Butler Ellis Parker
Perkins of Portland: Perkins The Great

V. THE ADVENTURE IN AUTOMOBILES

PERKINS and I sat on the veranda of one of the little road-houses on Jerome Avenue, and watched the auto-mobiles go by. There were many automobiles, of all sorts and colors, going at various speeds and in divers manners. It was a thrilling sight – the long rows of swiftly moving auto-vehicles running as smoothly as lines of verse, all neatly punctuated here and there by an automobile at rest in the middle of the road, like a period bringing the line to a full stop. And some, drawn to the edge of the road, stood like commas. There were others, too, that went snapping by with a noise like a bunch of exclamation-points going off in a keg. And not a few left a sulphurous, acrid odor, like the after-taste of a ripping Kipling ballad. I called Perkins’s attention to this poetical aspect of the thing, but he did not care for it. He seemed sad. The sight of the automobiles aroused an unhappy train of thought in his mind.

Perkins is the advertising man. Advertising is not his specialty. It is his life; it is his science. That is why he is known from Portland, Me., to Portland, Oreg., as Perkins the Great. There is but one Perkins. A single century could never produce two such as he. The job would be too big.

“Perky,” I said, “you look sad.”

He waved his hand toward the procession of horseless vehicles, and nodded.

“Sad!” he ejaculated. “Yes! Look at them. You are looking at them. Everybody looks at them. Wherever you go you see them – hear them – smell them. On every road, in every town – everywhere – nothing but automobiles; nothing but people looking at them – all eyes on them. I’m sad!”

“They are beautiful,” I ventured, “and useful.”

Perkins shook his head.

“Useless! Wasted! Thrown away! Look at them again. What do you see?” He stretched out his hand toward the avenue. I knew Perkins wanted me to see something I could not see, so I looked long enough to be quite sure I could not see it; and then I said, quite positively, —

“I see automobiles – dozens of them.”

“Ah!” Perkins cried with triumph. “You see automobiles! You see dozens of them! But you don’t see an ad. – not a single ad. You see dozens of moving things on wheels that people twist their necks to stare at. You see things that men, women, and children stand and gaze upon, and not an advertisement on any of them! Talk about wasted opportunity! Talk about good money thrown away! Just suppose every one of those automobiles carried a placard with ‘Use Perkins’s Patent Porous Plaster,’ upon it! Every man, woman, and child in New York would know of Perkins’s Patent Porous Plaster by this evening! It would be worth a million cold dollars! Sad? Yes! There goes a million dollars wasted, thrown away, out of reach!”

“Perkins,” I said, “you are right. It would be the greatest advertising opportunity of the age, but it can’t be done. Advertising space on those automobiles is not for sale.”

“No,” he admitted, “it’s not. That’s why Perkins hates the auto. It gives him no show. It is a fizzle, a twentieth-century abomination – an invention with no room for an ad. I’m tired. Let’s go home.”

We settled our small account with the waiter, and descended to the avenue, just as a large and violent automobile came to a full stop before us. There was evidently something wrong with the inwardness of that automobile; for the chauffeur began pulling and pushing levers, opening little cubby-holes, and poking into them, turning valves and cocks, and pressing buttons and things. But he did not find the soft spot.

I saw that Perkins smiled gleefully as the chauffeur did things to the automobile. It pleased Perkins to see automobiles break down. He had no use for them. They gave him no opportunity to display his talents. He considered them mere interloping monstrosities. As we started homeward, the chauffeur was on his back in the road, with his head and arms under his automobile, working hard, and swearing softly.

I did not see Perkins again for about four months, and when I did see him, I tried to avoid him; for I was seated in my automobile, which I had just purchased. I feared that Perkins might think my purchase was disloyal to him, knowing, as I did, his dislike for automobiles; but he hailed me with a cheery cry.

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “The automobile! The greatest product of man’s ingenious brain! The mechanical triumph of the twentieth century! Useful, ornamental, profitable!”

“Perky!” I cried, for I could scarcely believe my ears. “Is it possible? Have you so soon changed your idea of the auto? That isn’t like you, Perky!”

He caught his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, and waved his fingers slowly back and forth. “My boy,” he said, “Perkins of Portland conquers all things! Else why is he known as Perkins the Great? Genius, my boy, wins out. Before genius the automobile bows down like the camel, and takes aboard the advertisement. Perkins has conquered the automobile!”

I looked over my auto carefully. I had no desire to be a travelling advertisement even to please my friend Perkins. But I could notice nothing in the promotion and publicity line about my automobile. I held out my hand. “Perkins,” I said heartily, “I congratulate you. Is there money in it?” He glowed with pleasure. “Money?” he cried. “Loads of it. Thousands for Perkins – thousands for the automobile-makers – huge boom for the advertiser! Perkins put it to the auto-makers like this: ‘You make automobiles. All right. I’ll pay you for space on them. Just want room for four words, but must be on every automobile sent out. Perkins will pay well.’ Result – contract with every maker. Then to the advertiser: ‘Mr. Advertiser, I have space on every automobile to be made by leading American factories for next five years. Price, $100,000!’ Advertiser jumped at it! And there you are!”

I do not know whether Perkins meant his last sentence as a finale to his explanation or as a scoff at my automobile. In either case I was certainly “there,” for my auto took one of those unaccountable fits, and would not move. I dismounted and walked around the machine with a critical, inquiring eye. I poked gingerly into its ribs and exposed vitals; lifted up lids; turned thumb-screws, and shook everything that looked as if its working qualities would be improved by a little shaking, but my automobile continued to balk.

A few small boys suggested that I try coaxing it with a lump of sugar or building a fire under it, or some of the other remedies for balking animals; but Perkins stood by with his hands in his pockets and smiled. He seemed to be expecting something.

I am not proud, and I have but little fear of ridicule, but a man is only human. Fifth Avenue is not exactly the place where a man wishes to lie on the fiat of his back. To be explicit, I may say that when I want to lie on my back in the open air, I prefer to lie on a grassy hillside, with nothing above me but the blue sky, rather than on the asphalt pavement of Fifth Avenue, with the engine-room of an automobile half a foot above my face.

Perkins smiled encouragingly. The crowd seemed to be waiting for me to do it. I felt, myself, that I should have to do it. So I assumed the busy, intense, oblivious, hardened expression that is part of the game, and lay down on the top of the street. Personally, I did not feel that I was doing it as gracefully as I might after more practice; but the crowd were not exacting. They even cheered me, which was kind of them; but it did not relieve me of the idiotic sensation of going to bed in public with my clothes on.

If I had not been such an amateur I should doubtless have done it better; but it was disconcerting, after getting safely on my back, to find that I was several feet away from my automobile. I think it was then that I swore, but I am not sure. I know I swore about that time; but whether it was just then, or while edging over to the automobile, I cannot positively say.

I remember making up my mind to swear again as soon as I got my head and chest under the automobile, not because I am a swearing man, but to impress the crowd with the fact that I was not there because I liked it. I wanted them to think I detested it. I did detest it. But I did not swear. As my eyes looked upward for the first time at the underneath of my automobile, I saw this legend painted upon it: “Don’t swear. Drink Glenguzzle.”

Peering out from under my automobile, I caught Perkins’s eye. It was bright and triumphant. I looked about and across the avenue I saw another automobile standing.

As I look back, I think the crowd may have been justified in thinking me insane. At any rate, they crossed the avenue with me, and applauded me when I lay down under the other man’s automobile. When I emerged, they called my attention to several other automobiles that were standing near, and were really disappointed when I refused to lie down under them.

I did refuse, however, for I had seen enough.

This automobile also bore on its underside the words: “Don’t swear. Drink Glenguzzle.” And I was willing to believe that they were on all the automobiles.

I walked across the avenue again and shook hands with Perkins. “It’s great!” I said, enthusiastically.

Perkins nodded. He knew what I meant. He knew I appreciated his genius. In my mind’s eye I saw thousands and thousands of automobiles, in all parts of our great land, and all of them standing patiently while men lay on their backs under them, looking upward and wanting to swear. It was a glorious vision. I squeezed Perkins’s hand.

“It’s glorious!” I exclaimed.

VI. THE ADVENTURE OF THE POET

ABOUT the time Perkins and I were booming our justly famous Codliver Capsules, – you know them, of course, “sales, ten million boxes a year,” – I met Kate. She was sweet and pink as the Codliver Capsules. You recall the verse that went: —

 
“‘Pretty Polly, do you think,
Blue is prettier, or pink?’
‘Pink, sir,’ Polly said, ‘by far;
Thus Codliver Capsules are.’”
 

You see, we put them up in pink capsules.

“The pink capsules for the pale corpuscles.”

Perkins invented the phrase. It was worth forty thousand dollars to us. Wonderful man, Perkins!

But, as I remarked, Kate was as sweet and pink as Codliver Capsules; but she was harder to take. So hard, in fact, that I couldn’t seem to take her; and the one thing I wanted most was to take her – away from her home and install her in one of my own. I seemed destined to come in second in a race where there were only two starters, and in love-affairs you might as well be distanced as second place. The fellow who had the preferred location next pure reading-matter in Kate’s heart was a poet.

In any ordinary business I will back an advertising man against a poet every time, but this love proposition is a case of guess at results. You can’t key your ad. nor guarantee your circulation one day ahead; and, just as likely as not, some low-grade mailorder dude will step in, and take the contract away from a million-a-month home journal with a three-color cover. There I was, a man associated with Perkins the Great, with a poet of our own on our staff, cut out by a poet, and a Chicago poet at that. You can guess how high-grade he was.

The more I worked my follow-up system of bonbons and flowers, the less chance I seemed to have with Kate; and the reason was that she was a poetry fiend. You know the sort of girl. First thing she does when she meets you is to smile and say: “So glad to meet you. Who’s your favorite poet?”

She pretty nearly stumped me when she got that off on me. I don’t know a poem from a hymn-tune. I’m not a literary character. If you hand me anything with all the lines jagged on one end and headed with capital letters on the other end, I’ll take it for as good as anything in the verse line that Longfellow ever wrote. So when she asked me the countersign, “Who’s your favorite poet?” I gasped, and then, by a lucky chance, I got my senses back in time to say “Biggs” before she dropped me.

When I said Biggs, she looked dazed. I had run in a poet she had never heard of, and she thought I was the real thing in poetry lore. I never told her that Biggs was the young man we had at the office doing poems about the Codliver Capsules, but I couldn’t live up to my start; and, whenever she started on the poetry topic, I side-stepped to advertising talk. I was at home there, but you can’t get in as much soulful gaze when you are talking about how good the ads. in the “Home Weekly” are as when you are reciting sonnets; so the poet walked away from me. ‘I got Kate to the point where, when I handed her a new magazine, she would look through the advertising pages first; but she did not seem to enthuse over the Codliver Capsule pages any more than over the Ivory Soap pages, and I knew her heart was not mine.

When I began to get thin, Perkins noticed it, – he always noticed everything, – and I laid the whole case before him. He smiled disdainfully. He laid his hand on my arm and spoke.

“Why mourn?” he asked. “Why mope? Why fear a poet? Fight fire with fire; fight poetry with poetry! Why knuckle down to a little amateur poet when Perkins & Co. have a professional poet working six days a week? Use Biggs.”

He said “Use Biggs” just as he would have said “Use Codliver Capsules.” It was Perkins’s way to go right to the heart of things without wasting words. He talked in telegrams. He talked in caps, double leaded. I grasped his hand, for I saw his meaning. I was saved – or at least Kate was nailed. The expression is Perkins’s.

“Kate – hate, Kate – wait, Kate – mate,” he said, glowingly. “Good rhymes. Biggs can do the rest. We will nail Kate with poems. Biggs,” he said, turning to our poet, “make some nails.”

Biggs was a serious-minded youth, with a large, bulgy forehead in front, and a large bald spot at the back of his head, which seemed to be yearning to join the forehead. He was the most conceited donkey I ever knew, but he did good poetry. I can’t say that he ever did anything as noble as, —

“Perkins’s Patent Porous Plaster

Makes all pains and aches fly faster,”

but that was written by the immortal Perkins himself. It was Biggs who wrote the charming verse, —

 
“When corpuscles are thin and white,
Codliver Capsules set them right,”
and that other great hit, —
 
 
“When appetite begins to fail
And petty woes unnerve us,
When joy is fled and life is stale,
The Pink Capsules preserve us.
 
 
“When doubts and cares distress the mind
And daily duties bore us,
At fifty cents per box we find
The Pink Capsules restore us.”
 

You can see that an amateur poet who wrote such rot as the following to Kate would not be in the same class whatever: —

TO KATE

 
“Your lips are like cherries
All sprinkled with dew;
Your eyes are like diamonds,
Sparkling and true.
 
 
“Your teeth are like pearls in
A casket of roses,
And nature has found you
The dearest of noses.”
 

I had Kate copy that for me, and I gave it to Biggs to let him see what he would have to beat. He looked at it and smiled. He flipped over the pages of “Munton’s Magazine,” dipped his pen in the ink, and in two minutes handed me this: —

TO KATE

 
“Your lips are like
Lowney’s Bonbons, they’re so sweet;
Your eyes shine like pans
That Pearline has made neat.
 
 
“Your teeth are like Ivory Soap, they’re so white,
And your nose, like Pink Capsules,
Is simply all right!”
 

I showed it to Perkins, and asked him how he thought it would do. He read it over and shook his head.

“O. K.,” he said, “except Ivory Soap for teeth. Don’t like the idea. Suggests Kate may be foaming at the mouth next. Cut it out and say: —

 
“‘Your soul is like
Ivory Soap, it’s so white.’”
 

I sent the poem to Kate by the next mail, and that evening I called. She was very much pleased with the poem, and said it was witty, and just what she might have expected from me. She said it did not have as much soul as Tennyson’s “In Memoriam,” but that it was so different, one could hardly compare the two. She suggested that the first line ought to be illustrated. So the next morning I sent up a box of bonbons, – just as an illustration.

“Now, Biggs,” I said, “we have made a good start; and we want to keep things going. What we want now is a poem that will go right to the spot. Something that will show on the face of it that it was meant for her, and for no one else. The first effort is all right, but it might have been written for any girl.”

“Then,” said Biggs, “you’ll have to tell me how you stand with her, so I can have something to lay hold on.”

I told him as much as I could, just as I had told my noble Perkins; and Biggs dug in, and in a half-hour handed me: —

THE GIRL I LOVE

 
“I love a maid, and shall I tell you why?
It is not only that her soulful eye
Sets my heart beating at so huge a rate
That I’m appalled to feel it palpitate;
No! though her eye has power to conquer mine.
And fill my breast with feelings most divine,
Another thing my heart in love immersed —
Kate reads the advertising pages first!
 
 
“A Sunday paper comes to her fair hand
Teeming with news of every foreign land,
With social gossip, fashions new and rare,
And politics and scandal in good share,
With verse and prose and pictures, and the lore
Of witty writers in a goodly corps,
Wit, wisdom, humor, all things interspersed —
Kate reads the advertising pages first!
 
 
“The magazine, in brilliant cover bound,
Into her home its welcome way has found,
But, ere she reads the story of the trust,
Or tale of bosses, haughty and unjust,
Or tale of love, or strife, or pathos deep
That makes the gentle maiden shyly weep,
Or strange adventures thrillingly rehearsed,
Kate reads the advertising pages first!
 
 
“Give me each time the maid with such a mind,
The maid who is superior to her kind;
She feels the pulse-beats of the world of men,
The power of the advertiser’s pen;
She knows that fact more great than fiction
Is, And that the nation’s life-blood is its ‘biz.’
I love the maid who woman’s way reversed
And reads the advertising pages first!”
 

“Now, there,” said Biggs, “is something that ought to nail her sure. It is one of the best things I have ever done. I am a poet, and I know good poetry when I see it; and I give you my word that is the real article.”

I took Biggs’s word for it, and I think he was right; but he had forgotten to tell me that it was a humorous poem, and when Kate laughed over it, I was a little surprised. I don’t know that I exactly expected her to weep over it, but to me it seemed to be a rather soulful sort of thing when I read it. I thought there were two or three quite touching lines. But it worked well enough. She and her poet laughed over it; and, as it seemed the right thing to do, I screwed up my face and ha-ha’d a little, too, and it went off very well. Kate told me again that I was a genius, and her poet assured me that he would never have thought of writing a poem anything like it.

“Well, now,” said Biggs, when I had reported progress, “we want to keep following this thing right up. System is the whole thing. You have told her how nice she is in No. 1, and given a reason why she is loved in No. 2. What we want to do is to give her in No. 3 a reason why she should like you. Has she ever spoken of Codliver Capsules?”

So far as I could remember she had not.

“That is good,” said Biggs; “very good, indeed. She probably doesn’t identify you with them yet, or she would have thrown herself at your head long ago. We don’t want to brag about it – not yet. We want to break it to her gently. We want to be humble and undeserving. You must be a worm, so to speak.”

“Biggs,” I said, with dignity, “I don’t propose to be a worm, so to speak.”

“But,” he pleaded, “you must. It’s only poetic license.”

That was the first I knew that poets had to be licensed. But I don’t wonder they have to be. Even a dog has to be licensed, these days.

“You must be the humble worm,” continued Biggs, “so that later on you can blossom forth into the radiant conquering butterfly.”

I didn’t like that any better. I showed Biggs that worms don’t blossom. Plants blossom. And butterflies don’t conquer. And worms don’t turn into butterflies – caterpillars do.

“Very well,” said Biggs, “you must be the humble caterpillar, then.”

I told him I would rather be a caterpillar than a worm any day; and after we had argued for half an hour on whether it was any better to be a caterpillar than to be a worm.

Biggs remembered that it was only metaphorically speaking, after all, and that nothing would be said about worms or caterpillars in the poem, and he got down to work on No. 3. When he had it done, he put his feet on his desk and read it to me. He called it

HUMBLE MERIT

 
“No prince nor poet proud am I,
Nor scion of an ancient clan;
I cannot place my rank so high —
I’m the Codliver Capsule Man.
 
 
“No soulful sonnets I indite,
Nor do I play the pipes of Pan;
In five small words my place I write —
I’m the Codliver Capsule Man.
 
 
“No soldier bold, with many scars,
Nor hacking, slashing partisan;
I have not galloped to the wars —
I’m the Codliver Capsule Man.
 
 
“No, mine is not the wounding steel,
My life is on a gentler plan;
My mission is to cure and heal —
I’m the Codliver Capsule Man.
 
 
“I do not cause the poor distress
By hoarding all the gold I can;
I, advertising, pay the press —
I’m the Codliver Capsule Man.
 
 
“And if no sonnets I can write,
Pray do not put me under ban;
Remember, if your blood turns white,
I’m the Codliver Capsule Man!”
 

“Well,” asked Biggs, the morning after I had delivered the poem, “how did she take it?”

I looked at Biggs suspiciously. If I had seen a glimmer of an indication that he was fooling with me, I would have killed him; but he seemed to be perfectly serious.

“Was that poem intended to be humorous?” I asked.

“Why, yes! Yes! Certainly so,” Biggs replied. “At least it was supposed to be witty; to provoke a smile and good humor at least.”

“Then, Biggs,” I said, “it was a glorious success. They smiled. They smiled right out loud. In fact, they shouted. The poet and I had to pour water on Kate to get her out of the hysterics. It is all right, of course, to be funny; but the next time don’t be so awful funny. It is not worth while. I like to see Kate laugh, if it helps my cause; but I don’t want to have her die of laughter. It would defeat my ends.”

“That is so,” said Biggs, thoughtfully. “Did she say anything?”

“Yes,” I said; “when she was able to speak, she asked me if the poem was a love poem.”

“What did you tell her?” asked Biggs, and he leaned low over his desk, turning over papers.

“I told her it was,” I replied; “and she said that if any one was looking for a genius to annex to the family, they ought not to miss the chance.”

“Ah, ha!” said Biggs, proudly; “what did I tell you? You humbled yourself. You said, ‘See! I am only the lowly Codliver Capsule man;’ but you said it so cleverly, so artistically, that you gave the impression that you were a genius. You see what rapid strides you are making? Now here,” he added, taking a paper from his desk, “is No. 4, in which you gracefully and poetically come to the point of showing her your real standing. You have been humble – now you assert yourself in your real colors. When she reads this she will begin to see that you wish to make her your wife, for no man states his prospects thus clearly unless he means to propose soon. You will see that she will be ready to drop into your hand like a ripe peach from a bough. I have called this ‘Little Drops of Water.’”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “If this is going to have anything about the Codliver Capsules in it, don’t you think the title is just a little suggestive? You know our formula. Don’t you think that ‘Little Drops of Water’ is rather letting out a trade secret?” Biggs smiled sarcastically.

“Not at all,” he said. “The suggestion I intended to make was that ‘Little drops of water, Little grains of sand, Make the mighty ocean,’ etc. But if you wish, we will call it ‘Many a Mickle makes a Muckle’;” and he read the following poem in a clear, steady voice: —