“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.
II
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?
