IV
THE MAN WITHIN HIM
They used to do it much more picturesquely. They rode in coats ofscarlet, in the crisp, clear morning, to the winding of horns andthe baying of hounds, to the thud-thud of hoofs, and the crackleof underbrush. Across fresh-plowed fields they went, crashingthrough forest paths, leaping ditches, taking fences, scramblingup the inclines, pelting down the hillside, helter-skelter, until,panting, wide-eyed, eager, blood-hungry, the hunt closed in at thedeath.
The scarlet coat has sobered down to the somber gray and thesnuffy brown of that unromantic garment known as the businesssuit. The winding horn is become a goblet, and its notes are thetinkle of ice against glass. The baying of hounds has harshened tothe squawk of the motor siren. The fresh-plowed field is a blueprint, the forest maze a roll of plans and specifications. Eachfence is a business barrier. Every ditch is of a competitor'smaking, 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 twothings remain the same: The look in the face of the hunter as heclosed in on the fox is the look in the face of him who sees thecoveted contract lying ready for the finishing stroke of his pen.And his words are those of the hunter of long ago as, eyesa-gleam, teeth bared, muscles still taut with the tenseness of thechase, he waves the paper high in air and cries, "I've made akilling!"
For two years Jock McChesney had watched the field as it swept byin its patient, devious, cruel game of Hunt the Contract. But hehad never been in at the death. Those two years had taught him howto ride; to take a fence; to leap a ditch. He had had his awkwardbumps, and his clumsy falls. He had lost his way more than once.But he had always groped his way back again, stumblingly, throughthe dusk. Jock McChesney was the youngest man on the Berg, ShrinerAdvertising Company's big staff of surprisingly young men. Soyoung that the casual glance did not reveal to you the marks thatthe strain of those two years had left on his boyish face. But themarks were there.
Nature etches with the most delicate of points. She knows thecunning secret of light and shadow. You scarcely realize that shehas been at work. A faint line about the mouth, a fairy tracing atthe corners of the eyes, a mere vague touch just at thenostrils--and the thing is done.
Even Emma McChesney's eyes--those mother-eyes which make the lynxseem 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 librarytable in the living-room of the cheerful up-town apartment whichwas the realization of the nightly dream which Mrs. Emma McChesneyhad had in her ten years on the road for the T.A. Buck FeatherloomPetticoat Company. Jock McChesney's side of the big table wascompletely covered with the mass of copy-paper, rough sketches,photographs and drawings which make up an advertising lay-out. Hewas bent over the work, absorbed, intent, his forearms resting onthe table. Emma McChesney glanced up from her magazine just asJock bent forward to reach a scrap of paper that had flutteredaway. The lamplight fell full on his face. And Emma McChesney saw.The hand that held the magazine fell to her lap. Her lips wereparted slightly. She sat very quietly, her eyes never leaving theface that frowned so intently over the littered table. The roomhad been very quiet before--Jock busy with his work, his motherinterested in her magazine. But this silence was different. Therewas something electric in it. It was a silence that beats on thebrain like a noise. Jock McChesney, bent over his work, heard it,felt it, and, oppressed by it, looked up suddenly. He met thosetwo eyes opposite.
"Spooks? Or is it my godlike beauty which holds you thus? Or is myface dirty?"
Emma McChesney did not smile. She laid her magazine on the table,face down, and leaned forward, her staring eyes still fixed on herson'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, solittle 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 thatthere are men who have been in the office three times as long asyou have, who never have had the opportunities that they've givenyou."
It was as though she had touched a current that thrilled him toaction. He pushed back his chair and stood up, one hand thrustinto his pocket, the other passing quickly over his head from browto nape with a quick, nervous gesture that was new to him.
"And why!" he flung out. "Why! Not because they like the way Ipart my hair. They don't do business that way up there. It'sbecause 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 anytricks. I've been an apprentice hand for two years now. I'm tiredof it. I want to be in on a killing. I want to taste blood. I wanta chance at some of the money--real money."
Emma McChesney sat back in her chair and surveyed the angry figurebefore her with quiet, steady eyes.
"I might have known that only one thing could bring those linesinto your face, son." She paused a moment. "So you want money asbadly 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 thinkthat--?"
"When a youngster like you, whose greatest worry has been whetherHarvard'll hold 'em again this year, with Baxter out, begins tohowl about not being appreciated in business, and to wear a latefall line of wrinkles where he has been smooth before, I feeljustified in saying, 'Do I know her?'"
"Well, it isn't any one--at least, it isn't what you mean youthink it is when you say you--"
"Careful there! You'll trip. Never you mind what I mean I think itis when I say. Count ten, and then just tell me what you think youmean."
Jock passed his hand over his head again with that nervous littlegesture. Then he sat down, a little wearily. He stared moodilydown at the pile of papers before him: His mother faced himquietly across the table.
"Grace Galt's getting twice as much as I am," Jock broke out, withsavage suddenness. "The first year I didn't mind. A fellow getsaccustomed, these days, to see women breaking into all theprofessions and getting away with men-size salaries. But her paycheck doubles mine--more than doubles it."
"It's been my experience," observed Emma McChesney, "that when afirm condescends to pay a woman twice as much as a man, that meansshe's worth six times as much."
A painful red crept into Jock's face. "Maybe. Two years ago thatwould have sounded reasonable to me. Two years ago, when I walkeddown Broadway at night, a fifty-foot electric sign at Forty-secondwas just an electric sign to me. Just part of the town'sdecoration like the chorus girls, and the midnight theater crowds.Now--well, now every blink of every red and yellow globe iscrammed full of meaning. I know the power that advertising has;how it influences our manners, and our morals, and our minds, andour health. It regulates the food we eat, and the clothes we wear,and the books we read, and the entertainment we seek. It'scolossal, that's what it is! It's--"
"Keep on like that for another two years, sonny, and no businessbanquet will be complete without you. The next thing you knowyou'll be addressing the Y.M.C.A. advertising classes on The YoungMan in Business."
Jock laughed a rueful little laugh. "I didn't mean to makea speech. I was just trying to say that I've served myapprenticeship. It hurts a fellow's pride. You can't hold yourhead up before a girl when you know her salary's twice yours, andyou know that she knows it. Why look at Mrs. Hoffman, who's withthe Dowd Agency. Of course she's a wonder, even if her face doeslook like the fifty-eighth variety. She can write copy that liftsa campaign right out of the humdrum class, and makes it luminous.Her husband works in a bank somewhere. H
e earns about as much asMrs. Hoffman pays the least of her department subordinates. Andhe's so subdued that he side-steps when he walks, and they callhim 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 scribbledsheets 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 armholesof 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, andget to the action."
Jock McChesney brought the tipped chair down on all-fours with athud, and stood up. The grin was gone. He was as serious as he hadbeen in the midst of his tirade of five minutes before.
"All right. Here it is. And don't blame me if it sounds like cheapmelodrama. This stuff," and he waved a hand toward the paper-ladentable, "is an advertising campaign plan for the Griebler GumCompany, of St. Louis. Oh, don't look impressed. The office hasn'thanded 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 workeditself out, almost--the way a really scorching idea does,sometimes. This Griebler has been advertising for years. Youknow the Griebler gum. But it hasn't been the right sort ofadvertising. Old Griebler, the original gum man, had fogy notionsabout advertising, and as long as he lived they had to keep itdown. He died a few months ago--you must have read of it. Left aregular mint. Ben Griebler, the oldest son, started right in toclean out the cobwebs. Of course the advertising end of it hascome in for its share of the soap and water. He wants to make aclean sweep of it. Every advertising firm in the country has beenangling for the contract. It's going to be a real one. Two-thirdsof the crowd have submitted plans. And that's just where my kickcomes in. The Berg, Shriner Company makes it a rule never tosubmit 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 inthis."
"Right here!" replied Jock, and he slapped his pocket, "and here,"he pointed to his head. "Two spots so vital that they make oldAchilles's heel seem armor-plated. Ben Griebler is one of theshow-me kind. He wants value received for money expended, andwhile everybody knows that he has a loving eye on the Berg,Shriner crowd, he won't sign a thing until he knows what he'sgetting. A firm's record, standing, staff, equipment, mean nothingto him."
"But, Jock, I still don't see--"
Jock gathered up a sheaf of loose papers and brandished them inthe air. "This is where I come in. I've got a plan here that willfetch this Griebler person. Oh, I'm not dreaming. I outlined itfor Sam Hupp, and he was crazy about it. Sam Hupp had some sort ofplan outlined himself. But he said this made his sound as dry ascigars in Denver. And you know yourself that Sam Hupp's copy is sobrilliant that he could sell brewery advertising to a temperancemagazine."
Emma McChesney stood up. She looked a little impatient, and atrifle puzzled. "But why all this talk! I don't get you. Take yourplan to Mr. Berg. If it's what you think it is he'll see itquicker than any other human being, and he'll probably fall onyour neck and invest you in royal robes and give you a mahoganydesk all your own."
"Oh, what's the good!" retorted Jock disgustedly. "This Grieblerhas an appointment at the office to-morrow. He'll be closeted withthe Old Man. They'll call in Hupp. But never a plan will theyreveal. It's against their code of ethics. Ethics! I'm sick of theword. I suppose you'd say I'm lucky to be associated with a firmlike that, and I suppose I am. But I wish in the name of all thegods of Business that they weren't so bloomin' conservative.Ethics! They're all balled up in 'em, like Henry James in hisstyle."
Emma McChesney came over from her side of the table and stood veryclose to her son. She laid one hand very lightly on his arm andlooked up into the sullen, angry young face.
"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, andbigger men, wearing that same look, and for the same reason. Everyambitious man or woman in business wears it at one time oranother. Sooner or later, Jock, you'll have your chance at themoney end of this game. If you don't care about the thing you callethics, it'll be sooner. If you do care, it will be later. Itrests with you, but it's bound to come, because you've got thestuff in you."
"Maybe," replied Jock the cynical. But his face lost some of itssullenness as he looked down at that earnest, vivid countenanceup-turned to his. "Maybe. It sounds all right, Mother--in thestory books. But I'm not quite solid on it. These days it isn'tso much what you've got in you that counts as what you can bringout. I know the young man's slogan used to be 'Work and Wait,' orsomething pretty like that. But these days they've boiled it downto one word--'Produce'!"
"The marvel of it is that there aren't more of 'em," observed EmmaMcChesney sadly.
"More what?"
"More lines. Here,"--she touched his forehead,--"and here,"--shetouched his eyes.
"Lines!" Jock swung to face a mirror. "Good! I'm so infernallyyoung-looking that no one takes me seriously. It's darned hardtrying to convince people you're a captain of finance when youlook like an errand boy."
From the center of the room Mrs. McChesney watched the boy as hesurveyed himself in the glass. And as she gazed there came afrightened look into her eyes. It was gone in a minute, and in itsplace came a curious little gleam, half amused, half pugnacious.
"Jock McChesney, if I thought that you meant half of what you'vesaid 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 muchto you about your father. But I think you know that he was what hewas to the day of his death. You were just about eight when I madeup my mind that life with him was impossible. I said then--and youwere all I had, son--that I'd rather see you dead than to have youturn out to be a son of your father. Don't make me remember thatwish, Jock."
Two quick steps and his arms were about her. His face was allcontrition. "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 motherhasn't been sitting home embroidering lunchcloths these lastfifteen years." She lifted her head from the boy's shoulder. "Andnow, son, considering me, not as your doting mother, but in mybusiness capacity as secretary of the T.A. Buck FeatherloomPetticoat Company, suppose you reveal to me the inner workings ofthis plan of yours. I'd like to know if you really are theadvertising wizard that you think you are."
So it was that long after Annie's dinner dishes had ceased toclatter in the kitchen; long after she had put her head in at thedoor to ask, "Aigs 'r cakes for breakfast?" long after those twobusy brains should have rested in sleep, the two sat at eitherside of the light-flooded table, the face of one glowing as hetalked, the face of the other sparkling as she listened. And atmidnight:
"Why, you infant wonder!" exclaimed Emma McChesney.
At nine o'clock next morning when Jock McChesney entered theoffices of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company he carried aflat, compact bundle of papers under his arm encased in protectingcovers of pasteboard, and further secured by bands of elastic.This he carried to his desk, deposited in a drawer, and locked thedrawer.
By eleven o'clock the things which he had predicted the nightbefore had come to pass. A plump little man, with a fussy mannerand Western clothes had been ushered into Bartholomew Berg'sprivate office. Instinct told him that this was Griebler. Jockleft his desk and strolled up to
get the switchboard operator'sconfirmation of his guess. Half an hour later Sam Hupp hustled byand disappeared into the Old Man's sanctum.
Jock fingered the upper left-hand drawer of his desk. Themaddening blankness of that closed door! If only he could findsome excuse for walking into that room--any old excuse, no matterhow wild!--just to get a chance at it--
His telephone rang. He picked up the receiver, his eye on theclosed door, his thoughts inside that room.
"Mr. Berg wants to see you right away," came the voice of theswitchboard operator.
Something seemed to give way inside--something in the region ofhis brain--no, his heart--no, his lungs--
"Well, can you beat that!" said Jock McChesney aloud, in a kind oftrance of joy. "Can--you--beat--that!"
Then he buttoned the lower button of his coat, shrugged hisshoulders with an extra wriggle at the collar (the modern hero'smethod of girding up his loins), and walked calmly intoBartholomew Berg's very private office.
In the second that elapsed between the opening and the closing ofthe door Jock's glance swept the three men--Bartholomew Berg,quiet, inscrutable, seated at his great table-desk; Griebler, lostin the depths of a great leather chair, smoking fussily andtwitching with a hundred little restless, irritating gestures; SamHupp, 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 greatpleasure."
"Hm!" growled Ben Griebler, "I didn't know they picked 'em soyoung."
His voice was a piping falsetto that somehow seemed to match hisrestless little eyes.
Jock thrust his hands hurriedly into his pockets. He felt his facegetting scarlet.
"They're--ah--using 'em young this year," said Bartholomew Berg.His voice sounded bigger, and smoother, and pleasanter than everin 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 nineteenminutes, and every other one's a good one, and every nineteenthor 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 wearen't so long on inspiration. We're just working men, and we wearworking clothes--"
"Oh, now," protested Berg, his eyes twinkling, "McChesney'snecktie and socks and handkerchief may form one lovely, blissfulcolor scheme, but that doesn't signify that his advertisingschemes 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--" heturned quickly upon Berg--"if that isn't against your crazyprinciples, too?"
"Why, not at all," Bartholomew Berg assured him. "Not at all. Youdo me an injustice."
Griebler moved up closer to the broad table. The two fell into alow-voiced talk. Jock looked rather helplessly around at Sam Hupp.That alert gentleman was signaling him frantically with head andwagging finger. Jock crossed the big room to Hupp's side. The twomoved 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'slooking for an advertising manager. He's as pig-headed asa--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 wouldbe the making of you--if you made good, of course. And you could.They want to move their factory here from St. Louis within thenext few years. Now listen. When he talks to you, you play up thekeen, alert stuff with a dash of sophistication, see? If you cankeep your mouth shut and throw a kind of a canny, I-get-you, lookinto your eyes, all the better. He's gabby enough for two. Try aline of talk that is filled with the fire and enthusiasm ofyouth, combined with the good judgment and experience of middleage, and you've--"
"Say, look here," stammered Jock. "Even if I was Warfield enoughto do all that, d'you honestly think--me an advertisingmanager!--with a salary that Griebler--"
"You nervy little shrimp, go in and win. He'll pay five thousandif he pays a cent. But he wants value for money expended. Now I'vetipped 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 ofyou. I know what you can do. Mr. Griebler might trust my judgmentin this, but--"
"I'll trust my own judgment," snapped Ben Griebler. "It's goodenough for me."
"Very well," returned Bartholomew Berg suavely. "And if you decideto place your advertising future in the hands of the Berg, ShrinerCompany--"
"Now look here," interrupted Ben Griebler again. "I'll tie upwith 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 spendmoney--real money--in this campaign of ours. But I'm not such acome-on as to hand you half a million or so and get a promise inreturn. I want your plans, and I want 'em in full."
A little exclamation broke from Sam Hupp. He checked it, but notbefore Berg's curiously penetrating pale blue eyes had glanced upat him, and away again.
"I've told you, Mr. Griebler," went on Bartholomew Berg's patientvoice, "just why the thing you insist on is impossible. This firmdoes not submit advance copy. Every business commission that comesto us is given all the skill, and thought, and enthusiasm, andcareful planning that this office is capable of. You know ourrecord. 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 hislips as he talked.
"I know something else that don't stand spreading in the marketplace, Berg. And that's money. It's too darned perishable, too."He pointed a stubby finger at Jock. "Does this fool rule of yoursapply to this young fellow, too?"
Bartholomew Berg seemed to grow more patient, more self-containedas 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 monthsbuilding up a comprehensive advertising plan for you. He'd spendthose weeks studying your business from every possible angle.Perhaps it would be a plan that would require a year of waitingbefore the actual advertising began to appear. And then you mightlose faith in the plan. A waiting game is a hard game to play.Some other man's idea, that promised quicker action, might appealto you. And when it appeared we'd very likely find our ownoriginal 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 sitthere and tell me to my face--"
"Mr. Griebler, I mean that that thing happens constantly in thisbusiness. We're almost powerless to stop it. Nothing spreadsquicker than a new idea. Compared to it a woman's secret is asealed book."
Ben Griebler removed the cigar from his lips. He was stutteringwith anger. With a mingling of despair and boldness Jock saw theadvantage of that stuttering moment and seized on it. He steppedclose to the broad table-desk, resting both hands on it andleaning forward slightly in his eagerness.
"Mr. Berg--I have a plan. Mr. Hupp can tell you. It came to mewhen 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'snew. Absolutely. It never--"
"Trot it out!" shouted Ben Griebler. "I'd like to see one ideaanyway, around this shop."
"McChesney," said Bartholomew Berg, not raising his voice. Hiseyes rested on Jock with the steady, penetrating gaze that waspeculiar to him. More foolhardy
men than Jock McChesney hadfaltered and paused, abashed, under those eyes. "McChesney, yourenthusiasm for your work is causing you to forget one thing thatmust never be forgotten in this office."
Jock stepped back. His lower lip was caught between his teeth. Atthe same moment Ben Griebler snatched up his hat from the table,clapped it on his head at an absurd angle and, bristling like afighting cock, confronted the three men.
"I've got a couple of rules myself," he cried, "and don't youforget it. When you get a little spare time, you look up St. Louisand find out what state it's in. The slogan of that state is myslogan, you bet. If you think I'm going to make you a present ofthe money that it took my old man fifty years to pile up, then youdon't know that Griebler is a German name. Good day, gents."
He stalked to the door. There he turned dramatically and leveled aforefinger at Jock. "They've got you roped and tied. But I thinkyou'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 baldspot.
Bartholomew Berg reached out with one great capable hand and swepttoward him a pile of papers. "Oh, well, you can't blame him.Advertising has been a scream for so long. Griebler doesn't knowthe difference between advertising, publicity, and bunk. He'lllearn. But it'll be an awfully expensive course. Now, Hupp, let'sgo over this Kalamazoo account. That'll be all, McChesney."
Jock turned without a word. He walked quickly through the outeroffice, into the great main room. There he stopped at theswitchboard.
"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. "Lookat 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 flatpasteboard package secured by elastic bands. At five-fifteen hewalked swiftly down the famous corridor of the great red stonehotel. The colorful glittering crowd that surged all about him heseemed not to see. He made straight for the main desk with itsbattalion of clerks.
"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 ofinvestigation. 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 leavetheir 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 thronelikechairs, he waited. He sat there, slim and boyish, while thelaughing, chattering crowd swept all about him. If you sit longenough in that foyer you will learn all there is to learn aboutlife. An amazing sight it is--that crowd. Baraboo helps swell it,and Spokane, and Berlin, and Budapest, and Pekin, and Paris, andWaco, Texas. So varied it is, so cosmopolitan, that if you sitthere patiently enough, and watch sharply enough you will even seea chance New Yorker.
From door to desk Jock's eyes swept. The afternoon-tea crowd, inparadise 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 ofcloudy-amber drinks, and golden-brown drinks, and maroon drinks,then gathering up its furs and rushing theaterwards. He was stillsitting there when that crowd, its eight o'clock freshnesssomewhat sullied, its sparkle a trifle dimmed, swept back for moreoysters, more cloudy-amber and golden-brown drinks.
At half-hour intervals, then at hourly intervals, the figure inthe 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 shadehigh-pitched, drifted towards the street, or was wafted up inelevators. The throng thinned to an occasional group. Then thesebecame rarer and rarer. The revolving door admitted one man, ortwo, perhaps, who lingered not at all in the unaccustomed quiet ofthe great glittering lobby.
The figure of the watcher took on a pathetic droop. The eyelidsgrew leaden. To open them meant an almost superhuman effort. Thestare of the new night clerks grew more and more hostile andsuspicious. 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 oncemore, complainingly. For the thousandth time Jock's eyeslifted heavily. Then they flew wide open. The drooping figurestraightened electrically. Half a dozen quick steps and Jock stoodin the pathway of Ben Griebler who, rather ruffled and untidy, hadblown 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 thoseplans now?"
Ben Griebler had surveyed Jock with the stony calm of theout-of-town visitor who is prepared to show surprise at nothing inNew 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 alittle rush, he followed the short, thick-set figure. "I knew youhad it in you, McChesney. I said you looked like a comer, didn'tI?"
Jock said nothing. He was silent while Griebler unlocked his door,turned on the light, fumbled at the windows and shades, picked upthe telephone receiver. "What'll you have?"
"Nothing." Jock had cleared the center table and was opening hisflat bundle of papers. He drew up two chairs. "Let's not waste anytime," he said. "I've had a twelve-hour wait for this." He seemedto control the situation. Obediently Ben Griebler hung up thereceiver, came over, and took the chair very close to Jock.
"'Let's not waste any time,' he said"]
"There's nothing artistic about gum," began Jock McChesney; andhis manner was that of a man who is sure of himself. "It's ashirt-sleeve product, and it ought to be handled from ashirt-sleeve standpoint. Every gum concern in the country hasspent thousands on a 'better-than-candy' campaign before itrealized that gum is a candy and drug store article, and that noman is going to push a five-cent package of gum at the sacrificeof the sale of an eighty-cent box of candy. But the health note isthere, if only you strike it right. Now, here's my idea--"
At six o'clock Ben Griebler, his little shrewd eyes sparkling, hisvoice more squeakily falsetto than ever, surveyed the youngsterbefore him with a certain awe.
"This--this thing will actually sell our stuff in Europe! No gumconcern has ever been able to make the stuff go outside of thiscountry. Why, inside of three years every 'Arry and 'Arriet inEngland'll be chewing it on bank holidays. I don't know aboutGermany, but--" He pushed back his chair and got up. "Well, I'msolid on that. And what I say goes. Now I'll tell you what I'lldo, kid. I'll take you down to St. Louis with me, at a figurethat'll make your--"
Jock looked up.
"Or if you don't want the Berg, Shriner crowd to get wise, I'llfix it this way. I'll go over there this morning and tell 'em I'vechanged my mind, see? The campaign's theirs, see? Then I refuseto consider any of their suggestions until I see your plan. Andwhen I see it I fall for it like a ton of bricks. Old Berg'llnever know. He's so darned high-principled--"
Jock McChesney stood up. The little drawn pinched look which hadmade his face so queerly old was gone. His eyes were bright. Hisface was flushed.
"There! You've said it. I didn't realize how raw this deal wasuntil you put it into words for me. I want to thank you. You'reright. Bartholomew Berg is so darned high-principled that twomuckers like you and me, groveling around in the dirt, can't evensee the tips of the heights to which his ideals have soared. Don'tstop me. I know I'm talking like a book. But I feel like somethi
ngthat has just been kicked out into the sunshine after having beenin jail."
"You're tired," said Ben Griebler. "It's been a strain. Somethingalways 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." Hebegan quietly to gather up the papers in an orderly little way.
"What's that for?" inquired Griebler, coming forward. "You don'tmean--"
"I mean that I'm going to go home and square this thing with alady you've never met. You and she wouldn't get on if you did. Youdon'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 thisstuff 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 comeover and talk to him, fair and square, why come."
"Ten to one he fires you," remarked Griebler, as Jock reached thedoor.
"There's only one person I know who's game enough to take you upon that. And it's going to take more nerve to face her atsix-thirty than it will to tackle a whole battalion of BartholomewBergs 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 youat ten, sonny."