II
PERSONALITY PLUS
There are seven stages in the evolution of that individual whoseappearance is the signal for a listless "Who-do-you-want-to-see?"from the white-bloused, drab-haired, anaemic little girl who sitsin the outer office forever reading last month's magazines. Thebadge 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 silentand paradoxical "Thank heaven!" at the office girl's languid "Notin," and dives into the friendly shelter of the next elevatorgoing down. When, at that same message, he can smile, as with acertain grim agreeableness he says, "I'll wait," then has hereached the seventh stage, and taken the orders of the regularlyordained.
Jock McChesney had learned to judge an unknown prospective byglancing at his hall rug and stenographer, which marks the fifthstage. He had learned to regard office boys with something lessthan white-hot hate. He had learned to let the other fellow do thetalking. He had learned to condense a written report intotwenty-five words. And he had learned that there was as muchdifference between the profession of advertising as he had thoughtof it and advertising as it really was, as there is between asteam calliope and a cathedral pipe organ.
In the big office of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company theyhad begun to chuckle a bit over the McChesney solicitor's reports.Those same reports indicated that young McChesney was beginning tofind the key to that maddening jumble of complexities known ashuman nature. Big Sam Hupp, who was the pet caged copy-writinggenius of the place, used even to bring an occasional example ofJock's business badinage into the Old Man's office, and the twowould 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 Kreisshimself--baggy-eyed, cultivated English accent, interested inpolo, 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 noveltyof paying for his own clothes, and had begun to talk business in aslightly patronizing way to his clever and secretly amused mother,Mrs. Emma McChesney, secretary of the T.A. Buck FeatherloomPetticoat Company, that Sam Hupp noticed a rather cockyover-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 toilettetable of a musical comedy star's dressing-room. There wererose-tinted salves in white bottles. There were white creams inrose-tinted jars. There were tins of ointment and boxes offragrant soap.
Jock McChesney, entering briskly, eyed the array in some surprise.Then he grinned, and glanced wickedly at Sam Hupp's prematurelybald head.
"No use, Mr. Hupp. They say if it's once gone it's gone. Get atoupee."
"Shut up!" growled Sam Hupp, good-humoredly. "Stay in this gamelong enough and you'll be a hairless wonder yourself. Ten yearsago the girls used to have to tie their hands or wear mittens tokeep from running their white fingers through my waving silkenlocks. Sit down a minute."
Jock reached forward and took up a jar of cream. He frowned inthought. 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, millionsof other women will be using it in the next few years. Thiswoman," he pointed to the name on the label, "has hit upon thereal thing in toilette flub-dub. She's made a little fortunealready, and if she don't look out she'll be rich. They've gotquite a plant. When she started she used to put the stuff togetherherself over the kitchen stove. They say it's made of cottagecheese, stirred smooth and tinted pink. Well, anyway they'renationally known now--or will be when they start to advertiseright."
"I've seen some of their stuff advertised--somewhere," interruptedJock, "but I don't remember--"
"There you are. You see the head of this concern is a little bitfrightened at the way she seems slated to become a lady cold creammagnate. They say she's scared pink for fear somebody will stealher recipes. She has a kid nephew who acts as general manager, andthey're both on the job all the time. They say the lady herselflooks like the spinster in a b'gosh drama. You can get a boy tolook up your train schedule."
Train! Schedule! Across Jock McChesney's mind there flashed avision of himself, alert, confident, brisk, taking the luxuriousnine o'clock for Philadelphia. Or, maybe, the Limited to Chicago.Dashing down to the station in a taxi, of course. Strolling downthe car aisle to take his place among those other thoroughbreds ofcommerce--men whose chamois gloves and walking sticks, and talk ofgolf and baseball and motoring spelled elegant leisure, even astheir keen eyes and shrewd faces and low-voiced exchange of suchterms as "stocks," and "sales" and "propositions" proclaimed themintent on bagging the day's business. Sam Hupp's next wordsbrought him back to reality with a jerk.
"I think you have to change at Buffalo. It gets you to Tonawandain the morning. Rotten train."
"Tonawanda!" repeated Jock.
"Now listen, kid." Sam Hupp leaned forward, and his eyes behindtheir great round black-rimmed glasses were intent on Jock. "I'mnot going to try to steer you. You think that advertising is agame. It isn't. There are those who think it's a science. But itisn't that either. It's white magic, that's what it is. And youcan't learn it from books, any more than you can master troutfishing from reading 'The Complete Angler.'" He swung about andswept the beauty lotions before him in a little heap at the end ofhis 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 puta detaining hand on Jock McChesney's arm. "Look here. You think Iknow a little something about advertising, don't you?"
"You!" laughed Jock. "You're the guy who put the whitening in theGreat White Way. Everybody knows you were the--"
"M-m-m, thanks," interrupted Sam Hupp, a little dryly. "Let metell you something, young 'un. I've got what you might call athirty-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, nodripping, and you can't even hear the engine purr. But when hethrows her open! Well, he can pass everything on the road. Don'tforget that." He turned to his desk again and reached for a stackof papers and cuts. "Good luck to you. If you want any furtherdetails you can get 'em from Hayes." He plunged into his work.
There arose in Jock McChesney's mind that instinct of the man inhis hour of triumph--the desire to tell a woman of his greatness.He paused a second outside Sam Hupp's office, turned, and walkedquickly down the length of the great central room. He stoppedbefore a little glass door at the end, tapped lightly, andentered.
Grace Galt, copy-writer, looked up, frowning a little. Then shesmiled. Miss Galt had a complete layout on the desk beforeher--scrap books, cuts, copy, magazines. There was a little smudgeon the end of her nose. Grace Galt was writing about magnetos.She was writing about magnetos in a way to make you want t
o dropyour customer, or your ironing, or your game, and go downtown andbuy that particular kind of magneto at once. Which is thesecretest part of the wizardry of advertising copy. To look atGrace Galt you would have thought that she should have beenwriting about the rose-tinted jars in Jock McChesney's handsinstead of about such things as ignition, and insulation, and ballbearings, and induction windings. But it was Grace Galt's giftthat she could take just such hard, dry, technical facts and weavethem into a story that you followed to the end. She could make yousee the romance in condensers and transformers. She had the powerthat caused the reader to lose himself in the charm of magneticpoles, and ball bearings, and high-tension sparks.
"Just dropped in to say good-by," said Jock, very casually. "Goingto 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 herwork. Then her eyes cleared. "You mean at Tonawanda? And they'resending you! Well!" She put out a congratulatory hand. Jockgripped it gratefully.
"Not so bad, eh?" he boasted.
"Bad!" echoed Grace Galt. Her face became serious. "Do you realizethat there are men in this office who have been here for fiveyears, six years, or even more, and who have never been given achance to do anything but stenography, or perhaps some privatesecretarying?"
"I know it," agreed Jock. But there was no humbleness in his tone.He radiated self-satisfaction. He seemed to grow and expand beforeher eyes. A little shadow of doubt crept across Grace Galt'sexpression of friendly interest.
"Are you scared," she asked; "just the least bit?"
Jock flushed a little. "Well," he confessed ruefully, "I don'tmind telling you I am--a little."
"Good!"
"Good?"
"Yes. The head of that concern is a woman. That's one reason whythey didn't send me, I suppose. I--I'd like to say something, ifyou don't mind."
"Anything you like," said Jock graciously.
"Well, then, don't be afraid of being embarrassed and fussed. Ifyou blush and stammer a little, she'll like it. Play up the coystuff."
"The coy stuff!" echoed Jock. "I hadn't thought much about myattitude toward the--er--the lady,"--a little stiffly.
"Well, you'd better," answered Miss Galt crisply. She put out herhand in much the same manner as Sam Hupp had used. "Good luck toyou. I'll have to ask you to go now. I'm trying to make thismagneto sound like something without which no home is complete,and to make people see that there's as much difference between itand every other magneto as there is between the steam shovels thatdug out the Panama Canal and the junk that the French leftthere--" She stopped. Her eyes took on a far-away look. Her lipswere parted slightly. "Why, that's not a bad idea--that last. I'lluse that. I'll--"
"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 allabout him. He walked quietly to the door, opened it, shut it veryquietly, then made for the nearest telephone. He knew one woman hecould count on to be proud of him. He gave his number, waited alittle 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'vegot to take a little jump out of town. On business. Oh, a day orso. Rather important though. I'll have time to run up to the flatand throw a few things into a bag. I'll tell you, I really oughtto keep a bag packed down here. In case of emergency, you know.What? It's the Athena Toilette Preparations Company. Well, Ishould 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, hishopes, his dread, and his smart walrus bag aboard a train thathalted and snuffed and backed, and bumped and halted withmaddening frequency. But it landed him at last in a little townbearing the characteristics of all American little towns. It wassurprisingly full of six-cylinder cars, and five and ten-centstores, and banks with Doric columns, and paved streets.
After he had registered at the hotel, and as he was cleaning up abit, he passed an amused eye over the bare, ugly, fusty littlehotel bedroom. But somehow, as he stood in the middle of the room,a graceful, pleasing figure of youth and confidence, the smilefaded. Towel in hand he surveyed the barrenness of it. He staredat the impossible wall paper, at the battered furniture, the worncarpet. He sniffed the stuffy smell of--what was that smell,anyhow?--straw, and matting, and dust, and the ghost-odor ofhundreds who had occupied the room before him. It came over himwith something of a shock that this same sort of room had been hismother's only home in the ten years she had spent on the road as atraveling saleswoman for the T.A. Buck Featherloom PetticoatCompany. This was what she had left in the morning. To this shehad come back at night. As he stared ahead of him there rosebefore him a mental picture of her--the brightness of her, thesunniness, the indomitable energy, and pluck, and courage. With asudden burst of new determination he wadded the towel into a moistball, flung it at the washstand, seized hat, coat, and gloves, andwas off down the hall. So it was with something of his mother'ssplendid courage in his heart, but with nothing of her cannyknowledge in his head, Jock McChesney fared forth to do battlewith the merciless god Business.
It was ten-thirty of a brilliant morning just two days later thata buoyant young figure swung into an elevator in the great officebuilding that housed the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Justone more grain of buoyant swing and the young man's walk mighthave been termed a swagger. As it was, his walrus bag just savedhim.
Stepping out of the lift he walked, as from habit, to the littleunlettered door which admitted employes to the big, bright, inneroffice. But he did not use it. Instead he turned suddenly andwalked down the hall to the double door which led into thereception room. He threw out his legs stiffly and came down ratherflat-footed, the way George Cohan does when he's pleased withhimself 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. Macknever forgot himself. His keen eye saw the little halo ofself-satisfaction that hovered above Jock McChesney's head. "Asuccessful trip, I see."
Jock McChesney laughed a little, pleased, conscious laugh. "Well,raw-thah!" he drawled, and opened the door leading into the mainoffice. He had been loath to lose one crumb of the savor of it.
"'Well, raw-thah!' he drawled"]
Still smiling, he walked to his own desk, with a nod here andthere, dropped his bag, took off coat and hat, selected acigarette, tapped it smartly, lighted it, and was off down the bigroom to the little cubby-hole at the other end. But Sam Hupp'splump, keen, good-humored face did not greet him as he entered.The little room was deserted. Frowning, Jock sank into the emptydesk chair. He cradled his head in his hands, tilted the chair,pursed his mouth over the slender white cylinder and squinted hiseyes up toward the lazy blue spirals of smoke--the very pictureof content and satisfaction.
Hupp was in attending some conference in the Old Man's office, ofcourse. He wished they'd hurry. The business of the week was beingboiled-down there. Those conferences were great cauldrons intowhich the day's business, or the week's, was dumped, to be boiled,simmered, stirred, skimmed, cooled. Jock had never been privilegedto attend one of these meetings. Perhaps by this time next week hemight have a spoon in the stirring too--
There came the murmur of voices as a door was opened. The voicescame 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 hadomitted the prefix. "You just bet I'm back."
There flash
ed across Sam Hupp's face a curious little look. Thenext 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 theytreated a fellow who had turned his first real trick, why, verywell. He flung out of the little room and made straight for theOld Man's office.
Seated at his great flat table desk, Bartholomew Berg did not lookup as Jock entered. This was characteristic of the Old Man.Everything about the chief was deliberate, sure, unhurried. Hefinished the work in hand as though no other person stood therewaiting his pleasure. When at last he raised his massive head heturned his penetrating pale blue eyes full on Jock. Jock wasconscious of a little tremor running through him. People were aptto experience that feeling when that steady, unblinking gaze wasturned upon them. And yet it was just the clear, unwavering lookwith which Bartholomew Berg, farmer boy, had been wont to gaze outacross the fresh-plowed fields to the horizon beyond which lay thecity 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 OldMan's desk, his legs wide apart, his face aglow, his hands on hiships, he plunged into his tale.
"It started off with a bang from the minute I walked into theoffice of the plant and met Snyder, the advertising manager. Weshook hands and sparked--just like that." He snapped thumb andfinger. "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. Heintroduced me to his aunt. I told her who I was, and all that. ButI didn't start off by talking business. We got along from thejump. They both insisted on showing me through the place.I--well,"--he laughed a little ruefully,--"there's somethingabout being shown through a factory that sort of paralyzes mybrain. I always feel that I ought to be asking keen, alert,intelligent questions like the ones Kipling always asks, or theJaps when they're taken through the Stock Yards. But I never canthink of any. Well, we didn't talk business much. But I could seethat they were interested. They seemed to,"--he faltered andblushed a little,--"to like me, you know. I played golf withSnyder that afternoon and he beat me. Won two balls. The nextmorning I found there's been a couple of other advertising menthere. And while I was talking to Snyder--he was telling me aboutthe time he climbed up and muffled the chapel bell--that fellowFlynn, of the Dowd Agency, came in. Snyder excused himself, andtalked to him for--oh, half an hour, perhaps. But that was all. Hewas back again in no time. After that it looked like plainsailing. We got along wonderfully. When I left I said, 'I expectto know you both better--'"
"I guess," interrupted the Old Man slowly, "that you'll know thembetter all right." He reached out with one broad freckled handand turned back the page of a desk memorandum. "The Athena accountwas given to the Dowd Advertising Agency yesterday."
It took Jock McChesney one minute--one long, sickening minute--tograsp the full meaning of it all. He stared at the massive figurebefore him, his mouth ludicrously open, his eyes round, his breathfor 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 thedramatic critics call a personal hit; but that doesn't get the boxoffice anything."
"But, Mr. Berg, they said--"
"Sit down a minute, boy." He waved one great heavy hand toward anear-by chair. His eyes were not fixed on Jock. They gazed out ofthe window toward the great white tower toward which hundreds ofthousands of eyes were turned daily--the tower, four-faced butfaithful.
"McChesney, do you know why you fell down on that Athena account?"
"Because I'm an idiot," blurted Jock. "Because I'm adouble-barreled, corn-fed, hand-picked chump and--"
"That's one reason," drawled the Old Man grimly. "But it's not thechief one. The real reason why you didn't land that account wasbecause you're too darned charming."
"Charming!" Jock stared.
"Just that. Personality's one of the biggest factors in businessto-day. But there are some men who are so likable that it actuallycounts against them. The client he's trying to convince is sotaken with him that he actually forgets the business herepresents. We say of a man like that that he is personality plus.Personality is like electricity, McChesney. It's got to be tamedto be useful."
"But I thought," said Jock, miserably, "that the idea was not totalk 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 yourhead. You know it isn't always the biggest noise that gets thebiggest result. The great American hen yields a bigger income thanthe Steel Trust. Look at Miss Galt. When we have a job that needsa woman's eye do we send her? No. Why? Because she's too blamecharming. Too much personality. A man just naturally refuses totalk 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 amillion. Don't ever forget that. They don't turn out models likeEmma McChesney more than once every blue moon."
Jock got to his feet slowly. He felt heavy, old. "I suppose," hebegan, "that this ends my--my advertising career."
"Ends it!" The Old Man stood up and put a heavy hand on the boy'sshoulder. "It only begins it. Unless you want to lie down andquit. Do you?"
"Quit!" cried Jock McChesney. "Quit! Not on your white space!"
"Good!" said Bartholomew Berg, and took Jock McChesney's hand inhis own great friendly grasp.
An instinct as strong as that which had made him blatant in hishour of triumph now caused him to avoid, in his hour of defeat,the women-folk before whom he would fain be a hero. He avoidedGrace Galt all that long, dreary afternoon. He thought wildly ofstaying down-town for the evening, of putting off the meeting withhis mother, of avoiding the dreaded explanations, excuses,confessions.
But when he let himself into the flat at five-thirty the place wasvery quiet, except for Annie, humming in a sort of nasal singsongof content in the kitchen.
He flicked on the light in the living-room. A new magazine hadcome. It lay on the table, its bright cover staring up invitingly.He ran through its pages. By force of habit he turned to the backpages. Ads started back at him--clothing ads, paint ads, motorads, ads of portable houses, and vacuum cleaners--and toilettepreparations. He shut the magazine with a vicious slap.
He flicked off the light again, for no reason except that heseemed 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 downat the edge of his bed. How was it in the stories? Oh, yes! Thecub always started out on an impossibly difficult business stuntand 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. Thenan impudent square of yellow from a light turned on in theapartment next door flung itself on the bedroom floor. Jock staredat 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 issuedfrom his throat a strange and absurd little croak.
"Jock! Home?"
"Yes," answered Jock, and straightened up. But before he couldflick on his own light his mother stood in the doorway, a tall,straight, buoyant fi
gure.
"I got your wire and--Why, dear! In the dark! What--"
"Must have fallen asleep, I guess," muttered Jock. Somehow hedreaded 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 acave. She sat down beside him at the edge of the bed and put herhand on his shoulder, and brought his head down gently to herbreast. And at that the room, which had been a man's room with itspipe, its tobacco jar, its tie rack filled with cravats offascinating shapes and hues, became all at once a boy's roomagain, and the man sitting there with straight, strong shouldersand his little air of worldliness became in some miraculous way alittle boy again.
"... became in some miraculous way a little boy again"]