Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (125 page)

“Doesn’t it occur to you, Guv’nor, that we’re getting this thing just a trifle too high class?”

“What makes you think that?” demanded Peter Hope.

“Our circulation, for one thing,” explained Clodd. “The returns for last month—”

“I’d rather you didn’t mention them, if you don’t mind,” interrupted Peter Hope; “somehow, hearing the actual figures always depresses me.”

“Can’t say I feel inspired by them myself,” admitted Clodd.

“It will come,” said Peter Hope, “it will come in time. We must educate the public up to our level.”

“If there is one thing, so far as I have noticed,” said William Clodd, “that the public are inclined to pay less for than another, it is for being educated.”

“What are we to do?” asked Peter Hope.

“What you want,” answered William Clodd, “is an office-boy.”

“How will our having an office-boy increase our circulation?” demanded Peter Hope. “Besides, it was agreed that we could do without one for the first year. Why suggest more expense?”

“I don’t mean an ordinary office-boy,” explained Clodd. “I mean the sort of boy that I rode with in the train going down to Stratford yesterday.”

“What was there remarkable about him?”

“Nothing. He was reading the current number of the
Penny Novelist
. Over two hundred thousand people buy it. He is one of them. He told me so. When he had done with it, he drew from his pocket a copy of the
Halfpenny Joker
— they guarantee a circulation of seventy thousand. He sat and chuckled over it until we got to Bow.”

“But—”

“You wait a minute. I’m coming to the explanation. That boy represents the reading public. I talked to him. The papers he likes best are the papers that have the largest sales. He never made a single mistake. The others — those of them he had seen — he dismissed as ‘rot.’ What he likes is what the great mass of the journal-buying public 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.

The editor and the business-manager both spoke together. They spoke with decision and with emphasis.

“Why not?” said the sub-editor. “When nobody else could get at him, it was I who interviewed Prince—”

“We’ve heard all about that,” interrupted the business-manager. “If I had been your father at the time, you would never have done it.”

“How could I have stopped her?” retorted Peter Hope. “She never said a word to me.”

“You could have kept an eye on her.”

“Kept an eye on her! When you’ve got a girl of your own, you’ll know more about them.”

“When I have,” asserted Clodd, “I’ll manage her.”

“We know all about bachelor’s children,” sneered Peter Hope, the editor.

“You leave it to me. I’ll have it for you before the end of the week,” crowed the sub-editor.

“If you do get it,” returned Clodd, “I shall throw it out, that’s all.”

“You said yourself a lady advertising-agent would be a good idea,” the sub-editor reminded him.

“So she might be,” returned Clodd; “but she isn’t going to be you.”

“Why not?”

“Because she isn’t, that’s why.”

“But if—”

“See you at the printer’s at twelve,” said Clodd to Peter, and went out suddenly.

“Well, I think he’s an idiot,” said the sub-editor.

“I do not often,” said the editor, “but on this point I agree with him. Cadging for advertisements isn’t a woman’s work.”

“But what is the difference between—”

“All the difference in the world,” thought the editor.

“You don’t know what I was going to say,” returned his sub.

“I know the drift of it,” asserted the editor.

“But you let me—”

“I know I do — a good deal too much. I’m going to turn over a new leaf.”

“All I propose to do—”

“Whatever it is, you’re not going to do it,” declared the chief. “Shall be back at half-past twelve, if anybody comes.”

“It seems to me—” But Peter was gone.

“Just like them all,” wailed the sub-editor. “They can’t argue; when you explain things to them, they go out. It does make me so mad!”

Miss Ramsbotham laughed. “You are a downtrodden little girl, Tommy.”

“As if I couldn’t take care of myself!” Tommy’s chin was high up in the air.

“Cheer up,” suggested Miss Ramsbotham. “Nobody ever tells me not to do anything. I would change with you if I could.”

“I’d have walked into that office and have had that advertisement out of old Jowett in five minutes, I know I would,” bragged Tommy. “I can always get on with old men.”

“Only with the old ones?” queried Miss Ramsbotham.

The door opened. “Anybody in?” asked the face of Johnny Bulstrode, appearing in the jar.

“Can’t you see they are?” snapped Tommy.

“Figure of speech,” explained Johnny Bulstrode, commonly called “the Babe,” entering and closing the door behind him.

“What do you want?” demanded the sub-editor.

“Nothing in particular,” replied the Babe.

“Wrong time of the day to come for it, half-past eleven in the morning,” explained the sub-editor.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked the Babe.

“Feeling very cross,” confessed the sub-editor.

The childlike face of the Babe expressed sympathetic inquiry.

“We are very indignant,” explained Miss Ramsbotham, “because we are not allowed to rush off to Cannon Street and coax an advertisement out of old Jowett, the soap man. We feel sure that if we only put on our best hat, he couldn’t possibly refuse us.”

“No coaxing required,” thought the sub-editor. “Once get in to see the old fellow and put the actual figures before him, he would clamour to come in.”

“Won’t he see Clodd?” asked the Babe.

“Won’t see anybody on behalf of anything new just at present, apparently,” answered Miss Ramsbotham. “It was my fault. I was foolish enough to repeat that I had heard he was susceptible to female charm. They say it was Mrs. Sarkitt that got the advertisement for
The Lamp
out of him. But, of course, it may not be true.”