Perkins of Portland: Perkins The Great

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: —

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, —

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

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: —

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: —

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: —

“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

“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: —

When I read this pretty poem to Kate, she began laughing at the first line, and I kept my eye on the water-pitcher, in case I should need it again to quell her hysterics; but, as I proceeded with the poem, she became thoughtful. When I had finished, her poet was laughing uproariously; but Kate was silent.

“Is it possible,” she said, “that out of these funny little pink things you make for yourself two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year?”

“Certainly,” I said. “Didn’t you understand that? I’ll read the poem again.”

“No! no!” she exclaimed, glancing hurriedly at the poet, who was still rolled up with laughter. “Don’t do that. I don’t like it as well as your other poems. I do not think it is half so funny, and I can’t see what Mr. Milward there sees in it that is so humorous.”

My face must have fallen; for I had put a great deal of faith in this poem, because of what Biggs had said. Kate saw it.

“You are not a real poet,” she said as gently as she could. “You lack the true celestial fire. Your poems all savor of those I read in the street-cars. Poets are born, and not made. The true poet is a noble soul, floating above the heads of common mortals, destined to live alone, and unmarried – ”

Mr. Milward sat up suddenly and ceased laughing.

“And now,” continued Kate, “I must ask you both to excuse me, for I am very tired.” But what do you think! As I was bowing good-night, while her poet was struggling into his rubber overshoes, she whispered, so that only I could hear: —

“Come up to-morrow evening. I will be all alone!”

When, two days later, I told Perkins of my engagement, he only said: —

“Pays to advertise.”

VII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE CRIMSON CORD

I HAD not seen Perkins for six months or so, and things were dull. I was beginning to tire of sitting indolently in my office, with nothing to do but clip coupons from my bonds. Money is good enough in its way, but it is not interesting unless it is doing something lively – doubling itself or getting lost. What I wanted was excitement, – an adventure, – and I knew that if I could find Perkins, I could have both. A scheme is a business adventure, and Perkins was the greatest schemer in or out of Chicago.

Just then Perkins walked into my office.

“Perkins,” I said, as soon as he had arranged his feet comfortably on my desk, “I’m tired. I’m restless. I have been wishing for you for a month. I want to go into a big scheme, and make a lot of new, up-to-date cash. I’m sick of this tame, old cash that I have. It isn’t interesting. No cash is interesting except the coming cash.”

“I’m with you,” said Perkins; “what is your scheme?”

“I have none,” I said sadly. “That is just my trouble. I have sat here for days trying to think of a good, practical scheme, but I can’t. I don’t believe there is an unworked scheme in the whole wide, wide world.” Perkins waved his hand.

“My boy,” he exclaimed, “there are millions! You’ve thousands of ‘em right here in your office! You’re falling over them, sitting on them, walking on them! Schemes? Everything is a scheme. Everything has money in it!”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Yes,” I said, “for you. But you are a genius.”

“Genius, yes,” Perkins said, smiling cheerfully, “else why Perkins the Great? Why Perkins the Originator? Why the Great and Only Perkins of Portland?”

“All right,” I said, “what I want is for your genius to get busy. I’ll give you a week to work up a good scheme.”

Perkins pushed back his hat, and brought his feet to the floor with a smack.

“Why the delay?” he queried. “Time is money. Hand me something from your desk.”

I looked in my pigeonholes, and pulled from one a small ball of string. Perkins took it in his hand, and looked at it with great admiration.

“What is it?” he asked seriously.

“That,” I said, humoring him, for I knew something great would be evolved from his wonderful brain, “is a ball of red twine I bought at the ten-cent store. I bought it last Saturday. It was sold to me by a freckled young lady in a white shirt-waist. I paid – ”

“Stop!” Perkins cried, “what is it?”

I looked at the ball of twine curiously. I tried to see something remarkable in it. I couldn’t. It remained a simple ball of red twine, and I told Perkins so.

“The difference,” declared Perkins, “between mediocrity and genius! Mediocrity always sees red twine; genius sees a ball of Crimson Cord!”

He leaned back in his chair, and looked at me triumphantly. He folded his arms as if he had settled the matter. His attitude seemed to say that he had made a fortune for us. Suddenly he reached forward, and, grasping my scissors, began snipping off small lengths of the twine.

“The Crimson Cord!” he ejaculated. “What does it suggest?”

I told him that it suggested a parcel from the druggist’s. I had often seen just such twine about a druggist’s parcel.

Perkins sniffed disdainfully.

“Druggists?” he exclaimed with disgust. “Mystery! Blood! ‘The Crimson Cord.’ Daggers! Murder! Strangling! Clues! ‘The Crimson Cord’ – ”

He motioned wildly with his hands, as if the possibilities of the phrase were quite beyond his power of expression.

“It sounds like a book,” I suggested.

“Great!” cried Perkins. “A novel! The novel! Think of the words ‘A Crimson Cord’ in blood-red letters six feet high on a white ground!” He pulled his hat over his eyes, and spread out his hands; and I think he shuddered.

“Think of ‘A Crimson Cord,’” he muttered, “in blood-red letters on a ground of dead, sepulchral black, with a crimson cord writhing through them like a serpent.”

He sat up suddenly, and threw one hand in the air.

“Think,” he cried, “of the words in black on white, with a crimson cord drawn taut across the whole ad.!”

He beamed upon me.

“The cover of the book,” he said quite calmly, “will be white, – virgin, spotless white, – with black lettering, and the cord in crimson. With each copy we will give a crimson silk cord for a book-mark. Each copy will be done up in a white box and tied with crimson cord.”

He closed his eyes and tilted his head upward.

“A thick book,” he said, “with deckel edges and pictures by Christy. No, pictures by Pyle. Deep, mysterious pictures! Shadows and gloom! And wide, wide margins. And a gloomy foreword. One-fifty per copy, at all booksellers.”

Perkins opened his eyes and set his hat straight with a quick motion of his hand. He arose and polled on his gloves.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Contracts!” he said. “Contracts for advertising! We most boom ‘The Crimson Cord!’ We must boom her big!”

He went out and closed the door. Presently, when I supposed him well on the way down-town, he opened the door and inserted his head.

“Gilt. tops,” he announced. “One million copies the first impression!”

And then he was gone.

A week later Chicago and the greater part of the United States was placarded with “The Crimson Cord.” Perkins did his work thoroughly and well, and great was the interest in the mysterious title. It was an old dodge, but a good one. Nothing appeared on the advertisements but the mere title. No word as to what “The Crimson Cord” was. Perkins merely announced the words, and left them to rankle in the reader’s mind; and as a natural consequence each new advertisement served to excite new interest.

When we made our contracts for magazine advertising, – and we took a full page in every worthy magazine, – the publishers were at a loss to classify the advertisement; and it sometimes appeared among the breakfast foods, and sometimes sandwiched in between the automobiles and the hot-water heaters. Only one publication placed it among the books.

But it was all good advertising, and Perkins was a busy man. He racked his inventive brain for new methods of placing the title before the public. In fact, so busy was he at his labor of introducing the title, that he quite forgot the book itself.

One day he came to the office with a small rectangular package. He unwrapped it in his customary enthusiastic manner, and set on my desk a cigar-box bound in the style he had selected for the binding of “The Crimson Cord.” It was then I spoke of the advisability of having something to the book besides the cover and a boom.

“Perkins,” I said, “don’t you think it is about time we got hold of the novel – the reading, the words?”

For a moment he seemed stunned. It was clear that he had quite forgotten that book-buyers like to have a little reading-matter in their books. But he was only dismayed for a moment.