likes. Please him--I took his name and address, and he is willing to come to us for eight shillings a week--and you please the people that buy. Not the people that glance through a paper when it is lying on the smoking-room table, and tell you it is damned good, but the people that plank down their penny. That's the sort we want.'
Peter Hope, able editor, with ideals, was shocked--indignant. William Clodd, business man, without ideals, talked figures.
'There's the advertiser to be thought of,' persisted Clodd. 'I don't pretend to be a George Washington, but what's the use of telling lies that sound like lies, even to one's self while one's telling them? Give me a genuine sale of twenty thousand, and I'll undertake, without committing myself, to convey an impression of forty. But when the actual figures are under eight thousand--well, it hampers you, if you happen to have a conscience.
'Give them every week a dozen columns of good, sound literature,' continued Clodd insinuatingly, 'but wrap it up in twenty-four columns of jam. It's the only way they'll take it, and you will be doing them good--educating them without their knowing it. All powder and no jam! Well, they don't open their mouths, that's all.'
Clodd was a man who knew how to get his way. Flipp--spelled Philip--Tweetel arrived in due course of time at 23, Crane Court, ostensibly to take up the position of Good Humour's office-boy; in reality, and without his being aware of it, to act as its literary taster. Stories in which Flipp became absorbed were accepted. Peter groaned, but contented himself with correcting only their grosser grammatical blunders; the experiment should be tried in all good faith. Humour at which Flipp laughed was printed. Peter tried to ease his conscience by increasing his subscription to the fund for destitute compositors, but only partially succeeded. Poetry that brought a tear to the eye of Flipp was given leaded type. People of taste and judgment said Good Humour had disappointed them. Its circulation, slowly but steadily, increased.
'See!' cried the delighted Clodd; 'told you so!'
'It's sad to think--' began Peter.
'Always is,' interrupted Clodd cheerfully. 'Moral--don't think too much.'
'Tell you what we'll do,' added Clodd. 'We'll make a fortune out of this paper. Then when we can afford to lose a little money, we'll launch a paper that shall appeal only to the intellectual portion of the public. Meanwhile--'
A squat black bottle with a label attached, standing on the desk, arrested Clodd's attention.
'When did this come?' asked Clodd.
'About an hour ago,' Peter told him.
'Any order with it?'
'I think so.' Peter searched for and found a letter addressed to 'William Clodd, Esq., Advertising Manager, Good Humour.' Clodd tore it open, hastily devoured it.
'Not closed up yet, are you?'
'No, not till eight o'clock.'
'Good! I want you to write me a par. Do it now, then you won't forget it. For the 'Walnuts and Wine' column.'
Peter sat down, headed a sheet of paper: 'For W. and W. Col.'
'What is it?' questioned Peter--'something to drink?'
'It's a sort of port,' explained Clodd, 'that doesn't get into your head.'
'You consider that an advantage?' queried Peter.
'Of course. You can drink more of it.'
Peter continued to write: 'Possesses all the qualities of an old vintage port, without those deleterious properties--' 'I haven't tasted it, Clodd,' hinted Peter.
'That's all right--I have.'
'And was it good?'
'Splendid stuff. Say it's 'delicious and invigorating.' They'll be sure to quote that.'
Peter wrote on: 'Personally I have found it delicious and--' Peter left off writing. 'I really think, Clodd, I ought to taste it. You see, I am personally recommending it.'
'Finish that par. Let me have it to take round to the printers. Then put the bottle in your pocket. Take it home and make a night of it.'
Clodd appeared to be in a mighty hurry. Now, this made Peter only the more suspicious. The bottle was close to his hand. Clodd tried to intercept him, but was not quick enough.
'You're not used to temperance drinks,' urged Clodd. 'Your palate is not accustomed to them.'
'I can tell whether it's 'delicious' or not, surely?' pleaded Peter, who had pulled out the cork.
'It's a quarter-page advertisement for thirteen weeks. Put it down and don't be a fool!' urged Clodd.
'I'm going to put it down,' laughed Peter, who was fond of his joke. Peter poured out half a tumblerful, and drank--some of it.
'Like it?' demanded Clodd, with a savage grin.
'You are sure--you are sure it was the right bottle?' gasped Peter.
'Bottle's all right,' Clodd assured him. 'Try some more. Judge it fairly.'
Peter ventured on another sip. 'You don't think they would be satisfied if I recommended it as a medicine?' insinuated Peter--'something to have about the house in case of accidental poisoning?'
'Better go round and suggest the idea to them yourself. I've done with it.' Clodd took up his hat.
'I'm sorry--I'm very sorry,' sighed Peter. 'But I couldn't conscientiously--'
Clodd put down his hat again with a bang. 'Oh! confound that conscience of yours! Don't it ever think of your creditors? What's the use of my working out my lungs for you, when all you do is to hamper me at every step?'
'Wouldn't it be better policy,' urged Peter, 'to go for the better class of advertiser, who doesn't ask you for this sort of thing?'
'Go for him!' snorted Clodd. 'Do you think I don't go for him? They are just sheep. Get one, you get the lot. Until you've got the one, the others won't listen to you.'
'That's true,' mused Peter. 'I spoke to Wilkinson, of Kingsley's, myself. He advised me to try and get Landor's. He thought that if I could get an advertisement out of Landor, he might persuade his people to give us theirs.'
'And if you had gone to Landor, he would have promised you theirs provided you got Kingsley's.'
'They will come,' thought hopeful Peter. 'We are going up steadily. They will come with a rush.'
'They had better come soon,' thought Clodd. 'The only things coming with a rush just now are bills.'
'Those articles of young McTear's attracted a good deal of attention,' expounded Peter. 'He has promised to write me another series.'
'Jowett is the one to get hold of,' mused Clodd. 'Jowett, all the others follow like a flock of geese waddling after the old gander. If only we could get hold of Jowett, the rest would be easy.'
Jowett was the proprietor of the famous Marble Soap. Jowett spent on advertising every year a quarter of a million, it was said. Jowett was the stay and prop of periodical literature. New papers that secured the Marble Soap advertisement lived and prospered; the new paper to which it was denied languished and died. Jowett, and how to get hold of him; Jowett, and how to get round him, formed the chief topic of discussion at the council-board of most new papers, Good Humour amongst the number.
'I have heard,' said Miss Ramsbotham, who wrote the Letter to Clorinda that filled each week the last two pages of Good Humour, and that told Clorinda, who lived secluded in the country, the daily history of the highest class society, among whom Miss Ramsbotham appeared to live and have her being; who they were, and what they wore, the wise and otherwise things they did--'I have heard,' said Miss Ramsbotham one morning, Jowett being as usual the subject under debate, 'that the old man is susceptible to female influence.'
'What I have always thought,' said Clodd. 'A lady advertising-agent might do well. At all events, they couldn't kick her out.'
'They might in the end,' thought Peter. 'Female door-porters would become a profession for muscular ladies if ever the idea took root.'
'The first one would get a good start, anyhow,' thought Clodd.
The sub-editor had pricked up her ears. Once upon a time, long ago, the sub-editor had succeeded, when all other London journalists had failed, in securing an interview with a certain great statesman. The sub-editor had never forgotten this--nor allowed anyone else to forget it,
'I believe I could get it for you,' said the sub-editor.
