. And as he + multiplied and spread over the land we coined a new figure of + speech. "Smooth!" we chuckled. "As smooth as an automobile + salesman." +</p> +<p> + But even as we listened, fascinated by his fluent verbiage there + grew within us a certain resentment. Familiarity with his + glittering wares bred a contempt of them, so that he fell to + speaking of them as necessities instead of luxuries. He juggled + figures, and thought nothing of four of them in a row. We looked + at our five-thousand-dollar salary, so strangely shrunken and thin + now, and even as we looked we saw that the method of the unctuous, + anxious stranger had become antiquated in its turn. +</p> +<p> + Then from his ashes emerged a new being. Neither urger nor + spellbinder he. The twentieth century was stamped across his brow, + and on his lips was ever the word "Service." Silent, courteous, + watchful, alert, he listened, while you talked. His method, in + turn, made that of the silk-lined salesman sound like the hoarse + hoots of the ballyhoo man at a county fair. Blithely he accepted + five hundred thousand dollars and gave in return—a promise. And + when we would search our soul for a synonym to express all that + was low-voiced, and suave, and judicious, and patient, and sure, + we began to say, "As alert as an advertising expert." +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney, looking as fresh and clear-eyed as only twenty-one + and a cold shower can make one look, stood in the doorway of his + mother's bedroom. His toilette had halted abruptly at the + bathrobe stage. One of those bulky garments swathed his slim + figure, while over his left arm hung a gray tweed Norfolk coat. + From his right hand dangled a pair of trousers, in pattern a + modish black-and-white. +</p> +<p> + Jock regarded the gray garment on his arm with moody eyes. +</p> +<p> + "Well, I'd like to know what's the matter with it!" he demanded, a + trifle irritably. +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney, in the act of surveying her back hair in the + mirror, paused, hand glass poised half way, to regard her son. +</p> +<p> + "All right," she answered cheerfully. "I'll tell you. It's too + young." +</p> +<p> + "Young!" He held it at arm's length and stared at it. "What d'you + mean—young?" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney came forward, wrapping the folds of her kimono + about her. She took the disputed garment in one hand and held it + aloft. "I know that you look like a man on a magazine cover in it. + But Norfolk suits spell tennis, and seashore, and elegant leisure. + And you're going out this morning, Son, to interview business men. + You're going to try to impress the advertising world with the fact + that it needs your expert services. You walk into a business + office in a Norfolk suit, and everybody from the office boy to the + president of the company will ask you what your score is." +</p> +<p> + She tossed it back over his arm. +</p> +<p> + "I'll wear the black and white," said Jock resignedly, and turned + toward his own room. At his doorway he paused and raised his voice + slightly: "For that matter, they're looking for young men. + Everybody's young. Why, the biggest men in the advertising game + are just kids." He disappeared within his room, still talking. + "Look at McQuirk, advertising manager of the Combs Car Company. + He's so young he has to disguise himself in bone-trimmed + eye-glasses with a black ribbon to get away with it. Look at + Hopper, of the Berg, Shriner Company. Pulls down ninety thousand a + year, and if he's thirty-five I'll—" +</p> +<p> + "Well, you asked my advice," interrupted his mother's voice with + that muffled effect which is caused by a skirt being slipped over + the head, "and I gave it. Wear a white duck sailor suit with blue + anchors and carry a red tin pail and a shovel, if you want to look + young. Only get into it in a jiffy, Son, because breakfast will be + ready in ten minutes. I can tell by the way Annie's crashing the + cups. So step lively if you want to pay your lovely mother's + subway fare." +</p> +<p> + Ten minutes later the slim young figure, in its English-fitting + black and white, sat opposite Emma McChesney at the breakfast + table and between excited gulps of coffee outlined a meteoric + career in his chosen field. And the more he talked and the rosier + his figures of speech became, the more silent and thoughtful fell + his mother. She wondered if five o'clock would find a droop to the + set of those young shoulders; if the springy young legs in their + absurdly scant modish trousers would have lost some of their + elasticity; if the buoyant step in the flat-heeled shoes would not + drag a little. Thirteen years of business experience had taught + her to swallow smilingly the bitter pill of rebuff. But this boy + was to experience his first dose to-day. She felt again that + sensation of almost physical nausea—that sickness of heart and + spirit which had come over her when she had met her first sneer + and intolerant shrug. It had been her maiden trip on the road for + the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. She was secretary of + that company now, and moving spirit in its policy. But the wound + of that first insult still ached. A word from her would have + placed the boy and saved him from curt refusals. She withheld that + word. He must fight his fight alone. +</p> +<p> + "I want to write the kind of ad," Jock was saying excitedly, "that + you see 'em staring at in the subways, and street cars and + L-trains. I want to sit across the aisle and watch their up-turned + faces staring at that oblong, and reading it aloud to each other." +</p> +<p> + "Isn't that an awfully obvious necktie you're wearing, Jock?" + inquired his mother irrelevantly. +</p> +<p> + "This? You ought to see some of them. This is a Quaker stock in + comparison." He glanced down complacently at the vivid-hued silken + scarf that the season's mode demanded. Immediately he was off + again. "And the first thing you know, Mrs. McChesney, ma'am, we'll + have a motor truck backing up at the door once a month and six + strong men carrying my salary to the freight elevator in sacks." +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney buttered her bit of toast, then looked up to remark + quietly: +</p> +<p> + "Hadn't you better qualify for the trial heats, Jock, before you + jump into the finals?" +</p> +<p> + "Trial heats!" sneered Jock. "They're poky. I want real money. + Now! It isn't enough to be just well-to-do in these days. It needs + money. I want to be rich! Not just prosperous, but rich! So rich + that I can let the bath soap float around in the water without any + pricks of conscience. So successful that they'll say, 'And he's a + mere boy, too. Imagine!'" +</p> +<p> + And, "Jock dear," Emma McChesney said, "you've still to learn that + plans and ambitions are like soap bubbles. The harder you blow and + the more you inflate them, the quicker they burst. Plans and + ambitions are things to be kept locked away in your heart, Son, + with no one but yourself to take an occasional peep at them." +</p> +<p> + Jock leaned over the table, with his charming smile. "You're a + jealous blonde," he laughed. "Because I'm going to be a captain of + finance—an advertising wizard; you're afraid I'll grab the glory + all away from you." +</p> +<a name="image-0002"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp02.jpg" width="346" height="270" +alt="''You're a jealous blond,' he said'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + Mrs. McChesney folded her napkin and rose. She looked unbelievably + young, and trim, and radiant, to be the mother of this boasting + boy. +</p> +<p> + "I'm not afraid," she drawled, a wicked little glint in her blue + eyes. "You see, they'll only regard your feats and say, 'H'm, no + wonder. He ought to be able to sell ice to an Eskimo. His mother + was Emma McChesney.'" +</p> +<p> + And then, being a modern mother, she donned smart autumn hat and + tailored suit coat and stood ready to reach her office by + nine-thirty. But because she was as motherly as she was modern she + swung open the door between kitchen and dining-room to advise with + Annie, the adept. +</p> +<p> + "Lamb chops to-night, eh, Annie? And sweet potatoes. Jock loves + 'em. And corn au gratin and some head lettuce." She glanced toward + Jock in the hallway, then lowered her voice. "Annie," she teased, + "just give us one of your peach cobblers, will you? You see + he—he's going to be awfully—tired when he gets home." +</p> +<p> + So they went stepping off to work together, mother and son. A + mother of twenty-five years before would have watched her son + with tear-dimmed eyes from the vine-wreathed porch of a cottage. + There was no watching a son from the tenth floor of an up-town + apartment house. Besides, she had her work to do. The subway + swallowed both of them. Together they jostled and swung their way + down-town in the close packed train. At the Twenty-third Street + station Jock left her. +</p> +<p> + "You'll have dinner to-night with a full-fledged professional + gent," he bragged, in his youth and exuberance and was off down + the aisle and out on the platform. Emma McChesney managed to turn + in her nine-inch space of train seat so that she watched the slim, + buoyant young figure from the window until the train drew away and + he was lost in the stairway jam. Just so Rachel had watched the + boy Joseph go to meet the Persian caravans in the desert. +</p> +<p> + "Don't let them buffalo you, Jock," Emma had said, just before he + left her. "They'll try it. If they give you a broom and tell you + to sweep down the back stairs, take it, and sweep, and don't + forget the corners. And if, while you're sweeping, you notice that + that kind of broom isn't suited to the stairs go in and suggest a + new kind. They'll like it." +</p> +<p> + Brooms and back stairways had no place in Jock McChesney's mind as + the mahogany and gold elevator shot him up to the fourteenth floor + of the great office building that housed the Berg, Shriner + Company. Down the marble hallway he went and into the reception + room. A cruel test it was, that reception room, with the cruelty + peculiar to the modern in business. With its soft-shaded lamp, its + two-toned rug, its Jacobean chairs, its magazine-laden cathedral + oak table, its pot of bright flowers making a smart touch of color + in the somber richness of the room, it was no place for the + shabby, the down-and-out, the cringing, the rusty, or the + mendicant. +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney, from the tips of his twelve-dollar shoes to his + radiant face, took the test and stood it triumphantly. He had + entered with an air in which was mingled the briskness of + assurance with the languor of ease. There were times when Jock + McChesney was every inch the son of his mother. +</p> +<p> + There advanced toward Jock a large, plump, dignified personage, a + personage courteous, yet reserved, inquiring, yet not offensively + curious—a very Machiavelli of reception-room ushers. Even while + his lips questioned, his eyes appraised clothes, character, + conduct. +</p> +<p> + "Mr. Hupp, please," said Jock, serene in the perfection of his + shirt, tie, collar and scarf pin, upon which the appraising eye + now rested. "Mr. McChesney." He produced a card. +</p> +<p> + "Appointment?" +</p> +<p> + "No—but he'll see me." +</p> +<p> + But Machiavelli had seen too many overconfident callers. Their + very confidence had taught him caution. +</p> +<p> + "If you will please state your—ah—business—" +</p> +<p> + Jock smiled a little patient smile and brushed an imaginary fleck + of dust from the sleeve of his very correct coat. +</p> +<p> + "I want to ask him for a job as office boy," he jibed. +</p> +<p> + An answering grin overspread the fat features of the usher. Even + an usher likes his little joke. The sense of humor dies hard. +</p> +<p> + "I have a letter from him, asking me to call," said Jock, to + clinch it. +</p> +<p> + "This way." The keeper of the door led Jock toward the sacred + inner portal and held it open. "Mr. Hupp's is the last door to the + right." +</p> +<p> + The door closed behind him. Jock found himself in the big, busy, + light-flooded central office. Down either side of the great room + ran a row of tiny private offices, each partitioned off, each + outfitted with desk, and chairs, and a big, bright window. On his + way to the last door at the right Jock glanced into each tiny + office, glimpsing busy men bent absorbedly over papers, girls busy + with dictation, here and there a door revealing two men, or three, + deep in discussion of a problem, heads close together, voices + low, faces earnest. It came suddenly to the smartly modish, + overconfident boy walking the length of the long room that + the last person needed in this marvelously perfected and + smooth-running organization was a somewhat awed young man named + Jock McChesney. There came to him that strange sensation which + comes to every job-hunter; that feeling of having his spiritual + legs carry him out of the room, past the door, down the hall and + into the street, even as, in reality, they bore him on to the very + presence which he dreaded and yet wished to see. +</p> +<p> + Two steps more, and he stood in the last doorway, right. No + matinee idol, nervously awaiting his cue in the wings, could have + planned his entrance more carefully than Jock had planned this. + Ease was the thing; ease, bordering on nonchalance, mixed with a + brisk and businesslike assurance. +</p> +<p> + The entrance was lost on the man at the desk. He did not even look + up. If Jock had entered on all-fours, doing a double tango to + vocal accompaniment, it is doubtful if the man at the desk would + have looked up. Pencil between his fingers, head held a trifle to + one side in critical contemplation of the work before him, eyes + narrowed judicially, lips pursed, he was the concentrated essence + of do-it-now. +</p> +<a name="image-0003"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp03.jpg" width="270" height="344" +alt="'He was the concentrated essence of do-it-now'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + Jock waited a moment, in silence. The man at the desk worked on. + His head was semi-bald. Jock knew him to be thirty. Jock fixed his + eye on the semi-bald spot and spoke. +</p> +<p> + "My name's McChesney," he began. "I wrote you three days ago; you + probably will remember. You replied, asking me to call, and I—" +</p> +<p> + "Minute," exploded the man at the desk, still absorbed. +</p> +<p> + Jock faltered, stopped. The man at the desk did not look up. A + moment of silence, except for the sound of the busy pencil + traveling across the paper. Jock, glaring at the semi-bald spot, + spoke again. +</p> +<p> + "Of course, Mr. Hupp, if you're too busy to see me—" +</p> +<p> + "M-m-m-m," a preoccupied hum, such as a busy man makes when he is + trying to give attention to two interests. +</p> +<p> + "—why I suppose there's no sense in staying; but it seems to me + that common courtesy—" +</p> +<p> + The busy pencil paused, quivered in the making of a final period, + enclosed the dot in a proofreader's circle, and rolled away across + the desk, its work done. +</p> +<p> + "Now," said Sam Hupp, and swung around, smiling, to face the + affronted Jock. "I had to get that out. They're waiting for it." + He pressed a desk button. "What can I do for you? Sit down, sit + down." +</p> +<p> + There was a certain abrupt geniality about him. His + tortoise-rimmed glasses gave him an oddly owlish look, like a + small boy taking liberties with grandfather's spectacles. +</p> +<p> + Jock found himself sitting down, his anger slipping from him. +</p> +<p> + "My name's McChesney," he began. "I'm here because I want to work + for this concern." He braced himself to present the convincing, + reason-why arguments with which he had prepared himself. +</p> +<p> + Whereupon Sam Hupp, the brisk, proceeded to whisk his breath and + arguments away with an unexpected: +</p> +<p> + "All right. What do you want to do?" +</p> +<p> + Jock's mouth fell open. "Do!" he stammered. "Do! Why—anything—" +</p> +<p> + Sam Hupp's quick eye swept over the slim, attractive, radiant, + correctly-garbed young figure before him. Unconsciously he rubbed + his bald spot with a rueful hand. +</p> +<p> + "Know anything about writing, or advertising?" +</p> +<p> + Jock was at ease immediately. "Quite a lot; yes. I practically + rewrote the Gridiron play that we gave last year, and I was + assistant advertising manager of the college publications for + two years. That gives a fellow a pretty broad knowledge of + advertising." +</p> +<p> + "Oh, Lord!" groaned Sam Hupp, and covered his eyes with his hand, + as if in pain. +</p> +<p> + Jock stared. The affronted feeling was returning. Sam Hupp + recovered himself and smiled a little wistfully. +</p> +<p> + "McChesney, when I came up here twelve years ago I got a job as + reception-room usher. A reception-room usher is an office boy in + long pants. Sometimes, when I'm optimistic, I think that if I live + twelve years longer I'll begin to know something about the + rudiments of this game." +</p> +<p> + "Oh, of course," began Jock, apologetically. But Hupp's glance was + over his head. Involuntarily Jock turned to follow the direction + of his eyes. +</p> +<p> + "Busy?" said a voice from the doorway. +</p> +<p> + "Come in, Dutch! Come in!" boomed Hupp. +</p> +<p> + The man who entered was of the sort that the boldest might well + hesitate to address as "Dutch"—a tall, slim, elegant figure, + Van-dyked, bronzed. +</p> +<p> + "McChesney, this is Von Herman, head of our art department." +</p> +<p> + Their hands met in a brief clasp. Von Herman's thoughts were + evidently elsewhere. +</p> +<p> + "Just wanted to tell you that that cussed model's skipped out. + Gone with a show. Just when I had the whole series blocked out in + my mind. He was a wonder. No brains, but a marvel for looks and + style. These people want real stuff. Don't know how I'm going to + give it to them now." +</p> +<p> + Hupp sat up. "Got to!" he snapped. "Campaign's late, as it is. + Can't you get an ordinary man model and fake the Greek god + beauty?" +</p> +<p> + "Yes—but it'll look faked. If I could lay my hands on a chap who + could wear clothes as if they belonged to him—" +</p> +<p> + Hupp rose. "Here's your man," he cried, with a snap of his + fingers. "Clothes! Look at him. He invented 'em. Why, you could + photograph him and he'd look like a drawing." +</p> +<p> + Von Herman turned, surprised, incredulous, hopeful, his artist eye + brightening at the ease and grace and modishness of the smart, + well-knit figure before him. +</p> +<p> + "Me!" exploded Jock, his face suffused with a dull, painful red. + "Me! Pose! For a clothing ad!" +</p> +<p> + "Well," Hupp reminded him, "you said you'd do anything." +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney glared belligerently. Hupp returned the stare with + a faint gleam of amusement shining behind the absurd glasses. The + amused look changed to surprise as he beheld the glare in Jock's + eyes fading. For even as he glared there had come a warning to + Jock—a warning sent just in time from that wireless station + located in his subconscious mind. A vivid face, full of pride, and + hope, and encouragement flashed before him. +</p> +<p> + "Jock," it said, "don't let 'em buffalo you. They'll try it. If + they give you a broom and tell you to sweep down the back + stairs—" +</p> +<p> + Jock was smiling his charming, boyish smile. +</p> +<p> + "Lead me to your north light," he laughed at Von Herman. "Got any + Robert W. Chambers's heroines tucked away there?" +</p> +<p> + Hupp's broad hand came down on his shoulder with a thwack. "That's + the spirit, McChesney! That's the—" He stopped, abruptly. "Say, + are you related to Mrs. Emma McChesney, of the Featherloom Skirt + Company?" +</p> +<p> + "Slightly. She's my one and only mother." +</p> +<p> + "She—you mean—her son! Well I'll be darned!" He held out his + hand to Jock. "If you're a real son of your mother I wish you'd + just call the office boy as you step down the hall with Von Herman + and tell him to bring me a hammer and a couple of spikes. I'd + better nail down my desk." +</p> +<p> + "I'll promise not to crowd you for a year or two," grinned Jock + from the doorway, and was off with the pleased Von Herman. +</p> +<p> + Past the double row of beehives again, into the elevator, out + again, up a narrow iron stairway, into a busy, cluttered, + skylighted room. Pictures, posters, photographs hung all about. + Some of the pictures Jock recognized as old friends that had gazed + familiarly at him from subway trains and street cars and theater + programmes. Golf clubs, tennis rackets, walking sticks, billiard + cues were stacked up in corners. And yet there was a bare and + orderly look about the place. Two silent, shirt-sleeved men were + busy at drawing boards. Through a doorway beyond Jock could see + others similarly engaged in the next room. On a platform in one + corner of the room posed a young man in one of those costumes the + coat of which is a mongrel mixture of cutaway and sack. You see + them worn by clergymen with unsecular ideas in dress, and by the + leader of the counterfeiters' gang in the moving pictures. The + pose was that met with in the backs of magazines—the head lifted, + eyes fixed on an interesting object unseen, one arm crooked to + hold a cane, one foot advanced, the other trailing slightly to + give a Fifth Avenue four o'clock air. His face was expressionless. + On his head was a sadly unironed silk hat. +</p> +<p> + Von Herman glanced at the drawing tacked to the board of one of + the men. "That'll do, Flynn," he said to the model. He glanced + again at the drawing. "Bring out the hat a little more, Mack. They + won't burnish it if you don't,"—to the artist. Then, turning + about, "Where's that girl?" +</p> +<p> + From a far corner, sheltered by long green curtains, stepped a + graceful almost childishly slim figure in a bronze-green Norfolk + suit and close-fitting hat from beneath which curled a fluff of + bright golden hair. Von Herman stared at her. +</p> +<p> + "You're not the girl," he said. "You won't do." +</p> +<p> + "You sent for me," retorted the girl. "I'm Miss Michelin—Gelda + Michelin. I posed for you six months ago, but I've been out of + town with the show since then." +</p> +<p> + Von Herman, frowning, opened a table drawer, pulled out a card + index, ran his long fingers through it and extracted a card. He + glanced at it, and then, the frown deepening, read it aloud. +</p> +<p> + "'Michelin, Gelda. Telephone Bryant 4759. Brunette. Medium build. + Good neck and eyes. Good figure. Good clothes.'" +</p> +<p> + He glanced up. "Well?" +</p> +<p> + "That's me," said Miss Michelin calmly. "I've got the same + telephone number and eyes and neck and clothes. Of course my hair + is different and I am thinner, but that's business. I'd like to + know what chance a fat girl would have in the chorus these days." +</p> +<p> + Von Herman groaned. "I'll pay you for the time you've waited and + for your trouble. Can't use you for these pictures." Then as she + left he turned a comically despairing face to the two men at the + drawing boards. "What are we going to do? We've got to make a + start on these pictures and everything has gone wrong. They want + something special. Two figures, young man and woman. Said + expressly they didn't want a chicken. No romping curls and none of + that eyes and lips fool-girl stuff. This chap's ideal for the + man." He pointed to Jock. +</p> +<p> + Jock had been staring, fascinated, at the shaded, zigzag marks + which the artist—dark-skinned, velvet-eyed, foreign-looking + youth—was making on the sheet of paper before him. He had + scarcely glanced up during the entire scene. Now he looked briefly + and coolly at Jock. +</p> +<p> + "Where did you get him?" he asked, with the precise enunciation of + the foreign-born. "Good figure. And he wears his clothes not like + a cab driver, as the others do." +</p> +<p> + "Thanks," drawled Jock, flushing a little. Then, boyish curiosity + getting the better of him, "Say, tell me, what in the world are + you doing to that drawing?" +</p> +<p> + He of the velvety eyes smiled a twisted little smile. His slim + brown fingers never stopped in their work of guiding the pen in + its zigzag path. +</p> +<p> + "It is work," he sneered, "to delight the soul of an artist. I am + now engaged in the pleasing task of putting the bones in a + herringbone suit." +</p> +<p> + But Jock did not smile. Here was another man, he thought, who had + been given a broom and told to sweep down the stairway. +</p> +<p> + Von Herman was regarding him almost wistfully. "I hate to let you + slip," he said. Then, his face brightening, "By Jove! I wonder if + Miss Galt would pose for us if we told her what a fix we were in." +</p> +<p> + He picked up the telephone receiver. "Miss Galt, please," he said. + Then, aside, "Of course it's nerve to ask a girl who's earning + three thousand a year to leave her desk and come up and pose + for—Hello! Miss Galt?" +</p> +<p> + Jock, seated on the edge of the models' platform, was beginning to + enjoy himself. Even this end of the advertising business had its + interesting side, he thought. Ten minutes later he knew it had. +</p> +<p> + Ten minutes later there appeared Miss Galt. Jock left off + swinging his legs from the platform and stood up. Miss Galt was + that kind of girl. Smooth black hair parted and coiled low as only + an exquisitely shaped head can dare to wear its glory-crown. A + face whose expression was sweetly serious in spite of its youth. A + girl whose clothes were the sort of clothes that girls ought to + wear in offices, and don't. +</p> +<p> + "This is mighty good of you, Miss Galt," began Von Herman. "It's + the Kool Komfort Klothes Company's summer campaign stuff. We'll + only need you for an hour or so—to get the expression and general + outline. Poster stuff, really. Then this young man will pose for + the summer union suit pictures." +</p> +<p> + "Don't apologize," said Miss Galt. "We had a hard enough time to + get that Kool Komfort account. We don't want to start wrong with + the pictures. Besides, I think posing's real fun." +</p> +<p> + Jock thought so too, quite suddenly. Just as suddenly Von Herman + remembered the conventions and introduced them. +</p> +<p> + "McChesney?" repeated Miss Galt, crisply. "I know a Mrs. + McChesney, of the T.A. Buck—" +</p> +<p> + "My mother," proudly. +</p> +<p> + "Your mother! Then why—" She stopped. +</p> +<p> + "Because," said Jock, "I'm the rawest rooky in the Berg, Shriner + Company. And when I begin to realize what I don't know about + advertising I'll probably want to plunge off the Palisades." +</p> +<p> + Miss Galt smiled up at him, her clear, frank eyes meeting his. +</p> +<p> + "You'll win," she said. +</p> +<p> + "Even if I lose—I win now," said Jock, suddenly audacious. +</p> +<p> + "Hi! Hold that pose!" called Von Herman, happily. +</p> +<a name="image-0004"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp04.jpg" width="339" height="270" +alt="''Hi! hold that pose!' called Von Herman'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<a name="2H_4_0002"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + II +</h2> +<h3> + PERSONALITY PLUS +</h3> +<br> +<p> + There are seven stages in the evolution of that individual whose + appearance is the signal for a listless "Who-do-you-want-to-see?" + from the white-bloused, drab-haired, anæmic little girl who sits + in the outer office forever reading last month's magazines. The + badge of fear brands the novice. Standing hat in hand, nervous, + apprehensive, gulpy, with the elevator door clanging behind him, + and the sacred inner door closed before him, he offers up a silent + and paradoxical "Thank heaven!" at the office girl's languid "Not + in," and dives into the friendly shelter of the next elevator + going down. When, at that same message, he can smile, as with a + certain grim agreeableness he says, "I'll wait," then has he + reached the seventh stage, and taken the orders of the regularly + ordained. +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney had learned to judge an unknown prospective by + glancing at his hall rug and stenographer, which marks the fifth + stage. He had learned to regard office boys with something less + than white-hot hate. He had learned to let the other fellow do the + talking. He had learned to condense a written report into + twenty-five words. And he had learned that there was as much + difference between the profession of advertising as he had thought + of it and advertising as it really was, as there is between a + steam calliope and a cathedral pipe organ. +</p> +<p> + In the big office of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company they + had begun to chuckle a bit over the McChesney solicitor's reports. + Those same reports indicated that young McChesney was beginning to + find the key to that maddening jumble of complexities known as + human nature. Big Sam Hupp, who was the pet caged copy-writing + genius of the place, used even to bring an occasional example of + Jock's business badinage into the Old Man's office, and the two + would grin in secret. As when they ran thus: +</p> +<p class="block"> + <i>Pepsinale Manufacturing Company</i>: <br><br> + + Mr. Bowser is the kind of gentleman who curses his + subordinates in front of the whole office force. Very touchy. + Crumpled his advertising manager. Our chance to get at him is + when he is in one of his rare good humors. +</p> +<p> + Or: +</p> +<p class="block"> + <i>E.V. Kreiss Company</i>:<br><br> + + Kreiss very difficult to reach. Permanent address seems to be + Italy, Egypt, and other foreign ports. Occasionally his + instructions come from Palm Beach. +</p> +<p> + At which there rose up before the reader a vision of Kreiss + himself—baggy-eyed, cultivated English accent, interested in + polo, fast growing contemptuous of things American. +</p> +<p> + Or still another: +</p> +<p class="block"> + <i>Hodge Manufacturing Company:</i><br><br> + + Mr. Hodge is a very conservative gentleman. Sits still and + lets others do the talking. Has gained quite a reputation for + business acumen with this one attribute. Spent $500 last year. + Holding his breath preparatory to taking another plunge. +</p> +<p> + It was about the time that Jock McChesney had got over the novelty + of paying for his own clothes, and had begun to talk business in a + slightly patronizing way to his clever and secretly amused mother, + Mrs. Emma McChesney, secretary of the T.A. Buck Featherloom + Petticoat Company, that Sam Hupp noticed a rather cocky + over-assurance in Jock's attitude toward the world in general. + Whereupon he sent for him. +</p> +<p> + On Sam Hupp's broad flat desk stood an array of diminutive jars, + and bottles, and tiny pots that would have shamed the toilette + table of a musical comedy star's dressing-room. There were + rose-tinted salves in white bottles. There were white creams in + rose-tinted jars. There were tins of ointment and boxes of + fragrant soap. +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney, entering briskly, eyed the array in some surprise. + Then he grinned, and glanced wickedly at Sam Hupp's prematurely + bald head. +</p> +<p> + "No use, Mr. Hupp. They say if it's once gone it's gone. Get a + toupee." +</p> +<p> + "Shut up!" growled Sam Hupp, good-humoredly. "Stay in this game + long enough and you'll be a hairless wonder yourself. Ten years + ago the girls used to have to tie their hands or wear mittens to + keep from running their white fingers through my waving silken + locks. Sit down a minute." +</p> +<p> + Jock reached forward and took up a jar of cream. He frowned in + thought. Then: "Thought I recognized this stuff. Mother uses it. + I've seen it on the bathroom shelf." +</p> +<p> + "You bet she uses it," retorted Sam Hupp. "What's more, millions + of other women will be using it in the next few years. This + woman," he pointed to the name on the label, "has hit upon the + real thing in toilette flub-dub. She's made a little fortune + already, and if she don't look out she'll be rich. They've got + quite a plant. When she started she used to put the stuff together + herself over the kitchen stove. They say it's made of cottage + cheese, stirred smooth and tinted pink. Well, anyway they're + nationally known now—or will be when they start to advertise + right." +</p> +<p> + "I've seen some of their stuff advertised—somewhere," interrupted + Jock, "but I don't remember—" +</p> +<p> + "There you are. You see the head of this concern is a little bit + frightened at the way she seems slated to become a lady cold cream + magnate. They say she's scared pink for fear somebody will steal + her recipes. She has a kid nephew who acts as general manager, and + they're both on the job all the time. They say the lady herself + looks like the spinster in a b'gosh drama. You can get a boy to + look up your train schedule." +</p> +<p> + Train! Schedule! Across Jock McChesney's mind there flashed a + vision of himself, alert, confident, brisk, taking the luxurious + nine o'clock for Philadelphia. Or, maybe, the Limited to Chicago. + Dashing down to the station in a taxi, of course. Strolling down + the car aisle to take his place among those other thoroughbreds of + commerce—men whose chamois gloves and walking sticks, and talk of + golf and baseball and motoring spelled elegant leisure, even as + their keen eyes and shrewd faces and low-voiced exchange of such + terms as "stocks," and "sales" and "propositions" proclaimed them + intent on bagging the day's business. Sam Hupp's next words + brought him back to reality with a jerk. +</p> +<p> + "I think you have to change at Buffalo. It gets you to Tonawanda + in the morning. Rotten train." +</p> +<p> + "Tonawanda!" repeated Jock. +</p> +<p> + "Now listen, kid." Sam Hupp leaned forward, and his eyes behind + their great round black-rimmed glasses were intent on Jock. "I'm + not going to try to steer you. You think that advertising is a + game. It isn't. There are those who think it's a science. But it + isn't that either. It's white magic, that's what it is. And you + can't learn it from books, any more than you can master trout + fishing from reading 'The Complete Angler.'" He swung about and + swept the beauty lotions before him in a little heap at the end of + his desk. "Here, take this stuff. And get chummy with it. Eat it, + if necessary; learn it somehow." +</p> +<p> + Jock stood up, a little dazed. "But, what!—How?—I mean—" +</p> +<p> + Sam Hupp glanced up at him. "Sending you down there isn't my idea. + It's the Old Man's. He's got an idea that you—" He paused and put + a detaining hand on Jock McChesney's arm. "Look here. You think I + know a little something about advertising, don't you?" +</p> +<p> + "You!" laughed Jock. "You're the guy who put the whitening in the + Great White Way. Everybody knows you were the—" +</p> +<p> + "M-m-m, thanks," interrupted Sam Hupp, a little dryly. "Let me + tell you something, young 'un. I've got what you might call a + thirty-horse-power mind. I keep it running on high all the time, + with the muffler cut out, and you can hear me coming for miles. + But the Old Man,"—he leaned forward impressively,—"the Old Man, + boy, has the eighty-power kind, built like a watch—no smoke, no + dripping, and you can't even hear the engine purr. But when he + throws her open! Well, he can pass everything on the road. Don't + forget that." He turned to his desk again and reached for a stack + of papers and cuts. "Good luck to you. If you want any further + details you can get 'em from Hayes." He plunged into his work. +</p> +<p> + There arose in Jock McChesney's mind that instinct of the man in + his hour of triumph—the desire to tell a woman of his greatness. + He paused a second outside Sam Hupp's office, turned, and walked + quickly down the length of the great central room. He stopped + before a little glass door at the end, tapped lightly, and + entered. +</p> +<p> + Grace Galt, copy-writer, looked up, frowning a little. Then she + smiled. Miss Galt had a complete layout on the desk before + her—scrap books, cuts, copy, magazines. There was a little smudge + on the end of her nose. Grace Galt was writing about magnetos. + She was writing about magnetos in a way to make you want to drop + your customer, or your ironing, or your game, and go downtown and + buy that particular kind of magneto at once. Which is the + secretest part of the wizardry of advertising copy. To look at + Grace Galt you would have thought that she should have been + writing about the rose-tinted jars in Jock McChesney's hands + instead of about such things as ignition, and insulation, and ball + bearings, and induction windings. But it was Grace Galt's gift + that she could take just such hard, dry, technical facts and weave + them into a story that you followed to the end. She could make you + see the romance in condensers and transformers. She had the power + that caused the reader to lose himself in the charm of magnetic + poles, and ball bearings, and high-tension sparks. +</p> +<p> + "Just dropped in to say good-by," said Jock, very casually. "Going + to run up-state to see the Athena Company—toilette specialties, + you know. It ought to be a big account." +</p> +<p> + "Athena?" Grace Galt regarded him absently, her mind still on her + work. Then her eyes cleared. "You mean at Tonawanda? And they're + sending you! Well!" She put out a congratulatory hand. Jock + gripped it gratefully. +</p> +<p> + "Not so bad, eh?" he boasted. +</p> +<p> + "Bad!" echoed Grace Galt. Her face became serious. "Do you realize + that there are men in this office who have been here for five + years, six years, or even more, and who have never been given a + chance to do anything but stenography, or perhaps some private + secretarying?" +</p> +<p> + "I know it," agreed Jock. But there was no humbleness in his tone. + He radiated self-satisfaction. He seemed to grow and expand before + her eyes. A little shadow of doubt crept across Grace Galt's + expression of friendly interest. +</p> +<p> + "Are you scared," she asked; "just the least bit?" +</p> +<p> + Jock flushed a little. "Well," he confessed ruefully, "I don't + mind telling you I am—a little." +</p> +<p> + "Good!" +</p> +<p> + "Good?" +</p> +<p> + "Yes. The head of that concern is a woman. That's one reason why + they didn't send me, I suppose. I—I'd like to say something, if + you don't mind." +</p> +<p> + "Anything you like," said Jock graciously. +</p> +<p> + "Well, then, don't be afraid of being embarrassed and fussed. If + you blush and stammer a little, she'll like it. Play up the coy + stuff." +</p> +<p> + "The coy stuff!" echoed Jock. "I hadn't thought much about my + attitude toward the—er—the lady,"—a little stiffly. +</p> +<p> + "Well, you'd better," answered Miss Galt crisply. She put out her + hand in much the same manner as Sam Hupp had used. "Good luck to + you. I'll have to ask you to go now. I'm trying to make this + magneto sound like something without which no home is complete, + and to make people see that there's as much difference between it + and every other magneto as there is between the steam shovels that + dug out the Panama Canal and the junk that the French left + there—" She stopped. Her eyes took on a far-away look. Her lips + were parted slightly. "Why, that's not a bad idea—that last. I'll + use that. I'll—" +</p> +<a name="image-0005"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp05.jpg" width="270" height="363" +alt="'With a jolt Jock realized she had forgotten all +about him'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + She began to scribble rapidly on the sheet of paper before her. + With a jolt Jock McChesney realized that she had forgotten all + about him. He walked quietly to the door, opened it, shut it very + quietly, then made for the nearest telephone. He knew one woman he + could count on to be proud of him. He gave his number, waited a + little eager moment, then: +</p> +<p> + "Featherloom Petticoat Company? Mrs. McChesney." And waited again. + Then he smiled. +</p> +<p> + "You needn't sound so official," he laughed; "it's only your son. + Listen. I"—he took on an elaborate carelessness of tone—"I've + got to take a little jump out of town. On business. Oh, a day or + so. Rather important though. I'll have time to run up to the flat + and throw a few things into a bag. I'll tell you, I really ought + to keep a bag packed down here. In case of emergency, you know. + What? It's the Athena Toilette Preparations Company. Well, I + should say it is! I'll wire you. You bet. Thanks. My what? Oh, + toothbrush. No. Good-by." +</p> +<p> + So it was that at three-ten Jock McChesney took himself, his + hopes, his dread, and his smart walrus bag aboard a train that + halted and snuffed and backed, and bumped and halted with + maddening frequency. But it landed him at last in a little town + bearing the characteristics of all American little towns. It was + surprisingly full of six-cylinder cars, and five and ten-cent + stores, and banks with Doric columns, and paved streets. +</p> +<p> + After he had registered at the hotel, and as he was cleaning up a + bit, he passed an amused eye over the bare, ugly, fusty little + hotel bedroom. But somehow, as he stood in the middle of the room, + a graceful, pleasing figure of youth and confidence, the smile + faded. Towel in hand he surveyed the barrenness of it. He stared + at the impossible wall paper, at the battered furniture, the worn + carpet. He sniffed the stuffy smell of—what was that smell, + anyhow?—straw, and matting, and dust, and the ghost-odor of + hundreds who had occupied the room before him. It came over him + with something of a shock that this same sort of room had been his + mother's only home in the ten years she had spent on the road as a + traveling saleswoman for the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat + Company. This was what she had left in the morning. To this she + had come back at night. As he stared ahead of him there rose + before him a mental picture of her—the brightness of her, the + sunniness, the indomitable energy, and pluck, and courage. With a + sudden burst of new determination he wadded the towel into a moist + ball, flung it at the washstand, seized hat, coat, and gloves, and + was off down the hall. So it was with something of his mother's + splendid courage in his heart, but with nothing of her canny + knowledge in his head, Jock McChesney fared forth to do battle + with the merciless god Business. +</p> +<p> + It was ten-thirty of a brilliant morning just two days later that + a buoyant young figure swung into an elevator in the great office + building that housed the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Just + one more grain of buoyant swing and the young man's walk might + have been termed a swagger. As it was, his walrus bag just saved + him. +</p> +<p> + Stepping out of the lift he walked, as from habit, to the little + unlettered door which admitted employes to the big, bright, inner + office. But he did not use it. Instead he turned suddenly and + walked down the hall to the double door which led into the + reception room. He threw out his legs stiffly and came down rather + flat-footed, the way George Cohan does when he's pleased with + himself in the second act. +</p> +<p> + "Hel-lo, Mack!" he called out jovially. +</p> +<p> + Mack, the usher, so called from his Machiavellian qualities, + turned to survey the radiant young figure before him. +</p> +<p> + "Good morning, Mr. McChesney," he made answer smoothly. Mack + never forgot himself. His keen eye saw the little halo of + self-satisfaction that hovered above Jock McChesney's head. "A + successful trip, I see." +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney laughed a little, pleased, conscious laugh. "Well, + raw-thah!" he drawled, and opened the door leading into the main + office. He had been loath to lose one crumb of the savor of it. +</p> +<a name="image-0006"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp06.jpg" width="270" height="381" +alt="''Well, raw-thah!' he drawled'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + Still smiling, he walked to his own desk, with a nod here and + there, dropped his bag, took off coat and hat, selected a + cigarette, tapped it smartly, lighted it, and was off down the big + room to the little cubby-hole at the other end. But Sam Hupp's + plump, keen, good-humored face did not greet him as he entered. + The little room was deserted. Frowning, Jock sank into the empty + desk chair. He cradled his head in his hands, tilted the chair, + pursed his mouth over the slender white cylinder and squinted his + eyes up toward the lazy blue spirals of smoke—the very picture + of content and satisfaction. +</p> +<p> + Hupp was in attending some conference in the Old Man's office, of + course. He wished they'd hurry. The business of the week was being + boiled-down there. Those conferences were great cauldrons into + which the day's business, or the week's, was dumped, to be boiled, + simmered, stirred, skimmed, cooled. Jock had never been privileged + to attend one of these meetings. Perhaps by this time next week he + might have a spoon in the stirring too— +</p> +<p> + There came the murmur of voices as a door was opened. The voices + came nearer. Then quick footsteps. Jock recognized them. He rose, + smiling. Sam Hupp, vibrating electric energy, breezed in. +</p> +<p> + "Oh—hello!" he said, surprised. Jock's smile widened to a grin. + "You back?" +</p> +<p> + "Hello, Hupp," he said, coolly. It was the first time that he had + omitted the prefix. "You just bet I'm back." +</p> +<p> + There flashed across Sam Hupp's face a curious little look. The + next instant it was gone. +</p> +<p> + "Well," said Jock, and took a long breath. +</p> +<p> + "Mr. Berg wants to see you." +</p> +<p> + Hupp plunged into his work. +</p> +<p> + "Me? The Old Man wants to see me?" +</p> +<p> + "Yes," snapped Hupp shortly. Then, in a new tone, "Look here, son. + If he says—" He stopped, and turned back to his work again. +</p> +<p> + "If he says what?" +</p> +<p> + "Nothing. Better run along." +</p> +<p> + "What's the hurry? I want to tell you about—" +</p> +<p> + "Better tell him." +</p> +<p> + "Oh, all right," said Jock stiffly. If that was the way they + treated a fellow who had turned his first real trick, why, very + well. He flung out of the little room and made straight for the + Old Man's office. +</p> +<p> + Seated at his great flat table desk, Bartholomew Berg did not look + up as Jock entered. This was characteristic of the Old Man. + Everything about the chief was deliberate, sure, unhurried. He + finished the work in hand as though no other person stood there + waiting his pleasure. When at last he raised his massive head he + turned his penetrating pale blue eyes full on Jock. Jock was + conscious of a little tremor running through him. People were apt + to experience that feeling when that steady, unblinking gaze was + turned upon them. And yet it was just the clear, unwavering look + with which Bartholomew Berg, farmer boy, had been wont to gaze out + across the fresh-plowed fields to the horizon beyond which lay the + city he dreamed about. +</p> +<p> + "Tell me your side of it," said Bartholomew Berg tersely. +</p> +<p> + "All of it?" Jock's confidence was returning. +</p> +<p> + "Till I stop you." +</p> +<p> + "Well," began Jock. And standing there at the side of the Old + Man's desk, his legs wide apart, his face aglow, his hands on his + hips, he plunged into his tale. +</p> +<p> + "It started off with a bang from the minute I walked into the + office of the plant and met Snyder, the advertising manager. We + shook hands and sparked—just like that." He snapped thumb and + finger. "What do you think! We belong to the same frat! He's '93. + Inside of ten minutes he and I were Si-washing around like mad. He + introduced me to his aunt. I told her who I was, and all that. But + I didn't start off by talking business. We got along from the + jump. They both insisted on showing me through the place. + I—well,"—he laughed a little ruefully,—"there's something + about being shown through a factory that sort of paralyzes my + brain. I always feel that I ought to be asking keen, alert, + intelligent questions like the ones Kipling always asks, or the + Japs when they're taken through the Stock Yards. But I never can + think of any. Well, we didn't talk business much. But I could see + that they were interested. They seemed to,"—he faltered and + blushed a little,—"to like me, you know. I played golf with + Snyder that afternoon and he beat me. Won two balls. The next + morning I found there's been a couple of other advertising men + there. And while I was talking to Snyder—he was telling me about + the time he climbed up and muffled the chapel bell—that fellow + Flynn, of the Dowd Agency, came in. Snyder excused himself, and + talked to him for—oh, half an hour, perhaps. But that was all. He + was back again in no time. After that it looked like plain + sailing. We got along wonderfully. When I left I said, 'I expect + to know you both better—'" +</p> +<p> + "I guess," interrupted the Old Man slowly, "that you'll know them + better all right." He reached out with one broad freckled hand + and turned back the page of a desk memorandum. "The Athena account + was given to the Dowd Advertising Agency yesterday." +</p> +<p> + It took Jock McChesney one minute—one long, sickening minute—to + grasp the full meaning of it all. He stared at the massive figure + before him, his mouth ludicrously open, his eyes round, his breath + for the moment suspended. Then, in a queer husky voice: +</p> +<p> + "D'you mean—the Dowd—but—they couldn't—" +</p> +<p> + "I mean," said Bartholomew Berg, "that you've scored what the + dramatic critics call a personal hit; but that doesn't get the box + office anything." +</p> +<p> + "But, Mr. Berg, they said—" +</p> +<p> + "Sit down a minute, boy." He waved one great heavy hand toward a + near-by chair. His eyes were not fixed on Jock. They gazed out of + the window toward the great white tower toward which hundreds of + thousands of eyes were turned daily—the tower, four-faced but + faithful. +</p> +<p> + "McChesney, do you know why you fell down on that Athena account?" +</p> +<p> + "Because I'm an idiot," blurted Jock. "Because I'm a + double-barreled, corn-fed, hand-picked chump and—" +</p> +<p> + "That's one reason," drawled the Old Man grimly. "But it's not the + chief one. The real reason why you didn't land that account was + because you're too darned charming." +</p> +<p> + "Charming!" Jock stared. +</p> +<p> + "Just that. Personality's one of the biggest factors in business + to-day. But there are some men who are so likable that it actually + counts against them. The client he's trying to convince is so + taken with him that he actually forgets the business he + represents. We say of a man like that that he is personality plus. + Personality is like electricity, McChesney. It's got to be tamed + to be useful." +</p> +<p> + "But I thought," said Jock, miserably, "that the idea was not to + talk business all the time." +</p> +<p> + "You've got it," agreed Berg. "But you must think it all the time. + Every minute. It's got to be working away in the back of your + head. You know it isn't always the biggest noise that gets the + biggest result. The great American hen yields a bigger income than + the Steel Trust. Look at Miss Galt. When we have a job that needs + a woman's eye do we send her? No. Why? Because she's too blame + charming. Too much personality. A man just naturally refuses to + talk business to a pretty woman unless she's so smart that—" +</p> +<p> + "My mother," interrupted Jock, suddenly, and then stopped, + surprised at himself. +</p> +<p> + "Your mother," said Bartholomew Berg slowly, "is one woman in a + million. Don't ever forget that. They don't turn out models like + Emma McChesney more than once every blue moon." +</p> +<p> + Jock got to his feet slowly. He felt heavy, old. "I suppose," he + began, "that this ends my—my advertising career." +</p> +<p> + "Ends it!" The Old Man stood up and put a heavy hand on the boy's + shoulder. "It only begins it. Unless you want to lie down and + quit. Do you?" +</p> +<p> + "Quit!" cried Jock McChesney. "Quit! Not on your white space!" +</p> +<p> + "Good!" said Bartholomew Berg, and took Jock McChesney's hand in + his own great friendly grasp. +</p> +<p> + An instinct as strong as that which had made him blatant in his + hour of triumph now caused him to avoid, in his hour of defeat, + the women-folk before whom he would fain be a hero. He avoided + Grace Galt all that long, dreary afternoon. He thought wildly of + staying down-town for the evening, of putting off the meeting with + his mother, of avoiding the dreaded explanations, excuses, + confessions. +</p> +<p> + But when he let himself into the flat at five-thirty the place was + very quiet, except for Annie, humming in a sort of nasal singsong + of content in the kitchen. +</p> +<p> + He flicked on the light in the living-room. A new magazine had + come. It lay on the table, its bright cover staring up invitingly. + He ran through its pages. By force of habit he turned to the back + pages. Ads started back at him—clothing ads, paint ads, motor + ads, ads of portable houses, and vacuum cleaners—and toilette + preparations. He shut the magazine with a vicious slap. +</p> +<p> + He flicked off the light again, for no reason except that he + seemed to like the dusk. In his own bedroom it was very quiet. +</p> +<p> + He turned on the light there, too, then turned it off. He sat down + at the edge of his bed. How was it in the stories? Oh, yes! The + cub always started out on an impossibly difficult business stunt + and came back triumphant, to be made a member of the firm at once. +</p> +<p> + A vision of his own roseate hopes and dreams rose up before him. + It grew very dark in the little room, then altogether dark. Then + an impudent square of yellow from a light turned on in the + apartment next door flung itself on the bedroom floor. Jock stared + at it moodily. +</p> +<p> + A key turned in the lock. A door opened and shut. A quick step. + Then: "Jock!" A light flashed in the living-room. +</p> +<p> + Jock sat up suddenly. He opened his mouth to answer. There issued + from his throat a strange and absurd little croak. +</p> +<p> + "Jock! Home?" +</p> +<p> + "Yes," answered Jock, and straightened up. But before he could + flick on his own light his mother stood in the doorway, a tall, + straight, buoyant figure. +</p> +<p> + "I got your wire and—Why, dear! In the dark! What—" +</p> +<p> + "Must have fallen asleep, I guess," muttered Jock. Somehow he + dreaded to turn on the lights. +</p> +<p> + And then, very quietly, Emma McChesney came in. She found him, + there in the dark, as surely as a mother bear finds her cubs in a + cave. She sat down beside him at the edge of the bed and put her + hand on his shoulder, and brought his head down gently to her + breast. And at that the room, which had been a man's room with its + pipe, its tobacco jar, its tie rack filled with cravats of + fascinating shapes and hues, became all at once a boy's room + again, and the man sitting there with straight, strong shoulders + and his little air of worldliness became in some miraculous way a + little boy again. +</p> +<a name="image-0007"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp07.jpg" width="270" height="386" +alt="'... became in some miraculous way a little boy +again'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<a name="2H_4_0003"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + III +</h2> +<h3> + DICTATED BUT NOT READ +</h3> +<br> +<p> + About the time that Jock McChesney began to carry a yellow + walking-stick down to work each morning his mother noticed a + growing tendency on his part to patronize her. Now Mrs. Emma + McChesney, successful, capable business woman that she was, could + afford to regard her young son's attitude with a quiet and deep + amusement. In twelve years Emma McChesney had risen from the + humble position of stenographer in the office of the T.A. Buck + Featherloom Petticoat Company to the secretaryship of the firm. So + when her young son, backed by the profound business knowledge + gained in his one year with the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company, + hinted gently that her methods and training were archaic, + ineffectual, and lacking in those twin condiments known to the + twentieth century as pep and ginger, she would listen, eyebrows + raised, lower lip caught between her teeth—a trick which gives + a distorted expression to the features, calculated to hide any + lurking tendency to grin. Besides, though Emma McChesney was forty + she looked thirty-two (as business women do), and knew it. Her + hard-working life had brought her in contact with people, and + things, and events, and had kept her young. +</p> +<a name="image-0008"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp08.jpg" width="270" height="432" +alt="'Jock Mcchesney began to carry a yellow +walking-stick down to work'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + "Thank fortune!" Mrs. McChesney often said, "that + I wasn't cursed with a life of ease. These + massage-at-ten-fitting-at-eleven-bridge-at-one women + always look such hags at thirty-five." +</p> +<p> + But repetition will ruin the rarest of jokes. As the weeks went on + and Jock's attitude persisted, the twinkle in Emma McChesney's eye + died. The glow of growing resentment began to burn in its place. + Now and then there crept into her eyes a little look of doubt and + bewilderment. You sometimes see that same little shocked, dazed + expression in the eyes of a woman whose husband has just said, + "Isn't that hat too young for you?" +</p> +<p> + Then, one evening, Emma McChesney's resentment flared into open + revolt. She had announced that she intended to rise half an hour + earlier each morning in order that she might walk a brisk mile or + so on her way down-town, before taking the subway. +</p> +<p> + "But won't it tire you too much, Mother?" Jock had asked with + maddeningly tender solicitude. +</p> +<p> + His mother's color heightened. Her blue eyes glowed dark. +</p> +<p> + "Look here, Jock! Will you kindly stop this lean-on-me-grandma + stuff! To hear you talk one would think I was ready for a wheel + chair and gray woolen bedroom slippers." +</p> +<p> + "Why, I didn't mean—I only thought that perhaps overexertion in a + woman of your—That is, you need your energy for—" +</p> +<p> + "Don't wallow around in it," snapped Emma McChesney. "You'll only + sink in deeper in your efforts to crawl out. I merely want to warn + you that if you persist in this pose of tender solicitude for your + doddering old mother, I'll—I'll present you with a stepfather a + year younger than you. Don't laugh. Perhaps you think I couldn't + do it." +</p> +<p> + "Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't mean it, but—" +</p> +<p> + "Mean it! Cleverer women than I have been driven by their + children to marrying bell-boys in self-defense. I warn you!" +</p> +<a name="image-0009"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp09.jpg" width="270" height="295" +alt="''Good Lord, Mother! of course you don't mean it, +but--''"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + That stopped it—for a while. Jock ceased to bestow upon his + mother judicious advice from the vast storehouse of his own + experience. He refrained from breaking out with elaborate + advertising schemes whereby the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat + Company might grind every other skirt concern to dust. He gave + only a startled look when his mother mischievously suggested + raspberry as the color for her new autumn suit. Then, quite + suddenly, Circumstance caught Emma McChesney in the meshes and, + before she had fought her way free, wrought trouble and change + upon her. +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney was seated in the window of his mother's office at + noon of a brilliant autumn day. A little impatient frown was + forming between his eyes. He wanted his luncheon. He had called + around expressly to take his mother out to luncheon—always a + festive occasion when taken together. But Mrs. McChesney, seated + at her desk, was bent absorbedly over a sheet of paper whereon she + was adding up two columns of figures at a time—a trick on which + she rather prided herself. She was counting aloud, her mind + leaping agilely, thus: +</p> +<p> + "Eleven, twenty-nine, forty-three, sixty, sixty-nine—" Her pencil + came down on the desk with a thwack. "SIXTY-NINE!" she repeated in + capital letters. She turned around to face Jock. "Sixty-nine!" Her + voice bristled with indignation. "Now what do you think of that!" +</p> +<p> + "I think you'd better make it an even seventy, whatever it is + you're counting up, and come on out to luncheon. I've an + appointment at two-fifteen, you know." +</p> +<p> + "Luncheon!"—she waved the paper in the air—"with this outrage on + my mind! Nectar would curdle in my system." +</p> +<p> + Jock rose and strolled lazily over to the desk. "What is it?" He + glanced idly at the sheet of paper. "Sixty-nine what?" +</p> +<p> + Mrs. McChesney pressed a buzzer at the side of her desk. + "Sixty-nine dollars, that's what! Representing two days' expenses + in the six weeks' missionary trip that Fat Ed Meyers just made for + us. And in Iowa, too." +</p> +<p> + "When you gave that fellow the job," began Jock hotly, "I told + you, and Buck told you, that—" +</p> +<p> + Mrs. McChesney interrupted wearily. "Yes, I know. You'll never + have a grander chance to say 'I told you so.' I hired him + because he was out of a job and we needed a man who knew the + Middle-Western trade, and then because—well, poor fellow, he + begged so and promised to keep straight. As though I oughtn't to + know that a pinochle-and-poker traveling man can never be anything + but a pinochle-and-poker traveling man—" +</p> +<p> + The office door opened as there appeared in answer to the buzzer a + very alert, very smiling, and very tidy office girl. Emma + McChesney had tried office boys, and found them wanting. +</p> +<p> + "Tell Mr. Meyers I want to see him." +</p> +<p> + "Just going out to lunch,"—she turned like a race horse trembling + to be off,—"putting on his overcoat in the front office. Shall + I—" +</p> +<p> + "Catch him." +</p> +<p> + "Listen here," began Jock uncomfortably; "if you're going to call + him perhaps I'd better vanish." +</p> +<p> + "To save Ed Meyers's tender feelings! You don't know him. Fat Ed + Meyers could be courtmartialed, tried, convicted, and publicly + disgraced, with his epaulets torn off, and his sword broken, and + likely as not he'd stoop down, pick up a splinter of steel to use + as a toothpick, and Castlewalk down the aisle to the tune with + which they were drumming him out of the regiment. Stay right + here. Meyers's explanation ought to be at least amusing, if not + educating." +</p> +<p> + In the corridor outside could be heard some one blithely humming + in the throaty tenor of the fat man. The humming ceased with a + last high note as the door opened and there entered Fat Ed Meyers, + rosy, cherubic, smiling, his huge frame looming mountainous in the + rippling folds of a loose-hung London plaid topcoat. +</p> +<p> + "Greetings!" boomed this cheery vision, raising one hand, palm + outward, in mystic salute. He beamed upon the frowning Jock. + "How's the infant prodigy!" The fact that Jock's frown deepened to + a scowl ruffled him not at all. "And what," went on he, crossing + his feet and leaning negligently against Mrs. McChesney's desk, + "and what can I do for thee, fair lady?" +</p> +<a name="image-0010"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp10.jpg" width="365" height="270" +alt="'Greetings!'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + "For me?" said Emma McChesney, looking up at him through narrowed + eyelids. "I'll tell you what. You can explain to me, in what + they call a few well-chosen words, just how you, or any other + living creature, could manage to turn in an expense account like + that on a six-weeks' missionary trip through the Middle West." +</p> +<p> + "Dear lady,"—in the bland tones that one uses to an unreasonable + child,—"you will need no explanation if you will just remember to + lay the stress on the word missionary. I went forth through the + Middle West to spread the light among the benighted skirt trade. + This wasn't a selling trip, dear lady. It was a buying expedition. + And I had to buy, didn't I? all the way from Michigan to Indiana." +</p> +<p> + He smiled down at her, calm, self-assured, impudent. A little + flush grew in Emma McChesney's cheeks. +</p> +<p> + "I've always said," she began, crisply, "that one could pretty + well judge a man's character, temperament, morals, and physical + make-up by just glancing at his expense account. The trouble with + you is that you haven't learned the art of spending money wisely. + It isn't always the man with the largest expense sheet that gets + the most business. And it isn't the man who leaves the greatest + number of circles on the table top in his hotel room, either." + She paused a moment. Ed Meyers's smile had lost some of its + heartiness. "Mr. Buck's out of town, as you know. He'll be back + next week. He wasn't in favor of—" +</p> +<p> + "Now, Mrs. McChesney," interrupted Ed Meyers nervously, "you know + there's always one live one in every firm, just like there's + always one star in every family. You're the—" +</p> +<p> + "I'm the one who wants to know how you could spend sixty-nine + dollars for two days' incidentals in Iowa. Iowa! Why, look here, + Ed Meyers, I made Iowa for ten years when I was on the road. You + know that. And you know, and I know, that in order to spend + sixty-nine dollars for incidentals in two days in Iowa you have to + call out the militia." +</p> +<p> + "Not when you're trying to win the love of every skirt buyer from + Sioux City to Des Moines." +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney rose impatiently. "Oh, that's nonsense! You don't + need to do that these days. Those are old-fashioned methods. + They're out of date. They—" +</p> +<p> + At that a little sound came from Jock. Emma heard it, glanced at + him, turned away again in confusion. +</p> +<p> + "I was foolish enough in the first place to give you this job for + old times' sake," she continued hurriedly. +</p> +<p> + Fat Ed Meyers' face drooped dolefully. He cocked his round head on + one side fatuously. "For old times' sake," he repeated, with + tremulous pathos, and heaved a gusty sigh. +</p> +<p> + "Which goes to show that I need a guardian," finished Emma + McChesney cruelly. "The only old times that I can remember are + when I was selling Featherlooms, and you were out for the + Sans-Silk Skirt Company, both covering the same territory, and + both running a year-around race to see which could beat the other + at his own game. The only difference was that I always played + fair, while you played low-down whenever you had a chance." +</p> +<p> + "Now, my dear Mrs. McChesney—" +</p> +<p> + "That'll be all," said Emma McChesney, as one whose patience is + fast slipping away. "Mr. Buck will see you next week." Then, + turning to her son as the door closed on the drooping figure of + the erstwhile buoyant Meyers, "Where'll we lunch, Jock?" +</p> +<p> + "Mother," Jock broke out hotly, "why in the name of all that's + foolish do you persist in using the methods of Methuselah! People + don't sell goods any more by sending out fat old ex-traveling men + to jolly up the trade." +</p> +<p> + "Jock," repeated Emma McChesney slowly, "where—shall—we—lunch?" +</p> +<p> + It was a grim little meal, eaten almost in silence. Emma McChesney + had made it a rule to use luncheon time as a recess. She played + mental tag and hop-scotch, so that, returning to her office + refreshed in mind and body, she could attack the afternoon's work + with new vigor. And never did she talk or think business. +</p> +<p> + To-day she ate her luncheon with a forced appetite, glanced about + with a listlessness far removed from her usual alert interest, and + followed Jock's attempts at conversation with a polite effort that + was more insulting than downright inattention. +</p> +<p> + "Dessert, Mother?" Jock had to say it twice before she heard. +</p> +<p> + "What? Oh, no—I think not." +</p> +<p> + The waiter hesitated, coughed discreetly, lifted his eyebrows + insinuatingly. "The French pastry's particularly nice to-day, + madam. If you'd care to try something? Eclair, madam—peach + tart—mocha tart—caramel—" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney smiled. "It does sound tempting." She glanced at + Jock. "And we're wearing our gowns so floppy this year that it + makes no difference whether one's fat or not." She turned to the + waiter. "I never can tell till I see them. Bring your pastry tray, + will you?" +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney's finger and thumb came together with a snap. He + leaned across the table toward his mother, eyes glowing, lips + parted and eager. "There! you've proved my point." +</p> +<p> + "Point?" +</p> +<p> + "About advertising. No, don't stop me. Don't you see that what + applies to pastry applies to petticoats? You didn't think of + French pastry until he suggested it to you—advertised it, really. + And then you wanted a picture of them. You wanted to know + what they looked like before buying. That's all there is to + advertising. Telling people about a thing, making 'em want it, and + showing 'em how it will look when they have it. Get me?" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney was gazing at Jock with a curious, fascinated + stare. It was a blank little look, such as we sometimes wear when + the mind is working furiously. If the insinuating waiter, + presenting the laden tray for her inspection, was startled by the + rapt expression which she turned upon the cunningly wrought wares, + he was too much a waiter to show it. +</p> +<p> + A pause. "That one," said Mrs. McChesney, pointing to the least + ornate. She ate it, down to the last crumb, in a silence that was + pregnant with portent. She put down her fork and sat back. +</p> +<p> + "Jock, you win. I—I suppose I have fallen out of step. Perhaps + I've been too busy watching my own feet. T.A. will be back next + week. Could your office have an advertising plan roughly sketched + by that time?" +</p> +<p> + "Could they!" His tone was exultant. "Watch 'em! Hupp's been crazy + to make Featherlooms famous." +</p> +<p> + "But look here, son. I want a hand in that copy. I know + Featherlooms better than your Sam Hupp will ever—" +</p> +<p> + Jock shook his head. "They won't stand for that, Mother. It never + works. The manufacturer always thinks he can write magic stuff + because he knows his own product. But he never can. You see, he + knows too much. That's it. No perspective." +</p> +<p> + "We'll see," said Emma McChesney curtly. +</p> +<p> + So it was that ten days later the first important conference in + the interests of the Featherloom Petticoat Company's advertising + campaign was called. But in those ten days of hurried preparation + a little silent tragedy had come about. For the first time in her + brave, sunny life Emma McChesney had lost faith in herself. And + with such malicious humor does Fate work her will that she chose + Sam Hupp's new dictagraph as the instrument with which to prick + the bubble of Mrs. McChesney's self-confidence. +</p> +<p> + Sam Hupp, one of the copy-writing marvels of the Berg, Shriner + firm, had a trick of forgetting to shut off certain necessary + currents when he paused in his dictation to throw in + conversational asides. The old and experienced stenographers, had + learned to look out for that, and to eliminate from their + typewritten letters certain irrelevant and sometimes irreverent + asides which Sam Hupp evidently had addressed to his pipe, or the + office boy, and not intended for the tube of the all-devouring + dictagraph. +</p> +<p> + There was a new and nervous little stenographer in the outer + office, and she had not been warned of this. +</p> +<p> + "We think very highly of the plan you suggest," Sam Hupp had said + into the dictagraph's mouthpiece. "In fact, in one of your + valuable copy suggestions you—" +</p> +<p> + Without changing his tone he glanced over his shoulder at his + colleague, Hopper, who was listening and approving. +</p> +<p> + "... Let the old girl think the idea is her own. She's virtually + the head of that concern, and they've spoiled her. Successful, and + used to being kowtowed to. Doesn't know her notions of copy are + ten years behind the advertising game—" +</p> +<p> + And went on with his letter again. After which he left the office + to play golf. And the little blond numbskull in the outer office + dutifully took down what the instrument had to say, word for word, + marked it, "Dictated, but not read," signed neat initials, and + with a sigh went on with the rest of her sheaf of letters. +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney read the letter next morning. She read it down to + the end, and then again. The two readings were punctuated with a + little gasp, such as we give when an icy douche is suddenly + turned upon us. And that was all. +</p> +<p> + A week later an intent little group formed a ragged circle about + the big table in the private office of Bartholomew Berg, head of + the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Bartholomew Berg himself, + massive, watchful, taciturn, managing to give an impression of + power by his very silence, sat at one side of the long table. Just + across from him a sleek-haired stenographer bent over her note + book, jotting down every word, that the conference might make + business history. Hopper, at one end of the room, studied his shoe + heel intently. He was unbelievably boyish looking to command the + fabulous salary reported to be his. Advertising men, mentioning + his name, pulled a figurative forelock as they did so. Near Mrs. + McChesney sat Sam Hupp, he of the lightning brain and the + sure-fire copy. Emma McChesney, strangely silent, kept her eyes + intent on the faces of the others. T.A. Buck, interested, + enthusiastic, but somewhat uncertain, glanced now and then at his + silent business partner, found no satisfaction in her set face, + and glanced away again. Grace Galt, unbelievably young and pretty + to have won a place for herself in that conference of business + people, smiled in secret at Jock McChesney's evident struggle to + conceal his elation at being present at this, his first staff + meeting. +</p> +<p> + The conference had lasted one hour now. In that time Featherloom + petticoats had been picked to pieces, bit by bit, from hem to + waist-band. Nothing had been left untouched. Every angle had come + under the keen vision of the advertising experts—the comfort of + the garment, its durability, style, cheapness, service. Which to + emphasize? +</p> +<p> + "H—m, novelty campaign, in my opinion," said Hopper, breaking one + of his long silences. "There's nothing new in petticoats + themselves, you know. You've got to give 'em a new angle." +</p> +<p> + "Yep," agreed Hupp. "Start out with a feature skirt. Might + illustrate with one of those freak drawings they're crazy about + now—slinky figure, you know, hollow-chested, one foot trailing, + and all that. They're crazy, but they do attract attention, no + doubt of that." +</p> +<p> + Bartholomew Berg turned his head slowly. "What's your opinion, + Mrs. McChesney?" he asked. +</p> +<p> + "I—I'm afraid I haven't any," said Emma McChesney listlessly. + T.A. Buck stared at her in dismay and amazement. +</p> +<p> + "How about you, Mr. Buck?" +</p> +<p> + "Why—I—er—of course this advertising game's new to me. I'm + really leaving it in your hands. I really thought that Mrs. + McChesney's idea was to make a point of the fact that these + petticoats were not freak petticoats, but skirts for the everyday + women. She gave me what I thought was a splendid argument a week + ago." He turned to her helplessly. +</p> +<p> + Mrs. McChesney sat silent. +</p> +<p> + Bartholomew Berg leaned forward a little and smiled one of his + rare smiles. +</p> +<p> + "Won't you tell us, Mrs. McChesney? We'd all like to hear what you + have to say." +</p> +<p> + Mrs. McChesney looked down at her hands. Then she looked up, and + addressed what she had to say straight to Bartholomew Berg. +</p> +<p> + "I—simply didn't want to interfere in this business. I know + nothing about it, really. Of course, I do know Featherloom + petticoats. I know all about them. It seemed to me that just + because the newspapers and magazines were full of pictures showing + spectacular creatures in impossible attitudes wearing tango tea + skirts, we are apt to forget that those types form only a thin + upper crust, and that down beneath there are millions and millions + of regular, everyday women doing regular everyday things in + regular everyday clothes. Women who wash on Monday, and iron on + Tuesday, and bake one-egg cakes, and who have to hurry home to get + supper when they go down-town in the afternoon. They're the kind + who go to market every morning, and take the baby along in the + go-cart, and they're not wearing crêpe de chine tango petticoats + to do it in, either. They're wearing skirts with a drawstring in + the back, and a label in the band, guaranteed to last one year. + Those are the people I'd like to reach, and hold." +</p> +<p> + "Hm!" said Hopper, from his corner, cryptically. +</p> +<p> + Bartholomew Berg looked at Emma McChesney admiringly. "Sounds + reasonable and logical," he said. +</p> +<p> + Sam Hupp sat up with a jerk. +</p> +<p> + "It does sound reasonable," he said briskly. "But it isn't. Pardon + me, won't you, Mrs. McChesney? But you must realize that this is + an extravagant age. The very workingmen's wives have caught the + spending fever. The time is past when you can attract people to + your goods with the promise of durability and wear. They don't + expect goods to wear. They'd resent it if they did. They get tired + of an article before it's worn out. They're looking for novelties. + They'd rather get two months' wear out of a skirt that's slashed a + new way, than a year's wear out of one that looks like the sort + that mother used to make." +</p> +<p> + Mrs. McChesney, her cheeks very pink, her eyes very bright, + subsided into silence. In silence she sat throughout the rest of + the conference. In silence she descended in the elevator with T.A. + Buck, and in silence she stepped into his waiting car. +</p> +<p> + T.A. Buck eyed her worriedly. "Well?" he said. Then, as Mrs. + McChesney shrugged noncommittal shoulders, "Tell me, how do you + feel about it?" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney turned to face him, breathing rather quickly. +</p> +<p> + "The last time I felt as I do just now was when Jock was a baby. + He took sick, and the doctors were puzzled. They thought it might + be something wrong with his spine. They had a consultation—five + of them—with the poor little chap on the bed, naked. They + wouldn't let me in, so I listened in the hallway, pressed against + the door with my face to the crack. They prodded him, and poked + him, and worked his little legs and arms, and every time he cried + I prayed, and wept, and clawed the door with my fingers, and + called them beasts and torturers and begged them to let me in, + though I wasn't conscious that I was doing those things—at the + time. I didn't know what they were doing to him, though they said + it was all for his good, and they were only trying to help him. + But I only knew that I wanted to rush in, and grab him up in my + arms, and run away with him—run, and run, and run." +</p> +<p> + She stopped, lips trembling, eyes suspiciously bright. +</p> +<p> + "And that's the way I felt in there—this afternoon." +</p> +<p> + T.A. Buck reached up and patted her shoulder. "Don't, old girl! + It's going to work out splendidly, I'm sure. After all, those + chaps do know best." +</p> +<p> + "They may know best, but they don't know Featherlooms," retorted + Emma McChesney. +</p> +<p> + "True. But perhaps what Jock said when he walked with us to the + elevator was pretty nearly right. You know he said we were + criticising their copy the way a plumber would criticise the + Parthenon—so busy finding fault with the lack of drains that we + failed to see the beauty of the architecture." +</p> +<p> + "T.A.," said Emma McChesney solemnly, "T.A., we're getting old." +</p> +<p> + "Old! You! I! Ha!" +</p> +<p> + "You may 'Ha!' all you like. But do you know what they thought of + us in there? They thought we were a couple of fogies, and they + humored us, that's what they did. I'll tell you, T.A., when the + time comes for me to give Jock up to some little pink-faced girl + I'll do it, and smile if it kills me. But to hand my Featherlooms + over to a lot of cold-blooded experts who—well—" she paused, + biting her lip. +</p> +<p> + "We'll see, Emma; we'll see." +</p> +<p> + They did see. The Featherloom petticoat campaign was launched with + a great splash. It sailed serenely into the sea of national + business. Then suddenly something seemed to go wrong with its + engines. It began to wobble and showed a decided list to port. + Jock, who at the beginning was so puffed with pride that his gold + fountain pen threatened to burst the confines of his very modishly + tight vest, lost two degrees of pompousness a day, and his + attitude toward his unreproachful mother was almost humble. +</p> +<p> + A dozen times a week T.A. Buck would stroll casually into Mrs. + McChesney's office. "Think it's going to take hold?" he would ask. + "Our men say the dealers have laid in, but the public doesn't seem + to be tearing itself limb from limb to get to our stuff." +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney would smile, and shrug noncommittal shoulders. +</p> +<p> + When it became very painfully apparent that it wasn't "taking + hold," T.A. Buck, after asking the same question, now worn and + frayed with asking, broke out, crossly: +</p> +<p> + "Well, really, I don't mind the shrug, but I do wish you wouldn't + smile. After all, you know, this campaign is costing us + money—real money, and large chunks of it. It's very evident that + we shouldn't have tried to make a national campaign of this + thing." +</p> +<p> + Whereupon Mrs. McChesney's smile grew into a laugh. "Forgive me, + T.A. I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing because—well, I can't + tell you why. It's a woman's reason, and you wouldn't think it a + reason at all. For that matter, I suppose it isn't, but—Anyway, + I've got something to tell you. The fault of this campaign has + been the copy. It was perfectly good advertising, but it left the + public cold. When they read those ads they might have been + impressed with the charm of the garment, but it didn't fill their + breasts with any wild longing to possess one. It didn't make the + women feel unhappy until they had one of those skirts hanging on + the third hook in their closet. The only kind of advertising that + is advertising is the kind that makes the reader say, 'I'll have + one of those.'" +</p> +<p> + T.A. Buck threw out helpless hands. "What are we going to do about + it?" +</p> +<p> + "Do? I've already done it." +</p> +<p> + "Done what?" +</p> +<p> + "Written the kind of copy that I think Featherlooms ought to have. + I just took my knowledge of Featherlooms, plus what I knew about + human nature, sprinkled in a handful of good humor and sincerity, + and they're going to feed it to the public. It's the same recipe + that I used to use in selling Featherlooms on the road. It used to + go by word of mouth. I don't see why it shouldn't go on paper. It + isn't classic advertising. It isn't scientific. It isn't even what + they call psychological, I suppose. But it's human. And it's going + to reach that great, big, solid, safe, spot-cash mass known as the + middle class. Of course my copy may be wrong. It may not go, after + all, but—" +</p> +<p> + But it did go. It didn't go with a rush, or a bang. It went + slowly, surely, hand over hand, but it went, and it kept on going. + And watching it climb and take hold there came back to Emma + McChesney's eye the old sparkle, to her step the old buoyancy, to + her voice the old delightful ring. And now, when T.A. Buck + strolled into her office of a morning, with his, "It's taking + hold, Mrs. Mack," she would dimple like a girl as she laughed back + at him— +</p> +<p> + "With a grip that won't let go." +</p> +<p> + "It looks very much as though we were going to be millionaires in + our old age, you and I?" went on Buck. +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney opened her eyes wide. +</p> +<p> + "Old!" she mocked, "Old! You! I! Ha!" +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0004"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + IV +</h2> +<h3> + THE MAN WITHIN HIM +</h3> +<br> +<p> + They used to do it much more picturesquely. They rode in coats of + scarlet, in the crisp, clear morning, to the winding of horns and + the baying of hounds, to the thud-thud of hoofs, and the crackle + of underbrush. Across fresh-plowed fields they went, crashing + through forest paths, leaping ditches, taking fences, scrambling + up the inclines, pelting down the hillside, helter-skelter, until, + panting, wide-eyed, eager, blood-hungry, the hunt closed in at the + death. +</p> +<p> + The scarlet coat has sobered down to the somber gray and the + snuffy brown of that unromantic garment known as the business + suit. The winding horn is become a goblet, and its notes are the + tinkle of ice against glass. The baying of hounds has harshened to + the squawk of the motor siren. The fresh-plowed field is a blue + print, the forest maze a roll of plans and specifications. Each + fence is a business barrier. Every ditch is of a competitor's + making, dug craftily so that the clumsy-footed may come a cropper. + All the romance is out of it, all the color, all the joy. But two + things remain the same: The look in the face of the hunter as he + closed in on the fox is the look in the face of him who sees the + coveted contract lying ready for the finishing stroke of his pen. + And his words are those of the hunter of long ago as, eyes + a-gleam, teeth bared, muscles still taut with the tenseness of the + chase, he waves the paper high in air and cries, "I've made a + killing!" +</p> +<p> + For two years Jock McChesney had watched the field as it swept by + in its patient, devious, cruel game of Hunt the Contract. But he + had never been in at the death. Those two years had taught him how + to ride; to take a fence; to leap a ditch. He had had his awkward + bumps, and his clumsy falls. He had lost his way more than once. + But he had always groped his way back again, stumblingly, through + the dusk. Jock McChesney was the youngest man on the Berg, Shriner + Advertising Company's big staff of surprisingly young men. So + young that the casual glance did not reveal to you the marks that + the strain of those two years had left on his boyish face. But the + marks were there. +</p> +<p> + Nature etches with the most delicate of points. She knows the + cunning secret of light and shadow. You scarcely realize that she + has been at work. A faint line about the mouth, a fairy tracing at + the corners of the eyes, a mere vague touch just at the + nostrils—and the thing is done. +</p> +<p> + Even Emma McChesney's eyes—those mother-eyes which make the lynx + seem a mole—had failed to note the subtle change. Then, suddenly, + one night, the lines leaped out at her. +</p> +<p> + They were seated at opposite sides of the book-littered library + table in the living-room of the cheerful up-town apartment which + was the realization of the nightly dream which Mrs. Emma McChesney + had had in her ten years on the road for the T.A. Buck Featherloom + Petticoat Company. Jock McChesney's side of the big table was + completely covered with the mass of copy-paper, rough sketches, + photographs and drawings which make up an advertising lay-out. He + was bent over the work, absorbed, intent, his forearms resting on + the table. Emma McChesney glanced up from her magazine just as + Jock bent forward to reach a scrap of paper that had fluttered + away. The lamplight fell full on his face. And Emma McChesney saw. + The hand that held the magazine fell to her lap. Her lips were + parted slightly. She sat very quietly, her eyes never leaving the + face that frowned so intently over the littered table. The room + had been very quiet before—Jock busy with his work, his mother + interested in her magazine. But this silence was different. There + was something electric in it. It was a silence that beats on the + brain like a noise. Jock McChesney, bent over his work, heard it, + felt it, and, oppressed by it, looked up suddenly. He met those + two eyes opposite. +</p> +<p> + "Spooks? Or is it my godlike beauty which holds you thus? Or is my + face dirty?" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney did not smile. She laid her magazine on the table, + face down, and leaned forward, her staring eyes still fixed on her + son's face. +</p> +<p> + "Look here, young 'un. Are you working too hard?" +</p> +<p> + "Me? Now? This stuff you mean—?" +</p> +<p> + "No; I mean in the last year. Are they piling it up on you?" +</p> +<p> + Jock laughed a laugh that was nothing less than a failure, so + little of real mirth did it contain. +</p> +<p> + "Piling it up! Lord, no! I wish they would. That's the trouble. + They don't give me a chance." +</p> +<p> + "A chance! Why, that's not true, son. You've said yourself that + there are men who have been in the office three times as long as + you have, who never have had the opportunities that they've given + you." +</p> +<p> + It was as though she had touched a current that thrilled him to + action. He pushed back his chair and stood up, one hand thrust + into his pocket, the other passing quickly over his head from brow + to nape with a quick, nervous gesture that was new to him. +</p> +<p> + "And why!" he flung out. "Why! Not because they like the way I + part my hair. They don't do business that way up there. It's + because I've made good, and those other dubs haven't. That's why. + They've let me sit in at the game. But they won't let me take any + tricks. I've been an apprentice hand for two years now. I'm tired + of it. I want to be in on a killing. I want to taste blood. I want + a chance at some of the money—real money." +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney sat back in her chair and surveyed the angry figure + before her with quiet, steady eyes. +</p> +<p> + "I might have known that only one thing could bring those lines + into your face, son." She paused a moment. "So you want money as + badly as all that, do you?" +</p> +<p> + Jock's hand came down with a thwack on the papers before him. +</p> +<p> + "Want it! You just bet I want it." +</p> +<p> + "Do I know her?" asked Emma McChesney quietly. +</p> +<p> + Jock stopped short in his excited pacing up and down the room. +</p> +<p> + "Do you know—Why, I didn't say there—What makes you think + that—?" +</p> +<p> + "When a youngster like you, whose greatest worry has been whether + Harvard'll hold 'em again this year, with Baxter out, begins to + howl about not being appreciated in business, and to wear a late + fall line of wrinkles where he has been smooth before, I feel + justified in saying, 'Do I know her?'" +</p> +<p> + "Well, it isn't any one—at least, it isn't what you mean you + think it is when you say you—" +</p> +<p> + "Careful there! You'll trip. Never you mind what I mean I think it + is when I say. Count ten, and then just tell me what you think you + mean." +</p> +<p> + Jock passed his hand over his head again with that nervous little + gesture. Then he sat down, a little wearily. He stared moodily + down at the pile of papers before him: His mother faced him + quietly across the table. +</p> +<p> + "Grace Galt's getting twice as much as I am," Jock broke out, with + savage suddenness. "The first year I didn't mind. A fellow gets + accustomed, these days, to see women breaking into all the + professions and getting away with men-size salaries. But her pay + check doubles mine—more than doubles it." +</p> +<p> + "It's been my experience," observed Emma McChesney, "that when a + firm condescends to pay a woman twice as much as a man, that means + she's worth six times as much." +</p> +<p> + A painful red crept into Jock's face. "Maybe. Two years ago that + would have sounded reasonable to me. Two years ago, when I walked + down Broadway at night, a fifty-foot electric sign at Forty-second + was just an electric sign to me. Just part of the town's + decoration like the chorus girls, and the midnight theater crowds. + Now—well, now every blink of every red and yellow globe is + crammed full of meaning. I know the power that advertising has; + how it influences our manners, and our morals, and our minds, and + our health. It regulates the food we eat, and the clothes we wear, + and the books we read, and the entertainment we seek. It's + colossal, that's what it is! It's—" +</p> +<p> + "Keep on like that for another two years, sonny, and no business + banquet will be complete without you. The next thing you know + you'll be addressing the Y.M.C.A. advertising classes on The Young + Man in Business." +</p> +<p> + Jock laughed a rueful little laugh. "I didn't mean to make + a speech. I was just trying to say that I've served my + apprenticeship. It hurts a fellow's pride. You can't hold your + head up before a girl when you know her salary's twice yours, and + you know that she knows it. Why look at Mrs. Hoffman, who's with + the Dowd Agency. Of course she's a wonder, even if her face does + look like the fifty-eighth variety. She can write copy that lifts + a campaign right out of the humdrum class, and makes it luminous. + Her husband works in a bank somewhere. He earns about as much as + Mrs. Hoffman pays the least of her department subordinates. And + he's so subdued that he side-steps when he walks, and they call + him the human jelly-fish." +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney was regarding her son with a little puzzled frown. + Suddenly she reached out and tapped the topmost of the scribbled + sheets strewn the length of Jock's side of the table. +</p> +<p> + "What's all this?" +</p> +<p> + Jock tipped back his chair and surveyed the clutter before him. +</p> +<p> + "That," said he, "is what is known on the stage as 'the papers.' + And it's the real plot of this piece." +</p> +<p> + "M-m-m—I thought so. Just favor me with a scenario, will you?" +</p> +<p> + Half-grinning, half-serious, Jock stuck his thumbs in the armholes + of his waistcoat, and began. +</p> +<p> + "Scene: Offices of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Time, + the present. Characters: Jock McChesney, handsome, daring, + brilliant—" +</p> +<p> + "Suppose you—er—skip the characters, however fascinating, and + get to the action." +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney brought the tipped chair down on all-fours with a + thud, and stood up. The grin was gone. He was as serious as he had + been in the midst of his tirade of five minutes before. +</p> +<p> + "All right. Here it is. And don't blame me if it sounds like cheap + melodrama. This stuff," and he waved a hand toward the paper-laden + table, "is an advertising campaign plan for the Griebler Gum + Company, of St. Louis. Oh, don't look impressed. The office hasn't + handed me any such commission. I just got the idea like a flash, + and I've been working it out for the last two weeks. It worked + itself out, almost—the way a really scorching idea does, + sometimes. This Griebler has been advertising for years. You + know the Griebler gum. But it hasn't been the right sort of + advertising. Old Griebler, the original gum man, had fogy notions + about advertising, and as long as he lived they had to keep it + down. He died a few months ago—you must have read of it. Left a + regular mint. Ben Griebler, the oldest son, started right in to + clean out the cobwebs. Of course the advertising end of it has + come in for its share of the soap and water. He wants to make a + clean sweep of it. Every advertising firm in the country has been + angling for the contract. It's going to be a real one. Two-thirds + of the crowd have submitted plans. And that's just where my kick + comes in. The Berg, Shriner Company makes it a rule never to + submit advance plans." +</p> +<p> + "Excuse me if I seem a trifle rude," interrupted Mrs. McChesney, + "but I'd like to know where you think you've been wronged in + this." +</p> +<p> + "Right here!" replied Jock, and he slapped his pocket, "and here," + he pointed to his head. "Two spots so vital that they make old + Achilles's heel seem armor-plated. Ben Griebler is one of the + show-me kind. He wants value received for money expended, and + while everybody knows that he has a loving eye on the Berg, + Shriner crowd, he won't sign a thing until he knows what he's + getting. A firm's record, standing, staff, equipment, mean nothing + to him." +</p> +<p> + "But, Jock, I still don't see—" +</p> +<p> + Jock gathered up a sheaf of loose papers and brandished them in + the air. "This is where I come in. I've got a plan here that will + fetch this Griebler person. Oh, I'm not dreaming. I outlined it + for Sam Hupp, and he was crazy about it. Sam Hupp had some sort of + plan outlined himself. But he said this made his sound as dry as + cigars in Denver. And you know yourself that Sam Hupp's copy is so + brilliant that he could sell brewery advertising to a temperance + magazine." +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney stood up. She looked a little impatient, and a + trifle puzzled. "But why all this talk! I don't get you. Take your + plan to Mr. Berg. If it's what you think it is he'll see it + quicker than any other human being, and he'll probably fall on + your neck and invest you in royal robes and give you a mahogany + desk all your own." +</p> +<p> + "Oh, what's the good!" retorted Jock disgustedly. "This Griebler + has an appointment at the office to-morrow. He'll be closeted with + the Old Man. They'll call in Hupp. But never a plan will they + reveal. It's against their code of ethics. Ethics! I'm sick of the + word. I suppose you'd say I'm lucky to be associated with a firm + like that, and I suppose I am. But I wish in the name of all the + gods of Business that they weren't so bloomin' conservative. + Ethics! They're all balled up in 'em, like Henry James in his + style." +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney came over from her side of the table and stood very + close to her son. She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and + looked up into the sullen, angry young face. +</p> +<a name="image-0011"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp11.jpg" width="270" height="415" +alt="'She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and +looked up into the sullen, angry young face'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + "I've seen older men than you are, Jock, and better men, and + bigger men, wearing that same look, and for the same reason. Every + ambitious man or woman in business wears it at one time or + another. Sooner or later, Jock, you'll have your chance at the + money end of this game. If you don't care about the thing you call + ethics, it'll be sooner. If you do care, it will be later. It + rests with you, but it's bound to come, because you've got the + stuff in you." +</p> +<p> + "Maybe," replied Jock the cynical. But his face lost some of its + sullenness as he looked down at that earnest, vivid countenance + up-turned to his. "Maybe. It sounds all right, Mother—in the + story books. But I'm not quite solid on it. These days it isn't + so much what you've got in you that counts as what you can bring + out. I know the young man's slogan used to be 'Work and Wait,' or + something pretty like that. But these days they've boiled it down + to one word—'Produce'!" +</p> +<p> + "The marvel of it is that there aren't more of 'em," observed Emma + McChesney sadly. +</p> +<p> + "More what?" +</p> +<p> + "More lines. Here,"—she touched his forehead,—"and here,"—she + touched his eyes. +</p> +<p> + "Lines!" Jock swung to face a mirror. "Good! I'm so infernally + young-looking that no one takes me seriously. It's darned hard + trying to convince people you're a captain of finance when you + look like an errand boy." +</p> +<p> + From the center of the room Mrs. McChesney watched the boy as he + surveyed himself in the glass. And as she gazed there came a + frightened look into her eyes. It was gone in a minute, and in its + place came a curious little gleam, half amused, half pugnacious. +</p> +<p> + "Jock McChesney, if I thought that you meant half of what you've + said to-night about honor, and ethics, and all that, I'd—" +</p> +<p> + "Spank me, I suppose," said the young six-footer. +</p> +<p> + "No," and all the humor had fled, "I—Jock, I've never said much + to you about your father. But I think you know that he was what he + was to the day of his death. You were just about eight when I made + up my mind that life with him was impossible. I said then—and you + were all I had, son—that I'd rather see you dead than to have you + turn out to be a son of your father. Don't make me remember that + wish, Jock." +</p> +<p> + Two quick steps and his arms were about her. His face was all + contrition. "Why—Mother! I didn't mean—You see this is business, + and I'm crazy to make good, and it's such a fight—" +</p> +<p> + "Don't I know it?" demanded Emma McChesney. "I guess your mother + hasn't been sitting home embroidering lunchcloths these last + fifteen years." She lifted her head from the boy's shoulder. "And + now, son, considering me, not as your doting mother, but in my + business capacity as secretary of the T.A. Buck Featherloom + Petticoat Company, suppose you reveal to me the inner workings of + this plan of yours. I'd like to know if you really are the + advertising wizard that you think you are." +</p> +<p> + So it was that long after Annie's dinner dishes had ceased to + clatter in the kitchen; long after she had put her head in at the + door to ask, "Aigs 'r cakes for breakfast?" long after those two + busy brains should have rested in sleep, the two sat at either + side of the light-flooded table, the face of one glowing as he + talked, the face of the other sparkling as she listened. And at + midnight: +</p> +<p> + "Why, you infant wonder!" exclaimed Emma McChesney. +</p> +<p> + At nine o'clock next morning when Jock McChesney entered the + offices of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company he carried a + flat, compact bundle of papers under his arm encased in protecting + covers of pasteboard, and further secured by bands of elastic. + This he carried to his desk, deposited in a drawer, and locked the + drawer. +</p> +<p> + By eleven o'clock the things which he had predicted the night + before had come to pass. A plump little man, with a fussy manner + and Western clothes had been ushered into Bartholomew Berg's + private office. Instinct told him that this was Griebler. Jock + left his desk and strolled up to get the switchboard operator's + confirmation of his guess. Half an hour later Sam Hupp hustled by + and disappeared into the Old Man's sanctum. +</p> +<p> + Jock fingered the upper left-hand drawer of his desk. The + maddening blankness of that closed door! If only he could find + some excuse for walking into that room—any old excuse, no matter + how wild!—just to get a chance at it— +</p> +<p> + His telephone rang. He picked up the receiver, his eye on the + closed door, his thoughts inside that room. +</p> +<p> + "Mr. Berg wants to see you right away," came the voice of the + switchboard operator. +</p> +<p> + Something seemed to give way inside—something in the region of + his brain—no, his heart—no, his lungs— +</p> +<p> + "Well, can you beat that!" said Jock McChesney aloud, in a kind of + trance of joy. "Can—you—beat—that!" +</p> +<p> + Then he buttoned the lower button of his coat, shrugged his + shoulders with an extra wriggle at the collar (the modern hero's + method of girding up his loins), and walked calmly into + Bartholomew Berg's very private office. +</p> +<p> + In the second that elapsed between the opening and the closing of + the door Jock's glance swept the three men—Bartholomew Berg, + quiet, inscrutable, seated at his great table-desk; Griebler, lost + in the depths of a great leather chair, smoking fussily and + twitching with a hundred little restless, irritating gestures; Sam + Hupp, standing at the opposite side of the room, hands in pockets, + attitude argumentative. +</p> +<p> + "This is Mr. McChesney," said Bartholomew Berg. "Mr. Griebler, + McChesney." +</p> +<p> + Jock came forward, smiling that charming smile of his. "Mr. + Griebler," he said, extending his hand, "this is a great + pleasure." +</p> +<p> + "Hm!" growled Ben Griebler, "I didn't know they picked 'em so + young." +</p> +<p> + His voice was a piping falsetto that somehow seemed to match his + restless little eyes. +</p> +<p> + Jock thrust his hands hurriedly into his pockets. He felt his face + getting scarlet. +</p> +<p> + "They're—ah—using 'em young this year," said Bartholomew Berg. + His voice sounded bigger, and smoother, and pleasanter than ever + in contrast with that other's shrill tone. "I prefer 'em young, + myself. You'll never catch McChesney using 'in the last analysis' + to drive home an argument. He has a new idea about every nineteen + minutes, and every other one's a good one, and every nineteenth + or so's an inspiration." The Old Man laughed one of his low, + chuckling laughs. +</p> +<p> + "Hm—that so?" piped Ben Griebler. "Up in my neck of the woods we + aren't so long on inspiration. We're just working men, and we wear + working clothes—" +</p> +<p> + "Oh, now," protested Berg, his eyes twinkling, "McChesney's + necktie and socks and handkerchief may form one lovely, blissful + color scheme, but that doesn't signify that his advertising + schemes are not just as carefully and artistically blended." +</p> +<p> + Ben Griebler looked shrewdly up at Jock through narrowed lids. + "Maybe. I'll talk to you in a minute, young man—that is—" he + turned quickly upon Berg—"if that isn't against your crazy + principles, too?" +</p> +<p> + "Why, not at all," Bartholomew Berg assured him. "Not at all. You + do me an injustice." +</p> +<p> + Griebler moved up closer to the broad table. The two fell into a + low-voiced talk. Jock looked rather helplessly around at Sam Hupp. + That alert gentleman was signaling him frantically with head and + wagging finger. Jock crossed the big room to Hupp's side. The two + moved off to a window at the far end. +</p> +<p> + "Give heed to your Unkie," said Sam Hupp, talking very rapidly, + very softly, and out of one corner of his mouth. "This Griebler's + looking for an advertising manager. He's as pig-headed as + a—a—well, as a pig, I suppose. But it's a corking chance, + youngster, and the Old Man's just recommended you—strong. Now—" +</p> +<p> + "Me—!" exploded Jock. +</p> +<p> + "Shut up!" hissed Hupp. "Two or three years with that firm would + be the making of you—if you made good, of course. And you could. + They want to move their factory here from St. Louis within the + next few years. Now listen. When he talks to you, you play up the + keen, alert stuff with a dash of sophistication, see? If you can + keep your mouth shut and throw a kind of a canny, I-get-you, look + into your eyes, all the better. He's gabby enough for two. Try a + line of talk that is filled with the fire and enthusiasm of + youth, combined with the good judgment and experience of middle + age, and you've—" +</p> +<p> + "Say, look here," stammered Jock. "Even if I was Warfield enough + to do all that, d'you honestly think—me an advertising + manager!—with a salary that Griebler—" +</p> +<p> + "You nervy little shrimp, go in and win. He'll pay five thousand + if he pays a cent. But he wants value for money expended. Now I've + tipped you off. You make your killing—" +</p> +<p> + "Oh, McChesney!" called Bartholomew Berg, glancing round. +</p> +<p> + "Yes, sir!" said Jock, and stood before him in the same moment. +</p> +<p> + "Mr. Griebler is looking for a competent, enthusiastic, + hard-working man as advertising manager. I've spoken to him of + you. I know what you can do. Mr. Griebler might trust my judgment + in this, but—" +</p> +<p> + "I'll trust my own judgment," snapped Ben Griebler. "It's good + enough for me." +</p> +<p> + "Very well," returned Bartholomew Berg suavely. "And if you decide + to place your advertising future in the hands of the Berg, Shriner + Company—" +</p> +<p> + "Now look here," interrupted Ben Griebler again. "I'll tie up + with you people when you've shaken something out of your cuffs. + I'm not the kind that buys a pig in a poke. We're going to spend + money—real money—in this campaign of ours. But I'm not such a + come-on as to hand you half a million or so and get a promise in + return. I want your plans, and I want 'em in full." +</p> +<p> + A little exclamation broke from Sam Hupp. He checked it, but not + before Berg's curiously penetrating pale blue eyes had glanced up + at him, and away again. +</p> +<p> + "I've told you, Mr. Griebler," went on Bartholomew Berg's patient + voice, "just why the thing you insist on is impossible. This firm + does not submit advance copy. Every business commission that comes + to us is given all the skill, and thought, and enthusiasm, and + careful planning that this office is capable of. You know our + record. This is a business of ideas. And ideas are too precious, + too perishable, to spread in the market place for all to see." +</p> +<p> + Ben Griebler stood up. His cigar waggled furiously between his + lips as he talked. +</p> +<p> + "I know something else that don't stand spreading in the market + place, Berg. And that's money. It's too darned perishable, too." + He pointed a stubby finger at Jock. "Does this fool rule of yours + apply to this young fellow, too?" +</p> +<p> + Bartholomew Berg seemed to grow more patient, more self-contained + as the other man's self-control slipped rapidly away. +</p> +<p> + "It goes for every man and woman in this office, Mr. Griebler. + This young chap, McChesney here, might spend weeks and months + building up a comprehensive advertising plan for you. He'd spend + those weeks studying your business from every possible angle. + Perhaps it would be a plan that would require a year of waiting + before the actual advertising began to appear. And then you might + lose faith in the plan. A waiting game is a hard game to play. + Some other man's idea, that promised quicker action, might appeal + to you. And when it appeared we'd very likely find our own + original idea incorporated in—" +</p> +<p> + "Say, look here!" squeaked Ben Griebler, his face dully red. + "D'you mean to imply that I'd steal your plan! D'you mean to sit + there and tell me to my face—" +</p> +<p> + "Mr. Griebler, I mean that that thing happens constantly in this + business. We're almost powerless to stop it. Nothing spreads + quicker than a new idea. Compared to it a woman's secret is a + sealed book." +</p> +<p> + Ben Griebler removed the cigar from his lips. He was stuttering + with anger. With a mingling of despair and boldness Jock saw the + advantage of that stuttering moment and seized on it. He stepped + close to the broad table-desk, resting both hands on it and + leaning forward slightly in his eagerness. +</p> +<p> + "Mr. Berg—I have a plan. Mr. Hupp can tell you. It came to me + when I first heard that the Grieblers were going to broaden out. + It's a real idea. I'm sure of that. I've worked it out in detail. + Mr. Hupp himself said it—Why, I've got the actual copy. And it's + new. Absolutely. It never—" +</p> +<p> + "Trot it out!" shouted Ben Griebler. "I'd like to see one idea + anyway, around this shop." +</p> +<p> + "McChesney," said Bartholomew Berg, not raising his voice. His + eyes rested on Jock with the steady, penetrating gaze that was + peculiar to him. More foolhardy men than Jock McChesney had + faltered and paused, abashed, under those eyes. "McChesney, your + enthusiasm for your work is causing you to forget one thing that + must never be forgotten in this office." +</p> +<p> + Jock stepped back. His lower lip was caught between his teeth. At + the same moment Ben Griebler snatched up his hat from the table, + clapped it on his head at an absurd angle and, bristling like a + fighting cock, confronted the three men. +</p> +<p> + "I've got a couple of rules myself," he cried, "and don't you + forget it. When you get a little spare time, you look up St. Louis + and find out what state it's in. The slogan of that state is my + slogan, you bet. If you think I'm going to make you a present of + the money that it took my old man fifty years to pile up, then you + don't know that Griebler is a German name. Good day, gents." +</p> +<p> + He stalked to the door. There he turned dramatically and leveled a + forefinger at Jock. "They've got you roped and tied. But I think + you're a comer. If you change your mind, kid, come and see me." +</p> +<p> + The door slammed behind him. +</p> +<p> + "Whew!" whistled Sam Hupp, passing a handkerchief over his bald + spot. +</p> +<p> + Bartholomew Berg reached out with one great capable hand and swept + toward him a pile of papers. "Oh, well, you can't blame him. + Advertising has been a scream for so long. Griebler doesn't know + the difference between advertising, publicity, and bunk. He'll + learn. But it'll be an awfully expensive course. Now, Hupp, let's + go over this Kalamazoo account. That'll be all, McChesney." +</p> +<p> + Jock turned without a word. He walked quickly through the outer + office, into the great main room. There he stopped at the + switchboard. +</p> +<p> + "Er—Miss Grimes," he said, smiling charmingly. "Where's this Mr. + Griebler, of St. Louis, stopping; do you know?" +</p> +<p> + "Say, where would he stop?" retorted the wise Miss Grimes. "Look + at him! The Waldorf, of course." +</p> +<p> + "Thanks," said Jock, still smiling. And went back to his desk. +</p> +<p> + At five Jock left the office. Under his arm he carried the flat + pasteboard package secured by elastic bands. At five-fifteen he + walked swiftly down the famous corridor of the great red stone + hotel. The colorful glittering crowd that surged all about him he + seemed not to see. He made straight for the main desk with its + battalion of clerks. +</p> +<a name="image-0012"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp12.jpg" width="270" height="438" +alt="'He made straight for the main desk with its +battalion of clerks'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + "Mr. Griebler in? Mr. Ben Griebler, St. Louis?" +</p> +<p> + The question set in motion the hotel's elaborate system of + investigation. At last: "Not in." +</p> +<p> + "Do you know when he will be in?" That futile question. +</p> +<p> + "Can't say. He left no word. Do you want to leave your name?" +</p> +<p> + "N-no. Would he—does he stop at this desk when he comes in?" +</p> +<p> + He was an unusually urbane hotel clerk. "Why, usually they leave + their keys and get their mail from the floor clerk. But Mr. + Griebler seems to prefer the main desk." +</p> +<p> + "I'll—wait," said Jock. And seated in one of the great thronelike + chairs, he waited. He sat there, slim and boyish, while the + laughing, chattering crowd swept all about him. If you sit long + enough in that foyer you will learn all there is to learn about + life. An amazing sight it is—that crowd. Baraboo helps swell it, + and Spokane, and Berlin, and Budapest, and Pekin, and Paris, and + Waco, Texas. So varied it is, so cosmopolitan, that if you sit + there patiently enough, and watch sharply enough you will even see + a chance New Yorker. +</p> +<p> + From door to desk Jock's eyes swept. The afternoon-tea crowd, in + paradise feathers, and furs, and frock coats swam back and forth. + He saw it give way to the dinner throng, satin-shod, bejeweled, + hurrying through its oysters, swallowing unbelievable numbers of + cloudy-amber drinks, and golden-brown drinks, and maroon drinks, + then gathering up its furs and rushing theaterwards. He was still + sitting there when that crowd, its eight o'clock freshness + somewhat sullied, its sparkle a trifle dimmed, swept back for more + oysters, more cloudy-amber and golden-brown drinks. +</p> +<p> + At half-hour intervals, then at hourly intervals, the figure in + the great chair stirred, rose, and walked to the desk. +</p> +<p> + "Has Mr. Griebler come in?" +</p> +<p> + The supper throng, its laugh a little ribald, its talk a shade + high-pitched, drifted towards the street, or was wafted up in + elevators. The throng thinned to an occasional group. Then these + became rarer and rarer. The revolving door admitted one man, or + two, perhaps, who lingered not at all in the unaccustomed quiet of + the great glittering lobby. +</p> +<p> + The figure of the watcher took on a pathetic droop. The eyelids + grew leaden. To open them meant an almost superhuman effort. The + stare of the new night clerks grew more and more hostile and + suspicious. A grayish pallor had settled down on the boy's face. + And those lines of the night before stood out for all to see. +</p> +<p> + In the stillness of the place the big revolving door turned once + more, complainingly. For the thousandth time Jock's eyes + lifted heavily. Then they flew wide open. The drooping figure + straightened electrically. Half a dozen quick steps and Jock stood + in the pathway of Ben Griebler who, rather ruffled and untidy, had + blown in on the wings of the morning. +</p> +<p> + He stared a moment. "Well, what—" +</p> +<p> + "I've been waiting for you here since five o'clock last evening. + It will soon be five o'clock again. Will you let me show you those + plans now?" +</p> +<p> + Ben Griebler had surveyed Jock with the stony calm of the + out-of-town visitor who is prepared to show surprise at nothing in + New York. +</p> +<p> + "There's nothing like getting an early start," said Ben Griebler. + "Come on up to my room." Key in hand, he made for the elevator. + For an almost imperceptible moment Jock paused. Then, with a + little rush, he followed the short, thick-set figure. "I knew you + had it in you, McChesney. I said you looked like a comer, didn't + I?" +</p> +<p> + Jock said nothing. He was silent while Griebler unlocked his door, + turned on the light, fumbled at the windows and shades, picked up + the telephone receiver. "What'll you have?" +</p> +<p> + "Nothing." Jock had cleared the center table and was opening his + flat bundle of papers. He drew up two chairs. "Let's not waste any + time," he said. "I've had a twelve-hour wait for this." He seemed + to control the situation. Obediently Ben Griebler hung up the + receiver, came over, and took the chair very close to Jock. +</p> +<a name="image-0013"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp13.jpg" width="363" height="270" +alt="''Let's not waste any time,' he said'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + "There's nothing artistic about gum," began Jock McChesney; and + his manner was that of a man who is sure of himself. "It's a + shirt-sleeve product, and it ought to be handled from a + shirt-sleeve standpoint. Every gum concern in the country has + spent thousands on a 'better-than-candy' campaign before it + realized that gum is a candy and drug store article, and that no + man is going to push a five-cent package of gum at the sacrifice + of the sale of an eighty-cent box of candy. But the health note is + there, if only you strike it right. Now, here's my idea—" +</p> +<p> + At six o'clock Ben Griebler, his little shrewd eyes sparkling, his + voice more squeakily falsetto than ever, surveyed the youngster + before him with a certain awe. +</p> +<p> + "This—this thing will actually sell our stuff in Europe! No gum + concern has ever been able to make the stuff go outside of this + country. Why, inside of three years every 'Arry and 'Arriet in + England'll be chewing it on bank holidays. I don't know about + Germany, but—" He pushed back his chair and got up. "Well, I'm + solid on that. And what I say goes. Now I'll tell you what I'll + do, kid. I'll take you down to St. Louis with me, at a figure + that'll make your—" +</p> +<p> + Jock looked up. +</p> +<p> + "Or if you don't want the Berg, Shriner crowd to get wise, I'll + fix it this way. I'll go over there this morning and tell 'em I've + changed my mind, see? The campaign's theirs, see? Then I refuse + to consider any of their suggestions until I see your plan. And + when I see it I fall for it like a ton of bricks. Old Berg'll + never know. He's so darned high-principled—" +</p> +<p> + Jock McChesney stood up. The little drawn pinched look which had + made his face so queerly old was gone. His eyes were bright. His + face was flushed. +</p> +<p> + "There! You've said it. I didn't realize how raw this deal was + until you put it into words for me. I want to thank you. You're + right. Bartholomew Berg is so darned high-principled that two + muckers like you and me, groveling around in the dirt, can't even + see the tips of the heights to which his ideals have soared. Don't + stop me. I know I'm talking like a book. But I feel like something + that has just been kicked out into the sunshine after having been + in jail." +</p> +<p> + "You're tired," said Ben Griebler. "It's been a strain. Something + always snaps after a long tension." +</p> +<p> + Jock's flat palm came down among the papers with a crack. +</p> +<p> + "You bet something snaps! It has just snapped inside me." He + began quietly to gather up the papers in an orderly little way. +</p> +<p> + "What's that for?" inquired Griebler, coming forward. "You don't + mean—" +</p> +<p> + "I mean that I'm going to go home and square this thing with a + lady you've never met. You and she wouldn't get on if you did. You + don't talk the same language. Then I'm going to have a cold bath, + and a hot breakfast. And then, Griebler, I'm going to take this + stuff to Bartholomew Berg and tell him the whole nasty business. + He'll see the humor of it. But I don't know whether he'll fire me, + or make me vice-president of the company. Now, if you want to come + over and talk to him, fair and square, why come." +</p> +<p> + "Ten to one he fires you," remarked Griebler, as Jock reached the + door. +</p> +<p> + "There's only one person I know who's game enough to take you up + on that. And it's going to take more nerve to face her at + six-thirty than it will to tackle a whole battalion of Bartholomew + Bergs at nine." +</p> +<p> + "Well, I guess I can get in a three-hour sleep before—er—" +</p> +<p> + "Before what?" said Jock McChesney from the door. +</p> +<p> + Ben Griebler laughed a little shamefaced laugh. "Before I see you + at ten, sonny." +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0005"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + V +</h2> +<h3> + THE SELF-STARTER +</h3> +<br> +<p> + There is nothing in the sound of the shrill little bell to warn us + of the import of its message. More's the pity. It may be that bore + whose telephone conversation begins: "Well, what do you know + to-day?" It may be your lawyer to say you've inherited a million. + Hence the arrogance of the instrument. It knows its voice will + never wilfully go unanswered so long as the element of chance lies + concealed within it. +</p> +<p> + Mrs. Emma McChesney heard the call of her telephone across the + hall. Seated in the office of her business partner, T.A. Buck, she + was fathoms deep in discussion of the T.A. Buck Featherloom + Petticoat Company's new spring line. The buzzer's insistent + voice brought her to her feet, even while she frowned at the + interruption. +</p> +<p> + "That'll be Baumgartner 'phoning about those silk swatches. Back + in a minute," said Emma McChesney and hurried across the hall just + in time to break the second call. +</p> +<p> + The perfunctory "Hello! Yes" was followed by a swift change of + countenance, a surprised little cry, then,—in quite another + tone—"Oh, it's you, Jock! I wasn't expecting ... No, not too + busy to talk to you, you young chump! Go on." A moment of silence, + while Mrs. McChesney's face smiled and glowed like a girl's as she + listened to the voice of her son. Then suddenly glow and smile + faded. She grew tense. Her head, that had been leaning so + carelessly on the hand that held the receiver, came up with a + jerk. "Jock McChesney!" she gasped, "you—why, you don't mean!—" +</p> +<p> + Now, Emma McChesney was not a woman given to jerky conversations, + interspersed with exclamation points. Her poise and balance had + become a proverb in the business world. Yet her lips were + trembling now. Her eyes were very round and bright. Her face had + flushed, then grown white. Her voice shook a little. "Yes, of + course I am. Only, I'm so surprised. Yes, I'll be home early. + Five-thirty at the latest." +</p> +<p> + She hung up the receiver with a little fumbling gesture. Her hand + dropped to her lap, then came up to her throat a moment, dropped + again. She sat staring straight ahead with eyes that saw one + thousand miles away. +</p> +<p> + From his office across the hall T.A. Buck strolled in casually. +</p> +<p> + "Did Baumgartner say he'd—?" He stopped as Mrs. McChesney looked + up at him. A quick step forward—"What's the matter, Emma?" +</p> +<p> + "Jock—Jock—" +</p> +<p> + "Jock! What's happened to the boy?" Then, as she still stared at + him, her face pitiful, his hand patted her shoulder. "Dear girl, + tell me." He bent over her, all solicitude. +</p> +<p> + "Don't!" said Emma McChesney faintly, and shook off his hand. + "Your stenographer can see—What will the office think? Please—" +</p> +<p> + "Oh, darn the stenographer! What's this bad news of Jock?" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney sat up. She smiled a little nervously and passed + her handkerchief across her lips. "I didn't say it was bad, did I? + That is, not exactly bad, I suppose." +</p> +<p> + T.A. Buck ran a frenzied hand over his head. "My dear child," + with careful politeness, "will you please try to be sane? I find + you sitting at your desk, staring into space, your face white as a + ghost's, your whole appearance that of a person who has received a + death-blow. And then you say, 'Not exactly bad'!" +</p> +<p> + "It's this," explained Emma McChesney in a hollow tone: "The Berg, + Shriner Advertising Company has appointed Jock manager of their + new Western branch. They're opening offices in Chicago in March." + Her lower lip quivered. She caught it sharply between her teeth. +</p> +<p> + For one surprised moment T.A. Buck stared in silence. Then a roar + broke from him. "Not exactly bad!" he boomed between laughs. "Not + exactly b—Not ex<i>act</i>ly, eh?" Then he was off again. +</p> +<p> + Mrs. McChesney surveyed him in hurt and dignified silence. + Then—"Well, really, T.A., don't mind me. What you find so + exquisitely funny—" +</p> +<p> + "That's the funniest part of it! That you, of all people, + shouldn't see the joke. Not exactly bad!" He wiped his eyes. "Why, + do you mean to tell me that because your young cub of a son, by a + heaven-sent stroke of good fortune, has landed a job that men + twice his age would give their eyeteeth to get, I find you sitting + at the telephone looking as if he had run off with Annie the cook, + or had had a leg cut off!" +</p> +<p> + "I suppose it is funny. Only, the joke's on me. That's why I can't + see it. It means that I'm losing him." +</p> +<p> + "That's the first selfish word I've ever heard you utter." +</p> +<p> + "Oh, don't think I'm not happy at his success. Happy! Haven't I + hoped for it, and worked for it, and prayed for it! Haven't I + saved for it, and skimped for it! How do you think I could have + stood those years on the road if I hadn't kept up courage with the + thought that it was all for him? Don't I know how narrowly Jock + escaped being the wrong kind! I'm his mother, but I'm not quite + blind. I know he had the making of a first-class cad. I've seen + him start off in the wrong direction a hundred times." +</p> +<p> + "If he has turned out a success, it's because you've steered him + right. I've watched you make him over. And now, when his big + chance has come, you—" +</p> +<p> + "I don't expect you to understand," interrupted Emma McChesney a + little wearily. "I know it sounds crazy and unreasonable. There's + only one sort of human being who could understand what I mean. + That's a woman with a son." She laughed a little shamefacedly. + "I'm talking like the chorus of a minor-wail sob song, but it's + the truth." +</p> +<p> + "If you feel like that, Emma, tell him to stay. The boy wouldn't + go if he thought it would make you unhappy." +</p> +<p> + "Not go!" cried Emma McChesney sharply. "I'd like to see him dare + to refuse it!" +</p> +<p> + "Well then, what in—" began Buck, bewildered. +</p> +<p> + "Don't try to understand it, T.A. It's no use. Don't try to poke + your finger into the whirligig they call 'Woman's Sphere.' Its + mechanism is too complicated. It's the same quirk that makes women + pray for daughters and men for sons. It's the same kink that makes + women read the marriage and death notices first in a newspaper. + It's the same queer strain that causes a mother to lavish the most + love on the weakest, wilfullest child. Perhaps I wouldn't have + loved Jock so much if there hadn't been that streak of yellow in + him, and if I hadn't had to work so hard to dilute it until now + it's only a faint cream color. There ought to be a special prayer + for women who are bringing up their sons alone." +</p> +<p> + Buck stirred a little uneasily. "I've never heard you talk like + this before." +</p> +<p> + "You probably never will again." She swung round to her desk. +</p> +<p> + T.A. Buck, strolling toward the door, still wore the puzzled look. +</p> +<p> + "I don't know what makes you take this so seriously. Of course, + the boy will be a long way off. But then, you've been separated + from him before. What's the difference now?" +</p> +<p> + "T.A.," said Emma McChesney solemnly, "Jock will be drawing a + man-size salary now. Something tells me I'll be a grandmother in + another two years. Girls aren't letting men like Jock run around + loose. He'll be gobbled up. Just you wait." +</p> +<p> + "Oh, I don't know," drawled Buck mischievously. "You've just said + he's a headstrong young cub. He strikes me as the kind who'd + raise the dickens if his three-minute egg happened to be five + seconds overtime." +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney swung around in her chair. "Look here, T.A. As + business partners we've quarreled about everything from silk + samples to traveling men, and as friends we've wrangled on every + subject from weather to war. I've allowed you to criticise my soul + theories, and my new spring hat. But understand that I'm the only + living person who has the right to villify my son, Jock + McChesney." +</p> +<p> + The telephone buzzed a punctuation to this period. +</p> +<p> + "Baumgartner?" inquired Buck humbly. +</p> +<p> + She listened a moment, then, over her shoulder, + "Baumgartner,"—grimly, her hand covering the mouthpiece—"and + if he thinks that he can work off a lot of last year's silk + swatches on—Hello! Yes, Mrs. McChesney talking. Look here, Mr. + Baumgartner—" +</p> +<p> + And for the time being Emma McChesney, mother, was relegated to + the background, while Emma McChesney, secretary of the T.A. Buck + Featherloom Petticoat Company, held the stage. +</p> +<p> + Having said that she would be home at five-thirty. Mrs. McChesney + was home at five-thirty, being that kind of a person. Jock came + in at six, breathless, bright-eyed, eager, and late, being that + kind of a person. +</p> +<p> + He found his mother on the floor before the chiffonier in his + bedroom, surrounded by piles of pajamas, socks, shirts and + collars. +</p> +<a name="image-0014"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp14.jpg" width="328" height="270" +alt="'He found his mother on the floor ... surrounded by +piles of pajamas, socks, shirts and collars'"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + He swooped down upon her from the doorway. "What do you think of + your blue-eyed boy! Poor, eh?" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney looked up absently. "Jock, these medium-weights of + yours didn't wear at all, and you paid five dollars for them." +</p> +<p> + "Medium-weights! What in—" +</p> +<p> + "You've enough silk socks to last you the rest of your natural + life. Handkerchiefs, too. But you'll need pajamas." +</p> +<p> + Jock stooped, gathered up an armful of miscellaneous undergarments + and tossed them into an open drawer. Then he shut the drawer with + a bang, reached over, grasped his mother firmly under the arms and + brought her to her feet with a swing. +</p> +<p> + "We will now consider the question of summer underwear ended. + Would it bore you too much to touch lightly on the subject of your + son's future?" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney, tall, straight, handsome, looked up at her son, + taller, straighter, handsomer. Then she took him by the coat + lapels and hugged him. +</p> +<p> + "You were so bursting with your own glory that I couldn't resist + teasing you. Besides, I had to do something to keep my mind + off—off—" +</p> +<p> + "Why, Blonde dear, you're not—!" +</p> +<p> + "No, I'm not," gulped Emma McChesney. "Don't flatter yourself, + young 'un. Tell me just how it happened. From the beginning." She + perched at the side of the bed. Jock, hands in pockets, hair a + little rumpled, paced excitedly up and down before her as he + talked. +</p> +<p> + "There wasn't any beginning. That's the stunning part of it. I + just landed right into the middle of it with both feet. I knew + they had been planning to start a big Western branch. But we all + thought they'd pick some big man for it. There are plenty of + medium-class dubs to be had. The kind that answers the ad: + 'Manager wanted, young man, preferably married, able to furnish + A-1 reference.' They're as thick as advertising men in Detroit on + Monday morning. But we knew that this Western branch was going to + be given an equal chance with the New York office. Those big + Western advertisers like to give their money to Western firms if + they can. So we figured that they'd pick a real top-notcher—even + Hopper, or Hupp, maybe—and start out with a bang. So when the Old + Man called me into his office this morning I was as unconscious as + a babe. Well, you know Berg. He's as unexpected as a summer shower + and twice as full of electricity. +</p> +<p> + "'Morning, McChesney!' he said. 'That a New York necktie you're + wearing?' +</p> +<p> + "'Strictly,' says I. +</p> +<p> + "'Ever try any Chicago ties?' +</p> +<p> + "'Not from choice. That time my suit case went astray—' +</p> +<p> + "'M-m-m-m, yes.' He drummed his fingers on the table top a couple + of times. Then—McChesney, what have you learned about advertising + in the last two and a half years?' +</p> +<p> + "I was wise enough as to Bartholomew Berg to know that he didn't + mean any cut-and-dried knowledge. He didn't mean rules of the + game. He meant tricks. +</p> +<p> + "'Well,' I said, 'I've learned to watch a man's eyes when I'm + talking business to him. If the pupils of his eyes dilate he's + listening to you, and thinking about what you're saying. When they + contract it means that he's only faking interest, even though he's + looking straight at you and wearing a rapt expression. His + thoughts are miles away.' +</p> +<p> + "'That so?' said Berg, and sort of grinned. 'What else?' +</p> +<p> + "'I've learned that one negative argument is worth six positive + ones; that it never pays to knock your competitor; that it's wise + to fight shy of that joker known as "editorial coöperation."' +</p> +<p> + "'That so?' said Berg. 'Anything else?' +</p> +<p> + "I made up my mind I could play the game as long as he could. +</p> +<p> + "'I've learned not to lose my temper when I'm in the middle of a + white-hot, impassioned business appeal and the office boy bounces + in to say to the boss: "Mrs. Jones is waiting. She says you were + going to help her pick out wall paper this morning;" and Jones + says, "Tell her I'll be there in five minutes."' +</p> +<p> + "'Sure you've learned that?' said Berg. +</p> +<p> + "'Sure,' says I. 'And I've learned to let the other fellow think + your argument's his own. He likes it. I've learned that the + surest kind of copy is the slow, insidious kind, like the + Featherloom Petticoat Company's campaign. That was an ideal + campaign because it didn't urge and insist that the public buy + Featherlooms. It just eased the idea to them. It started by + sketching a history of the petticoat, beginning with Eve's fig + leaf and working up. Before they knew it they were interested.' +</p> +<p> + "'That so? That campaign was your mother's idea, McChesney.' You + know, Mother, he thinks you're a wonder." +</p> +<p> + "So I am," agreed Emma McChesney calmly. "Go on." +</p> +<p> + "Well, I went on. I told him that I'd learned to stand so that the + light wouldn't shine in my client's eyes when I was talking to + him. I lost a big order once because the glare from the window + irritated the man I was talking to. I told Berg all the tricks I'd + learned, and some I hadn't thought of till that minute. Berg put + in a word now and then. I thought he was sort of guying me, as he + sometimes does—not unkindly, you know, but in that quiet way he + has. Finally I stopped for breath, or something, and he said: +</p> +<p> + "'Now let me talk a minute, McChesney. Anybody can teach you the + essentials of the advertising business, if you've any advertising + instinct in you. But it's what you pick up on the side, by your + own efforts and out of your own experience, that lifts you out of + the scrub class. Now I don't think you're an ideal advertising man + by any means, McChesney. You're shy on training and experience, + and you've just begun to acquire that golden quality known as + balance. I could name a hundred men that are better all-around + advertising men than you will ever be. Those men have advertising + ability that glows steadily and evenly, like a well-banked fire. + But you've got the kind of ability that flares up, dies down, + flares up. But every flare is a real blaze that lights things red + while it lasts, and sends a new glow through the veins of + business. You've got personality, and youth, and enthusiasm, and a + precious spark of the real thing known as advertising genius. + There's no describing it. You know what I mean. Also, you + know enough about actual advertising not to run an ad for a + five-thousand-dollar motor car in the "Police Gazette." All of + which leads up to this question: How would you like to buy your + neckties in Chicago, McChesney?' +</p> +<p> + "'Chicago!' I blurted. +</p> +<p> + "'We've taken a suite of offices in the new Lakeview Building on + Michigan Avenue. Would you like your office done in mahogany or + oak?'" +</p> +<p> + Jock came to a full stop before his mother. His cheeks were + scarlet. Hers were pale. He was breathing quickly. She was very + quiet. His eyes glowed. So did hers, but the glow was dimmed by a + mist. +</p> +<p> + "Mahogany's richer, but make it oak, son. It doesn't show + finger-marks so." Then, quite suddenly, she stood up, shaking a + little, and buried her face in the boy's shoulder. +</p> +<p> + "Why—why, Mother! Don't! Don't, Blonde. We'll see each other + every few weeks. I'll be coming to New York to see the sights, + like the rest of the rubes, and I suppose the noise and lights + will confuse me so that I'll be glad to get back to the sylvan + quiet of Chicago. And then you'll run out there, eh? We'll have + regular bats, Mrs. Mack. Dinner and the theater and supper! Yes?" +</p> +<p> + "Yes," said Emma McChesney, in muffled tones that totally lacked + enthusiasm. +</p> +<p> + "Chicago's really only a suburb of New York, anyway, these days, + and—" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney's head came up sharply. "Look here, son. If you're + going to live in Chicago I advise you to cut that suburb talk, and + sort of forget New York. Chicago's quite a village, for an inland + settlement, even if it has only two or three million people, and a + lake as big as all outdoors. That kind of talk won't elect you to + the University Club, son." +</p> +<p> + So they talked, all through supper and during the evening. Rather, + Jock talked and his mother listened, interrupting with only an + occasional remark when the bubble of the boy's elation seemed to + grow too great. +</p> +<p> + Quite suddenly Jock was silent. After the almost incessant rush of + conversation quiet settled down strangely on the two seated there + in the living-room with its soft-shaded lamps. Jock picked up a + magazine, twirled its pages, put it down, strolled into his own + room, and back again. +</p> +<p> + "Mother," he said suddenly, standing before her, "there was a + time when you were afraid I wasn't going to pan out, wasn't + there?" +</p> +<p> + "Not exactly afraid, dear, just a little doubtful, perhaps." +</p> +<p> + Jock smiled a tolerant, forgiving smile. "You see, Mother, you + didn't understand, that's all. A woman doesn't. I was all right. A + man would have realized that. I don't mean, dear, that you haven't + always been wonderful, because you have. But it takes a man to + understand a man. When you thought I was going bad on your hands I + was just developing, that's all. Remember that time in Chicago, + Mother?" +</p> +<p> + "Yes," answered Emma McChesney, "I remember." +</p> +<p> + "Now a man would have understood that that was only kid + foolishness. If a fellow's got the stuff in him it'll show up, + sooner or later. If I hadn't had it in me I wouldn't be going to + Chicago as manager of the Berg, Shriner Western office, would I?" +</p> +<p> + "No, dear." +</p> +<p> + Jock looked at her. In an instant he was all contrition and + tenderness. "You're tired. I've talked you to death, haven't I? + Lordy, it's midnight! And I want to get down early to-morrow. + Conference with Mr. Berg, and Hupp." He tried not to sound too + important. +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney took his head between her two hands and kissed him + once on the lips, then, standing a-tiptoe, kissed his eyelids with + infinite gentleness as you kiss a baby's eyes. Then she brought + his cheek up against hers. And so they stood for a moment, + silently. +</p> +<p> + Ten minutes later there came the sound of blithe whistling from + Jock's room. Jock always whistled when he went to bed and when he + rose. Even these years of living in a New York apartment had + not broken him of the habit. It was a cheerful, disconnected + whistling, sometimes high and clear, sometimes under the breath, + sometimes interspersed with song, and sometimes ceasing altogether + at critical moments, say, during shaving, or while bringing the + four-in-hand up tight and snug under the collar. It was one of + those comfortable little noises that indicate a masculine + presence; one of those pleasant, reassuring, man-in-the-house + noises that every woman loves. +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney, putting herself to bed in her room across the + hall, found herself listening, brush poised, lips parted, as + though to the exquisite strains of celestial music. There came the + thump of a shoe on the floor. An interval of quiet. Then another + thump. Without having been conscious of it, Emma McChesney had + grown to love the noises that accompanied Jock's retiring and + rising. His dressing was always signalized by bangings and + thumpings. His splashings in the tub were tremendous. His morning + plunge could be heard all over the six-room apartment. Mrs. + McChesney used to call gayly through the door: +</p> +<p> + "Mercy, Jock! You sound like a school of whales coming up for + air." +</p> +<p> + "You'll think I'm a school of sharks when it comes to breakfast," + Jock would call back. "Tell Annie to make enough toast, Mum. She's + the tightest thing with the toast I ever did—" +</p> +<p> + The rest would be lost in a final surging splash. +</p> +<p> + The noises in the room across the hall had subsided now. She + listened more intently. No, a drawer banged. Another. Then: +</p> +<p> + "Hasn't my gray suit come back from the tailor's?" +</p> +<p> + "It was to be sponged, too, you know. He said he'd bring it + Wednesday. This is Tuesday." +</p> +<p> + "Oh!" Another bang. Then: '"Night, Mother!" +</p> +<p> + "Good night, dear." Creaking sounds, then a long, comfortable sigh + of complete relaxation. +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney went on with her brushing. She brushed her hair + with the usual number of swift even strokes, from the top of the + shining head to the waist. She braided her hair into two plaits, + Gretchen fashion. Millions of scanty-locked women would have given + all they possessed to look as Emma McChesney looked standing there + in kimono and gown. She nicked out the light. Then she, too, + relaxed upon her pillow with a little sigh. Quiet fell on the + little apartment. The street noises came up to her, now roaring, + now growing faint. Emma McChesney lay there sleepless. She lay + flat, hands clasped across her breast, her braids spread out on + the pillow. In the darkness of the room the years rolled before + her in panorama: her girlhood, her marriage, her unhappiness, + Jock, the divorce, the struggle for work, those ten years on the + road. Those ten years on the road! How she had hated them—and + loved them. The stuffy trains, the jarring sleepers, the bare + little hotel bedrooms, the bad food, the irregular hours, the + loneliness, the hard work, the disappointments, the temptations. + Yes but the fascination of it, the dear friends she had made, the + great human lesson of it all! And all for Jock. That Jock might + have good schools, good clothes, good books, good surroundings, + happy times. Why, Jock had been the reason for it all! She had + swallowed insult because of Jock. She had borne the drudgery + because of Jock. She had resisted temptation, smiled under + hardship, worked, fought, saved, succeeded, all because of Jock. + And now this pivot about which her whole life had revolved was to + be pulled up, wrenched away. +</p> +<p> + Over Emma McChesney, lying there in the dark, there swept one of + those unreasoning night-fears. The fear of living. The fear of + life. A straining of the eyeballs in the dark. The pounding of + heart-beats. +</p> +<p> + She sat up in bed. Her hands went to her face. Her cheeks were + burning and her eyes smarted. She felt that she must see Jock. At + once. Just to be near him. To touch him. To take him in her arms, + with his head in the hollow of her breast, as she used to when he + was a baby. Why, he had been a baby only yesterday. And now he was + a man. Big enough to stand alone, to live alone, to do without + her. +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney flung aside the covers and sprang out of bed. She + thrust her feet in slippers, groped for the kimono at the foot of + the bed and tiptoed to the door. She listened. No sound from the + other room. She stole across the hall, stopped, listened, gained + the door. It was open an inch or more. Just to be near him, to + know that he lay there, sleeping! She pushed the door very, very + gently. Then she stood in the doorway a moment, scarcely + breathing, her head thrust forward, her whole body tense with + listening. She could not hear him breathe! She caught her breath + again in that unreasoning fear and took a quick step forward. +</p> +<p> + "Stop or I'll shoot!" said a voice. Simultaneously the light + flashed on. Emma McChesney found herself blinking at a determined + young man who was steadily pointing a short, chubby, businesslike + looking steel affair in her direction. Then the hand that held the + steel dropped. +</p> +<p> + "What is this, anyway?" demanded Jock rather crossly. "A George + Cohan comedy?" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney leaned against the foot of the bed rather weakly. +</p> +<p> + "What did you think—" +</p> +<p> + "What would you think if you heard some one come sneaking along + the hall, stopping, listening, sneaking to your door, and then + opening it, and listening again, and sneaking in? What would you + think it was? How did I know you were going around making social + calls at two o'clock in the morning!" +</p> +<p> + Suddenly Emma McChesney began to laugh. She leaned over the + footboard and laughed hysterically, her head in her arms. Jock + stared a moment in offended disapproval. Then the humor of it + caught him, and he buried his head in his pillow to stifle + unseemly shrieks. His legs kicked spasmodically beneath the + bedclothes. +</p> +<p> + As suddenly as she had begun to laugh Mrs. McChesney became very + sober. +</p> +<p> + "Stop it, Jock! Tell me, why weren't you sleeping?" +</p> +<p> + "I don't know," replied Jock, as suddenly solemn. "I—sort + of—began to think, and I couldn't sleep." +</p> +<p> + "What were you thinking of?" +</p> +<p> + Jock looked down at the bedclothes and traced a pattern with one + forefinger on the sheet. Then he looked up. +</p> +<p> + "Thinking of you." +</p> +<p> + "Oh!" said Emma McChesney, like a bashful schoolgirl. "Of—me!" +</p> +<p> + Jock sat up very straight and clasped his hands about his knees. + "I got to thinking of what I had said about having made good all + alone. That's rot. It isn't so. I was striped with yellow like a + stick of lemon candy. If I've got this far, it's all because of + you. I've been thinking all along that I was the original electric + self-starter, when you've really had to get out and crank me every + few miles." +</p> +<p> + Into Emma McChesney's face there came a wonderful look. It was the + sort of look with which a newly-made angel might receive her + crown and harp. It was the look with which a war-hero sees the + medal pinned on his breast. It was the look of one who has come + into her Reward. Therefore: +</p> +<p> + "What nonsense!" said Emma McChesney. "If you hadn't had it in + you, it wouldn't have come out." +</p> +<p> + "It wasn't in me, in the first place," contested Jock stubbornly. + "You planted it." +</p> +<p> + From her stand at the foot of the bed she looked at him, her eyes + glowing brighter and brighter with that wonderful look. +</p> +<p> + "Now see here,"—severely—"I want you to go to sleep. I don't + intend to stand here and dispute about your ethical innards at + this hour. I'm going to kiss you again." +</p> +<p> + "Oh, well, if you must," grinned Jock resignedly, and folded her + in a bear-hug. +</p> +<p> + To Emma McChesney it seemed that the next three weeks leaped by, + not by days, but in one great bound. And the day came when a + little, chattering, animated group clustered about the slim young + chap who was fumbling with his tickets, glancing at his watch, + signaling a porter for his bags, talking, laughing, trying to hide + the pangs of departure under a cloak of gayety and badinage that + deceived no one. Least of all did it deceive the two women who + stood there. The eyes of the older woman never left his face. The + eyes of the younger one seldom were raised to his, but she saw his + every expression. Once Emma McChesney's eyes shifted a little so + as to include both the girl and the boy in her gaze. Grace Galt in + her blue serge and smart blue hat was worth a separate glance. +</p> +<p> + Sam Hupp was there, T.A. Buck, Hopper, who was to be with him in + Chicago for the first few weeks, three or four of the younger men + in the office, frankly envious and heartily congratulatory. +</p> +<p> + They followed him to his train, all laughter and animation. +</p> +<p> + "If this train doesn't go in two minutes," said Jock, "I'll get + scared and chuck the whole business. Funny, but I'm not so keen on + going as I was three weeks ago." +</p> +<p> + His eyes rested on the girl in the blue serge and the smart hat. + Emma McChesney saw that. She saw that his eyes still rested there + as he stood on the observation platform when the train pulled out. + The sight did not pain her as she thought it would. There was + success in every line of him as he stood there, hat in hand. There + was assurance in every breath of him. His clothes, his skin, his + clear eyes, his slim body, all were as they should be. He had + made a place in the world. He was to be a builder of ideas. She + thought of him, and of the girl in blue serge, and of their + children-to-be. +</p> +<p> + Her breast swelled exultingly. Her head came up. +</p> +<p> + This was her handiwork. She looked at it, and found that it was + good. +</p> +<p> + "Let's strike for the afternoon and call it a holiday," suggested + Buck. +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney turned. The train was gone. "T.A., you'll never + grow up." +</p> +<p> + "Never want to. Come on, let's play hooky, Emma." +</p> +<p> + "Can't. I've a dozen letters to get out, and Miss Loeb wants to + show me that new knicker-bocker design of hers." +</p> +<p> + They drove back to the office almost in silence. Emma McChesney + made straight for her desk and began dictating letters with an + energy that bordered on fury. At five o'clock she was still + working. At five-thirty T.A. Buck came in to find her still + surrounded by papers, samples, models. +</p> +<p> + "What is this?" he demanded wrathfully, "an all-night session?" +</p> +<p> + Emma McChesney looked up from her desk. Her face was flushed, her + eyes bright, but there was about her an indefinable air of + weariness. +</p> +<p> + "T.A., I'm afraid to go home. I'll rattle around in that empty + flat like a hickory nut in a barrel." +</p> +<p> + "We'll have dinner down-town and go to the theater." +</p> +<p> + "No use. I'll have to go home sometime." +</p> +<p> + "Now, Emma," remonstrated Buck, "you'll soon get used to it. Think + of all the years you got along without him. You were happy, + weren't you?" +</p> +<p> + "Happy because I had somebody to work for, somebody to plan for, + somebody to worry about. When I think of what that flat will be + without him—Why, just to wake up and know that you can say good + morning to some one who cares! That's worth living for, isn't it?" +</p> +<p> + "Emma," said T.A. evenly, "do you realize that you are virtually + hounding me into asking you to marry me?" +</p> +<p> + "T.A.!" gasped Emma McChesney. +</p> +<p> + "Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?" +</p> +<a name="image-0015"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/pp15.jpg" width="270" height="384" +alt="''Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry +about, didn't you?''"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + A little whimsical smile lay lightly on his lips. +</p> +<p> + "Timothy Buck, I'm over forty years old." +</p> +<p> + "Emma, in another minute I'm going to grow sentimental, and + nothing can stop me." +</p> +<p> + She looked down at her hands. There fell a little silence. Buck + stirred, leaned forward. She looked up from the little watch that + ticked away at her wrist. +</p> +<p> + "The minute's up, T.A.," said Emma McChesney. +</p> +<br> +<h4> + THE END +</h4> + + +<div style="height: 6em;"><br><br><br><br><br><br></div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Personality Plus, by Edna Ferber + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PERSONALITY PLUS *** + +***** This file should be named 12677-h.htm or 12677-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/6/7/12677/ + +Produced by Janet Kegg and the Project Gutenberg Distributed +Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Personality Plus + Some Experiences of Emma McChesney and Her Son, Jock + +Author: Edna Ferber + +Release Date: June 22, 2004 [EBook #12677] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PERSONALITY PLUS *** + + + + +Produced by Janet Kegg and the Project Gutenberg Distributed +Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + [Illustration: "'What is this anyway? A George Cohan comedy?'"] + + +PERSONALITY PLUS + + SOME EXPERIENCES OF EMMA McCHESNEY + AND HER SON, JOCK + + +By + +EDNA FERBER + +AUTHOR OF "DAWN O'HARA," "BUTTERED SIDE DOWN," +"ROAST BEEF, MEDIUM," ETC. + + +_WITH FIFTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS BY +JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG_ + + +NEW YORK +FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY +1914 + + + + +CONTENTS + + +CHAPTER + I. MAKING GOOD WITH MOTHER + + II. PERSONALITY PLUS + +III. DICTATED BUT NOT READ + + IV. THE MAN WITHIN HIM + + V. THE SELF-STARTER + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + +"'What is this anyway? A George Cohan comedy?'" _Frontispiece_ + +"'You're a jealous blond,' he laughed" + +"He was the concentrated essence of do-it-now" + +"'Hi! Hold that pose!' called Von Herman" + +"With a jolt Jock realized she had forgotten all about him" + +"'Well, raw-thah!' he drawled" + +"... became in some miraculous way a little boy again" + +"Jock McChesney began to carry a yellow walking stick down to +work" + +"'Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't mean it, but--'" + +"'Greetings!'" + +"She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and looked up into the +sullen, angry young face" + +"He made straight for the main desk with its battalion of clerks" + +"'Let's not waste any time,' he said" + +"He found his mother on the floor ... surrounded by piles of +pajamas, socks, shirts and collars" + +"'Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?'" + + + + + +PERSONALITY PLUS + + + + +I + +MAKING GOOD WITH MOTHER + + +When men began to build cities vertically instead of horizontally +there passed from our highways a picturesque figure, and from our +language an expressive figure of speech. That oily-tongued, +persuasive, soft-stepping stranger in the rusty Prince Albert and +the black string tie who had been wont to haunt our back steps and +front offices with his carefully wrapped bundle, retreated in +bewildered defeat before the clanging blows of steel on steel that +meant the erection of the first twenty-story skyscraper. "As +slick," we used to say, "as a lightning-rod agent." Of what use +his wares on a building whose tower was robed in clouds and which +used the chain lightning for a necklace? The Fourth Avenue antique +dealer had another curio to add to his collection of andirons, +knockers, snuff boxes and warming pans. + +But even as this quaint figure vanished there sprang up a new and +glittering one to take his place. He stood framed in the great +plate-glass window of the very building which had brought about +the defeat of his predecessor. A miracle of close shaving his face +was, and a marvel of immaculateness his linen. Dapper he was, and +dressy, albeit inclined to glittering effects and a certain +plethory at the back of the neck. Back of him stood shining shapes +that reflected his glory in enamel, and brass, and glass. His +language was floral, but choice; his talk was of gearings and +bearings and cylinders and magnetos; his method differed from that +of him who went before as the method of a skilled aeronaut differs +from that of the man who goes over Niagara in a barrel. And as he +multiplied and spread over the land we coined a new figure of +speech. "Smooth!" we chuckled. "As smooth as an automobile +salesman." + +But even as we listened, fascinated by his fluent verbiage there +grew within us a certain resentment. Familiarity with his +glittering wares bred a contempt of them, so that he fell to +speaking of them as necessities instead of luxuries. He juggled +figures, and thought nothing of four of them in a row. We looked +at our five-thousand-dollar salary, so strangely shrunken and thin +now, and even as we looked we saw that the method of the unctuous, +anxious stranger had become antiquated in its turn. + +Then from his ashes emerged a new being. Neither urger nor +spellbinder he. The twentieth century was stamped across his brow, +and on his lips was ever the word "Service." Silent, courteous, +watchful, alert, he listened, while you talked. His method, in +turn, made that of the silk-lined salesman sound like the hoarse +hoots of the ballyhoo man at a county fair. Blithely he accepted +five hundred thousand dollars and gave in return--a promise. And +when we would search our soul for a synonym to express all that +was low-voiced, and suave, and judicious, and patient, and sure, +we began to say, "As alert as an advertising expert." + +Jock McChesney, looking as fresh and clear-eyed as only twenty-one +and a cold shower can make one look, stood in the doorway of his +mother's bedroom. His toilette had halted abruptly at the +bathrobe stage. One of those bulky garments swathed his slim +figure, while over his left arm hung a gray tweed Norfolk coat. +From his right hand dangled a pair of trousers, in pattern a +modish black-and-white. + +Jock regarded the gray garment on his arm with moody eyes. + +"Well, I'd like to know what's the matter with it!" he demanded, a +trifle irritably. + +Emma McChesney, in the act of surveying her back hair in the +mirror, paused, hand glass poised half way, to regard her son. + +"All right," she answered cheerfully. "I'll tell you. It's too +young." + +"Young!" He held it at arm's length and stared at it. "What d'you +mean--young?" + +Emma McChesney came forward, wrapping the folds of her kimono +about her. She took the disputed garment in one hand and held it +aloft. "I know that you look like a man on a magazine cover in it. +But Norfolk suits spell tennis, and seashore, and elegant leisure. +And you're going out this morning, Son, to interview business men. +You're going to try to impress the advertising world with the fact +that it needs your expert services. You walk into a business +office in a Norfolk suit, and everybody from the office boy to the +president of the company will ask you what your score is." + +She tossed it back over his arm. + +"I'll wear the black and white," said Jock resignedly, and turned +toward his own room. At his doorway he paused and raised his voice +slightly: "For that matter, they're looking for young men. +Everybody's young. Why, the biggest men in the advertising game +are just kids." He disappeared within his room, still talking. +"Look at McQuirk, advertising manager of the Combs Car Company. +He's so young he has to disguise himself in bone-trimmed +eye-glasses with a black ribbon to get away with it. Look at +Hopper, of the Berg, Shriner Company. Pulls down ninety thousand a +year, and if he's thirty-five I'll--" + +"Well, you asked my advice," interrupted his mother's voice with +that muffled effect which is caused by a skirt being slipped over +the head, "and I gave it. Wear a white duck sailor suit with blue +anchors and carry a red tin pail and a shovel, if you want to look +young. Only get into it in a jiffy, Son, because breakfast will be +ready in ten minutes. I can tell by the way Annie's crashing the +cups. So step lively if you want to pay your lovely mother's +subway fare." + +Ten minutes later the slim young figure, in its English-fitting +black and white, sat opposite Emma McChesney at the breakfast +table and between excited gulps of coffee outlined a meteoric +career in his chosen field. And the more he talked and the rosier +his figures of speech became, the more silent and thoughtful fell +his mother. She wondered if five o'clock would find a droop to the +set of those young shoulders; if the springy young legs in their +absurdly scant modish trousers would have lost some of their +elasticity; if the buoyant step in the flat-heeled shoes would not +drag a little. Thirteen years of business experience had taught +her to swallow smilingly the bitter pill of rebuff. But this boy +was to experience his first dose to-day. She felt again that +sensation of almost physical nausea--that sickness of heart and +spirit which had come over her when she had met her first sneer +and intolerant shrug. It had been her maiden trip on the road for +the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. She was secretary of +that company now, and moving spirit in its policy. But the wound +of that first insult still ached. A word from her would have +placed the boy and saved him from curt refusals. She withheld that +word. He must fight his fight alone. + +"I want to write the kind of ad," Jock was saying excitedly, "that +you see 'em staring at in the subways, and street cars and +L-trains. I want to sit across the aisle and watch their up-turned +faces staring at that oblong, and reading it aloud to each other." + +"Isn't that an awfully obvious necktie you're wearing, Jock?" +inquired his mother irrelevantly. + +"This? You ought to see some of them. This is a Quaker stock in +comparison." He glanced down complacently at the vivid-hued silken +scarf that the season's mode demanded. Immediately he was off +again. "And the first thing you know, Mrs. McChesney, ma'am, we'll +have a motor truck backing up at the door once a month and six +strong men carrying my salary to the freight elevator in sacks." + +Emma McChesney buttered her bit of toast, then looked up to remark +quietly: + +"Hadn't you better qualify for the trial heats, Jock, before you +jump into the finals?" + +"Trial heats!" sneered Jock. "They're poky. I want real money. +Now! It isn't enough to be just well-to-do in these days. It needs +money. I want to be rich! Not just prosperous, but rich! So rich +that I can let the bath soap float around in the water without any +pricks of conscience. So successful that they'll say, 'And he's a +mere boy, too. Imagine!'" + +And, "Jock dear," Emma McChesney said, "you've still to learn that +plans and ambitions are like soap bubbles. The harder you blow and +the more you inflate them, the quicker they burst. Plans and +ambitions are things to be kept locked away in your heart, Son, +with no one but yourself to take an occasional peep at them." + +Jock leaned over the table, with his charming smile. "You're a +jealous blonde," he laughed. "Because I'm going to be a captain of +finance--an advertising wizard; you're afraid I'll grab the glory +all away from you." + + [Illustration: "'You're a jealous blond,' he said"] + +Mrs. McChesney folded her napkin and rose. She looked unbelievably +young, and trim, and radiant, to be the mother of this boasting +boy. + +"I'm not afraid," she drawled, a wicked little glint in her blue +eyes. "You see, they'll only regard your feats and say, 'H'm, no +wonder. He ought to be able to sell ice to an Eskimo. His mother +was Emma McChesney.'" + +And then, being a modern mother, she donned smart autumn hat and +tailored suit coat and stood ready to reach her office by +nine-thirty. But because she was as motherly as she was modern she +swung open the door between kitchen and dining-room to advise with +Annie, the adept. + +"Lamb chops to-night, eh, Annie? And sweet potatoes. Jock loves +'em. And corn au gratin and some head lettuce." She glanced toward +Jock in the hallway, then lowered her voice. "Annie," she teased, +"just give us one of your peach cobblers, will you? You see +he--he's going to be awfully--tired when he gets home." + +So they went stepping off to work together, mother and son. A +mother of twenty-five years before would have watched her son +with tear-dimmed eyes from the vine-wreathed porch of a cottage. +There was no watching a son from the tenth floor of an up-town +apartment house. Besides, she had her work to do. The subway +swallowed both of them. Together they jostled and swung their way +down-town in the close packed train. At the Twenty-third Street +station Jock left her. + +"You'll have dinner to-night with a full-fledged professional +gent," he bragged, in his youth and exuberance and was off down +the aisle and out on the platform. Emma McChesney managed to turn +in her nine-inch space of train seat so that she watched the slim, +buoyant young figure from the window until the train drew away and +he was lost in the stairway jam. Just so Rachel had watched the +boy Joseph go to meet the Persian caravans in the desert. + +"Don't let them buffalo you, Jock," Emma had said, just before he +left her. "They'll try it. If they give you a broom and tell you +to sweep down the back stairs, take it, and sweep, and don't +forget the corners. And if, while you're sweeping, you notice that +that kind of broom isn't suited to the stairs go in and suggest a +new kind. They'll like it." + +Brooms and back stairways had no place in Jock McChesney's mind as +the mahogany and gold elevator shot him up to the fourteenth floor +of the great office building that housed the Berg, Shriner +Company. Down the marble hallway he went and into the reception +room. A cruel test it was, that reception room, with the cruelty +peculiar to the modern in business. With its soft-shaded lamp, its +two-toned rug, its Jacobean chairs, its magazine-laden cathedral +oak table, its pot of bright flowers making a smart touch of color +in the somber richness of the room, it was no place for the +shabby, the down-and-out, the cringing, the rusty, or the +mendicant. + +Jock McChesney, from the tips of his twelve-dollar shoes to his +radiant face, took the test and stood it triumphantly. He had +entered with an air in which was mingled the briskness of +assurance with the languor of ease. There were times when Jock +McChesney was every inch the son of his mother. + +There advanced toward Jock a large, plump, dignified personage, a +personage courteous, yet reserved, inquiring, yet not offensively +curious--a very Machiavelli of reception-room ushers. Even while +his lips questioned, his eyes appraised clothes, character, +conduct. + +"Mr. Hupp, please," said Jock, serene in the perfection of his +shirt, tie, collar and scarf pin, upon which the appraising eye +now rested. "Mr. McChesney." He produced a card. + +"Appointment?" + +"No--but he'll see me." + +But Machiavelli had seen too many overconfident callers. Their +very confidence had taught him caution. + +"If you will please state your--ah--business--" + +Jock smiled a little patient smile and brushed an imaginary fleck +of dust from the sleeve of his very correct coat. + +"I want to ask him for a job as office boy," he jibed. + +An answering grin overspread the fat features of the usher. Even +an usher likes his little joke. The sense of humor dies hard. + +"I have a letter from him, asking me to call," said Jock, to +clinch it. + +"This way." The keeper of the door led Jock toward the sacred +inner portal and held it open. "Mr. Hupp's is the last door to the +right." + +The door closed behind him. Jock found himself in the big, busy, +light-flooded central office. Down either side of the great room +ran a row of tiny private offices, each partitioned off, each +outfitted with desk, and chairs, and a big, bright window. On his +way to the last door at the right Jock glanced into each tiny +office, glimpsing busy men bent absorbedly over papers, girls busy +with dictation, here and there a door revealing two men, or three, +deep in discussion of a problem, heads close together, voices +low, faces earnest. It came suddenly to the smartly modish, +overconfident boy walking the length of the long room that +the last person needed in this marvelously perfected and +smooth-running organization was a somewhat awed young man named +Jock McChesney. There came to him that strange sensation which +comes to every job-hunter; that feeling of having his spiritual +legs carry him out of the room, past the door, down the hall and +into the street, even as, in reality, they bore him on to the very +presence which he dreaded and yet wished to see. + +Two steps more, and he stood in the last doorway, right. No +matinee idol, nervously awaiting his cue in the wings, could have +planned his entrance more carefully than Jock had planned this. +Ease was the thing; ease, bordering on nonchalance, mixed with a +brisk and businesslike assurance. + +The entrance was lost on the man at the desk. He did not even look +up. If Jock had entered on all-fours, doing a double tango to +vocal accompaniment, it is doubtful if the man at the desk would +have looked up. Pencil between his fingers, head held a trifle to +one side in critical contemplation of the work before him, eyes +narrowed judicially, lips pursed, he was the concentrated essence +of do-it-now. + + [Illustration: "He was the concentrated essence of do-it-now"] + +Jock waited a moment, in silence. The man at the desk worked on. +His head was semi-bald. Jock knew him to be thirty. Jock fixed his +eye on the semi-bald spot and spoke. + +"My name's McChesney," he began. "I wrote you three days ago; you +probably will remember. You replied, asking me to call, and I--" + +"Minute," exploded the man at the desk, still absorbed. + +Jock faltered, stopped. The man at the desk did not look up. A +moment of silence, except for the sound of the busy pencil +traveling across the paper. Jock, glaring at the semi-bald spot, +spoke again. + +"Of course, Mr. Hupp, if you're too busy to see me--" + +"M-m-m-m," a preoccupied hum, such as a busy man makes when he is +trying to give attention to two interests. + +"--why I suppose there's no sense in staying; but it seems to me +that common courtesy--" + +The busy pencil paused, quivered in the making of a final period, +enclosed the dot in a proofreader's circle, and rolled away across +the desk, its work done. + +"Now," said Sam Hupp, and swung around, smiling, to face the +affronted Jock. "I had to get that out. They're waiting for it." +He pressed a desk button. "What can I do for you? Sit down, sit +down." + +There was a certain abrupt geniality about him. His +tortoise-rimmed glasses gave him an oddly owlish look, like a +small boy taking liberties with grandfather's spectacles. + +Jock found himself sitting down, his anger slipping from him. + +"My name's McChesney," he began. "I'm here because I want to work +for this concern." He braced himself to present the convincing, +reason-why arguments with which he had prepared himself. + +Whereupon Sam Hupp, the brisk, proceeded to whisk his breath and +arguments away with an unexpected: + +"All right. What do you want to do?" + +Jock's mouth fell open. "Do!" he stammered. "Do! Why--anything--" + +Sam Hupp's quick eye swept over the slim, attractive, radiant, +correctly-garbed young figure before him. Unconsciously he rubbed +his bald spot with a rueful hand. + +"Know anything about writing, or advertising?" + +Jock was at ease immediately. "Quite a lot; yes. I practically +rewrote the Gridiron play that we gave last year, and I was +assistant advertising manager of the college publications for +two years. That gives a fellow a pretty broad knowledge of +advertising." + +"Oh, Lord!" groaned Sam Hupp, and covered his eyes with his hand, +as if in pain. + +Jock stared. The affronted feeling was returning. Sam Hupp +recovered himself and smiled a little wistfully. + +"McChesney, when I came up here twelve years ago I got a job as +reception-room usher. A reception-room usher is an office boy in +long pants. Sometimes, when I'm optimistic, I think that if I live +twelve years longer I'll begin to know something about the +rudiments of this game." + +"Oh, of course," began Jock, apologetically. But Hupp's glance was +over his head. Involuntarily Jock turned to follow the direction +of his eyes. + +"Busy?" said a voice from the doorway. + +"Come in, Dutch! Come in!" boomed Hupp. + +The man who entered was of the sort that the boldest might well +hesitate to address as "Dutch"--a tall, slim, elegant figure, +Van-dyked, bronzed. + +"McChesney, this is Von Herman, head of our art department." + +Their hands met in a brief clasp. Von Herman's thoughts were +evidently elsewhere. + +"Just wanted to tell you that that cussed model's skipped out. +Gone with a show. Just when I had the whole series blocked out in +my mind. He was a wonder. No brains, but a marvel for looks and +style. These people want real stuff. Don't know how I'm going to +give it to them now." + +Hupp sat up. "Got to!" he snapped. "Campaign's late, as it is. +Can't you get an ordinary man model and fake the Greek god +beauty?" + +"Yes--but it'll look faked. If I could lay my hands on a chap who +could wear clothes as if they belonged to him--" + +Hupp rose. "Here's your man," he cried, with a snap of his +fingers. "Clothes! Look at him. He invented 'em. Why, you could +photograph him and he'd look like a drawing." + +Von Herman turned, surprised, incredulous, hopeful, his artist eye +brightening at the ease and grace and modishness of the smart, +well-knit figure before him. + +"Me!" exploded Jock, his face suffused with a dull, painful red. +"Me! Pose! For a clothing ad!" + +"Well," Hupp reminded him, "you said you'd do anything." + +Jock McChesney glared belligerently. Hupp returned the stare with +a faint gleam of amusement shining behind the absurd glasses. The +amused look changed to surprise as he beheld the glare in Jock's +eyes fading. For even as he glared there had come a warning to +Jock--a warning sent just in time from that wireless station +located in his subconscious mind. A vivid face, full of pride, and +hope, and encouragement flashed before him. + +"Jock," it said, "don't let 'em buffalo you. They'll try it. If +they give you a broom and tell you to sweep down the back +stairs--" + +Jock was smiling his charming, boyish smile. + +"Lead me to your north light," he laughed at Von Herman. "Got any +Robert W. Chambers's heroines tucked away there?" + +Hupp's broad hand came down on his shoulder with a thwack. "That's +the spirit, McChesney! That's the--" He stopped, abruptly. "Say, +are you related to Mrs. Emma McChesney, of the Featherloom Skirt +Company?" + +"Slightly. She's my one and only mother." + +"She--you mean--her son! Well I'll be darned!" He held out his +hand to Jock. "If you're a real son of your mother I wish you'd +just call the office boy as you step down the hall with Von Herman +and tell him to bring me a hammer and a couple of spikes. I'd +better nail down my desk." + +"I'll promise not to crowd you for a year or two," grinned Jock +from the doorway, and was off with the pleased Von Herman. + +Past the double row of beehives again, into the elevator, out +again, up a narrow iron stairway, into a busy, cluttered, +skylighted room. Pictures, posters, photographs hung all about. +Some of the pictures Jock recognized as old friends that had gazed +familiarly at him from subway trains and street cars and theater +programmes. Golf clubs, tennis rackets, walking sticks, billiard +cues were stacked up in corners. And yet there was a bare and +orderly look about the place. Two silent, shirt-sleeved men were +busy at drawing boards. Through a doorway beyond Jock could see +others similarly engaged in the next room. On a platform in one +corner of the room posed a young man in one of those costumes the +coat of which is a mongrel mixture of cutaway and sack. You see +them worn by clergymen with unsecular ideas in dress, and by the +leader of the counterfeiters' gang in the moving pictures. The +pose was that met with in the backs of magazines--the head lifted, +eyes fixed on an interesting object unseen, one arm crooked to +hold a cane, one foot advanced, the other trailing slightly to +give a Fifth Avenue four o'clock air. His face was expressionless. +On his head was a sadly unironed silk hat. + +Von Herman glanced at the drawing tacked to the board of one of +the men. "That'll do, Flynn," he said to the model. He glanced +again at the drawing. "Bring out the hat a little more, Mack. They +won't burnish it if you don't,"--to the artist. Then, turning +about, "Where's that girl?" + +From a far corner, sheltered by long green curtains, stepped a +graceful almost childishly slim figure in a bronze-green Norfolk +suit and close-fitting hat from beneath which curled a fluff of +bright golden hair. Von Herman stared at her. + +"You're not the girl," he said. "You won't do." + +"You sent for me," retorted the girl. "I'm Miss Michelin--Gelda +Michelin. I posed for you six months ago, but I've been out of +town with the show since then." + +Von Herman, frowning, opened a table drawer, pulled out a card +index, ran his long fingers through it and extracted a card. He +glanced at it, and then, the frown deepening, read it aloud. + +"'Michelin, Gelda. Telephone Bryant 4759. Brunette. Medium build. +Good neck and eyes. Good figure. Good clothes.'" + +He glanced up. "Well?" + +"That's me," said Miss Michelin calmly. "I've got the same +telephone number and eyes and neck and clothes. Of course my hair +is different and I am thinner, but that's business. I'd like to +know what chance a fat girl would have in the chorus these days." + +Von Herman groaned. "I'll pay you for the time you've waited and +for your trouble. Can't use you for these pictures." Then as she +left he turned a comically despairing face to the two men at the +drawing boards. "What are we going to do? We've got to make a +start on these pictures and everything has gone wrong. They want +something special. Two figures, young man and woman. Said +expressly they didn't want a chicken. No romping curls and none of +that eyes and lips fool-girl stuff. This chap's ideal for the +man." He pointed to Jock. + +Jock had been staring, fascinated, at the shaded, zigzag marks +which the artist--dark-skinned, velvet-eyed, foreign-looking +youth--was making on the sheet of paper before him. He had +scarcely glanced up during the entire scene. Now he looked briefly +and coolly at Jock. + +"Where did you get him?" he asked, with the precise enunciation of +the foreign-born. "Good figure. And he wears his clothes not like +a cab driver, as the others do." + +"Thanks," drawled Jock, flushing a little. Then, boyish curiosity +getting the better of him, "Say, tell me, what in the world are +you doing to that drawing?" + +He of the velvety eyes smiled a twisted little smile. His slim +brown fingers never stopped in their work of guiding the pen in +its zigzag path. + +"It is work," he sneered, "to delight the soul of an artist. I am +now engaged in the pleasing task of putting the bones in a +herringbone suit." + +But Jock did not smile. Here was another man, he thought, who had +been given a broom and told to sweep down the stairway. + +Von Herman was regarding him almost wistfully. "I hate to let you +slip," he said. Then, his face brightening, "By Jove! I wonder if +Miss Galt would pose for us if we told her what a fix we were in." + +He picked up the telephone receiver. "Miss Galt, please," he said. +Then, aside, "Of course it's nerve to ask a girl who's earning +three thousand a year to leave her desk and come up and pose +for--Hello! Miss Galt?" + +Jock, seated on the edge of the models' platform, was beginning to +enjoy himself. Even this end of the advertising business had its +interesting side, he thought. Ten minutes later he knew it had. + +Ten minutes later there appeared Miss Galt. Jock left off +swinging his legs from the platform and stood up. Miss Galt was +that kind of girl. Smooth black hair parted and coiled low as only +an exquisitely shaped head can dare to wear its glory-crown. A +face whose expression was sweetly serious in spite of its youth. A +girl whose clothes were the sort of clothes that girls ought to +wear in offices, and don't. + +"This is mighty good of you, Miss Galt," began Von Herman. "It's +the Kool Komfort Klothes Company's summer campaign stuff. We'll +only need you for an hour or so--to get the expression and general +outline. Poster stuff, really. Then this young man will pose for +the summer union suit pictures." + +"Don't apologize," said Miss Galt. "We had a hard enough time to +get that Kool Komfort account. We don't want to start wrong with +the pictures. Besides, I think posing's real fun." + +Jock thought so too, quite suddenly. Just as suddenly Von Herman +remembered the conventions and introduced them. + +"McChesney?" repeated Miss Galt, crisply. "I know a Mrs. +McChesney, of the T.A. Buck--" + +"My mother," proudly. + +"Your mother! Then why--" She stopped. + +"Because," said Jock, "I'm the rawest rooky in the Berg, Shriner +Company. And when I begin to realize what I don't know about +advertising I'll probably want to plunge off the Palisades." + +Miss Galt smiled up at him, her clear, frank eyes meeting his. + +"You'll win," she said. + +"Even if I lose--I win now," said Jock, suddenly audacious. + +"Hi! Hold that pose!" called Von Herman, happily. + + [Illustration: "'Hi! Hold that pose!' called Von Herman"] + + + + +II + +PERSONALITY PLUS + +There are seven stages in the evolution of that individual whose +appearance is the signal for a listless "Who-do-you-want-to-see?" +from the white-bloused, drab-haired, anaemic little girl who sits +in the outer office forever reading last month's magazines. The +badge of fear brands the novice. Standing hat in hand, nervous, +apprehensive, gulpy, with the elevator door clanging behind him, +and the sacred inner door closed before him, he offers up a silent +and paradoxical "Thank heaven!" at the office girl's languid "Not +in," and dives into the friendly shelter of the next elevator +going down. When, at that same message, he can smile, as with a +certain grim agreeableness he says, "I'll wait," then has he +reached the seventh stage, and taken the orders of the regularly +ordained. + +Jock McChesney had learned to judge an unknown prospective by +glancing at his hall rug and stenographer, which marks the fifth +stage. He had learned to regard office boys with something less +than white-hot hate. He had learned to let the other fellow do the +talking. He had learned to condense a written report into +twenty-five words. And he had learned that there was as much +difference between the profession of advertising as he had thought +of it and advertising as it really was, as there is between a +steam calliope and a cathedral pipe organ. + +In the big office of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company they +had begun to chuckle a bit over the McChesney solicitor's reports. +Those same reports indicated that young McChesney was beginning to +find the key to that maddening jumble of complexities known as +human nature. Big Sam Hupp, who was the pet caged copy-writing +genius of the place, used even to bring an occasional example of +Jock's business badinage into the Old Man's office, and the two +would grin in secret. As when they ran thus: + + _Pepsinale Manufacturing Company_: + + Mr. Bowser is the kind of gentleman who curses his + subordinates in front of the whole office force. Very touchy. + Crumpled his advertising manager. Our chance to get at him is + when he is in one of his rare good humors. + +Or: + + _E.V. Kreiss Company_: + + Kreiss very difficult to reach. Permanent address seems to be + Italy, Egypt, and other foreign ports. Occasionally his + instructions come from Palm Beach. + +At which there rose up before the reader a vision of Kreiss +himself--baggy-eyed, cultivated English accent, interested in +polo, fast growing contemptuous of things American. + +Or still another: + + _Hodge Manufacturing Company:_ + + Mr. Hodge is a very conservative gentleman. Sits still and + lets others do the talking. Has gained quite a reputation for + business acumen with this one attribute. Spent $500 last year. + Holding his breath preparatory to taking another plunge. + +It was about the time that Jock McChesney had got over the novelty +of paying for his own clothes, and had begun to talk business in a +slightly patronizing way to his clever and secretly amused mother, +Mrs. Emma McChesney, secretary of the T.A. Buck Featherloom +Petticoat Company, that Sam Hupp noticed a rather cocky +over-assurance in Jock's attitude toward the world in general. +Whereupon he sent for him. + +On Sam Hupp's broad flat desk stood an array of diminutive jars, +and bottles, and tiny pots that would have shamed the toilette +table of a musical comedy star's dressing-room. There were +rose-tinted salves in white bottles. There were white creams in +rose-tinted jars. There were tins of ointment and boxes of +fragrant soap. + +Jock McChesney, entering briskly, eyed the array in some surprise. +Then he grinned, and glanced wickedly at Sam Hupp's prematurely +bald head. + +"No use, Mr. Hupp. They say if it's once gone it's gone. Get a +toupee." + +"Shut up!" growled Sam Hupp, good-humoredly. "Stay in this game +long enough and you'll be a hairless wonder yourself. Ten years +ago the girls used to have to tie their hands or wear mittens to +keep from running their white fingers through my waving silken +locks. Sit down a minute." + +Jock reached forward and took up a jar of cream. He frowned in +thought. Then: "Thought I recognized this stuff. Mother uses it. +I've seen it on the bathroom shelf." + +"You bet she uses it," retorted Sam Hupp. "What's more, millions +of other women will be using it in the next few years. This +woman," he pointed to the name on the label, "has hit upon the +real thing in toilette flub-dub. She's made a little fortune +already, and if she don't look out she'll be rich. They've got +quite a plant. When she started she used to put the stuff together +herself over the kitchen stove. They say it's made of cottage +cheese, stirred smooth and tinted pink. Well, anyway they're +nationally known now--or will be when they start to advertise +right." + +"I've seen some of their stuff advertised--somewhere," interrupted +Jock, "but I don't remember--" + +"There you are. You see the head of this concern is a little bit +frightened at the way she seems slated to become a lady cold cream +magnate. They say she's scared pink for fear somebody will steal +her recipes. She has a kid nephew who acts as general manager, and +they're both on the job all the time. They say the lady herself +looks like the spinster in a b'gosh drama. You can get a boy to +look up your train schedule." + +Train! Schedule! Across Jock McChesney's mind there flashed a +vision of himself, alert, confident, brisk, taking the luxurious +nine o'clock for Philadelphia. Or, maybe, the Limited to Chicago. +Dashing down to the station in a taxi, of course. Strolling down +the car aisle to take his place among those other thoroughbreds of +commerce--men whose chamois gloves and walking sticks, and talk of +golf and baseball and motoring spelled elegant leisure, even as +their keen eyes and shrewd faces and low-voiced exchange of such +terms as "stocks," and "sales" and "propositions" proclaimed them +intent on bagging the day's business. Sam Hupp's next words +brought him back to reality with a jerk. + +"I think you have to change at Buffalo. It gets you to Tonawanda +in the morning. Rotten train." + +"Tonawanda!" repeated Jock. + +"Now listen, kid." Sam Hupp leaned forward, and his eyes behind +their great round black-rimmed glasses were intent on Jock. "I'm +not going to try to steer you. You think that advertising is a +game. It isn't. There are those who think it's a science. But it +isn't that either. It's white magic, that's what it is. And you +can't learn it from books, any more than you can master trout +fishing from reading 'The Complete Angler.'" He swung about and +swept the beauty lotions before him in a little heap at the end of +his desk. "Here, take this stuff. And get chummy with it. Eat it, +if necessary; learn it somehow." + +Jock stood up, a little dazed. "But, what!--How?--I mean--" + +Sam Hupp glanced up at him. "Sending you down there isn't my idea. +It's the Old Man's. He's got an idea that you--" He paused and put +a detaining hand on Jock McChesney's arm. "Look here. You think I +know a little something about advertising, don't you?" + +"You!" laughed Jock. "You're the guy who put the whitening in the +Great White Way. Everybody knows you were the--" + +"M-m-m, thanks," interrupted Sam Hupp, a little dryly. "Let me +tell you something, young 'un. I've got what you might call a +thirty-horse-power mind. I keep it running on high all the time, +with the muffler cut out, and you can hear me coming for miles. +But the Old Man,"--he leaned forward impressively,--"the Old Man, +boy, has the eighty-power kind, built like a watch--no smoke, no +dripping, and you can't even hear the engine purr. But when he +throws her open! Well, he can pass everything on the road. Don't +forget that." He turned to his desk again and reached for a stack +of papers and cuts. "Good luck to you. If you want any further +details you can get 'em from Hayes." He plunged into his work. + +There arose in Jock McChesney's mind that instinct of the man in +his hour of triumph--the desire to tell a woman of his greatness. +He paused a second outside Sam Hupp's office, turned, and walked +quickly down the length of the great central room. He stopped +before a little glass door at the end, tapped lightly, and +entered. + +Grace Galt, copy-writer, looked up, frowning a little. Then she +smiled. Miss Galt had a complete layout on the desk before +her--scrap books, cuts, copy, magazines. There was a little smudge +on the end of her nose. Grace Galt was writing about magnetos. +She was writing about magnetos in a way to make you want to drop +your customer, or your ironing, or your game, and go downtown and +buy that particular kind of magneto at once. Which is the +secretest part of the wizardry of advertising copy. To look at +Grace Galt you would have thought that she should have been +writing about the rose-tinted jars in Jock McChesney's hands +instead of about such things as ignition, and insulation, and ball +bearings, and induction windings. But it was Grace Galt's gift +that she could take just such hard, dry, technical facts and weave +them into a story that you followed to the end. She could make you +see the romance in condensers and transformers. She had the power +that caused the reader to lose himself in the charm of magnetic +poles, and ball bearings, and high-tension sparks. + +"Just dropped in to say good-by," said Jock, very casually. "Going +to run up-state to see the Athena Company--toilette specialties, +you know. It ought to be a big account." + +"Athena?" Grace Galt regarded him absently, her mind still on her +work. Then her eyes cleared. "You mean at Tonawanda? And they're +sending you! Well!" She put out a congratulatory hand. Jock +gripped it gratefully. + +"Not so bad, eh?" he boasted. + +"Bad!" echoed Grace Galt. Her face became serious. "Do you realize +that there are men in this office who have been here for five +years, six years, or even more, and who have never been given a +chance to do anything but stenography, or perhaps some private +secretarying?" + +"I know it," agreed Jock. But there was no humbleness in his tone. +He radiated self-satisfaction. He seemed to grow and expand before +her eyes. A little shadow of doubt crept across Grace Galt's +expression of friendly interest. + +"Are you scared," she asked; "just the least bit?" + +Jock flushed a little. "Well," he confessed ruefully, "I don't +mind telling you I am--a little." + +"Good!" + +"Good?" + +"Yes. The head of that concern is a woman. That's one reason why +they didn't send me, I suppose. I--I'd like to say something, if +you don't mind." + +"Anything you like," said Jock graciously. + +"Well, then, don't be afraid of being embarrassed and fussed. If +you blush and stammer a little, she'll like it. Play up the coy +stuff." + +"The coy stuff!" echoed Jock. "I hadn't thought much about my +attitude toward the--er--the lady,"--a little stiffly. + +"Well, you'd better," answered Miss Galt crisply. She put out her +hand in much the same manner as Sam Hupp had used. "Good luck to +you. I'll have to ask you to go now. I'm trying to make this +magneto sound like something without which no home is complete, +and to make people see that there's as much difference between it +and every other magneto as there is between the steam shovels that +dug out the Panama Canal and the junk that the French left +there--" She stopped. Her eyes took on a far-away look. Her lips +were parted slightly. "Why, that's not a bad idea--that last. I'll +use that. I'll--" + + [Illustration: "With a jolt Jock realized she had forgotten all + about him"] + +She began to scribble rapidly on the sheet of paper before her. +With a jolt Jock McChesney realized that she had forgotten all +about him. He walked quietly to the door, opened it, shut it very +quietly, then made for the nearest telephone. He knew one woman he +could count on to be proud of him. He gave his number, waited a +little eager moment, then: + +"Featherloom Petticoat Company? Mrs. McChesney." And waited again. +Then he smiled. + +"You needn't sound so official," he laughed; "it's only your son. +Listen. I"--he took on an elaborate carelessness of tone--"I've +got to take a little jump out of town. On business. Oh, a day or +so. Rather important though. I'll have time to run up to the flat +and throw a few things into a bag. I'll tell you, I really ought +to keep a bag packed down here. In case of emergency, you know. +What? It's the Athena Toilette Preparations Company. Well, I +should say it is! I'll wire you. You bet. Thanks. My what? Oh, +toothbrush. No. Good-by." + +So it was that at three-ten Jock McChesney took himself, his +hopes, his dread, and his smart walrus bag aboard a train that +halted and snuffed and backed, and bumped and halted with +maddening frequency. But it landed him at last in a little town +bearing the characteristics of all American little towns. It was +surprisingly full of six-cylinder cars, and five and ten-cent +stores, and banks with Doric columns, and paved streets. + +After he had registered at the hotel, and as he was cleaning up a +bit, he passed an amused eye over the bare, ugly, fusty little +hotel bedroom. But somehow, as he stood in the middle of the room, +a graceful, pleasing figure of youth and confidence, the smile +faded. Towel in hand he surveyed the barrenness of it. He stared +at the impossible wall paper, at the battered furniture, the worn +carpet. He sniffed the stuffy smell of--what was that smell, +anyhow?--straw, and matting, and dust, and the ghost-odor of +hundreds who had occupied the room before him. It came over him +with something of a shock that this same sort of room had been his +mother's only home in the ten years she had spent on the road as a +traveling saleswoman for the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat +Company. This was what she had left in the morning. To this she +had come back at night. As he stared ahead of him there rose +before him a mental picture of her--the brightness of her, the +sunniness, the indomitable energy, and pluck, and courage. With a +sudden burst of new determination he wadded the towel into a moist +ball, flung it at the washstand, seized hat, coat, and gloves, and +was off down the hall. So it was with something of his mother's +splendid courage in his heart, but with nothing of her canny +knowledge in his head, Jock McChesney fared forth to do battle +with the merciless god Business. + +It was ten-thirty of a brilliant morning just two days later that +a buoyant young figure swung into an elevator in the great office +building that housed the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Just +one more grain of buoyant swing and the young man's walk might +have been termed a swagger. As it was, his walrus bag just saved +him. + +Stepping out of the lift he walked, as from habit, to the little +unlettered door which admitted employes to the big, bright, inner +office. But he did not use it. Instead he turned suddenly and +walked down the hall to the double door which led into the +reception room. He threw out his legs stiffly and came down rather +flat-footed, the way George Cohan does when he's pleased with +himself in the second act. + +"Hel-lo, Mack!" he called out jovially. + +Mack, the usher, so called from his Machiavellian qualities, +turned to survey the radiant young figure before him. + +"Good morning, Mr. McChesney," he made answer smoothly. Mack +never forgot himself. His keen eye saw the little halo of +self-satisfaction that hovered above Jock McChesney's head. "A +successful trip, I see." + +Jock McChesney laughed a little, pleased, conscious laugh. "Well, +raw-thah!" he drawled, and opened the door leading into the main +office. He had been loath to lose one crumb of the savor of it. + + [Illustration: "'Well, raw-thah!' he drawled"] + +Still smiling, he walked to his own desk, with a nod here and +there, dropped his bag, took off coat and hat, selected a +cigarette, tapped it smartly, lighted it, and was off down the big +room to the little cubby-hole at the other end. But Sam Hupp's +plump, keen, good-humored face did not greet him as he entered. +The little room was deserted. Frowning, Jock sank into the empty +desk chair. He cradled his head in his hands, tilted the chair, +pursed his mouth over the slender white cylinder and squinted his +eyes up toward the lazy blue spirals of smoke--the very picture +of content and satisfaction. + +Hupp was in attending some conference in the Old Man's office, of +course. He wished they'd hurry. The business of the week was being +boiled-down there. Those conferences were great cauldrons into +which the day's business, or the week's, was dumped, to be boiled, +simmered, stirred, skimmed, cooled. Jock had never been privileged +to attend one of these meetings. Perhaps by this time next week he +might have a spoon in the stirring too-- + +There came the murmur of voices as a door was opened. The voices +came nearer. Then quick footsteps. Jock recognized them. He rose, +smiling. Sam Hupp, vibrating electric energy, breezed in. + +"Oh--hello!" he said, surprised. Jock's smile widened to a grin. +"You back?" + +"Hello, Hupp," he said, coolly. It was the first time that he had +omitted the prefix. "You just bet I'm back." + +There flashed across Sam Hupp's face a curious little look. The +next instant it was gone. + +"Well," said Jock, and took a long breath. + +"Mr. Berg wants to see you." + +Hupp plunged into his work. + +"Me? The Old Man wants to see me?" + +"Yes," snapped Hupp shortly. Then, in a new tone, "Look here, son. +If he says--" He stopped, and turned back to his work again. + +"If he says what?" + +"Nothing. Better run along." + +"What's the hurry? I want to tell you about--" + +"Better tell him." + +"Oh, all right," said Jock stiffly. If that was the way they +treated a fellow who had turned his first real trick, why, very +well. He flung out of the little room and made straight for the +Old Man's office. + +Seated at his great flat table desk, Bartholomew Berg did not look +up as Jock entered. This was characteristic of the Old Man. +Everything about the chief was deliberate, sure, unhurried. He +finished the work in hand as though no other person stood there +waiting his pleasure. When at last he raised his massive head he +turned his penetrating pale blue eyes full on Jock. Jock was +conscious of a little tremor running through him. People were apt +to experience that feeling when that steady, unblinking gaze was +turned upon them. And yet it was just the clear, unwavering look +with which Bartholomew Berg, farmer boy, had been wont to gaze out +across the fresh-plowed fields to the horizon beyond which lay the +city he dreamed about. + +"Tell me your side of it," said Bartholomew Berg tersely. + +"All of it?" Jock's confidence was returning. + +"Till I stop you." + +"Well," began Jock. And standing there at the side of the Old +Man's desk, his legs wide apart, his face aglow, his hands on his +hips, he plunged into his tale. + +"It started off with a bang from the minute I walked into the +office of the plant and met Snyder, the advertising manager. We +shook hands and sparked--just like that." He snapped thumb and +finger. "What do you think! We belong to the same frat! He's '93. +Inside of ten minutes he and I were Si-washing around like mad. He +introduced me to his aunt. I told her who I was, and all that. But +I didn't start off by talking business. We got along from the +jump. They both insisted on showing me through the place. +I--well,"--he laughed a little ruefully,--"there's something +about being shown through a factory that sort of paralyzes my +brain. I always feel that I ought to be asking keen, alert, +intelligent questions like the ones Kipling always asks, or the +Japs when they're taken through the Stock Yards. But I never can +think of any. Well, we didn't talk business much. But I could see +that they were interested. They seemed to,"--he faltered and +blushed a little,--"to like me, you know. I played golf with +Snyder that afternoon and he beat me. Won two balls. The next +morning I found there's been a couple of other advertising men +there. And while I was talking to Snyder--he was telling me about +the time he climbed up and muffled the chapel bell--that fellow +Flynn, of the Dowd Agency, came in. Snyder excused himself, and +talked to him for--oh, half an hour, perhaps. But that was all. He +was back again in no time. After that it looked like plain +sailing. We got along wonderfully. When I left I said, 'I expect +to know you both better--'" + +"I guess," interrupted the Old Man slowly, "that you'll know them +better all right." He reached out with one broad freckled hand +and turned back the page of a desk memorandum. "The Athena account +was given to the Dowd Advertising Agency yesterday." + +It took Jock McChesney one minute--one long, sickening minute--to +grasp the full meaning of it all. He stared at the massive figure +before him, his mouth ludicrously open, his eyes round, his breath +for the moment suspended. Then, in a queer husky voice: + +"D'you mean--the Dowd--but--they couldn't--" + +"I mean," said Bartholomew Berg, "that you've scored what the +dramatic critics call a personal hit; but that doesn't get the box +office anything." + +"But, Mr. Berg, they said--" + +"Sit down a minute, boy." He waved one great heavy hand toward a +near-by chair. His eyes were not fixed on Jock. They gazed out of +the window toward the great white tower toward which hundreds of +thousands of eyes were turned daily--the tower, four-faced but +faithful. + +"McChesney, do you know why you fell down on that Athena account?" + +"Because I'm an idiot," blurted Jock. "Because I'm a +double-barreled, corn-fed, hand-picked chump and--" + +"That's one reason," drawled the Old Man grimly. "But it's not the +chief one. The real reason why you didn't land that account was +because you're too darned charming." + +"Charming!" Jock stared. + +"Just that. Personality's one of the biggest factors in business +to-day. But there are some men who are so likable that it actually +counts against them. The client he's trying to convince is so +taken with him that he actually forgets the business he +represents. We say of a man like that that he is personality plus. +Personality is like electricity, McChesney. It's got to be tamed +to be useful." + +"But I thought," said Jock, miserably, "that the idea was not to +talk business all the time." + +"You've got it," agreed Berg. "But you must think it all the time. +Every minute. It's got to be working away in the back of your +head. You know it isn't always the biggest noise that gets the +biggest result. The great American hen yields a bigger income than +the Steel Trust. Look at Miss Galt. When we have a job that needs +a woman's eye do we send her? No. Why? Because she's too blame +charming. Too much personality. A man just naturally refuses to +talk business to a pretty woman unless she's so smart that--" + +"My mother," interrupted Jock, suddenly, and then stopped, +surprised at himself. + +"Your mother," said Bartholomew Berg slowly, "is one woman in a +million. Don't ever forget that. They don't turn out models like +Emma McChesney more than once every blue moon." + +Jock got to his feet slowly. He felt heavy, old. "I suppose," he +began, "that this ends my--my advertising career." + +"Ends it!" The Old Man stood up and put a heavy hand on the boy's +shoulder. "It only begins it. Unless you want to lie down and +quit. Do you?" + +"Quit!" cried Jock McChesney. "Quit! Not on your white space!" + +"Good!" said Bartholomew Berg, and took Jock McChesney's hand in +his own great friendly grasp. + +An instinct as strong as that which had made him blatant in his +hour of triumph now caused him to avoid, in his hour of defeat, +the women-folk before whom he would fain be a hero. He avoided +Grace Galt all that long, dreary afternoon. He thought wildly of +staying down-town for the evening, of putting off the meeting with +his mother, of avoiding the dreaded explanations, excuses, +confessions. + +But when he let himself into the flat at five-thirty the place was +very quiet, except for Annie, humming in a sort of nasal singsong +of content in the kitchen. + +He flicked on the light in the living-room. A new magazine had +come. It lay on the table, its bright cover staring up invitingly. +He ran through its pages. By force of habit he turned to the back +pages. Ads started back at him--clothing ads, paint ads, motor +ads, ads of portable houses, and vacuum cleaners--and toilette +preparations. He shut the magazine with a vicious slap. + +He flicked off the light again, for no reason except that he +seemed to like the dusk. In his own bedroom it was very quiet. + +He turned on the light there, too, then turned it off. He sat down +at the edge of his bed. How was it in the stories? Oh, yes! The +cub always started out on an impossibly difficult business stunt +and came back triumphant, to be made a member of the firm at once. + +A vision of his own roseate hopes and dreams rose up before him. +It grew very dark in the little room, then altogether dark. Then +an impudent square of yellow from a light turned on in the +apartment next door flung itself on the bedroom floor. Jock stared +at it moodily. + +A key turned in the lock. A door opened and shut. A quick step. +Then: "Jock!" A light flashed in the living-room. + +Jock sat up suddenly. He opened his mouth to answer. There issued +from his throat a strange and absurd little croak. + +"Jock! Home?" + +"Yes," answered Jock, and straightened up. But before he could +flick on his own light his mother stood in the doorway, a tall, +straight, buoyant figure. + +"I got your wire and--Why, dear! In the dark! What--" + +"Must have fallen asleep, I guess," muttered Jock. Somehow he +dreaded to turn on the lights. + +And then, very quietly, Emma McChesney came in. She found him, +there in the dark, as surely as a mother bear finds her cubs in a +cave. She sat down beside him at the edge of the bed and put her +hand on his shoulder, and brought his head down gently to her +breast. And at that the room, which had been a man's room with its +pipe, its tobacco jar, its tie rack filled with cravats of +fascinating shapes and hues, became all at once a boy's room +again, and the man sitting there with straight, strong shoulders +and his little air of worldliness became in some miraculous way a +little boy again. + + [Illustration: "... became in some miraculous way a little boy + again"] + + + + +III + +DICTATED BUT NOT READ + + +About the time that Jock McChesney began to carry a yellow +walking-stick down to work each morning his mother noticed a +growing tendency on his part to patronize her. Now Mrs. Emma +McChesney, successful, capable business woman that she was, could +afford to regard her young son's attitude with a quiet and deep +amusement. In twelve years Emma McChesney had risen from the +humble position of stenographer in the office of the T.A. Buck +Featherloom Petticoat Company to the secretaryship of the firm. So +when her young son, backed by the profound business knowledge +gained in his one year with the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company, +hinted gently that her methods and training were archaic, +ineffectual, and lacking in those twin condiments known to the +twentieth century as pep and ginger, she would listen, eyebrows +raised, lower lip caught between her teeth--a trick which gives +a distorted expression to the features, calculated to hide any +lurking tendency to grin. Besides, though Emma McChesney was forty +she looked thirty-two (as business women do), and knew it. Her +hard-working life had brought her in contact with people, and +things, and events, and had kept her young. + + [Illustration: "Jock McChesney began to carry a yellow + walking-stick down to work"] + +"Thank fortune!" Mrs. McChesney often said, "that +I wasn't cursed with a life of ease. These +massage-at-ten-fitting-at-eleven-bridge-at-one women +always look such hags at thirty-five." + +But repetition will ruin the rarest of jokes. As the weeks went on +and Jock's attitude persisted, the twinkle in Emma McChesney's eye +died. The glow of growing resentment began to burn in its place. +Now and then there crept into her eyes a little look of doubt and +bewilderment. You sometimes see that same little shocked, dazed +expression in the eyes of a woman whose husband has just said, +"Isn't that hat too young for you?" + +Then, one evening, Emma McChesney's resentment flared into open +revolt. She had announced that she intended to rise half an hour +earlier each morning in order that she might walk a brisk mile or +so on her way down-town, before taking the subway. + +"But won't it tire you too much, Mother?" Jock had asked with +maddeningly tender solicitude. + +His mother's color heightened. Her blue eyes glowed dark. + +"Look here, Jock! Will you kindly stop this lean-on-me-grandma +stuff! To hear you talk one would think I was ready for a wheel +chair and gray woolen bedroom slippers." + +"Why, I didn't mean--I only thought that perhaps overexertion in a +woman of your--That is, you need your energy for--" + +"Don't wallow around in it," snapped Emma McChesney. "You'll only +sink in deeper in your efforts to crawl out. I merely want to warn +you that if you persist in this pose of tender solicitude for your +doddering old mother, I'll--I'll present you with a stepfather a +year younger than you. Don't laugh. Perhaps you think I couldn't +do it." + +"Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't mean it, but--" + +"Mean it! Cleverer women than I have been driven by their +children to marrying bell-boys in self-defense. I warn you!" + + [Illustration: "'Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't + mean it, but--'"] + +That stopped it--for a while. Jock ceased to bestow upon his +mother judicious advice from the vast storehouse of his own +experience. He refrained from breaking out with elaborate +advertising schemes whereby the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat +Company might grind every other skirt concern to dust. He gave +only a startled look when his mother mischievously suggested +raspberry as the color for her new autumn suit. Then, quite +suddenly, Circumstance caught Emma McChesney in the meshes and, +before she had fought her way free, wrought trouble and change +upon her. + +Jock McChesney was seated in the window of his mother's office at +noon of a brilliant autumn day. A little impatient frown was +forming between his eyes. He wanted his luncheon. He had called +around expressly to take his mother out to luncheon--always a +festive occasion when taken together. But Mrs. McChesney, seated +at her desk, was bent absorbedly over a sheet of paper whereon she +was adding up two columns of figures at a time--a trick on which +she rather prided herself. She was counting aloud, her mind +leaping agilely, thus: + +"Eleven, twenty-nine, forty-three, sixty, sixty-nine--" Her pencil +came down on the desk with a thwack. "SIXTY-NINE!" she repeated in +capital letters. She turned around to face Jock. "Sixty-nine!" Her +voice bristled with indignation. "Now what do you think of that!" + +"I think you'd better make it an even seventy, whatever it is +you're counting up, and come on out to luncheon. I've an +appointment at two-fifteen, you know." + +"Luncheon!"--she waved the paper in the air--"with this outrage on +my mind! Nectar would curdle in my system." + +Jock rose and strolled lazily over to the desk. "What is it?" He +glanced idly at the sheet of paper. "Sixty-nine what?" + +Mrs. McChesney pressed a buzzer at the side of her desk. +"Sixty-nine dollars, that's what! Representing two days' expenses +in the six weeks' missionary trip that Fat Ed Meyers just made for +us. And in Iowa, too." + +"When you gave that fellow the job," began Jock hotly, "I told +you, and Buck told you, that--" + +Mrs. McChesney interrupted wearily. "Yes, I know. You'll never +have a grander chance to say 'I told you so.' I hired him +because he was out of a job and we needed a man who knew the +Middle-Western trade, and then because--well, poor fellow, he +begged so and promised to keep straight. As though I oughtn't to +know that a pinochle-and-poker traveling man can never be anything +but a pinochle-and-poker traveling man--" + +The office door opened as there appeared in answer to the buzzer a +very alert, very smiling, and very tidy office girl. Emma +McChesney had tried office boys, and found them wanting. + +"Tell Mr. Meyers I want to see him." + +"Just going out to lunch,"--she turned like a race horse trembling +to be off,--"putting on his overcoat in the front office. Shall +I--" + +"Catch him." + +"Listen here," began Jock uncomfortably; "if you're going to call +him perhaps I'd better vanish." + +"To save Ed Meyers's tender feelings! You don't know him. Fat Ed +Meyers could be courtmartialed, tried, convicted, and publicly +disgraced, with his epaulets torn off, and his sword broken, and +likely as not he'd stoop down, pick up a splinter of steel to use +as a toothpick, and Castlewalk down the aisle to the tune with +which they were drumming him out of the regiment. Stay right +here. Meyers's explanation ought to be at least amusing, if not +educating." + +In the corridor outside could be heard some one blithely humming +in the throaty tenor of the fat man. The humming ceased with a +last high note as the door opened and there entered Fat Ed Meyers, +rosy, cherubic, smiling, his huge frame looming mountainous in the +rippling folds of a loose-hung London plaid topcoat. + +"Greetings!" boomed this cheery vision, raising one hand, palm +outward, in mystic salute. He beamed upon the frowning Jock. +"How's the infant prodigy!" The fact that Jock's frown deepened to +a scowl ruffled him not at all. "And what," went on he, crossing +his feet and leaning negligently against Mrs. McChesney's desk, +"and what can I do for thee, fair lady?" + + [Illustration: "'Greetings!'"] + +"For me?" said Emma McChesney, looking up at him through narrowed +eyelids. "I'll tell you what. You can explain to me, in what +they call a few well-chosen words, just how you, or any other +living creature, could manage to turn in an expense account like +that on a six-weeks' missionary trip through the Middle West." + +"Dear lady,"--in the bland tones that one uses to an unreasonable +child,--"you will need no explanation if you will just remember to +lay the stress on the word missionary. I went forth through the +Middle West to spread the light among the benighted skirt trade. +This wasn't a selling trip, dear lady. It was a buying expedition. +And I had to buy, didn't I? all the way from Michigan to Indiana." + +He smiled down at her, calm, self-assured, impudent. A little +flush grew in Emma McChesney's cheeks. + +"I've always said," she began, crisply, "that one could pretty +well judge a man's character, temperament, morals, and physical +make-up by just glancing at his expense account. The trouble with +you is that you haven't learned the art of spending money wisely. +It isn't always the man with the largest expense sheet that gets +the most business. And it isn't the man who leaves the greatest +number of circles on the table top in his hotel room, either." +She paused a moment. Ed Meyers's smile had lost some of its +heartiness. "Mr. Buck's out of town, as you know. He'll be back +next week. He wasn't in favor of--" + +"Now, Mrs. McChesney," interrupted Ed Meyers nervously, "you know +there's always one live one in every firm, just like there's +always one star in every family. You're the--" + +"I'm the one who wants to know how you could spend sixty-nine +dollars for two days' incidentals in Iowa. Iowa! Why, look here, +Ed Meyers, I made Iowa for ten years when I was on the road. You +know that. And you know, and I know, that in order to spend +sixty-nine dollars for incidentals in two days in Iowa you have to +call out the militia." + +"Not when you're trying to win the love of every skirt buyer from +Sioux City to Des Moines." + +Emma McChesney rose impatiently. "Oh, that's nonsense! You don't +need to do that these days. Those are old-fashioned methods. +They're out of date. They--" + +At that a little sound came from Jock. Emma heard it, glanced at +him, turned away again in confusion. + +"I was foolish enough in the first place to give you this job for +old times' sake," she continued hurriedly. + +Fat Ed Meyers' face drooped dolefully. He cocked his round head on +one side fatuously. "For old times' sake," he repeated, with +tremulous pathos, and heaved a gusty sigh. + +"Which goes to show that I need a guardian," finished Emma +McChesney cruelly. "The only old times that I can remember are +when I was selling Featherlooms, and you were out for the +Sans-Silk Skirt Company, both covering the same territory, and +both running a year-around race to see which could beat the other +at his own game. The only difference was that I always played +fair, while you played low-down whenever you had a chance." + +"Now, my dear Mrs. McChesney--" + +"That'll be all," said Emma McChesney, as one whose patience is +fast slipping away. "Mr. Buck will see you next week." Then, +turning to her son as the door closed on the drooping figure of +the erstwhile buoyant Meyers, "Where'll we lunch, Jock?" + +"Mother," Jock broke out hotly, "why in the name of all that's +foolish do you persist in using the methods of Methuselah! People +don't sell goods any more by sending out fat old ex-traveling men +to jolly up the trade." + +"Jock," repeated Emma McChesney slowly, "where--shall--we--lunch?" + +It was a grim little meal, eaten almost in silence. Emma McChesney +had made it a rule to use luncheon time as a recess. She played +mental tag and hop-scotch, so that, returning to her office +refreshed in mind and body, she could attack the afternoon's work +with new vigor. And never did she talk or think business. + +To-day she ate her luncheon with a forced appetite, glanced about +with a listlessness far removed from her usual alert interest, and +followed Jock's attempts at conversation with a polite effort that +was more insulting than downright inattention. + +"Dessert, Mother?" Jock had to say it twice before she heard. + +"What? Oh, no--I think not." + +The waiter hesitated, coughed discreetly, lifted his eyebrows +insinuatingly. "The French pastry's particularly nice to-day, +madam. If you'd care to try something? Eclair, madam--peach +tart--mocha tart--caramel--" + +Emma McChesney smiled. "It does sound tempting." She glanced at +Jock. "And we're wearing our gowns so floppy this year that it +makes no difference whether one's fat or not." She turned to the +waiter. "I never can tell till I see them. Bring your pastry tray, +will you?" + +Jock McChesney's finger and thumb came together with a snap. He +leaned across the table toward his mother, eyes glowing, lips +parted and eager. "There! you've proved my point." + +"Point?" + +"About advertising. No, don't stop me. Don't you see that what +applies to pastry applies to petticoats? You didn't think of +French pastry until he suggested it to you--advertised it, really. +And then you wanted a picture of them. You wanted to know +what they looked like before buying. That's all there is to +advertising. Telling people about a thing, making 'em want it, and +showing 'em how it will look when they have it. Get me?" + +Emma McChesney was gazing at Jock with a curious, fascinated +stare. It was a blank little look, such as we sometimes wear when +the mind is working furiously. If the insinuating waiter, +presenting the laden tray for her inspection, was startled by the +rapt expression which she turned upon the cunningly wrought wares, +he was too much a waiter to show it. + +A pause. "That one," said Mrs. McChesney, pointing to the least +ornate. She ate it, down to the last crumb, in a silence that was +pregnant with portent. She put down her fork and sat back. + +"Jock, you win. I--I suppose I have fallen out of step. Perhaps +I've been too busy watching my own feet. T.A. will be back next +week. Could your office have an advertising plan roughly sketched +by that time?" + +"Could they!" His tone was exultant. "Watch 'em! Hupp's been crazy +to make Featherlooms famous." + +"But look here, son. I want a hand in that copy. I know +Featherlooms better than your Sam Hupp will ever--" + +Jock shook his head. "They won't stand for that, Mother. It never +works. The manufacturer always thinks he can write magic stuff +because he knows his own product. But he never can. You see, he +knows too much. That's it. No perspective." + +"We'll see," said Emma McChesney curtly. + +So it was that ten days later the first important conference in +the interests of the Featherloom Petticoat Company's advertising +campaign was called. But in those ten days of hurried preparation +a little silent tragedy had come about. For the first time in her +brave, sunny life Emma McChesney had lost faith in herself. And +with such malicious humor does Fate work her will that she chose +Sam Hupp's new dictagraph as the instrument with which to prick +the bubble of Mrs. McChesney's self-confidence. + +Sam Hupp, one of the copy-writing marvels of the Berg, Shriner +firm, had a trick of forgetting to shut off certain necessary +currents when he paused in his dictation to throw in +conversational asides. The old and experienced stenographers, had +learned to look out for that, and to eliminate from their +typewritten letters certain irrelevant and sometimes irreverent +asides which Sam Hupp evidently had addressed to his pipe, or the +office boy, and not intended for the tube of the all-devouring +dictagraph. + +There was a new and nervous little stenographer in the outer +office, and she had not been warned of this. + +"We think very highly of the plan you suggest," Sam Hupp had said +into the dictagraph's mouthpiece. "In fact, in one of your +valuable copy suggestions you--" + +Without changing his tone he glanced over his shoulder at his +colleague, Hopper, who was listening and approving. + +"... Let the old girl think the idea is her own. She's virtually +the head of that concern, and they've spoiled her. Successful, and +used to being kowtowed to. Doesn't know her notions of copy are +ten years behind the advertising game--" + +And went on with his letter again. After which he left the office +to play golf. And the little blond numbskull in the outer office +dutifully took down what the instrument had to say, word for word, +marked it, "Dictated, but not read," signed neat initials, and +with a sigh went on with the rest of her sheaf of letters. + +Emma McChesney read the letter next morning. She read it down to +the end, and then again. The two readings were punctuated with a +little gasp, such as we give when an icy douche is suddenly +turned upon us. And that was all. + +A week later an intent little group formed a ragged circle about +the big table in the private office of Bartholomew Berg, head of +the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Bartholomew Berg himself, +massive, watchful, taciturn, managing to give an impression of +power by his very silence, sat at one side of the long table. Just +across from him a sleek-haired stenographer bent over her note +book, jotting down every word, that the conference might make +business history. Hopper, at one end of the room, studied his shoe +heel intently. He was unbelievably boyish looking to command the +fabulous salary reported to be his. Advertising men, mentioning +his name, pulled a figurative forelock as they did so. Near Mrs. +McChesney sat Sam Hupp, he of the lightning brain and the +sure-fire copy. Emma McChesney, strangely silent, kept her eyes +intent on the faces of the others. T.A. Buck, interested, +enthusiastic, but somewhat uncertain, glanced now and then at his +silent business partner, found no satisfaction in her set face, +and glanced away again. Grace Galt, unbelievably young and pretty +to have won a place for herself in that conference of business +people, smiled in secret at Jock McChesney's evident struggle to +conceal his elation at being present at this, his first staff +meeting. + +The conference had lasted one hour now. In that time Featherloom +petticoats had been picked to pieces, bit by bit, from hem to +waist-band. Nothing had been left untouched. Every angle had come +under the keen vision of the advertising experts--the comfort of +the garment, its durability, style, cheapness, service. Which to +emphasize? + +"H--m, novelty campaign, in my opinion," said Hopper, breaking one +of his long silences. "There's nothing new in petticoats +themselves, you know. You've got to give 'em a new angle." + +"Yep," agreed Hupp. "Start out with a feature skirt. Might +illustrate with one of those freak drawings they're crazy about +now--slinky figure, you know, hollow-chested, one foot trailing, +and all that. They're crazy, but they do attract attention, no +doubt of that." + +Bartholomew Berg turned his head slowly. "What's your opinion, +Mrs. McChesney?" he asked. + +"I--I'm afraid I haven't any," said Emma McChesney listlessly. +T.A. Buck stared at her in dismay and amazement. + +"How about you, Mr. Buck?" + +"Why--I--er--of course this advertising game's new to me. I'm +really leaving it in your hands. I really thought that Mrs. +McChesney's idea was to make a point of the fact that these +petticoats were not freak petticoats, but skirts for the everyday +women. She gave me what I thought was a splendid argument a week +ago." He turned to her helplessly. + +Mrs. McChesney sat silent. + +Bartholomew Berg leaned forward a little and smiled one of his +rare smiles. + +"Won't you tell us, Mrs. McChesney? We'd all like to hear what you +have to say." + +Mrs. McChesney looked down at her hands. Then she looked up, and +addressed what she had to say straight to Bartholomew Berg. + +"I--simply didn't want to interfere in this business. I know +nothing about it, really. Of course, I do know Featherloom +petticoats. I know all about them. It seemed to me that just +because the newspapers and magazines were full of pictures showing +spectacular creatures in impossible attitudes wearing tango tea +skirts, we are apt to forget that those types form only a thin +upper crust, and that down beneath there are millions and millions +of regular, everyday women doing regular everyday things in +regular everyday clothes. Women who wash on Monday, and iron on +Tuesday, and bake one-egg cakes, and who have to hurry home to get +supper when they go down-town in the afternoon. They're the kind +who go to market every morning, and take the baby along in the +go-cart, and they're not wearing crepe de chine tango petticoats +to do it in, either. They're wearing skirts with a drawstring in +the back, and a label in the band, guaranteed to last one year. +Those are the people I'd like to reach, and hold." + +"Hm!" said Hopper, from his corner, cryptically. + +Bartholomew Berg looked at Emma McChesney admiringly. "Sounds +reasonable and logical," he said. + +Sam Hupp sat up with a jerk. + +"It does sound reasonable," he said briskly. "But it isn't. Pardon +me, won't you, Mrs. McChesney? But you must realize that this is +an extravagant age. The very workingmen's wives have caught the +spending fever. The time is past when you can attract people to +your goods with the promise of durability and wear. They don't +expect goods to wear. They'd resent it if they did. They get tired +of an article before it's worn out. They're looking for novelties. +They'd rather get two months' wear out of a skirt that's slashed a +new way, than a year's wear out of one that looks like the sort +that mother used to make." + +Mrs. McChesney, her cheeks very pink, her eyes very bright, +subsided into silence. In silence she sat throughout the rest of +the conference. In silence she descended in the elevator with T.A. +Buck, and in silence she stepped into his waiting car. + +T.A. Buck eyed her worriedly. "Well?" he said. Then, as Mrs. +McChesney shrugged noncommittal shoulders, "Tell me, how do you +feel about it?" + +Emma McChesney turned to face him, breathing rather quickly. + +"The last time I felt as I do just now was when Jock was a baby. +He took sick, and the doctors were puzzled. They thought it might +be something wrong with his spine. They had a consultation--five +of them--with the poor little chap on the bed, naked. They +wouldn't let me in, so I listened in the hallway, pressed against +the door with my face to the crack. They prodded him, and poked +him, and worked his little legs and arms, and every time he cried +I prayed, and wept, and clawed the door with my fingers, and +called them beasts and torturers and begged them to let me in, +though I wasn't conscious that I was doing those things--at the +time. I didn't know what they were doing to him, though they said +it was all for his good, and they were only trying to help him. +But I only knew that I wanted to rush in, and grab him up in my +arms, and run away with him--run, and run, and run." + +She stopped, lips trembling, eyes suspiciously bright. + +"And that's the way I felt in there--this afternoon." + +T.A. Buck reached up and patted her shoulder. "Don't, old girl! +It's going to work out splendidly, I'm sure. After all, those +chaps do know best." + +"They may know best, but they don't know Featherlooms," retorted +Emma McChesney. + +"True. But perhaps what Jock said when he walked with us to the +elevator was pretty nearly right. You know he said we were +criticising their copy the way a plumber would criticise the +Parthenon--so busy finding fault with the lack of drains that we +failed to see the beauty of the architecture." + +"T.A.," said Emma McChesney solemnly, "T.A., we're getting old." + +"Old! You! I! Ha!" + +"You may 'Ha!' all you like. But do you know what they thought of +us in there? They thought we were a couple of fogies, and they +humored us, that's what they did. I'll tell you, T.A., when the +time comes for me to give Jock up to some little pink-faced girl +I'll do it, and smile if it kills me. But to hand my Featherlooms +over to a lot of cold-blooded experts who--well--" she paused, +biting her lip. + +"We'll see, Emma; we'll see." + +They did see. The Featherloom petticoat campaign was launched with +a great splash. It sailed serenely into the sea of national +business. Then suddenly something seemed to go wrong with its +engines. It began to wobble and showed a decided list to port. +Jock, who at the beginning was so puffed with pride that his gold +fountain pen threatened to burst the confines of his very modishly +tight vest, lost two degrees of pompousness a day, and his +attitude toward his unreproachful mother was almost humble. + +A dozen times a week T.A. Buck would stroll casually into Mrs. +McChesney's office. "Think it's going to take hold?" he would ask. +"Our men say the dealers have laid in, but the public doesn't seem +to be tearing itself limb from limb to get to our stuff." + +Emma McChesney would smile, and shrug noncommittal shoulders. + +When it became very painfully apparent that it wasn't "taking +hold," T.A. Buck, after asking the same question, now worn and +frayed with asking, broke out, crossly: + +"Well, really, I don't mind the shrug, but I do wish you wouldn't +smile. After all, you know, this campaign is costing us +money--real money, and large chunks of it. It's very evident that +we shouldn't have tried to make a national campaign of this +thing." + +Whereupon Mrs. McChesney's smile grew into a laugh. "Forgive me, +T.A. I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing because--well, I can't +tell you why. It's a woman's reason, and you wouldn't think it a +reason at all. For that matter, I suppose it isn't, but--Anyway, +I've got something to tell you. The fault of this campaign has +been the copy. It was perfectly good advertising, but it left the +public cold. When they read those ads they might have been +impressed with the charm of the garment, but it didn't fill their +breasts with any wild longing to possess one. It didn't make the +women feel unhappy until they had one of those skirts hanging on +the third hook in their closet. The only kind of advertising that +is advertising is the kind that makes the reader say, 'I'll have +one of those.'" + +T.A. Buck threw out helpless hands. "What are we going to do about +it?" + +"Do? I've already done it." + +"Done what?" + +"Written the kind of copy that I think Featherlooms ought to have. +I just took my knowledge of Featherlooms, plus what I knew about +human nature, sprinkled in a handful of good humor and sincerity, +and they're going to feed it to the public. It's the same recipe +that I used to use in selling Featherlooms on the road. It used to +go by word of mouth. I don't see why it shouldn't go on paper. It +isn't classic advertising. It isn't scientific. It isn't even what +they call psychological, I suppose. But it's human. And it's going +to reach that great, big, solid, safe, spot-cash mass known as the +middle class. Of course my copy may be wrong. It may not go, after +all, but--" + +But it did go. It didn't go with a rush, or a bang. It went +slowly, surely, hand over hand, but it went, and it kept on going. +And watching it climb and take hold there came back to Emma +McChesney's eye the old sparkle, to her step the old buoyancy, to +her voice the old delightful ring. And now, when T.A. Buck +strolled into her office of a morning, with his, "It's taking +hold, Mrs. Mack," she would dimple like a girl as she laughed back +at him-- + +"With a grip that won't let go." + +"It looks very much as though we were going to be millionaires in +our old age, you and I?" went on Buck. + +Emma McChesney opened her eyes wide. + +"Old!" she mocked, "Old! You! I! Ha!" + + + + +IV + +THE MAN WITHIN HIM + + +They used to do it much more picturesquely. They rode in coats of +scarlet, in the crisp, clear morning, to the winding of horns and +the baying of hounds, to the thud-thud of hoofs, and the crackle +of underbrush. Across fresh-plowed fields they went, crashing +through forest paths, leaping ditches, taking fences, scrambling +up the inclines, pelting down the hillside, helter-skelter, until, +panting, wide-eyed, eager, blood-hungry, the hunt closed in at the +death. + +The scarlet coat has sobered down to the somber gray and the +snuffy brown of that unromantic garment known as the business +suit. The winding horn is become a goblet, and its notes are the +tinkle of ice against glass. The baying of hounds has harshened to +the squawk of the motor siren. The fresh-plowed field is a blue +print, the forest maze a roll of plans and specifications. Each +fence is a business barrier. Every ditch is of a competitor's +making, dug craftily so that the clumsy-footed may come a cropper. +All the romance is out of it, all the color, all the joy. But two +things remain the same: The look in the face of the hunter as he +closed in on the fox is the look in the face of him who sees the +coveted contract lying ready for the finishing stroke of his pen. +And his words are those of the hunter of long ago as, eyes +a-gleam, teeth bared, muscles still taut with the tenseness of the +chase, he waves the paper high in air and cries, "I've made a +killing!" + +For two years Jock McChesney had watched the field as it swept by +in its patient, devious, cruel game of Hunt the Contract. But he +had never been in at the death. Those two years had taught him how +to ride; to take a fence; to leap a ditch. He had had his awkward +bumps, and his clumsy falls. He had lost his way more than once. +But he had always groped his way back again, stumblingly, through +the dusk. Jock McChesney was the youngest man on the Berg, Shriner +Advertising Company's big staff of surprisingly young men. So +young that the casual glance did not reveal to you the marks that +the strain of those two years had left on his boyish face. But the +marks were there. + +Nature etches with the most delicate of points. She knows the +cunning secret of light and shadow. You scarcely realize that she +has been at work. A faint line about the mouth, a fairy tracing at +the corners of the eyes, a mere vague touch just at the +nostrils--and the thing is done. + +Even Emma McChesney's eyes--those mother-eyes which make the lynx +seem a mole--had failed to note the subtle change. Then, suddenly, +one night, the lines leaped out at her. + +They were seated at opposite sides of the book-littered library +table in the living-room of the cheerful up-town apartment which +was the realization of the nightly dream which Mrs. Emma McChesney +had had in her ten years on the road for the T.A. Buck Featherloom +Petticoat Company. Jock McChesney's side of the big table was +completely covered with the mass of copy-paper, rough sketches, +photographs and drawings which make up an advertising lay-out. He +was bent over the work, absorbed, intent, his forearms resting on +the table. Emma McChesney glanced up from her magazine just as +Jock bent forward to reach a scrap of paper that had fluttered +away. The lamplight fell full on his face. And Emma McChesney saw. +The hand that held the magazine fell to her lap. Her lips were +parted slightly. She sat very quietly, her eyes never leaving the +face that frowned so intently over the littered table. The room +had been very quiet before--Jock busy with his work, his mother +interested in her magazine. But this silence was different. There +was something electric in it. It was a silence that beats on the +brain like a noise. Jock McChesney, bent over his work, heard it, +felt it, and, oppressed by it, looked up suddenly. He met those +two eyes opposite. + +"Spooks? Or is it my godlike beauty which holds you thus? Or is my +face dirty?" + +Emma McChesney did not smile. She laid her magazine on the table, +face down, and leaned forward, her staring eyes still fixed on her +son's face. + +"Look here, young 'un. Are you working too hard?" + +"Me? Now? This stuff you mean--?" + +"No; I mean in the last year. Are they piling it up on you?" + +Jock laughed a laugh that was nothing less than a failure, so +little of real mirth did it contain. + +"Piling it up! Lord, no! I wish they would. That's the trouble. +They don't give me a chance." + +"A chance! Why, that's not true, son. You've said yourself that +there are men who have been in the office three times as long as +you have, who never have had the opportunities that they've given +you." + +It was as though she had touched a current that thrilled him to +action. He pushed back his chair and stood up, one hand thrust +into his pocket, the other passing quickly over his head from brow +to nape with a quick, nervous gesture that was new to him. + +"And why!" he flung out. "Why! Not because they like the way I +part my hair. They don't do business that way up there. It's +because I've made good, and those other dubs haven't. That's why. +They've let me sit in at the game. But they won't let me take any +tricks. I've been an apprentice hand for two years now. I'm tired +of it. I want to be in on a killing. I want to taste blood. I want +a chance at some of the money--real money." + +Emma McChesney sat back in her chair and surveyed the angry figure +before her with quiet, steady eyes. + +"I might have known that only one thing could bring those lines +into your face, son." She paused a moment. "So you want money as +badly as all that, do you?" + +Jock's hand came down with a thwack on the papers before him. + +"Want it! You just bet I want it." + +"Do I know her?" asked Emma McChesney quietly. + +Jock stopped short in his excited pacing up and down the room. + +"Do you know--Why, I didn't say there--What makes you think +that--?" + +"When a youngster like you, whose greatest worry has been whether +Harvard'll hold 'em again this year, with Baxter out, begins to +howl about not being appreciated in business, and to wear a late +fall line of wrinkles where he has been smooth before, I feel +justified in saying, 'Do I know her?'" + +"Well, it isn't any one--at least, it isn't what you mean you +think it is when you say you--" + +"Careful there! You'll trip. Never you mind what I mean I think it +is when I say. Count ten, and then just tell me what you think you +mean." + +Jock passed his hand over his head again with that nervous little +gesture. Then he sat down, a little wearily. He stared moodily +down at the pile of papers before him: His mother faced him +quietly across the table. + +"Grace Galt's getting twice as much as I am," Jock broke out, with +savage suddenness. "The first year I didn't mind. A fellow gets +accustomed, these days, to see women breaking into all the +professions and getting away with men-size salaries. But her pay +check doubles mine--more than doubles it." + +"It's been my experience," observed Emma McChesney, "that when a +firm condescends to pay a woman twice as much as a man, that means +she's worth six times as much." + +A painful red crept into Jock's face. "Maybe. Two years ago that +would have sounded reasonable to me. Two years ago, when I walked +down Broadway at night, a fifty-foot electric sign at Forty-second +was just an electric sign to me. Just part of the town's +decoration like the chorus girls, and the midnight theater crowds. +Now--well, now every blink of every red and yellow globe is +crammed full of meaning. I know the power that advertising has; +how it influences our manners, and our morals, and our minds, and +our health. It regulates the food we eat, and the clothes we wear, +and the books we read, and the entertainment we seek. It's +colossal, that's what it is! It's--" + +"Keep on like that for another two years, sonny, and no business +banquet will be complete without you. The next thing you know +you'll be addressing the Y.M.C.A. advertising classes on The Young +Man in Business." + +Jock laughed a rueful little laugh. "I didn't mean to make +a speech. I was just trying to say that I've served my +apprenticeship. It hurts a fellow's pride. You can't hold your +head up before a girl when you know her salary's twice yours, and +you know that she knows it. Why look at Mrs. Hoffman, who's with +the Dowd Agency. Of course she's a wonder, even if her face does +look like the fifty-eighth variety. She can write copy that lifts +a campaign right out of the humdrum class, and makes it luminous. +Her husband works in a bank somewhere. He earns about as much as +Mrs. Hoffman pays the least of her department subordinates. And +he's so subdued that he side-steps when he walks, and they call +him the human jelly-fish." + +Emma McChesney was regarding her son with a little puzzled frown. +Suddenly she reached out and tapped the topmost of the scribbled +sheets strewn the length of Jock's side of the table. + +"What's all this?" + +Jock tipped back his chair and surveyed the clutter before him. + +"That," said he, "is what is known on the stage as 'the papers.' +And it's the real plot of this piece." + +"M-m-m--I thought so. Just favor me with a scenario, will you?" + +Half-grinning, half-serious, Jock stuck his thumbs in the armholes +of his waistcoat, and began. + +"Scene: Offices of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Time, +the present. Characters: Jock McChesney, handsome, daring, +brilliant--" + +"Suppose you--er--skip the characters, however fascinating, and +get to the action." + +Jock McChesney brought the tipped chair down on all-fours with a +thud, and stood up. The grin was gone. He was as serious as he had +been in the midst of his tirade of five minutes before. + +"All right. Here it is. And don't blame me if it sounds like cheap +melodrama. This stuff," and he waved a hand toward the paper-laden +table, "is an advertising campaign plan for the Griebler Gum +Company, of St. Louis. Oh, don't look impressed. The office hasn't +handed me any such commission. I just got the idea like a flash, +and I've been working it out for the last two weeks. It worked +itself out, almost--the way a really scorching idea does, +sometimes. This Griebler has been advertising for years. You +know the Griebler gum. But it hasn't been the right sort of +advertising. Old Griebler, the original gum man, had fogy notions +about advertising, and as long as he lived they had to keep it +down. He died a few months ago--you must have read of it. Left a +regular mint. Ben Griebler, the oldest son, started right in to +clean out the cobwebs. Of course the advertising end of it has +come in for its share of the soap and water. He wants to make a +clean sweep of it. Every advertising firm in the country has been +angling for the contract. It's going to be a real one. Two-thirds +of the crowd have submitted plans. And that's just where my kick +comes in. The Berg, Shriner Company makes it a rule never to +submit advance plans." + +"Excuse me if I seem a trifle rude," interrupted Mrs. McChesney, +"but I'd like to know where you think you've been wronged in +this." + +"Right here!" replied Jock, and he slapped his pocket, "and here," +he pointed to his head. "Two spots so vital that they make old +Achilles's heel seem armor-plated. Ben Griebler is one of the +show-me kind. He wants value received for money expended, and +while everybody knows that he has a loving eye on the Berg, +Shriner crowd, he won't sign a thing until he knows what he's +getting. A firm's record, standing, staff, equipment, mean nothing +to him." + +"But, Jock, I still don't see--" + +Jock gathered up a sheaf of loose papers and brandished them in +the air. "This is where I come in. I've got a plan here that will +fetch this Griebler person. Oh, I'm not dreaming. I outlined it +for Sam Hupp, and he was crazy about it. Sam Hupp had some sort of +plan outlined himself. But he said this made his sound as dry as +cigars in Denver. And you know yourself that Sam Hupp's copy is so +brilliant that he could sell brewery advertising to a temperance +magazine." + +Emma McChesney stood up. She looked a little impatient, and a +trifle puzzled. "But why all this talk! I don't get you. Take your +plan to Mr. Berg. If it's what you think it is he'll see it +quicker than any other human being, and he'll probably fall on +your neck and invest you in royal robes and give you a mahogany +desk all your own." + +"Oh, what's the good!" retorted Jock disgustedly. "This Griebler +has an appointment at the office to-morrow. He'll be closeted with +the Old Man. They'll call in Hupp. But never a plan will they +reveal. It's against their code of ethics. Ethics! I'm sick of the +word. I suppose you'd say I'm lucky to be associated with a firm +like that, and I suppose I am. But I wish in the name of all the +gods of Business that they weren't so bloomin' conservative. +Ethics! They're all balled up in 'em, like Henry James in his +style." + +Emma McChesney came over from her side of the table and stood very +close to her son. She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and +looked up into the sullen, angry young face. + + [Illustration: "She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and + looked up into the sullen, angry young face"] + +"I've seen older men than you are, Jock, and better men, and +bigger men, wearing that same look, and for the same reason. Every +ambitious man or woman in business wears it at one time or +another. Sooner or later, Jock, you'll have your chance at the +money end of this game. If you don't care about the thing you call +ethics, it'll be sooner. If you do care, it will be later. It +rests with you, but it's bound to come, because you've got the +stuff in you." + +"Maybe," replied Jock the cynical. But his face lost some of its +sullenness as he looked down at that earnest, vivid countenance +up-turned to his. "Maybe. It sounds all right, Mother--in the +story books. But I'm not quite solid on it. These days it isn't +so much what you've got in you that counts as what you can bring +out. I know the young man's slogan used to be 'Work and Wait,' or +something pretty like that. But these days they've boiled it down +to one word--'Produce'!" + +"The marvel of it is that there aren't more of 'em," observed Emma +McChesney sadly. + +"More what?" + +"More lines. Here,"--she touched his forehead,--"and here,"--she +touched his eyes. + +"Lines!" Jock swung to face a mirror. "Good! I'm so infernally +young-looking that no one takes me seriously. It's darned hard +trying to convince people you're a captain of finance when you +look like an errand boy." + +From the center of the room Mrs. McChesney watched the boy as he +surveyed himself in the glass. And as she gazed there came a +frightened look into her eyes. It was gone in a minute, and in its +place came a curious little gleam, half amused, half pugnacious. + +"Jock McChesney, if I thought that you meant half of what you've +said to-night about honor, and ethics, and all that, I'd--" + +"Spank me, I suppose," said the young six-footer. + +"No," and all the humor had fled, "I--Jock, I've never said much +to you about your father. But I think you know that he was what he +was to the day of his death. You were just about eight when I made +up my mind that life with him was impossible. I said then--and you +were all I had, son--that I'd rather see you dead than to have you +turn out to be a son of your father. Don't make me remember that +wish, Jock." + +Two quick steps and his arms were about her. His face was all +contrition. "Why--Mother! I didn't mean--You see this is business, +and I'm crazy to make good, and it's such a fight--" + +"Don't I know it?" demanded Emma McChesney. "I guess your mother +hasn't been sitting home embroidering lunchcloths these last +fifteen years." She lifted her head from the boy's shoulder. "And +now, son, considering me, not as your doting mother, but in my +business capacity as secretary of the T.A. Buck Featherloom +Petticoat Company, suppose you reveal to me the inner workings of +this plan of yours. I'd like to know if you really are the +advertising wizard that you think you are." + +So it was that long after Annie's dinner dishes had ceased to +clatter in the kitchen; long after she had put her head in at the +door to ask, "Aigs 'r cakes for breakfast?" long after those two +busy brains should have rested in sleep, the two sat at either +side of the light-flooded table, the face of one glowing as he +talked, the face of the other sparkling as she listened. And at +midnight: + +"Why, you infant wonder!" exclaimed Emma McChesney. + +At nine o'clock next morning when Jock McChesney entered the +offices of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company he carried a +flat, compact bundle of papers under his arm encased in protecting +covers of pasteboard, and further secured by bands of elastic. +This he carried to his desk, deposited in a drawer, and locked the +drawer. + +By eleven o'clock the things which he had predicted the night +before had come to pass. A plump little man, with a fussy manner +and Western clothes had been ushered into Bartholomew Berg's +private office. Instinct told him that this was Griebler. Jock +left his desk and strolled up to get the switchboard operator's +confirmation of his guess. Half an hour later Sam Hupp hustled by +and disappeared into the Old Man's sanctum. + +Jock fingered the upper left-hand drawer of his desk. The +maddening blankness of that closed door! If only he could find +some excuse for walking into that room--any old excuse, no matter +how wild!--just to get a chance at it-- + +His telephone rang. He picked up the receiver, his eye on the +closed door, his thoughts inside that room. + +"Mr. Berg wants to see you right away," came the voice of the +switchboard operator. + +Something seemed to give way inside--something in the region of +his brain--no, his heart--no, his lungs-- + +"Well, can you beat that!" said Jock McChesney aloud, in a kind of +trance of joy. "Can--you--beat--that!" + +Then he buttoned the lower button of his coat, shrugged his +shoulders with an extra wriggle at the collar (the modern hero's +method of girding up his loins), and walked calmly into +Bartholomew Berg's very private office. + +In the second that elapsed between the opening and the closing of +the door Jock's glance swept the three men--Bartholomew Berg, +quiet, inscrutable, seated at his great table-desk; Griebler, lost +in the depths of a great leather chair, smoking fussily and +twitching with a hundred little restless, irritating gestures; Sam +Hupp, standing at the opposite side of the room, hands in pockets, +attitude argumentative. + +"This is Mr. McChesney," said Bartholomew Berg. "Mr. Griebler, +McChesney." + +Jock came forward, smiling that charming smile of his. "Mr. +Griebler," he said, extending his hand, "this is a great +pleasure." + +"Hm!" growled Ben Griebler, "I didn't know they picked 'em so +young." + +His voice was a piping falsetto that somehow seemed to match his +restless little eyes. + +Jock thrust his hands hurriedly into his pockets. He felt his face +getting scarlet. + +"They're--ah--using 'em young this year," said Bartholomew Berg. +His voice sounded bigger, and smoother, and pleasanter than ever +in contrast with that other's shrill tone. "I prefer 'em young, +myself. You'll never catch McChesney using 'in the last analysis' +to drive home an argument. He has a new idea about every nineteen +minutes, and every other one's a good one, and every nineteenth +or so's an inspiration." The Old Man laughed one of his low, +chuckling laughs. + +"Hm--that so?" piped Ben Griebler. "Up in my neck of the woods we +aren't so long on inspiration. We're just working men, and we wear +working clothes--" + +"Oh, now," protested Berg, his eyes twinkling, "McChesney's +necktie and socks and handkerchief may form one lovely, blissful +color scheme, but that doesn't signify that his advertising +schemes are not just as carefully and artistically blended." + +Ben Griebler looked shrewdly up at Jock through narrowed lids. +"Maybe. I'll talk to you in a minute, young man--that is--" he +turned quickly upon Berg--"if that isn't against your crazy +principles, too?" + +"Why, not at all," Bartholomew Berg assured him. "Not at all. You +do me an injustice." + +Griebler moved up closer to the broad table. The two fell into a +low-voiced talk. Jock looked rather helplessly around at Sam Hupp. +That alert gentleman was signaling him frantically with head and +wagging finger. Jock crossed the big room to Hupp's side. The two +moved off to a window at the far end. + +"Give heed to your Unkie," said Sam Hupp, talking very rapidly, +very softly, and out of one corner of his mouth. "This Griebler's +looking for an advertising manager. He's as pig-headed as +a--a--well, as a pig, I suppose. But it's a corking chance, +youngster, and the Old Man's just recommended you--strong. Now--" + +"Me--!" exploded Jock. + +"Shut up!" hissed Hupp. "Two or three years with that firm would +be the making of you--if you made good, of course. And you could. +They want to move their factory here from St. Louis within the +next few years. Now listen. When he talks to you, you play up the +keen, alert stuff with a dash of sophistication, see? If you can +keep your mouth shut and throw a kind of a canny, I-get-you, look +into your eyes, all the better. He's gabby enough for two. Try a +line of talk that is filled with the fire and enthusiasm of +youth, combined with the good judgment and experience of middle +age, and you've--" + +"Say, look here," stammered Jock. "Even if I was Warfield enough +to do all that, d'you honestly think--me an advertising +manager!--with a salary that Griebler--" + +"You nervy little shrimp, go in and win. He'll pay five thousand +if he pays a cent. But he wants value for money expended. Now I've +tipped you off. You make your killing--" + +"Oh, McChesney!" called Bartholomew Berg, glancing round. + +"Yes, sir!" said Jock, and stood before him in the same moment. + +"Mr. Griebler is looking for a competent, enthusiastic, +hard-working man as advertising manager. I've spoken to him of +you. I know what you can do. Mr. Griebler might trust my judgment +in this, but--" + +"I'll trust my own judgment," snapped Ben Griebler. "It's good +enough for me." + +"Very well," returned Bartholomew Berg suavely. "And if you decide +to place your advertising future in the hands of the Berg, Shriner +Company--" + +"Now look here," interrupted Ben Griebler again. "I'll tie up +with you people when you've shaken something out of your cuffs. +I'm not the kind that buys a pig in a poke. We're going to spend +money--real money--in this campaign of ours. But I'm not such a +come-on as to hand you half a million or so and get a promise in +return. I want your plans, and I want 'em in full." + +A little exclamation broke from Sam Hupp. He checked it, but not +before Berg's curiously penetrating pale blue eyes had glanced up +at him, and away again. + +"I've told you, Mr. Griebler," went on Bartholomew Berg's patient +voice, "just why the thing you insist on is impossible. This firm +does not submit advance copy. Every business commission that comes +to us is given all the skill, and thought, and enthusiasm, and +careful planning that this office is capable of. You know our +record. This is a business of ideas. And ideas are too precious, +too perishable, to spread in the market place for all to see." + +Ben Griebler stood up. His cigar waggled furiously between his +lips as he talked. + +"I know something else that don't stand spreading in the market +place, Berg. And that's money. It's too darned perishable, too." +He pointed a stubby finger at Jock. "Does this fool rule of yours +apply to this young fellow, too?" + +Bartholomew Berg seemed to grow more patient, more self-contained +as the other man's self-control slipped rapidly away. + +"It goes for every man and woman in this office, Mr. Griebler. +This young chap, McChesney here, might spend weeks and months +building up a comprehensive advertising plan for you. He'd spend +those weeks studying your business from every possible angle. +Perhaps it would be a plan that would require a year of waiting +before the actual advertising began to appear. And then you might +lose faith in the plan. A waiting game is a hard game to play. +Some other man's idea, that promised quicker action, might appeal +to you. And when it appeared we'd very likely find our own +original idea incorporated in--" + +"Say, look here!" squeaked Ben Griebler, his face dully red. +"D'you mean to imply that I'd steal your plan! D'you mean to sit +there and tell me to my face--" + +"Mr. Griebler, I mean that that thing happens constantly in this +business. We're almost powerless to stop it. Nothing spreads +quicker than a new idea. Compared to it a woman's secret is a +sealed book." + +Ben Griebler removed the cigar from his lips. He was stuttering +with anger. With a mingling of despair and boldness Jock saw the +advantage of that stuttering moment and seized on it. He stepped +close to the broad table-desk, resting both hands on it and +leaning forward slightly in his eagerness. + +"Mr. Berg--I have a plan. Mr. Hupp can tell you. It came to me +when I first heard that the Grieblers were going to broaden out. +It's a real idea. I'm sure of that. I've worked it out in detail. +Mr. Hupp himself said it--Why, I've got the actual copy. And it's +new. Absolutely. It never--" + +"Trot it out!" shouted Ben Griebler. "I'd like to see one idea +anyway, around this shop." + +"McChesney," said Bartholomew Berg, not raising his voice. His +eyes rested on Jock with the steady, penetrating gaze that was +peculiar to him. More foolhardy men than Jock McChesney had +faltered and paused, abashed, under those eyes. "McChesney, your +enthusiasm for your work is causing you to forget one thing that +must never be forgotten in this office." + +Jock stepped back. His lower lip was caught between his teeth. At +the same moment Ben Griebler snatched up his hat from the table, +clapped it on his head at an absurd angle and, bristling like a +fighting cock, confronted the three men. + +"I've got a couple of rules myself," he cried, "and don't you +forget it. When you get a little spare time, you look up St. Louis +and find out what state it's in. The slogan of that state is my +slogan, you bet. If you think I'm going to make you a present of +the money that it took my old man fifty years to pile up, then you +don't know that Griebler is a German name. Good day, gents." + +He stalked to the door. There he turned dramatically and leveled a +forefinger at Jock. "They've got you roped and tied. But I think +you're a comer. If you change your mind, kid, come and see me." + +The door slammed behind him. + +"Whew!" whistled Sam Hupp, passing a handkerchief over his bald +spot. + +Bartholomew Berg reached out with one great capable hand and swept +toward him a pile of papers. "Oh, well, you can't blame him. +Advertising has been a scream for so long. Griebler doesn't know +the difference between advertising, publicity, and bunk. He'll +learn. But it'll be an awfully expensive course. Now, Hupp, let's +go over this Kalamazoo account. That'll be all, McChesney." + +Jock turned without a word. He walked quickly through the outer +office, into the great main room. There he stopped at the +switchboard. + +"Er--Miss Grimes," he said, smiling charmingly. "Where's this Mr. +Griebler, of St. Louis, stopping; do you know?" + +"Say, where would he stop?" retorted the wise Miss Grimes. "Look +at him! The Waldorf, of course." + +"Thanks," said Jock, still smiling. And went back to his desk. + +At five Jock left the office. Under his arm he carried the flat +pasteboard package secured by elastic bands. At five-fifteen he +walked swiftly down the famous corridor of the great red stone +hotel. The colorful glittering crowd that surged all about him he +seemed not to see. He made straight for the main desk with its +battalion of clerks. + + [Illustration: "He made straight for the main desk with its + battalion of clerks"] + +"Mr. Griebler in? Mr. Ben Griebler, St. Louis?" + +The question set in motion the hotel's elaborate system of +investigation. At last: "Not in." + +"Do you know when he will be in?" That futile question. + +"Can't say. He left no word. Do you want to leave your name?" + +"N-no. Would he--does he stop at this desk when he comes in?" + +He was an unusually urbane hotel clerk. "Why, usually they leave +their keys and get their mail from the floor clerk. But Mr. +Griebler seems to prefer the main desk." + +"I'll--wait," said Jock. And seated in one of the great thronelike +chairs, he waited. He sat there, slim and boyish, while the +laughing, chattering crowd swept all about him. If you sit long +enough in that foyer you will learn all there is to learn about +life. An amazing sight it is--that crowd. Baraboo helps swell it, +and Spokane, and Berlin, and Budapest, and Pekin, and Paris, and +Waco, Texas. So varied it is, so cosmopolitan, that if you sit +there patiently enough, and watch sharply enough you will even see +a chance New Yorker. + +From door to desk Jock's eyes swept. The afternoon-tea crowd, in +paradise feathers, and furs, and frock coats swam back and forth. +He saw it give way to the dinner throng, satin-shod, bejeweled, +hurrying through its oysters, swallowing unbelievable numbers of +cloudy-amber drinks, and golden-brown drinks, and maroon drinks, +then gathering up its furs and rushing theaterwards. He was still +sitting there when that crowd, its eight o'clock freshness +somewhat sullied, its sparkle a trifle dimmed, swept back for more +oysters, more cloudy-amber and golden-brown drinks. + +At half-hour intervals, then at hourly intervals, the figure in +the great chair stirred, rose, and walked to the desk. + +"Has Mr. Griebler come in?" + +The supper throng, its laugh a little ribald, its talk a shade +high-pitched, drifted towards the street, or was wafted up in +elevators. The throng thinned to an occasional group. Then these +became rarer and rarer. The revolving door admitted one man, or +two, perhaps, who lingered not at all in the unaccustomed quiet of +the great glittering lobby. + +The figure of the watcher took on a pathetic droop. The eyelids +grew leaden. To open them meant an almost superhuman effort. The +stare of the new night clerks grew more and more hostile and +suspicious. A grayish pallor had settled down on the boy's face. +And those lines of the night before stood out for all to see. + +In the stillness of the place the big revolving door turned once +more, complainingly. For the thousandth time Jock's eyes +lifted heavily. Then they flew wide open. The drooping figure +straightened electrically. Half a dozen quick steps and Jock stood +in the pathway of Ben Griebler who, rather ruffled and untidy, had +blown in on the wings of the morning. + +He stared a moment. "Well, what--" + +"I've been waiting for you here since five o'clock last evening. +It will soon be five o'clock again. Will you let me show you those +plans now?" + +Ben Griebler had surveyed Jock with the stony calm of the +out-of-town visitor who is prepared to show surprise at nothing in +New York. + +"There's nothing like getting an early start," said Ben Griebler. +"Come on up to my room." Key in hand, he made for the elevator. +For an almost imperceptible moment Jock paused. Then, with a +little rush, he followed the short, thick-set figure. "I knew you +had it in you, McChesney. I said you looked like a comer, didn't +I?" + +Jock said nothing. He was silent while Griebler unlocked his door, +turned on the light, fumbled at the windows and shades, picked up +the telephone receiver. "What'll you have?" + +"Nothing." Jock had cleared the center table and was opening his +flat bundle of papers. He drew up two chairs. "Let's not waste any +time," he said. "I've had a twelve-hour wait for this." He seemed +to control the situation. Obediently Ben Griebler hung up the +receiver, came over, and took the chair very close to Jock. + + [Illustration: "'Let's not waste any time,' he said"] + +"There's nothing artistic about gum," began Jock McChesney; and +his manner was that of a man who is sure of himself. "It's a +shirt-sleeve product, and it ought to be handled from a +shirt-sleeve standpoint. Every gum concern in the country has +spent thousands on a 'better-than-candy' campaign before it +realized that gum is a candy and drug store article, and that no +man is going to push a five-cent package of gum at the sacrifice +of the sale of an eighty-cent box of candy. But the health note is +there, if only you strike it right. Now, here's my idea--" + +At six o'clock Ben Griebler, his little shrewd eyes sparkling, his +voice more squeakily falsetto than ever, surveyed the youngster +before him with a certain awe. + +"This--this thing will actually sell our stuff in Europe! No gum +concern has ever been able to make the stuff go outside of this +country. Why, inside of three years every 'Arry and 'Arriet in +England'll be chewing it on bank holidays. I don't know about +Germany, but--" He pushed back his chair and got up. "Well, I'm +solid on that. And what I say goes. Now I'll tell you what I'll +do, kid. I'll take you down to St. Louis with me, at a figure +that'll make your--" + +Jock looked up. + +"Or if you don't want the Berg, Shriner crowd to get wise, I'll +fix it this way. I'll go over there this morning and tell 'em I've +changed my mind, see? The campaign's theirs, see? Then I refuse +to consider any of their suggestions until I see your plan. And +when I see it I fall for it like a ton of bricks. Old Berg'll +never know. He's so darned high-principled--" + +Jock McChesney stood up. The little drawn pinched look which had +made his face so queerly old was gone. His eyes were bright. His +face was flushed. + +"There! You've said it. I didn't realize how raw this deal was +until you put it into words for me. I want to thank you. You're +right. Bartholomew Berg is so darned high-principled that two +muckers like you and me, groveling around in the dirt, can't even +see the tips of the heights to which his ideals have soared. Don't +stop me. I know I'm talking like a book. But I feel like something +that has just been kicked out into the sunshine after having been +in jail." + +"You're tired," said Ben Griebler. "It's been a strain. Something +always snaps after a long tension." + +Jock's flat palm came down among the papers with a crack. + +"You bet something snaps! It has just snapped inside me." He +began quietly to gather up the papers in an orderly little way. + +"What's that for?" inquired Griebler, coming forward. "You don't +mean--" + +"I mean that I'm going to go home and square this thing with a +lady you've never met. You and she wouldn't get on if you did. You +don't talk the same language. Then I'm going to have a cold bath, +and a hot breakfast. And then, Griebler, I'm going to take this +stuff to Bartholomew Berg and tell him the whole nasty business. +He'll see the humor of it. But I don't know whether he'll fire me, +or make me vice-president of the company. Now, if you want to come +over and talk to him, fair and square, why come." + +"Ten to one he fires you," remarked Griebler, as Jock reached the +door. + +"There's only one person I know who's game enough to take you up +on that. And it's going to take more nerve to face her at +six-thirty than it will to tackle a whole battalion of Bartholomew +Bergs at nine." + +"Well, I guess I can get in a three-hour sleep before--er--" + +"Before what?" said Jock McChesney from the door. + +Ben Griebler laughed a little shamefaced laugh. "Before I see you +at ten, sonny." + + + + +V + +THE SELF-STARTER + + +There is nothing in the sound of the shrill little bell to warn us +of the import of its message. More's the pity. It may be that bore +whose telephone conversation begins: "Well, what do you know +to-day?" It may be your lawyer to say you've inherited a million. +Hence the arrogance of the instrument. It knows its voice will +never wilfully go unanswered so long as the element of chance lies +concealed within it. + +Mrs. Emma McChesney heard the call of her telephone across the +hall. Seated in the office of her business partner, T.A. Buck, she +was fathoms deep in discussion of the T.A. Buck Featherloom +Petticoat Company's new spring line. The buzzer's insistent +voice brought her to her feet, even while she frowned at the +interruption. + +"That'll be Baumgartner 'phoning about those silk swatches. Back +in a minute," said Emma McChesney and hurried across the hall just +in time to break the second call. + +The perfunctory "Hello! Yes" was followed by a swift change of +countenance, a surprised little cry, then,--in quite another +tone--"Oh, it's you, Jock! I wasn't expecting ... No, not too +busy to talk to you, you young chump! Go on." A moment of silence, +while Mrs. McChesney's face smiled and glowed like a girl's as she +listened to the voice of her son. Then suddenly glow and smile +faded. She grew tense. Her head, that had been leaning so +carelessly on the hand that held the receiver, came up with a +jerk. "Jock McChesney!" she gasped, "you--why, you don't mean!--" + +Now, Emma McChesney was not a woman given to jerky conversations, +interspersed with exclamation points. Her poise and balance had +become a proverb in the business world. Yet her lips were +trembling now. Her eyes were very round and bright. Her face had +flushed, then grown white. Her voice shook a little. "Yes, of +course I am. Only, I'm so surprised. Yes, I'll be home early. +Five-thirty at the latest." + +She hung up the receiver with a little fumbling gesture. Her hand +dropped to her lap, then came up to her throat a moment, dropped +again. She sat staring straight ahead with eyes that saw one +thousand miles away. + +From his office across the hall T.A. Buck strolled in casually. + +"Did Baumgartner say he'd--?" He stopped as Mrs. McChesney looked +up at him. A quick step forward--"What's the matter, Emma?" + +"Jock--Jock--" + +"Jock! What's happened to the boy?" Then, as she still stared at +him, her face pitiful, his hand patted her shoulder. "Dear girl, +tell me." He bent over her, all solicitude. + +"Don't!" said Emma McChesney faintly, and shook off his hand. +"Your stenographer can see--What will the office think? Please--" + +"Oh, darn the stenographer! What's this bad news of Jock?" + +Emma McChesney sat up. She smiled a little nervously and passed +her handkerchief across her lips. "I didn't say it was bad, did I? +That is, not exactly bad, I suppose." + +T.A. Buck ran a frenzied hand over his head. "My dear child," +with careful politeness, "will you please try to be sane? I find +you sitting at your desk, staring into space, your face white as a +ghost's, your whole appearance that of a person who has received a +death-blow. And then you say, 'Not exactly bad'!" + +"It's this," explained Emma McChesney in a hollow tone: "The Berg, +Shriner Advertising Company has appointed Jock manager of their +new Western branch. They're opening offices in Chicago in March." +Her lower lip quivered. She caught it sharply between her teeth. + +For one surprised moment T.A. Buck stared in silence. Then a roar +broke from him. "Not exactly bad!" he boomed between laughs. "Not +exactly b--Not ex_act_ly, eh?" Then he was off again. + +Mrs. McChesney surveyed him in hurt and dignified silence. +Then--"Well, really, T.A., don't mind me. What you find so +exquisitely funny--" + +"That's the funniest part of it! That you, of all people, +shouldn't see the joke. Not exactly bad!" He wiped his eyes. "Why, +do you mean to tell me that because your young cub of a son, by a +heaven-sent stroke of good fortune, has landed a job that men +twice his age would give their eyeteeth to get, I find you sitting +at the telephone looking as if he had run off with Annie the cook, +or had had a leg cut off!" + +"I suppose it is funny. Only, the joke's on me. That's why I can't +see it. It means that I'm losing him." + +"That's the first selfish word I've ever heard you utter." + +"Oh, don't think I'm not happy at his success. Happy! Haven't I +hoped for it, and worked for it, and prayed for it! Haven't I +saved for it, and skimped for it! How do you think I could have +stood those years on the road if I hadn't kept up courage with the +thought that it was all for him? Don't I know how narrowly Jock +escaped being the wrong kind! I'm his mother, but I'm not quite +blind. I know he had the making of a first-class cad. I've seen +him start off in the wrong direction a hundred times." + +"If he has turned out a success, it's because you've steered him +right. I've watched you make him over. And now, when his big +chance has come, you--" + +"I don't expect you to understand," interrupted Emma McChesney a +little wearily. "I know it sounds crazy and unreasonable. There's +only one sort of human being who could understand what I mean. +That's a woman with a son." She laughed a little shamefacedly. +"I'm talking like the chorus of a minor-wail sob song, but it's +the truth." + +"If you feel like that, Emma, tell him to stay. The boy wouldn't +go if he thought it would make you unhappy." + +"Not go!" cried Emma McChesney sharply. "I'd like to see him dare +to refuse it!" + +"Well then, what in--" began Buck, bewildered. + +"Don't try to understand it, T.A. It's no use. Don't try to poke +your finger into the whirligig they call 'Woman's Sphere.' Its +mechanism is too complicated. It's the same quirk that makes women +pray for daughters and men for sons. It's the same kink that makes +women read the marriage and death notices first in a newspaper. +It's the same queer strain that causes a mother to lavish the most +love on the weakest, wilfullest child. Perhaps I wouldn't have +loved Jock so much if there hadn't been that streak of yellow in +him, and if I hadn't had to work so hard to dilute it until now +it's only a faint cream color. There ought to be a special prayer +for women who are bringing up their sons alone." + +Buck stirred a little uneasily. "I've never heard you talk like +this before." + +"You probably never will again." She swung round to her desk. + +T.A. Buck, strolling toward the door, still wore the puzzled look. + +"I don't know what makes you take this so seriously. Of course, +the boy will be a long way off. But then, you've been separated +from him before. What's the difference now?" + +"T.A.," said Emma McChesney solemnly, "Jock will be drawing a +man-size salary now. Something tells me I'll be a grandmother in +another two years. Girls aren't letting men like Jock run around +loose. He'll be gobbled up. Just you wait." + +"Oh, I don't know," drawled Buck mischievously. "You've just said +he's a headstrong young cub. He strikes me as the kind who'd +raise the dickens if his three-minute egg happened to be five +seconds overtime." + +Emma McChesney swung around in her chair. "Look here, T.A. As +business partners we've quarreled about everything from silk +samples to traveling men, and as friends we've wrangled on every +subject from weather to war. I've allowed you to criticise my soul +theories, and my new spring hat. But understand that I'm the only +living person who has the right to villify my son, Jock +McChesney." + +The telephone buzzed a punctuation to this period. + +"Baumgartner?" inquired Buck humbly. + +She listened a moment, then, over her shoulder, +"Baumgartner,"--grimly, her hand covering the mouthpiece--"and +if he thinks that he can work off a lot of last year's silk +swatches on--Hello! Yes, Mrs. McChesney talking. Look here, Mr. +Baumgartner--" + +And for the time being Emma McChesney, mother, was relegated to +the background, while Emma McChesney, secretary of the T.A. Buck +Featherloom Petticoat Company, held the stage. + +Having said that she would be home at five-thirty. Mrs. McChesney +was home at five-thirty, being that kind of a person. Jock came +in at six, breathless, bright-eyed, eager, and late, being that +kind of a person. + +He found his mother on the floor before the chiffonier in his +bedroom, surrounded by piles of pajamas, socks, shirts and +collars. + + [Illustration: "He found his mother on the floor ... surrounded + by piles of pajamas, socks, shirts and collars"] + +He swooped down upon her from the doorway. "What do you think of +your blue-eyed boy! Poor, eh?" + +Emma McChesney looked up absently. "Jock, these medium-weights of +yours didn't wear at all, and you paid five dollars for them." + +"Medium-weights! What in--" + +"You've enough silk socks to last you the rest of your natural +life. Handkerchiefs, too. But you'll need pajamas." + +Jock stooped, gathered up an armful of miscellaneous undergarments +and tossed them into an open drawer. Then he shut the drawer with +a bang, reached over, grasped his mother firmly under the arms and +brought her to her feet with a swing. + +"We will now consider the question of summer underwear ended. +Would it bore you too much to touch lightly on the subject of your +son's future?" + +Emma McChesney, tall, straight, handsome, looked up at her son, +taller, straighter, handsomer. Then she took him by the coat +lapels and hugged him. + +"You were so bursting with your own glory that I couldn't resist +teasing you. Besides, I had to do something to keep my mind +off--off--" + +"Why, Blonde dear, you're not--!" + +"No, I'm not," gulped Emma McChesney. "Don't flatter yourself, +young 'un. Tell me just how it happened. From the beginning." She +perched at the side of the bed. Jock, hands in pockets, hair a +little rumpled, paced excitedly up and down before her as he +talked. + +"There wasn't any beginning. That's the stunning part of it. I +just landed right into the middle of it with both feet. I knew +they had been planning to start a big Western branch. But we all +thought they'd pick some big man for it. There are plenty of +medium-class dubs to be had. The kind that answers the ad: +'Manager wanted, young man, preferably married, able to furnish +A-1 reference.' They're as thick as advertising men in Detroit on +Monday morning. But we knew that this Western branch was going to +be given an equal chance with the New York office. Those big +Western advertisers like to give their money to Western firms if +they can. So we figured that they'd pick a real top-notcher--even +Hopper, or Hupp, maybe--and start out with a bang. So when the Old +Man called me into his office this morning I was as unconscious as +a babe. Well, you know Berg. He's as unexpected as a summer shower +and twice as full of electricity. + +"'Morning, McChesney!' he said. 'That a New York necktie you're +wearing?' + +"'Strictly,' says I. + +"'Ever try any Chicago ties?' + +"'Not from choice. That time my suit case went astray--' + +"'M-m-m-m, yes.' He drummed his fingers on the table top a couple +of times. Then--McChesney, what have you learned about advertising +in the last two and a half years?' + +"I was wise enough as to Bartholomew Berg to know that he didn't +mean any cut-and-dried knowledge. He didn't mean rules of the +game. He meant tricks. + +"'Well,' I said, 'I've learned to watch a man's eyes when I'm +talking business to him. If the pupils of his eyes dilate he's +listening to you, and thinking about what you're saying. When they +contract it means that he's only faking interest, even though he's +looking straight at you and wearing a rapt expression. His +thoughts are miles away.' + +"'That so?' said Berg, and sort of grinned. 'What else?' + +"'I've learned that one negative argument is worth six positive +ones; that it never pays to knock your competitor; that it's wise +to fight shy of that joker known as "editorial cooeperation."' + +"'That so?' said Berg. 'Anything else?' + +"I made up my mind I could play the game as long as he could. + +"'I've learned not to lose my temper when I'm in the middle of a +white-hot, impassioned business appeal and the office boy bounces +in to say to the boss: "Mrs. Jones is waiting. She says you were +going to help her pick out wall paper this morning;" and Jones +says, "Tell her I'll be there in five minutes."' + +"'Sure you've learned that?' said Berg. + +"'Sure,' says I. 'And I've learned to let the other fellow think +your argument's his own. He likes it. I've learned that the +surest kind of copy is the slow, insidious kind, like the +Featherloom Petticoat Company's campaign. That was an ideal +campaign because it didn't urge and insist that the public buy +Featherlooms. It just eased the idea to them. It started by +sketching a history of the petticoat, beginning with Eve's fig +leaf and working up. Before they knew it they were interested.' + +"'That so? That campaign was your mother's idea, McChesney.' You +know, Mother, he thinks you're a wonder." + +"So I am," agreed Emma McChesney calmly. "Go on." + +"Well, I went on. I told him that I'd learned to stand so that the +light wouldn't shine in my client's eyes when I was talking to +him. I lost a big order once because the glare from the window +irritated the man I was talking to. I told Berg all the tricks I'd +learned, and some I hadn't thought of till that minute. Berg put +in a word now and then. I thought he was sort of guying me, as he +sometimes does--not unkindly, you know, but in that quiet way he +has. Finally I stopped for breath, or something, and he said: + +"'Now let me talk a minute, McChesney. Anybody can teach you the +essentials of the advertising business, if you've any advertising +instinct in you. But it's what you pick up on the side, by your +own efforts and out of your own experience, that lifts you out of +the scrub class. Now I don't think you're an ideal advertising man +by any means, McChesney. You're shy on training and experience, +and you've just begun to acquire that golden quality known as +balance. I could name a hundred men that are better all-around +advertising men than you will ever be. Those men have advertising +ability that glows steadily and evenly, like a well-banked fire. +But you've got the kind of ability that flares up, dies down, +flares up. But every flare is a real blaze that lights things red +while it lasts, and sends a new glow through the veins of +business. You've got personality, and youth, and enthusiasm, and a +precious spark of the real thing known as advertising genius. +There's no describing it. You know what I mean. Also, you +know enough about actual advertising not to run an ad for a +five-thousand-dollar motor car in the "Police Gazette." All of +which leads up to this question: How would you like to buy your +neckties in Chicago, McChesney?' + +"'Chicago!' I blurted. + +"'We've taken a suite of offices in the new Lakeview Building on +Michigan Avenue. Would you like your office done in mahogany or +oak?'" + +Jock came to a full stop before his mother. His cheeks were +scarlet. Hers were pale. He was breathing quickly. She was very +quiet. His eyes glowed. So did hers, but the glow was dimmed by a +mist. + +"Mahogany's richer, but make it oak, son. It doesn't show +finger-marks so." Then, quite suddenly, she stood up, shaking a +little, and buried her face in the boy's shoulder. + +"Why--why, Mother! Don't! Don't, Blonde. We'll see each other +every few weeks. I'll be coming to New York to see the sights, +like the rest of the rubes, and I suppose the noise and lights +will confuse me so that I'll be glad to get back to the sylvan +quiet of Chicago. And then you'll run out there, eh? We'll have +regular bats, Mrs. Mack. Dinner and the theater and supper! Yes?" + +"Yes," said Emma McChesney, in muffled tones that totally lacked +enthusiasm. + +"Chicago's really only a suburb of New York, anyway, these days, +and--" + +Emma McChesney's head came up sharply. "Look here, son. If you're +going to live in Chicago I advise you to cut that suburb talk, and +sort of forget New York. Chicago's quite a village, for an inland +settlement, even if it has only two or three million people, and a +lake as big as all outdoors. That kind of talk won't elect you to +the University Club, son." + +So they talked, all through supper and during the evening. Rather, +Jock talked and his mother listened, interrupting with only an +occasional remark when the bubble of the boy's elation seemed to +grow too great. + +Quite suddenly Jock was silent. After the almost incessant rush of +conversation quiet settled down strangely on the two seated there +in the living-room with its soft-shaded lamps. Jock picked up a +magazine, twirled its pages, put it down, strolled into his own +room, and back again. + +"Mother," he said suddenly, standing before her, "there was a +time when you were afraid I wasn't going to pan out, wasn't +there?" + +"Not exactly afraid, dear, just a little doubtful, perhaps." + +Jock smiled a tolerant, forgiving smile. "You see, Mother, you +didn't understand, that's all. A woman doesn't. I was all right. A +man would have realized that. I don't mean, dear, that you haven't +always been wonderful, because you have. But it takes a man to +understand a man. When you thought I was going bad on your hands I +was just developing, that's all. Remember that time in Chicago, +Mother?" + +"Yes," answered Emma McChesney, "I remember." + +"Now a man would have understood that that was only kid +foolishness. If a fellow's got the stuff in him it'll show up, +sooner or later. If I hadn't had it in me I wouldn't be going to +Chicago as manager of the Berg, Shriner Western office, would I?" + +"No, dear." + +Jock looked at her. In an instant he was all contrition and +tenderness. "You're tired. I've talked you to death, haven't I? +Lordy, it's midnight! And I want to get down early to-morrow. +Conference with Mr. Berg, and Hupp." He tried not to sound too +important. + +Emma McChesney took his head between her two hands and kissed him +once on the lips, then, standing a-tiptoe, kissed his eyelids with +infinite gentleness as you kiss a baby's eyes. Then she brought +his cheek up against hers. And so they stood for a moment, +silently. + +Ten minutes later there came the sound of blithe whistling from +Jock's room. Jock always whistled when he went to bed and when he +rose. Even these years of living in a New York apartment had +not broken him of the habit. It was a cheerful, disconnected +whistling, sometimes high and clear, sometimes under the breath, +sometimes interspersed with song, and sometimes ceasing altogether +at critical moments, say, during shaving, or while bringing the +four-in-hand up tight and snug under the collar. It was one of +those comfortable little noises that indicate a masculine +presence; one of those pleasant, reassuring, man-in-the-house +noises that every woman loves. + +Emma McChesney, putting herself to bed in her room across the +hall, found herself listening, brush poised, lips parted, as +though to the exquisite strains of celestial music. There came the +thump of a shoe on the floor. An interval of quiet. Then another +thump. Without having been conscious of it, Emma McChesney had +grown to love the noises that accompanied Jock's retiring and +rising. His dressing was always signalized by bangings and +thumpings. His splashings in the tub were tremendous. His morning +plunge could be heard all over the six-room apartment. Mrs. +McChesney used to call gayly through the door: + +"Mercy, Jock! You sound like a school of whales coming up for +air." + +"You'll think I'm a school of sharks when it comes to breakfast," +Jock would call back. "Tell Annie to make enough toast, Mum. She's +the tightest thing with the toast I ever did--" + +The rest would be lost in a final surging splash. + +The noises in the room across the hall had subsided now. She +listened more intently. No, a drawer banged. Another. Then: + +"Hasn't my gray suit come back from the tailor's?" + +"It was to be sponged, too, you know. He said he'd bring it +Wednesday. This is Tuesday." + +"Oh!" Another bang. Then: '"Night, Mother!" + +"Good night, dear." Creaking sounds, then a long, comfortable sigh +of complete relaxation. + +Emma McChesney went on with her brushing. She brushed her hair +with the usual number of swift even strokes, from the top of the +shining head to the waist. She braided her hair into two plaits, +Gretchen fashion. Millions of scanty-locked women would have given +all they possessed to look as Emma McChesney looked standing there +in kimono and gown. She nicked out the light. Then she, too, +relaxed upon her pillow with a little sigh. Quiet fell on the +little apartment. The street noises came up to her, now roaring, +now growing faint. Emma McChesney lay there sleepless. She lay +flat, hands clasped across her breast, her braids spread out on +the pillow. In the darkness of the room the years rolled before +her in panorama: her girlhood, her marriage, her unhappiness, +Jock, the divorce, the struggle for work, those ten years on the +road. Those ten years on the road! How she had hated them--and +loved them. The stuffy trains, the jarring sleepers, the bare +little hotel bedrooms, the bad food, the irregular hours, the +loneliness, the hard work, the disappointments, the temptations. +Yes but the fascination of it, the dear friends she had made, the +great human lesson of it all! And all for Jock. That Jock might +have good schools, good clothes, good books, good surroundings, +happy times. Why, Jock had been the reason for it all! She had +swallowed insult because of Jock. She had borne the drudgery +because of Jock. She had resisted temptation, smiled under +hardship, worked, fought, saved, succeeded, all because of Jock. +And now this pivot about which her whole life had revolved was to +be pulled up, wrenched away. + +Over Emma McChesney, lying there in the dark, there swept one of +those unreasoning night-fears. The fear of living. The fear of +life. A straining of the eyeballs in the dark. The pounding of +heart-beats. + +She sat up in bed. Her hands went to her face. Her cheeks were +burning and her eyes smarted. She felt that she must see Jock. At +once. Just to be near him. To touch him. To take him in her arms, +with his head in the hollow of her breast, as she used to when he +was a baby. Why, he had been a baby only yesterday. And now he was +a man. Big enough to stand alone, to live alone, to do without +her. + +Emma McChesney flung aside the covers and sprang out of bed. She +thrust her feet in slippers, groped for the kimono at the foot of +the bed and tiptoed to the door. She listened. No sound from the +other room. She stole across the hall, stopped, listened, gained +the door. It was open an inch or more. Just to be near him, to +know that he lay there, sleeping! She pushed the door very, very +gently. Then she stood in the doorway a moment, scarcely +breathing, her head thrust forward, her whole body tense with +listening. She could not hear him breathe! She caught her breath +again in that unreasoning fear and took a quick step forward. + +"Stop or I'll shoot!" said a voice. Simultaneously the light +flashed on. Emma McChesney found herself blinking at a determined +young man who was steadily pointing a short, chubby, businesslike +looking steel affair in her direction. Then the hand that held the +steel dropped. + +"What is this, anyway?" demanded Jock rather crossly. "A George +Cohan comedy?" + +Emma McChesney leaned against the foot of the bed rather weakly. + +"What did you think--" + +"What would you think if you heard some one come sneaking along +the hall, stopping, listening, sneaking to your door, and then +opening it, and listening again, and sneaking in? What would you +think it was? How did I know you were going around making social +calls at two o'clock in the morning!" + +Suddenly Emma McChesney began to laugh. She leaned over the +footboard and laughed hysterically, her head in her arms. Jock +stared a moment in offended disapproval. Then the humor of it +caught him, and he buried his head in his pillow to stifle +unseemly shrieks. His legs kicked spasmodically beneath the +bedclothes. + +As suddenly as she had begun to laugh Mrs. McChesney became very +sober. + +"Stop it, Jock! Tell me, why weren't you sleeping?" + +"I don't know," replied Jock, as suddenly solemn. "I--sort +of--began to think, and I couldn't sleep." + +"What were you thinking of?" + +Jock looked down at the bedclothes and traced a pattern with one +forefinger on the sheet. Then he looked up. + +"Thinking of you." + +"Oh!" said Emma McChesney, like a bashful schoolgirl. "Of--me!" + +Jock sat up very straight and clasped his hands about his knees. +"I got to thinking of what I had said about having made good all +alone. That's rot. It isn't so. I was striped with yellow like a +stick of lemon candy. If I've got this far, it's all because of +you. I've been thinking all along that I was the original electric +self-starter, when you've really had to get out and crank me every +few miles." + +Into Emma McChesney's face there came a wonderful look. It was the +sort of look with which a newly-made angel might receive her +crown and harp. It was the look with which a war-hero sees the +medal pinned on his breast. It was the look of one who has come +into her Reward. Therefore: + +"What nonsense!" said Emma McChesney. "If you hadn't had it in +you, it wouldn't have come out." + +"It wasn't in me, in the first place," contested Jock stubbornly. +"You planted it." + +From her stand at the foot of the bed she looked at him, her eyes +glowing brighter and brighter with that wonderful look. + +"Now see here,"--severely--"I want you to go to sleep. I don't +intend to stand here and dispute about your ethical innards at +this hour. I'm going to kiss you again." + +"Oh, well, if you must," grinned Jock resignedly, and folded her +in a bear-hug. + +To Emma McChesney it seemed that the next three weeks leaped by, +not by days, but in one great bound. And the day came when a +little, chattering, animated group clustered about the slim young +chap who was fumbling with his tickets, glancing at his watch, +signaling a porter for his bags, talking, laughing, trying to hide +the pangs of departure under a cloak of gayety and badinage that +deceived no one. Least of all did it deceive the two women who +stood there. The eyes of the older woman never left his face. The +eyes of the younger one seldom were raised to his, but she saw his +every expression. Once Emma McChesney's eyes shifted a little so +as to include both the girl and the boy in her gaze. Grace Galt in +her blue serge and smart blue hat was worth a separate glance. + +Sam Hupp was there, T.A. Buck, Hopper, who was to be with him in +Chicago for the first few weeks, three or four of the younger men +in the office, frankly envious and heartily congratulatory. + +They followed him to his train, all laughter and animation. + +"If this train doesn't go in two minutes," said Jock, "I'll get +scared and chuck the whole business. Funny, but I'm not so keen on +going as I was three weeks ago." + +His eyes rested on the girl in the blue serge and the smart hat. +Emma McChesney saw that. She saw that his eyes still rested there +as he stood on the observation platform when the train pulled out. +The sight did not pain her as she thought it would. There was +success in every line of him as he stood there, hat in hand. There +was assurance in every breath of him. His clothes, his skin, his +clear eyes, his slim body, all were as they should be. He had +made a place in the world. He was to be a builder of ideas. She +thought of him, and of the girl in blue serge, and of their +children-to-be. + +Her breast swelled exultingly. Her head came up. + +This was her handiwork. She looked at it, and found that it was +good. + +"Let's strike for the afternoon and call it a holiday," suggested +Buck. + +Emma McChesney turned. The train was gone. "T.A., you'll never +grow up." + +"Never want to. Come on, let's play hooky, Emma." + +"Can't. I've a dozen letters to get out, and Miss Loeb wants to +show me that new knicker-bocker design of hers." + +They drove back to the office almost in silence. Emma McChesney +made straight for her desk and began dictating letters with an +energy that bordered on fury. At five o'clock she was still +working. At five-thirty T.A. Buck came in to find her still +surrounded by papers, samples, models. + +"What is this?" he demanded wrathfully, "an all-night session?" + +Emma McChesney looked up from her desk. Her face was flushed, her +eyes bright, but there was about her an indefinable air of +weariness. + +"T.A., I'm afraid to go home. I'll rattle around in that empty +flat like a hickory nut in a barrel." + +"We'll have dinner down-town and go to the theater." + +"No use. I'll have to go home sometime." + +"Now, Emma," remonstrated Buck, "you'll soon get used to it. Think +of all the years you got along without him. You were happy, +weren't you?" + +"Happy because I had somebody to work for, somebody to plan for, +somebody to worry about. When I think of what that flat will be +without him--Why, just to wake up and know that you can say good +morning to some one who cares! That's worth living for, isn't it?" + +"Emma," said T.A. evenly, "do you realize that you are virtually +hounding me into asking you to marry me?" + +"T.A.!" gasped Emma McChesney. + +"Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?" + + [Illustration: "'Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry + about, didn't you?'"] + +A little whimsical smile lay lightly on his lips. + +"Timothy Buck, I'm over forty years old." + +"Emma, in another minute I'm going to grow sentimental, and +nothing can stop me." + +She looked down at her hands. There fell a little silence. Buck +stirred, leaned forward. She looked up from the little watch that +ticked away at her wrist. + +"The minute's up, T.A.," said Emma McChesney. + + +THE END + + + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Personality Plus, by Edna Ferber + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PERSONALITY PLUS *** + +***** This file should be named 12677.txt or 12677.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/6/7/12677/ + +Produced by Janet Kegg and the Project Gutenberg Distributed +Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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