VII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE CRIMSON CORD
I
I HAD not seen Perkins for six months or so, and things were dull. I wasbeginning to tire of sitting indolently in my office, with nothing to dobut clip coupons from my bonds. Money is good enough in its way, but itis not interesting unless it is doing something lively--doubling itselfor getting lost. What I wanted was excitement,--an adventure,--and Iknew that if I could find Perkins, I could have both. A scheme is abusiness adventure, and Perkins was the greatest schemer in or out ofChicago.
Just then Perkins walked into my office.
"Perkins," I said, as soon as he had arranged his feet comfortably on mydesk, "I'm tired. I'm restless. I have been wishing for you for a month.I want to go into a big scheme, and make a lot of new, up-to-date cash.I'm sick of this tame, old cash that I have. It isn't interesting. Nocash is interesting except the coming cash."
"I'm with you," said Perkins; "what is your scheme?"
"I have none," I said sadly. "That is just my trouble. I have sat herefor days trying to think of a good, practical scheme, but I can't.I don't believe there is an unworked scheme in the whole wide, wideworld." Perkins waved his hand.
"My boy," he exclaimed, "there are millions! You've thousands of 'emright here in your office! You're falling over them, sitting on them,walking on them! Schemes? Everything is a scheme. Everything has moneyin it!"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"Yes," I said, "for you. But you are a genius."
"Genius, yes," Perkins said, smiling cheerfully, "else why Perkins theGreat? Why Perkins the Originator? Why the Great and Only Perkins ofPortland?"
"All right," I said, "what I want is for your genius to get busy. I'llgive you a week to work up a good scheme."
Perkins pushed back his hat, and brought his feet to the floor with asmack.
"Why the delay?" he queried. "Time is money. Hand me something from yourdesk."
I looked in my pigeonholes, and pulled from one a small ball of string.Perkins took it in his hand, and looked at it with great admiration.
"What is it?" he asked seriously.
"That," I said, humoring him, for I knew something great would beevolved from his wonderful brain, "is a ball of red twine I bought atthe ten-cent store. I bought it last Saturday. It was sold to me by afreckled young lady in a white shirt-waist. I paid--"
"Stop!" Perkins cried, "what is it?"
I looked at the ball of twine curiously. I tried to see somethingremarkable in it. I couldn't. It remained a simple ball of red twine,and I told Perkins so.
"The difference," declared Perkins, "between mediocrity and genius!Mediocrity always sees red twine; genius sees a ball of Crimson Cord!"
He leaned back in his chair, and looked at me triumphantly. He foldedhis arms as if he had settled the matter. His attitude seemed to saythat he had made a fortune for us. Suddenly he reached forward, and,grasping my scissors, began snipping off small lengths of the twine.
"The Crimson Cord!" he ejaculated. "What does it suggest?"
I told him that it suggested a parcel from the druggist's. I had oftenseen just such twine about a druggist's parcel.
Perkins sniffed disdainfully.
"Druggists?" he exclaimed with disgust. "Mystery! Blood! 'The CrimsonCord.' Daggers! Murder! Strangling! Clues! 'The Crimson Cord'--"
122]
He motioned wildly with his hands, as if the possibilities of the phrasewere quite beyond his power of expression.
"It sounds like a book," I suggested.
"Great!" cried Perkins. "A novel! The novel! Think of the words 'ACrimson Cord' in blood-red letters six feet high on a white ground!" Hepulled his hat over his eyes, and spread out his hands; and I think heshuddered.
"Think of 'A Crimson Cord,'" he muttered, "in blood-red letters on aground of dead, sepulchral black, with a crimson cord writhing throughthem like a serpent."
He sat up suddenly, and threw one hand in the air.
"Think," he cried, "of the words in black on white, with a crimson corddrawn taut across the whole ad.!"
He beamed upon me.
"The cover of the book," he said quite calmly, "will be white,--virgin,spotless white,--with black lettering, and the cord in crimson. Witheach copy we will give a crimson silk cord for a book-mark. Each copywill be done up in a white box and tied with crimson cord."
He closed his eyes and tilted his head upward.
"A thick book," he said, "with deckel edges and pictures by Christy.No, pictures by Pyle. Deep, mysterious pictures! Shadows and gloom! Andwide, wide margins. And a gloomy foreword. One-fifty per copy, at allbooksellers."
Perkins opened his eyes and set his hat straight with a quick motion ofhis hand. He arose and polled on his gloves.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"Contracts!" he said. "Contracts for advertising! We most boom 'TheCrimson Cord!' We must boom her big!"
He went out and closed the door. Presently, when I supposed him well onthe way down-town, he opened the door and inserted his head.
"Gilt. tops," he announced. "One million copies the first impression!"
And then he was gone.
II.
A week later Chicago and the greater part of the United States wasplacarded with "The Crimson Cord." Perkins did his work thoroughly andwell, and great was the interest in the mysterious title. It was an olddodge, but a good one. Nothing appeared on the advertisements but themere title. No word as to what "The Crimson Cord" was. Perkins merelyannounced the words, and left them to rankle in the reader's mind; andas a natural consequence each new advertisement served to excite newinterest.
When we made our contracts for magazine advertising,--and we took afull page in every worthy magazine,--the publishers were at a lossto classify the advertisement; and it sometimes appeared among thebreakfast foods, and sometimes sandwiched in between the automobiles andthe hot-water heaters. Only one publication placed it among the books.
But it was all good advertising, and Perkins was a busy man. He rackedhis inventive brain for new methods of placing the title before thepublic. In fact, so busy was he at his labor of introducing the title,that he quite forgot the book itself.
One day he came to the office with a small rectangular package. Heunwrapped it in his customary enthusiastic manner, and set on my deska cigar-box bound in the style he had selected for the binding of"The Crimson Cord." It was then I spoke of the advisability of havingsomething to the book besides the cover and a boom.
"Perkins," I said, "don't you think it is about time we got hold of thenovel--the reading, the words?"
For a moment he seemed stunned. It was clear that he had quite forgottenthat book-buyers like to have a little reading-matter in their books.But he was only dismayed for a moment.
"Tut!" he cried presently. "All in good time! The novel is easy.Anything will do. I'm no literary man. I don't read a book in a year.You get the novel."
"But I don't read a book in five years!" I exclaimed. "I don't knowanything about books. I don't know where to get a novel."
"Advertise!" he exclaimed. "Advertise! You can get anything, from anapron to an ancestor, if you advertise for it. Offer a prize--offer athousand dollars for the best novel. There must be thousands of novelsnot in use."
Perkins was right. I advertised as he suggested, and learned that therewere thousands of novels not in use. They came to us by basketfulsand cartloads. We had novels of all kinds,--historical and hysterical,humorous and numerous, but particularly numerous. You would be surprisedto learn how many ready-made novels can be had on short notice. It beatsquick lunch. And most of them are equally indigestible. I read one ortwo, but I was no judge of novels. Perkins suggested that we draw lotsto see which we should use.
It really made little difference what the story was about. "The CrimsonCord" fits almost any kind of a book. It is a nice, non-committal sortof title, and might mean the guilt that bound two sinners, or the tie ofaffection that binds lovers, or a blood relation
ship, or it might be amystification title with nothing in the book about it.
But the choice settled itself. One morning a manuscript arrived thatwas tied with a piece of red twine, and we chose that one for good luckbecause of the twine. Perkins said that was a sufficient excuse for thetitle, too. We would publish the book anonymously, and let it be knownthat the only clue to the writer was the crimson cord with which themanuscript was tied when we received it. It would be a first-classadvertisement.
Perkins, however, was not much interested in the story, and he left meto settle the details. I wrote to the author asking him to call, and heturned out to be a young woman.
Our interview was rather shy. I was a little doubtful about the properway to talk to a real author, being purely a Chicagoan myself; and Ihad an idea that, while my usual vocabulary was good enough for businesspurposes, it might be too easy-going to impress a literary personproperly, and in trying to talk up to her standard I had to be verycareful in my choice of words. No publisher likes to have his authorsthink he is weak in the grammar line.
Miss Rosa Belle Vincent, however, was quite as flustered as I was. Sheseemed ill at ease and anxious to get away, which I supposed was becauseshe had not often conversed with publishers who paid a thousand dollarscash in advance for a manuscript.
She was not at all what I had thought an author would look like. Shedidn't even wear glasses. If I had met her on the street I should havesaid, "There goes a pretty flip stenographer." She was that kind--bigpicture hat and high pompadour.
I was afraid she would try to run the talk into literary lines and Ibsenand Gorky, where I would have been swamped in a minute, but she didn't;and, although I had wondered how to break the subject of money whenconversing with one who must be thinking of nobler things, I found shewas less shy when on that subject than when talking about her book.
"Well, now," I said, as soon as I had got her seated, "we have decidedto buy this novel of yours. Can you recommend it as a thoroughlyrespectable and intellectual production?"
She said she could.
"Haven't you read it?" she asked in some surprise.
"No," I stammered. "At least, not yet. I'm going to as soon as I canfind the requisite leisure. You see, we are very busy just now--verybusy. But if you can vouch for the story being a first-classarticle,--something, say, like 'The Vicar of Wakefield,' or 'DavidHamm,'--we'll take it."
"Now you're talking," she said. "And do I get the check now?"
"Wait," I said, "not so fast. I have forgotten one thing," and I saw herface fall. "We want the privilege of publishing the novel under a titleof our own, and anonymously. If that is not satisfactory, the deal isoff."
She brightened in a moment.
"It's a go, if that's all," she said. "Call it whatever you please; andthe more anonymous it is, the better it will suit yours truly." So wesettled the matter then and there; and when I gave her our check for athousand, she said I was all right.
III.
Half an hour after Miss Vincent had left the office, Perkins came inwith his arms full of bundles, which he opened, spreading their contentson my desk.
He had a pair of suspenders with nickeldiver mountings, a tie, a lady'sbelt, a pair of low shoes, a shirt, a box of cigars, a package ofcookies, and a half a dozen other things of divers and miscellaneouscharacter. I poked them over and examined them, while he leaned againstthe desk with his legs crossed. He was beaming upon me.
"Well," I said, "what is it--a bargain sale?"
Perkins leaned over and tapped the pile with his long forefinger.
"Aftermath!" he crowed. "Aftermath!"
"The dickens it is!" I exclaimed.
"And what has aftermath got to do with this truck? It looks like theaftermath of a notion store." He tipped his "Air-the-Hair" hat over oneear, and put his thumbs in the armholes of his "ready-tailored" vest.
"Genius!" he announced. "Brains! Foresight! Else why Perkins the Great?Why not Perkins the Nobody?"
He raised the suspenders tenderly from the pile, and fondled them in hishands.
"See this?" he asked, running his finger along the red corded edge ofthe elastic. He took up the tie, and ran his nail along the red stripethat formed the selvedge on the back, and said, "See this?" He pointedto the red laces of the low shoes and asked, "See this?" And so throughthe whole collection.
"What is it?" he asked. "It's genius! It's foresight!"
He waved his hand over the pile.
"The Aftermath!" he exclaimed.
"These suspenders are the Crimson Cord suspenders. These shoes are theCrimson Cord shoes. This tie is the Crimson Cord tie. These crackers arethe Crimson Cord brand. Perkins & Co. get out a great book, 'The CrimsonCord'! Sell five million copies. Dramatized, it runs three hundrednights. Everybody talking Crimson Cord. Country goes Crimson Cord crazy.Result--up jump Crimson Cord this and Crimson Cord that. Who gets thebenefit? Perkins & Co.? No! We pay the advertising bills, and the otherman sells his Crimson Cord cigars. That is usual."
"Tes," I said, "I'm smoking a David Harum cigar this minute, and I amwearing a Carvel collar."
"How prevent it?" asked Perkins. "One way only,--discovered by Perkins.Copyright the words 'Crimson Cord' as trademark for every possiblething. Sell the trade-mark on royalty. Ten per cent, of all receiptsfor 'Crimson Cord' brands comes to Perkins & Co. Get a cinch on theAftermath!"
"Perkins!" I cried, "I admire you. You are a genius! And have youcontracts with all these:--notions?"
"Yes," said Perkins, "that's Perkins's method. Who originated theCrimson Cord? Perkins did. Who is entitled to the profits on the CrimsonCord? Perkins is. Perkins is wide-awake all the time. Perkins gets aprofit on the aftermath and the math and the before the math."
And so he did. He made his new contracts with the magazines on theexchange plan. We gave a page of advertising in the "Crimson Cord" fora page of advertising in the magazine. We guaranteed five millioncirculation. We arranged with all the manufacturers of the CrimsonCord brands of goods to give coupons, one hundred of which entitledthe holder to a copy of "The Crimson Cord." With a pair of CrimsonCord suspenders you get fire coupons; with each Crimson Cord cigar, onecoupon; and so on.
IV
On the first of October we announced in our advertisement that"The Crimson Cord" was a book; the greatest novel of the century; athrilling, exciting tale of love. Miss Vincent had told me it was a lovestory. Just to make everything sure, however, I sent the manuscriptto Professor Wiggins, who is the most erudite man I ever met. He knowseighteen languages, and reads Egyptian as easily as I read English.In fact, his specialty is old Egyptian ruins and so on. He has writtenseveral books on them.
Professor said the novel seemed to him very light and trashy, butgrammatically O. K. He said he never read novels, not having time; buthe thought that "The Crimson Cord" was just about the sort of thinga silly public that refused to buy his "Some Light on the DynasticProclivities of the Hyksos" would scramble for. On the whole, Iconsidered the report satisfactory.
We found we would be unable to have Pyle illustrate the book, he beingtoo busy, so we turned it over to a young man at the Art Institute.
That was the fifteenth of October, and we had promised the book to thepublic for the first of November, but we had it already in type; and theyoung man,--his name was Gilkowsky,--promised to work night and day onthe illustrations.
The next morning, almost as soon as I reached the office, Gilkowsky camein. He seemed a little hesitant, but I welcomed him warmly, and he spokeup.
"I have a girl I go with," he said; and I wondered what I had to do withMr. Gilkowsky's girl, but he continued:--
"She's a nice girl and a good looker, but she's got bad taste in somethings. She's too loud in hats and too trashy in literature. I don'tlike to say this about her, but it's true; and I'm trying to educate herin good hats and good literature. So I thought it would be a good thingto take around this 'Crimson Cord' and let her read it to me."
I nodded.
"
Did she like it?" I asked.
Mr. Gilkowsky looked at me closely.
"She did," he said, but not so enthusiastically as I had expected. "It'sher favorite book. Now I don't know what your scheme is, and I supposeyou know what you are doing better than I do; but I thought perhaps Ihad better come around before I got to work on the illustrations and seeif, perhaps, you hadn't given me the wrong manuscript."
"No, that was the right manuscript," I said. "Was there anything wrongabout it?"
Mr. Gilkowsky laughed nervously.
"Oh, no!" he said. "But did you read it?"
I told him I had not, because I had been so rushed with detailsconnected with advertising the book.
"Well," he said, "I'll tell you. This girl of mine reads pretty trashystuff, and she knows about all the cheap novels there are. She dotes on'The Duchess,' and puts her last dime into Braddon. She knows them allby heart. Have you ever read 'Lady Audley's Secret'?"
"I see," I said. "One is a sequel to the other."
"No," said Mr. Gilkowsky, "one is the other. Some one has flimflammedyou and sold you a typewritten copy of 'Lady Audley's Secret' as a newnovel."
V
When I told Perkins, he merely remarked that he thought every publishinghouse ought to have some one in it who knew something about books,apart from the advertising end, although that was, of course, the mostimportant. He said we might go ahead and publish "Lady Audley's Secret"under the title of "The Crimson Cord," as such things had been donebefore; but the best thing to do would be to charge Rosa BelleVincent's thousand dollars to profit and loss, and hustle for anothernovel--something reliable, and not shop-worn.
Perkins had been studying the literature market a little, and headvised me to get something from Indiana this time; so I telegraphedan advertisement to the Indianapolis papers, and two days later we hadninety-eight historical novels by Indiana authors from which to choose.Several were of the right length; and we chose one, and sent it to Mr.Gilkowsky, with a request that he read it to his sweetheart. She hadnever read it before.
We sent a detective to Dillville, Ind., where the author lived; and thereport we received was most satisfactory.
The author was a sober, industrious young man, just out of the highschool, and bore a first-class reputation for honesty. He had neverbeen in Virginia, where the scene of his story was laid, and they hadno library in Dillville; and our detective assured us that the young manwas in every way fitted to write a historical novel.
"The Crimson Cord" made an immense success. You can guess how it boomedwhen I say that, although it was published at a dollar and a half, itwas sold by every department store for fifty-four cents, away belowcost, just like sugar, or Vandeventer's Baby Food, or Q & Z Corsets,or any other staple. We sold our first edition of five million copiesinside of three months, and got out another edition of two million, anda specially illustrated holiday edition, and an "edition de luxe;" and"The Crimson Cord" is still selling in paper-covered cheap edition.
With the royalties received from the after-math and the profit on thebook itself, we made--well, Perkins has a country place at Lakewood, andI have my cottage at Newport.
VIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRINCESS OF PILLIWINK
PERKINS slammed the five-o'clock edition of the Chicago "Evening Howl"into the waste-paper basket, and trod it down with the heel of hisGo-lightly rubber-sole shoe.
"Rot!" he cried. "Tommy rot! Fiddlesticks! Trash!"
I looked up meekly. I had seldom seen Perkins angry, and I was abashed.He saw my expression of surprise; and, like the great man he is, hesmiled sweetly to reassure me.
"Diamonds again," he explained. "Same old tale. Georgiana De Vere,leading lady, diamonds stolen. Six thousand four hundred and tenth timein the history of the American stage that diamonds have been stolen. IfI couldn't--"
"But you could, Perkins," I cried, eagerly. "You would not have touse the worn-out methods of booming a star. In your hands theatricaladvertising would become fresh, virile, interesting. A play advertisedby the brilliant, original, great--"
"Illustrious," Perkins suggested. "Illustrious Perkins of Portland,"I said, bowing to acknowledge my thanks for the word I needed, "wouldconquer America. It would fill the largest theatres for season afterseason. It would--"
Perkins arose and slapped his "Air-the-Hair" hat on his head, andhastily slid into his "ready-tailored" overcoat. Without waiting for meto finish my sentence he started for the door.
"It would--" I repeated, and then, just as he was disappearing, Icalled, "Where are you going?"
He paused in the hall just long enough to stick his head into the room.
"Good idea!" he cried, "great idea! No time to be lost! Perkins theGreat goes to get the play!"
He banged the door, and I was left alone.
That was the way Perkins did things. Not on the spur of the moment, forPerkins needed no spur. He was fall of spurs. He did things in theheat of genius. He might have used as his motto those words that heoriginated, and that have been copied so often since by weak imitatorsof the great man: "Don't wait until to-morrow; do it to-day. Tomorrowyou may be dead." He wrote that to advertise coffins, and--well, Li HungChang and Sara Bernhardt are only two of the people who took his advice,and lay in their coffins before they had to be in them.
I knew Perkins would have the whole affair planned, elaborated, anddeveloped before he reached the street; that he would have the detailsof the plan complete before he reached the corner; and that he would havefigured the net profit to within a few dollars by the time he reachedhis destination.
I had hardly turned to my desk before my telephone bell rang. I slappedthe receiver to my ear. It was Perkins!
"Pilly," he said. "Pilly willy. Pilly willy winkum. Pilliwink! That'sit. Pilliwink, Princess of. Write it down. The Princess of Pilliwink.Good-by."
I hung up the receiver.
"That is the name of the play," I mused. "Mighty good name, too. Full ofmeaning, like 'shout Zo-Zo' and 'Paskala' and--"
The bell rang again.
"Perkins's performers. Good-by," came the voice of my great friend.
"Great!" I shouted, but Perkins had already rung off.
He came back in about half an hour with four young men in tow.
"Good idea," I said, "male quartettes always take well."
Perkins waved his hand scornfully. Perkins could do that. He could doanything, could Perkins. "Quartette? No," he said, "the play." He lockedthe office door, and put the key in his pocket. "The play is in them,"he said, "and they are in here. They don't get out until they get theplay out."
He tapped the long-haired young man on the shoulder.
"Love lyrics," he said, briefly.
The thin young man with a sad countenance he touched on the arm andsaid, "Comic songs," and pointing to the youth who wore the baggiesttrousers, he said, "Dialogue." He did not have to tell me that thewheezy little German contained the music of our play. I knew it by theway he wheezed.
Perkins swept me away from my desk, and deposited one young man there,and another at his desk. The others he gave each a window-sill, and toeach of the four he handed a pencil and writing-pad.
"Write!" he said, and they wrote.
As fast as the poets finished a song, they handed it to the composer,who made suitable music for it. It was good music--it all reminded youof something else. If it wasn't real music, it was at least founded onfact.
The play did not have much plot, but it had plenty of places for thechorus to come in in tights or short skirts--and that is nine-tenths ofany comic opera. I knew it was the real thing as soon as I read it. Thedialogue was full of choice bits like,--
"So you think you can sing?"
"Well, I used to sing in good old boyhood's hour."
"Then why don't you sing it?"
"Sing what?"
"Why, 'In Good Old Boyhood's Hour,'" and then he would sing it.
The musical composer sang us some of the lyrics, just to let us seehow clever they were; b
ut he wheezed too much to do them justice. Headmitted that they would sound better if a pretty woman with a swellcostume and less wheeze sang them.
The plot of the play--it was in three acts--was original, so far asthere was any plot. The Princess of Pilliwink loved the Prince of Guam;but her father, the leading funny man, and King of Pilliwink, wanted herto marry Gonzolo, an Italian, because Gonzolo owned the only hand-organin the kingdom. To escape this marriage, the Princess disguised herselfas a Zulu maiden, and started for Zululand in an automobile. The secondact was, therefore, in Zululand, with songs about palms and a grandcakewalk of Amazons, who captured another Italian organ-grinder. At therequest of the princess, this organ-grinder was thrown into prison. Inthe third act he was discovered to be the Prince of Guam, and everythingended beautifully.
Perkins paid the author syndicate spot cash, and unlocked the door andlet them go. He did not want any royalties hanging over him. "Ah!" hesaid, as soon as they were out of sight.
We spent the night editing the play. Neither Perkins nor I knew anythingabout plays, but we did our best. We changed that play from an every-daycomic opera into a bright and sparkling gem. Anything that our authorsyndicate had omitted we put in. I did the writing and Perkins dictatedto me. We put in a disrobing scene, in which the Princess was discoveredin pain, and removed enough of her dress to allow her to place aPerkins's Patent Porous Plaster between her shoulders, after which shesang the song beginning,--
"Now my heart with rapture thrills,"
only we changed it to:--
"How my back with rapture thrills."
That song ended the first act; and when the opera was played, we hadboys go up and down the aisles during the intermission selling Perkins'sPatent Porous Plasters, on which the words and music of the song wereprinted. It made a great hit.
The drinking song--every opera has one--we changed just a little.Instead of tin goblets each singer had a box of Perkins's Pink Pellets;and, as they sang, they touched boxes with each other, and swallowed thePink Pellets. It was easy to change the song from
"Drain the red wine-cup-- Each good fellow knows The jolly red wine-cup Will cure all his woes"
to the far more moral and edifying verse,--
"Eat the Pink Pellet, For every one knows That Perkins's Pink Pellets Will cure all his woes."
When Perkins had finished touching up that opera, it was not such anevery-day opera as it had been. He put some life into it.
I asked him if he didn't think he had given it a rather commercialatmosphere by introducing the Porous Plaster and the Pink Pellets, buthe only smiled knowingly.
"Wait!" he said, "wait a week. Wait until Perkins circulates himselfaround town. Why should the drama be out of date? Why avoid allinterest? Why not have the opera teem with the life of the day? Whynot?" He laid one leg gently over the arm of his chair and tilted hishat back on his head.
"Literature, art, drama," he said, "the phonographs of civilization.Where is the brain of the world? In literature, art, and the drama.These three touch the heartstrings; these three picture mankind; thesethree teach us. They move the world."
"Yes," I said.
"Good!" exclaimed Perkins. "But why is the drama weak? Why no moreShakespeares? Why no more Molieres? Because the real life-blood ofto-day isn't in the drama. What is the life-blood of to-day?"
I thought he meant Perkins's Pink Pellets, so I said so.
"No!" he said, "advertising! The ad. makes the world go round. Why doour plays fall flat? Not enough advertising. Of them and in them. Takeliterature. See 'Bilton's New Monthly Magazine.' Sixty pages reading;two hundred and forty pages advertising; one million circulation;everybody likes it. Take the Bible--no ads.; nobody reads it. Take art;what's famous? 'Gold Dust Triplets;' 'Good evening, have you usedPear's?' Who prospers? The ad. illustrator. The ad. is the biggest thingon earth. It sways nations. It wins hearts. It rules destiny. People cryfor ads."
"That is true enough," I remarked.
"Why," asked Perkins, "do men make magazines? To sell ad. space in them!Why build barns and fences? To sell ad. space! Why run street-cars? Tosell ad. space! But the drama is neglected. The poor, lonely drama isneglected. In ten years there will be no more drama. The stage will passaway."
Perkins uncoiled his legs and stood upright before me.
"The theatre would have died before now," he said, "but for the littlead. life it has. What has kept it alive? A few ads.! See how gladly theaudience reads the ads. in the programmes when the actors give them alittle time. See how they devour the ad. drop-curtain! Who firstsaw that the ad. must save the stage? Who will revive the down trodtheatrical art?"
"Perkins!" I cried. "Perkins will. I don't know what you mean to do, butyou will revive the drama. I can see it in your eyes. Go ahead. Do it. Iam willing."
I thought he would tell me what he meant to do, but he did not. I had toask him. He lifted the manuscript of the opera from the table.
"Sell space!" he exclaimed. "Perkins the Originator will sell space inthe greatest four-hour play in the world. What's a barn? So many squarefeet of ad. space. What's a magazine? So many pages of ad. space. What'sa play? So many minutes of ad. space. Price, one hundred dollars aminute. Special situations in the plot extra."
I did not know just what he meant, but I soon learned. The next dayPerkins started out with the manuscript of the "Princess of Pilliwink."And when he returned in the evening he was radiant with triumph. Everyminute of available space had been sold, and he had been obliged to adda prologue to accommodate all the ads.
The "Princess of Pilliwink" had some modern interest when Perkins wasthrough with it. It did not take up time with things no one cared a centabout. It went right to the spot.
There was a Winton Auto on the stage when the curtain rose, and fromthen until the happy couple boarded the Green Line Flyer in the lastscene the interest was intense. There was a shipwreck, where all handswere saved by floating ashore on Ivory Soap,--it floats,--and you shouldhave heard the applause when the hero laughed in the villain's face andsaid, "Kill me, then. I have no fear. I am insured in the PrudentialInsurance Company. It has the strength of Port Arthur."
We substituted a groanograph--the kind that hears its master'svoice--for the hand-organ that was in the original play, and everyspeech and song brought to mind some article that was worthy ofpatronage.
The first-night audience went wild with delight. You should have heardthem cheer when our ushers passed around post-cards and pencils betweenthe acts, in order that they might write for catalogues and samples toour advertisers. Across the bottom of each card was printed, "I heardyour advertisement in the 'Princess of Pilliwink.'"
Run? That play ran like a startled deer I It drew such crowded housesthat we had to post signs at the door announcing that we would onlysell tickets to thin men and women; and then we had an especially narrowopera chair constructed, so that we were able to seat ten more people oneach row.
The play had plenty of variety, too. Perkins had thought of that. Hesold the time by the month; and, when an ad. expired, he only sold thespace to a new advertiser. Thus one month there was a lullaby aboutOstermoor mattresses,--the kind that advertises moth-eaten horses toshow what it isn't made of,--and it ran:--
"Bye, oh! my little fairy. On the mattress sanitary Sent on thirty days' free trial Softly sleep and sweetly smile.
"Bye, oh! bye! my little baby, Though your poor dad busted may be. Thirty days have not passed yet, So sleep well, my little pet."
And when Perkins sold this time space the next month to the makers ofthe Fireproof Aluminum Coffin, we cut out the lullaby, and inserted thefollowing cheerful ditty, which always brought tears to the eyes of theaudience:--
"Screw the lid on tightly, father, Darling ma has far to go; She must take the elevator Up above or down below.
"Screw the lid on tightly, father, Darling ma goes far to-night; To the banks of
rolling Jordan, Or to realms of anthracite.
"Screw the lid on tightly, father, Leave no chinks for heated air, For if ma is going one place, There's no fire insurance there."
You can see by this how different the play could be made from month tomonth. Always full of sparkling wit and clean, wholesome humor--as freshas Uneeda Biscuit, and as bright as a Loftis-on-credit diamond. Takethe scene where the Princess of Pilliwink sailed away to Zululand as anexample of the variety we were able to introduce. The first month shesailed away on a cake of Ivory Soap--it floats; the next month shesailed on an Ostermoor Felt Mattress--it floats; and then for a monthshe voyaged on the floating Wool Soap; and she travelled in steammotor-boats and electric motor-boats; by Cook's tours, and acrossthe ice by automobile, by kite, and on the handle of a Bissell CarpetSweeper, like an up-to-date witch. She used every known mode oflocomotion, from skates to kites.
She was a grand actress. Her name was Bedelia O'Dale; and, whatever shewas doing on the stage, she was charming. Whether she was taking a vaporbath in a $4.98 cabinet or polishing her front teeth with Sozodont, shewas delightful. She had all the marks of a real lady, and gave toneto the whole opera. In fact, all the cast was good. Perkins spared noexpense. He got the best artists he could find, regardless of the cost;and it paid. But we nearly lost them all. You remember when we put theplay on first, in 1897,--the good old days when oatmeal and rolled wheatwere still the only breakfast foods. We had a breakfast scene, where thewhole troup ate oatmeal, and pretended they liked it. That scene wentwell enough until we began to get new ads. for it. The troup nevercomplained, no matter how often he shifted them from oatmeal to rolledwheat and back again. They always came on the stage happy and smiling,and stuffed themselves with Pettijohns and Mothers' Oats, and carolledmerrily.
But about the time the twentieth century dawned, the new patentbreakfast foods began to boom; and we got after them hotfoot. Firsthe got a contract from Grape-nuts, and the cast and chorus had to eatGrape-nuts and warble how good it was.
Perkins was working up the Pink Pellets then, and he turned the Princessof Pilliwink job over to me.
If Perkins had been getting the ads., all would still have been well;but new breakfast foods cropped up faster than one a month, and Icouldn't bear to see them wait their turn for the breakfast scene. Therewere Malta-Vita and Force and Try-a-Bita and Cero-Fruto and Kapl-Flakesand Wheat-Meat, and a lot more; and I signed them all. It wasthoughtless of me. I admit that now, but I was a little careless inthose days. When our reviser revised the play to get all those breakfastfoods in, he shook his head. He said the audience might like it, but hehad his doubts about the cast. He said he did not believe any cast onearth could eat thirteen consecutive breakfast foods, and smile thesmile that won't. He said it was easy enough for him to write thirteendistinct lyrics about breakfast foods, but that to him it seemed that bythe time the chorus had downed breakfast food number twelve, it would beso full of oats, peas, beans, and barley that it couldn't gurgle.
I am sorry to say he was right. We had a pretty tough-stomached troup;and they might have been able to handle the thirteen breakfastfoods, especially as most of the foods were already from one-halfto three-quarters digested as they were sold, but we had a few otherlunchibles in the play already.
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That year the ads. were running principally to automobiles,correspondence schools, and food stuffs; and we had to take in the foodstuffs or not sell our space.
As I look back upon it, I cannot blame the cast, although I was angryenough at the time. When a high-bred actress has eaten two kinds ofsoup, a sugar-cured ham, self-rising flour, air-tight soda crackers,three infant foods, two patent jellies, fifty-seven varieties ofpickles, clam chowder, devilled lobster, a salad dressing, and some beefextract, she is not apt to hanker for thirteen varieties of breakfastfood. She is more likely to look upon them with cold disdain. Ho matterhow good a breakfast food may be by itself and in the morning, it issomewhat unlovely at ten at night after devilled lobster and fifty-sevenvarieties of pickles. At the sight of it the star, instead of gailycarolling,--
"Joy! joy! isn't it nice To eat Cook's Flaked Rice,"
is apt to gag. After about six breakfast foods, her epiglottis andthorax will shut up shop and begin to turn wrong side out with a sicklygurgle. The whole company struck. They very sensibly remarked that ifthe troup had to keep up that sort of thing and eat every new breakfastfood that came out, the things needed were not men and women, but a herdof cows. They gave me notice that they one and all intended to leave atthe end of the week, and that they positively refused to eat anythingwhatever on the stage.
I went to Perkins and told him the game was up--that it was good whileit lasted, but that it was all over now. I said that the best thingwe could do was to sell our lease on the theatre and cancel our ad.contracts.
But not for a moment did my illustrious partner hesitate. The moment Ihad finished, he slapped me on the shoulder and smiled.
"Great!" he cried, "why not thought of sooner?"
And, in truth, the solution of our difficulty was a master triumph ofa master mind. It was simplicity itself. It made our theatre so popularthat there were riots every night, so eager were the crowds to get in.
People long to meet celebrities. If they meet an actor, they are happyfor days after. And after the theatre people crave something to eat.Perkins merely combined the two. We cut out the eating during the play,and after every performance our actors held a reception on the stage;and the entire audience was invited to step up and be introduced toBedelia O'Dale and the others, and partake of free refreshments, in theform of sugar-cured ham, beef extract, fifty-seven varieties of pickles,and thirteen kinds of breakfast foods, and other choice viands.
THE END.
Perkins of Portland: Perkins The Great Page 7
