Читать книгу Andy Blake's Comet Coaster - Edward Edson Lee - Страница 3

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Andy Blake had the somewhat scattered feeling of being jerked out of his thoughts as the brakeman thrust his head and shoulders into the coach door and intoned the name of the railroad station.

The young advertising man knew, of course, that he was getting close to Manton; but he had failed to observe the kaleidoscopic picture of dwellings and grimy factory chimneys that flitted past the car window. Everything had been excluded from his mind except the Warman Carriage Company inquiry. In shaping his plans for handling the inquiry it was his determination to acquit himself, and his company through him, in a creditable manner.

Very trim and businesslike he appeared as he passed briskly down the aisle. A year in the city had taught him many things that have a bearing on a young man’s success in the industrial world. He had developed poise. There was a keenness in his movements, in his brisk, elastic steps, and in the alert expression of his round, friendly face. His warm brown eyes seemed to snap with suppressed energy. Full of ambition and purpose; a worker; a wide-awake youth with big dreams—advertising dreams, selling dreams, merchandising dreams—Andy was the type of boy who finds a way to worth-while victories in the great lanes of business.

About to inquire his way to the Warman Carriage Company office, he was arrested by a hand that fell lightly on his arm. Turning quickly, he found himself looking into a face that was young in its pleasing fullness and color but rather old in its expression of graveness and reserve.

“I imagine that you are Mr. Andrew Blake.”

Andy promptly acknowledged ownership of the name and held out a friendly hand.

“My name is Harry Harnden,” stated the serious-looking young man, returning the hearty handclasp. “George Warman asked me to meet you. If you will come this way, please.”

Exchanging snatches of conventional conversation as they walked away from the depot, the two young men passed a block of dingy houses fronting on the railroad track, after which they turned into a business thoroughfare.

Andy liked the appearance of the stores. They carried an air of prosperity. The wide street, busy under the ebb and flow of the early afternoon traffic, was a smooth stretch of asphalt. There was a small central park with scattered green benches. A number of children were playing in the park band stand, chasing each other, with shrill cries, up the steps and over the wooden railing, from where they dropped to the ground.

“A typical Illinois manufacturing town,” mused the observing young visitor, in shaping his opinion of Manton. “Big enough to have desirable city ways and small enough to be neighborly.”

As he kept pace with his silent companion he found his thoughts returning to the letter, a copy of which was now contained within his inner coat pocket, that Rollins and Hatch had received from the Warman Carriage Company. In substance the letter read: “We are anxious to learn to what extent advertising may be used to widen the market for carriages. If you will send a man to talk the matter over with us we will gladly defray his expenses. Kindly let us know in advance what day he will be here.”

A member of the copy staff of the Rollins and Hatch advertising agency, where we had left him in the conclusion of the initial volume of this series, Andy had been spending a short spring vacation with his widowed mother in Cressfield, his home town, when the Chicago agency employing him had gotten in touch with him on long distance. Without difficulty he had recognized the cheery voice of his young office companion.

“Hello, little one,” had been Tom Dingley’s characteristic facetious greeting. “Listen. I’ve got a job for you. Mr. Hatch wants you to add a day or two to your vacation—”

“How lovely,” Andy had interjected, knowing Dingley well.

“—and go down to Manton—it’s a little town about fifty miles south of Cressfield—and call on George Warman, Jr., of the Warman Carriage Company.”

“What for?” Andy had wanted to know.

“Business—maybe. It’s worth looking into. Rated at two hundred and fifty thousand, first-grade credit. Not so worse.”

“Have they been bit by the advertising bug?” Andy had inquired.

“Kinda looks that way. If there’s anything in it for us, sign ’em up temporarily and we’ll reward you with a box of cough drops when you get back to your desk next week.”

“I’ve got an awful cough,” Andy had barked into the mouthpiece.

“Which proves that you’ve been exposing yourself to the damp night air in some young lady’s porch swing. Now, pull out your nickel-plated Eversharp and take down this letter.”

This took two minutes.

“Well, so long,” Dingley had concluded the conversation. “I’ve talked two dollars’ worth. If I run the bill any higher Mr. Hatch will call a special directors’ meeting. You know how tight he is! When the inquiry came in I wanted to follow it up myself. No, sir, he saw a way of saving money by having you take care of it.”

“But had you not thought that I’m a bit young?”

“Oh, don’t let that worry you. We’ll write and tell them that you’re older than you look . . . and smarter, too! Good luck, old hunk. Give my regards to the village pump.”

The guide’s earnest voice cut in on Andy’s thoughts.

“This is our carriage factory, Mr. Blake.”

The two young men passed through a wooden gate, the weathered posts of which formed a sagging arch, while at each side a rusted wire fence stretched out, obviously enclosing the group of shabby, flat-roofed buildings that met Andy’s observing eyes. These buildings, some of which were two stories, some three stories, were cheaply constructed of wood. At some definite point the business had started, and expansion had been simply a process of building on.

From the factory there came no sounds of flapping belts; no whir of revolving machinery. Possibly the guide read the question in Andy’s eyes.

“We are closed down for a week,” he explained. “An efficiency vacation, we call it. As a matter of fact, the factory’s idleness is no hardship for us. For we are over-stocked with carriages; the orders haven’t been coming in.”

There was a detached office, a square wooden building, and opening the door the grave-faced guide courteously stood to one side on the worn door stone.

Andy found himself in a small lobby, beyond the corral of which he could see vacated desks. There was a dusty, papery stuffiness in the atmosphere. The office walls were depressingly time-stained; the furniture seemed ashamed of its creaky joints and marred surfaces. A tall iron vault door was set into one of the office walls, giving the room somewhat the aspect of a prison. Just without the vault entrance was a high, old-fashioned bookkeeping desk with its battery of pens and inkwells.

The guide reached out and touched the desk. There was a softer quality in his voice when he informed:

“I work at this desk. Bookkeeper. We haven’t much in that line to work with. For Mr. Warman is old-fashioned in his business ideas.”

“I imagine,” came politely, “that it is hard to do good work under such conditions.”

A flush mounted to the bookkeeper’s face.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Mr. Warman is a wonderfully kind old gentleman. It’s just his way, I suppose. He has done a lot for the men who work here. He keeps all the old hands, notwithstanding the fact that we’ve carried red balances for the past three years.”

“I take it that there are two Mr. Warmans,” said Andy, recalling that the letter had been signed George Warman, Jr.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Herman Warman is the owner of the factory and the old gentleman to whom I just referred. His son, George, is dead. George, Jr., is the young man who wrote to your company.”

“I understand. And is George, Jr., one of the managers?”

The bookkeeper laughed.

“Oh, no! Old Mr. Warman recognizes no authority but himself. He’s a bit stubborn and unreasonable in that respect. George helps out here and there. Mostly in the factory. He has a good business head. If he had his way we’d be more up-to-date in our equipment and methods. We talk over a lot of things—George and I and Tim Dine. Tim is a machine bug. You know his kind—always thinking up ways of producing things better and cheaper. But Mr. Warman wants the factory left unchanged. Talk new ideas to him and he goes up in the air. About twice a month he fires Tim, then hires him back. Tim would have left us long ago, for a steady job elsewhere, if it hadn’t been for George.”

Andy’s eyes sparkled. What a great game it would be, he told himself in boyish enthusiasm, to join forces with these ambitious young men and put this dying business—this fallen industrial giant—back onto its feet. He felt that advertising could do it.

“Our greatest weakness lies in our selling end,” Harnden proceeded, as though he read the other’s thoughts. “It’s no use for us to think up better manufacturing schemes if we can’t market what we build. The carriage industry, as you probably know, has met with severe reverses lately. A great many of the old carriage companies have gone out of business. But there still is a market for some carriages. George contends that advertising will enable us to reach that market and hold it. That’s why he sent for you to come here, advertising being your business. He wants you to tell us, if you can, how we can make the name ‘Warman’ mean the same thing in the carriage field that ‘Packard’ means in the automobile field. Mr. Warman, of course, knows nothing of what is going on.”

Andy smiled.

“With four of us working together we ought to be able to win the old gentleman over.”

The bookkeeper’s eyes glowed.

“You really think then, Mr. Blake, that we can put it across?”

Andy had supreme confidence in the power of advertising. If an article had merit, was his professional view, the right kind of advertising would sell it. He so expressed himself.

“As George says, things are coming to a show-down,” the encouraged bookkeeper then went on. “We’ve let Mr. Warman have his way in everything. The result, as I say, shows in red balances and idle machines. Now he must listen to us, and consent to the application of modern methods, or we’ll have to abandon the business. If you can show us that advertising will enable us to sell our carriages, George will try and induce his grandfather to O.K. the appropriation. Maybe I have told you more than I should. George will be here presently. He ’phoned to me at noon, stating that he had to drive over to Kingston on an errand for his grandfather.”

“How old is George?” Andy inquired.

“Nineteen.”

“The grandfather must be quite old.”

“He is in his seventies, I believe.”

“Old enough, I should say, to retire.”

“So George said a few weeks ago. You should have heard the old gentleman pound his desk! That’s a trick of his.”

“Maybe you and George should do some desk pounding,” Andy grinned.

“I’ve often thought that if we had the courage to talk up to Mr. Warman we’d make more progress. For he says he likes a fighter. There’s a framed quotation to that effect on his office wall.”

“That being the case,” laughed Andy, little realizing the ludicrous circumstances that were to follow the application of the scheme that he was recommending, “I surely would take him at his word.”

Harnden shrugged.

“It might work. I’ll mention it to George when he comes in. He may be willing to try it as a last resort in getting the desired advertising appropriation through.”

A purring automobile motor died into silence just without the office. A door slammed. Andy’s eyes were filled with warm, curious interest as a young man of forceful personality came into the room, hurriedly, almost heavily, with something of a clamor.

“It’s George,” the bookkeeper’s face lit up.