man came in from the car, but as all the seats were full he stood up while he smoked his cigarette. He was an Outsider; he was not one of the Old Families of the smoking-compartment. They looked upon him bleakly and, after trying to appear at ease by examining his chin in the mirror, he gave it up and went out in silence.
“Just been making a trip through the South. Business conditions not very good down there,” said one of the council.
“Is that a fact! Not very good, eh?”
“No, didn't strike me they were up to normal.”
“Not up to normal, eh?”
“No, I wouldn't hardly say they were.”
The whole council nodded sagely and decided, “Yump, not hardly up to snuff.”
“Well, business conditions ain't what they ought to be out West, neither, not by a long shot.”
“That's a fact. And I guess the hotel business feels it. That's one good thing, though: these hotels that've been charging five bucks a day — yes, and maybe six — seven! — for a rotten room are going to be darn glad to get four, and maybe give you a little service.”
“That's a fact. Say, uh, speaknubout hotels, I hit the St. Francis at San Francisco for the first time, the other day, and, say, it certainly is a first-class place.”
“You're right, brother! The St. Francis is a swell place — absolutely A1.”
“That's a fact. I'm right with you. It's a first-class place.”
“Yuh, but say, any of you fellows ever stay at the Rippleton, in Chicago? I don't want to knock — I believe in boosting wherever you can — but say, of all the rotten dumps that pass 'emselves off as first-class hotels, that's the worst. I'm going to get those guys, one of these days, and I told 'em so. You know how I am — well, maybe you don't know, but I'm accustomed to first-class accommodations, and I'm perfectly willing to pay a reasonable price. I got into Chicago late the other night, and the Rippleton's near the station — I'd never been there before, but I says to the taxi-driver — I always believe in taking a taxi when you get in late; may cost a little more money, but, gosh, it's worth it when you got to be up early next morning and out selling a lot of crabs — and I said to him, 'Oh, just drive me over to the Rippleton.'
“Well, we got there, and I breezed up to the desk and said to the clerk, 'Well, brother, got a nice room with bath for Cousin Bill?' Saaaay! You'd 'a' thought I'd sold him a second, or asked him to work on Yom Kippur! He hands me the cold-boiled stare and yaps, 'I dunno, friend, I'll see,' and he ducks behind the rigamajig they keep track of the rooms on. Well, I guess he called up the Credit Association and the American Security League to see if I was all right — he certainly took long enough — or maybe he just went to sleep; but finally he comes out and looks at me like it hurts him, and croaks, 'I think I can let you have a room with bath.' 'Well, that's awful nice of you — sorry to trouble you — how much 'll it set me back?' I says, real sweet. 'It'll cost you seven bucks a day, friend,' he says.
“Well, it was late, and anyway, it went down on my expense-account — gosh, if I'd been paying it instead of the firm, I'd 'a' tramped the streets all night before I'd 'a' let any hick tavern stick me seven great big round dollars, believe me! So I lets it go at that. Well, the clerk wakes a nice young bell hop — fine lad — not a day over seventy-nine years old — fought at the Battle of Gettysburg and doesn't know it's over yet — thought I was one of the Confederates, I guess, from the way he looked at me — and Rip van Winkle took me up to something — I found out afterwards they called it a room, but first I thought there'd been some mistake — I thought they were putting me in the Salvation Army collection-box! At seven per each and every diem! Gosh!”
“Yuh, I've heard the Rippleton was pretty cheesy. Now, when I go to Chicago I always stay at the Blackstone or the La Salle — first-class places.”
“Say, any of you fellows ever stay at the Birchdale at Terre Haute? How is it?”
“Oh, the Birchdale is a first-class hotel.”
(Twelve minutes of conference on the state of hotels in South Bend, Flint, Dayton, Tulsa, Wichita, Fort Worth, Winona, Erie, Fargo, and Moose Jaw.)
“Speaknubout prices,” the man in the velour hat observed, fingering the elk-tooth on his heavy watch-chain, “I'd like to know where they get this stuff about clothes coming down. Now, you take this suit I got on.” He pinched his trousers-leg. “Four years ago I paid forty-two fifty for it, and it was real sure-'nough value. Well, here the other day I went into a store back home and asked to see a suit, and the fellow yanks out some hand-me-downs that, honest, I wouldn't put on a hired man. Just out of curiosity I asks him, 'What you charging for that junk?' 'Junk,' he says, 'what d' you mean junk? That's a swell piece of goods, all wool — ' Like hell! It was nice vegetable wool, right off the Ole Plantation! 'It's all wool,' he says, 'and we get sixty-seven ninety for it.' 'Oh, you do, do you!' I says. 'Not from me you don't,' I says, and I walks right out on him. You bet! I says to the wife, 'Well,' I said, 'as long as your strength holds out and you can go on putting a few more patches on papa's pants, we'll just pass up buying clothes.”'
“That's right, brother. And just look at collars, frinstance — ”
“Hey! Wait!” the fat man protested. “What's the matter with collars? I'm selling collars! D' you realize the cost of labor on collars is still two hundred and seven per cent. above — ”
They voted that if their old friend the fat man sold collars, then the price of collars was exactly what it should be; but all other clothing was tragically too expensive. They admired and loved one another now. They went profoundly into the science of business, and indicated that the purpose of manufacturing a plow or a brick was so that it might be sold. To them, the Romantic Hero was no longer the knight, the wandering poet, the cowpuncher, the aviator, nor the brave young district attorney, but the great sales-manager, who had an Analysis of Merchandizing Problems on his glass-topped desk, whose title of nobility was “Go-getter,” and who devoted himself and all his young samurai to the cosmic purpose of Selling — not of selling anything in particular, for or to anybody in particular, but pure Selling.
The shop-talk roused Paul Riesling. Though he was a player of violins and an interestingly unhappy husband, he was also a very able salesman of tar-roofing. He listened to the fat man's remarks on “the value of house-organs and bulletins as a method of jazzing-up the Boys out on the road;” and he himself offered one or two excellent thoughts on the use of two-cent stamps on circulars. Then he committed an offense against the holy law of the Clan of Good Fellows. He became highbrow.
They were entering a city. On the outskirts they passed a steel-mill which flared in scarlet and orange flame that licked at the cadaverous stacks, at the iron-sheathed walls and sullen converters.
“My Lord, look at that — beautiful!” said Paul.
“You bet it's beautiful, friend. That's the Shelling-Horton Steel Plant, and they tell me old John Shelling made a good three million bones out of munitions during the war!” the man with the velour hat said reverently.
“I didn't mean — I mean it's lovely the way the light pulls that picturesque yard, all littered with junk, right out of the darkness,” said Paul.
They stared at him, while Babbitt crowed, “Paul there has certainly got one great little eye for picturesque places and quaint sights and all that stuff. 'D of been an author or something if he hadn't gone into the roofing line.”
