‘Well,’ I said, ‘as long as your strength holds out and you can go on putting a few more patches on papa’s pants, we’ll just pass up buying clothes.”’
“That’s right, brother.
And just look at collars, frinstance—”
“Hey!
Wait!” the fat man protested.
“What’s the matter with collars?
I’m selling collars!
D’ you realize the cost of labor on collars is still two hundred and seven per cent. above—”
They voted that if their old friend the fat man sold collars, then the price of collars was exactly what it should be; but all other clothing was tragically too expensive.
They admired and loved one another now.
They went profoundly into the science of business, and indicated that the purpose of manufacturing a plow or a brick was so that it might be sold.
To them, the Romantic Hero was no longer the knight, the wandering poet, the cowpuncher, the aviator, nor the brave young district attorney, but the great sales-manager, who had an Analysis of Merchandizing Problems on his glass-topped desk, whose title of nobility was “Go-getter,” and who devoted himself and all his young samurai to the cosmic purpose of Selling—not of selling anything in particular, for or to anybody in particular, but pure Selling.
The shop-talk roused Paul Riesling.
Though he was a player of violins and an interestingly unhappy husband, he was also a very able salesman of tar-roofing.
He listened to the fat man’s remarks on “the value of house-organs and bulletins as a method of jazzing-up the Boys out on the road;” and he himself offered one or two excellent thoughts on the use of two-cent stamps on circulars.
Then he committed an offense against the holy law of the Clan of Good Fellows.
He became highbrow.
They were entering a city.
On the outskirts they passed a steel-mill which flared in scarlet and orange flame that licked at the cadaverous stacks, at the iron-sheathed walls and sullen converters.
“My Lord, look at that—beautiful!” said Paul.
“You bet it’s beautiful, friend.
That’s the Shelling-Horton Steel Plant, and they tell me old John Shelling made a good three million bones out of munitions during the war!” the man with the velour hat said reverently.
“I didn’t mean—I mean it’s lovely the way the light pulls that picturesque yard, all littered with junk, right out of the darkness,” said Paul.
They stared at him, while Babbitt crowed,
“Paul there has certainly got one great little eye for picturesque places and quaint sights and all that stuff.
‘D of been an author or something if he hadn’t gone into the roofing line.”
Paul looked annoyed. (Babbitt sometimes wondered if Paul appreciated his loyal boosting.) The man in the velour hat grunted,
“Well, personally, I think Shelling-Horton keep their works awful dirty.
Bum routing.
But I don’t suppose there’s any law against calling ‘em ‘picturesque’ if it gets you that way!”
Paul sulkily returned to his newspaper and the conversation logically moved on to trains.
“What time do we get into Pittsburg?” asked Babbitt.
“Pittsburg?
I think we get in at—no, that was last year’s schedule—wait a minute—let’s see—got a time-table right here.”
“I wonder if we’re on time?”
“Yuh, sure, we must be just about on time.”
“No, we aren’t—we were seven minutes late, last station.”
“Were we?
Straight?
Why, gosh, I thought we were right on time.”
“No, we’re about seven minutes late.”
“Yuh, that’s right; seven minutes late.”
The porter entered—a negro in white jacket with brass buttons.
“How late are we, George?” growled the fat man.
“‘Deed, I don’t know, sir.
I think we’re about on time,” said the porter, folding towels and deftly tossing them up on the rack above the washbowls.
The council stared at him gloomily and when he was gone they wailed:
“I don’t know what’s come over these niggers, nowadays.
They never give you a civil answer.”
“That’s a fact.