“Think of the nice juicy bits he could get in!” Babbitt crowed. “Not only the big, salient, vital facts, about how fast the Sunday School—and the collection—is growing, but a lot of humorous gossip and kidding: about how some blowhard fell down on his pledge to get new members, or the good time the Sacred Trinity class of girls had at their wieniewurst party. And on the side, if he had time, the press-agent might even boost the lessons themselves—do a little advertising for all the Sunday Schools in town, in fact. No use being hoggish toward the rest of ’em, providing we can keep the bulge on ’em in membership. Frinstance, he might get the papers to—Course I haven’t got a literary training like Frink here, and I’m just guessing how the pieces ought to be written, but take frinstance, suppose the week’s lesson is about Jacob; well, the press-agent might get in something that would have a fine moral, and yet with a trick headline that’d get folks to read it—say like: ’Jake Fools the Old Man; Makes Getaway with Girl and Bankroll.’ See how I mean? That’d get their interest! Now, course, Mr. Eathorne, you’re conservative, and maybe you feel these stunts would be undignified, but honestly, I believe they’d bring home the bacon.”
Eathorne folded his hands on his comfortable little belly and purred like an aged pussy:
“May I say, first, that I have been very much pleased by your analysis of the situation, Mr. Babbitt. As you surmise, it’s necessary in My Position to be conservative, and perhaps endeavor to maintain a certain standard of dignity. Yet I think you’ll find me somewhat progressive. In our bank, for example, I hope I may say that we have as modern a method of publicity and advertising as any in the city. Yes, I fancy you’ll find us oldsters quite cognizant of the shifting spiritual values of the age. Yes, oh yes. And so, in fact, it pleases me to be able to say that though personally I might prefer the sterner Presbyterianism of an earlier era—”
Babbitt finally gathered that Eathorne was willing.
Chum Frink suggested as part-time press-agent one Kenneth Escott, reporter on the Advocate-Times.
They parted on a high plane of amity and Christian helpfulness.
Babbitt did not drive home, but toward the center of the city. He wished to be by himself and exult over the beauty of intimacy with William Washington Eathorne.
A snow-blanched evening of ringing pavements and eager lights.
Great golden lights of trolley-cars sliding along the packed snow of the roadway. Demure lights of little houses. The belching glare of a distant foundry, wiping out the sharp-edged stars. Lights of neighborhood drug stores where friends gossiped, well pleased, after the day’s work.
The green light of a police-station, and greener radiance on the snow; the drama of a patrol-wagon—gong beating like a terrified heart, headlights scorching the crystal-sparkling street, driver not a chauffeur but a policeman proud in uniform, another policeman perilously dangling on the step at the back, and a glimpse of the prisoner. A murderer, a burglar, a coiner cleverly trapped?