The Spinners' Book of Fiction Part 32

"If a dub goes into college and gets flunked out in a month, is he a college man?"

"Hardly."

"Oh, but he calls himself one. He goes to Podunk all decorated up in geraniums and the rest of his life is a 'college man.' I'm not talking about him or the man who comes to college to learn to mix c.o.c.ktails--inside. He may last to the junior year. I'm talking about the graduate--they're only about a tenth of the college. But they're the finished product. Mr. Kaufmann, you wouldn't try to sell gum that had only gone as far as the rolling-room, would you?"

"W'at--me?"

"Would you?"

"No." The junior partner was puzzled.

"That's because you want it to go through all the processes. Well, let's talk only about the boy who has gone all the way through the man factory."

Houghton nodded. "That's fair."

"The trouble is, people don't do that. They persist in b.u.t.ting into the college world, jerking out some soph.o.m.ore celebration, and saying, 'What use is this silly thing in the real world?'"

"Well, aren't they right?"

"No. That's just the point. The college world is a mimic world--and your lifetime is just four years. The soph.o.m.ore celebration is a practical thing there; perhaps it's teaching loyalty--that generally comes first.

That's your college rolling-room. But the graduate--he's learned to do _something_ well. I never knew a college man who wasn't at least responsible."

"But----"

"But here's the trouble: after selecting say two hundred fellows out of an entering bunch of six hundred, and developing the thing each is best fitted for, _father_ steps in and the boy who would have made a first-cla.s.s professor is put into business and blamed for being impractical. The fellow who has been handling thousands of dollars in college management and running twenty a.s.sistants--the man who could have taken the place--has no father to give him the boost necessary, and the other man's failure has queered his chances. He has to go to work as a mere clerk under a man--excuse me, I don't want to do any knocking."

"You think the whole trouble is caused by misdirected nepotism."

"Yes."

"Ah----" It was young Kaufmann again. "But you said that you were trained in advertising on your college paper."

"Yes--and I was going to tell you today, if Mr. Pepper hadn't, that the money you're paying for me is utterly wasted."

"Ah!"

"Yes. I can't look in the face of a hungry designer and beat him down to within a dollar of the cost of materials. And--and--my suggestions upon broader lines don't seem to cause much hooray."

"Well--" the junior partner sat up--"since you admit----" He paused for his partner to speak the words of discharge.

But Houghton was looking quizzically at the college man. "What was your idea as to broader lines?"

Brainard hesitated. "Well, it seemed to me that Pepper is trying to do two things that are antagonistic: be _'elite'_ and sell chewing-gum. The fact is that _elite_ people don't chew gum. I'd like to know how the statement, 'Old Tulu--Best by Test,' will make a kid on the corner with a cent in his fist have an attack of mouth-watering."

Kaufmann roused himself. "It is true. Our gum _is_ the best."

"I'm not disputing that, but still it's _gum_. If you're trying to increase the vulgar habit of gum-chewing--well--you can't do it by advertising the firm's financial standing, its age, or the purity of its output. That would do for an insurance company or a bank--but _gum_! Who cares for purity! All they want to know is if it _schmeckt gut_." This last with a humorous glance at Kaufmann.

The latter was scowling. Brainard was touching a tender spot.

"Well, what would you do?"

Brainard flushed. He felt the tone of sarcasm in the elder man's voice.

He tightened his lips. "At least, I'd change the name of the gum!"

"Change the name!" Kaufmann was horrified.

"Well, n.o.body wants 'Old Tulu.' They want 'New Tulu' or 'Fresh Tasty Tulu.' At least, something to appeal to the imagination of Sadie-at-the-ribbon-counter."

"Oh!" observed Houghton. "And the name you suggest?"

"Well,--say something like 'Lulu Tulu.'"

"Gott!" Kaufmann struck the desk a blow with his fist. It was an insult to his father's memory.

Brainard rose. "I'm sorry," he said, "if I have offended. To save you any further bother, I'll just cut it out after Sat.u.r.day. I--thank you for the chance"--he smiled a little ruefully--"the chance you have given me. Good day, gentlemen."

He turned on his heel and left the office.

As John Houghton was driven home that night, he became suddenly conscious that he would soon meet the apparition of the afternoon in the flesh. And though, of course, there was no need, he found himself rehearsing the justification of his position. "Lulu Tulu" indeed!

Imagine the smile that would have illumined the faces at the club on such an announcement. The impudence of the boy to have suggested it to him--him who had so often held forth upon the value of conservatism in business! And he remembered with pride the speaker who had once said, "It is such solid vertebrae as Mr. Houghton that form the backbone of our business world." That speaker had been Bender, of the New York Dynamo Company. Poor Bender! The Western Electric Construction had got him after all.

This line of thought caused Houghton to reach in his pocket and produce a letter. He went over the significant part again.

"Our Mr. Byrnes reports the clinching of the subway vending-machine contract," it read, "and this, together with our other business, will give us over half of the New York trade. With this statement before us, we feel that we can make a winning fight if you still refuse to consider our terms. In view of recent developments, we cannot repeat our former offer but if you will consider sixty-seven as a figure----"

Sixty-seven! And a year before he would not have taken one hundred and ten! In the bitterness of the moment, he wondered if he, too, would finally go the way that Bender had.

And then, as the butler swung the door back, he was recalled to the matter of Tom Brainard by the sight of a familiar figure that floated toward him as airily as had its astral self that afternoon.

He kissed her and went to his study. Just before dinner was not a time to discuss such things. But later, as he looked across the candelabra at his daughter, all smiles and happiness in that seat that had been her mother's, he regretted that he had not, for----

"Daddy," Dorothy was saying, "I got such a funny note from Tom this afternoon. He says there has been a change at the office and that you will explain."

"Yes."

"Well----?" She paused eagerly. "It's something awfully good--I know."

Her father frowned and caught her eye. "Later," he said significantly.

The girl read the tone, and the gaiety of the moment before was gone.

After that they ate in silence.

One cigar--two cigars had been smoked when she stole into the library.

Since coffee (whether from design or chance he never knew), she had rearranged her hair. Now it was low on her neck in a fashion of long ago, with a single curl that strayed over a white shoulder to her bosom.

She knelt at his side without a word.