Читать книгу Andy Blake's Comet Coaster - Edward Edson Lee - Страница 4

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Manton had a scattered population of less than three thousand people when Herman Warman built his first complete carriage.

The young blacksmith had learned his trade in England. Like the conscientious craftsmen of his day he was jealous of his reputation as a carriage builder. His heart was in his work. It is not strange, therefore, that a demand grew up for the vehicles born into usefulness within the wooden walls of his small shop.

The business thrived. A man of intense ambition and purpose, naturally keen in driving a bargain, thrifty and shrewd in the handling of his money, he became, in the span of years that marked the community’s growth, a man of considerable wealth. At the peak of his success two hundred skilled carriage workers were employed in the rambling factory, the town’s oldest industry, and now the least active.

The manufacturer had an only child. George Warman was twenty-three when he came to his father with the earnest recommendation that the carriage company take up the manufacture of automobiles. A number of vehicle concerns were doing that. The automotive industry was in its infancy; now was the time to get established in the new field, the son advised, with youthful enthusiasm. It would take considerable money, of course, but it was the thing to do in order to assure the future success of the Warman business. Automobiles were coming in; carriages would naturally go out.

Strong-willed and set in his views to the point of stubbornness, Herman Warman refused to give any consideration whatsoever to his son’s suggestion. Automobiles were a silly fad, he declared vehemently. Expensive; unreliable; foul-smelling mechanical contrivances. They would never supplant horses and carriages.

Hot words passed between the two men. The son, forgetting himself in his anger, accused his father of being old-fashioned, unprogressive, over-conservative. Then he left Manton, locating in Detroit, where the automotive industry was fast taking root.

During the weeks that followed, the talkative townspeople regarded the grim-faced manufacturer with curious, questioning eyes. In a gossiping way they speculated among themselves regarding the nature of the probable quarrel that had separated father and son, sending George Warman away to the city with his wife and baby. “The Old Man’s shoulders are stooping,” they whispered to one another, a note of sympathy entering their hushed voices. And so the days passed, one on top of another, and the weeks grew into months.

With June came a telegram. Herman Warman betrayed no outward sign of emotion as he read that his only child had been killed in a racing car. Yet in that moment it is not to be doubted that a dynamic change took place in the stern old heart. Something hard and cold melted away under the warmth of restrained tears.

The following summer young Mrs. Warman passed away. Thereafter when the manufacturer’s housekeeper appeared in the streets wheeling a gocart, curious people found their interest drawn to the round-faced, two-year-old boy who looked out into the world with a pair of eyes scarcely less daring and determined than the grandfather’s.

And so in the passing of the years George Warman, Jr., grew up in his grandfather’s home, his young life constantly touched by an atmosphere of romance, because always the small-town youth who is heir to a fortune and a position of local industrial power is talked about by those people who regard wealth as the magic talisman that opens the inner chamber doors to life’s choicest sensations and experiences.

But George Warman, as he grew up, was not nearly the thorough “young gentleman” that a lot of people thought he should be. At the age of fifteen he was acknowledged to be the noisiest and most boisterous youngster in the whole town. His round, ruddy face and overgrown body suggested a life embracing clean, vigorous, healthful outdoor things. No Boy Scout had a bigger collection of medals. As a football player on the local high-school team his dogged determination to win filled the hearts of Manton’s opponents with fear and trembling. Now in his young manhood his shoulders were broad; his voice was a bit gruff; he was brusque in his ways, almost rough.

We have a mental picture of George as he comes into our story, through the office door, his big hand outstretched. “Glad to meet you, Blake,” is his frank greeting; and there is sincere feeling in Andy’s voice as he replies: “I’m glad to meet you, too, Warman.”

It never occurred to either of them, young business men that they were, that they should have called each other “mister.”

“Sorry I had to keep you waiting. Had a blow-out coming back from Kingston. Never knew it to fail when I was in a hurry.”

The young man pushed back his hat and skimmed the sweat from his red face with a crooked finger. Turning to the bookkeeper he said:

“Just saw Tim Dine down the street. Asked him to come along and sit in on our little meeting. But he had to get a shave, he said. The Rainbow Tire Company has made him another offer. Experimental work. Right in his line. We’ve got to step on the gas, Harry, and show him that he has a future here, or we’re going to lose him. I figure he’ll stick if we once get squared away on this new scheme of ours. Have you told Blake about the pickle we’re in?”

The bookkeeper nodded.

George dropped into a desk chair and sprawled his big hands and arms on the desk top. Leaning forward he directed his gaze into Andy’s face.

“How about it, Blake? Do you think you’re old enough, and know enough about advertising, to put us on our feet?”

Andy was impulsive by nature. It was a boyish trait that he had not entirely outgrown. And having unlimited confidence in his ability he wanted to jump up and say: “Sure thing I can put you on your feet.” But a certain business sense that he had acquired in his office work counseled restraint.

“I cannot answer ‘yes’ to your question,” was his creditable conservative reply, “because as yet I have only a vague idea of the possibilities and limitations of your proposition. So any promises that I might make would be guesswork. On the other hand,” he smiled, “I would be a poor business man and a poorer advertising man were I to say ‘no.’ Frankly, I think that advertising will solve your problem. But, as I say, I can’t promise it.”

The others waited for him to go on.

“An advertising campaign such as you have in mind is a thing to be arrived at through careful thought and analysis. Statistics must be dug up and studied carefully. For instance, in trying to determine the possible extent of the carriage market, I might ask you how many horses there are in the United States, assuming offhand that out of every thousand driving horses there is a logical market for a certain number of new carriages over a certain period of years. Have you any such figures?”

George Warman laughed in his noisy way.

“I can’t even tell you how many horses there are in Manton.”

“And I would like to know how many horses there were in the United States last year; and the year before that. Are there fewer horses to-day than a year or two ago? If so, what is the percentage of decrease? And what percentage of the horses in use are carriage horses?

“You can see what I mean. Before going ahead with any detailed advertising plans we must familiarize ourselves with market conditions, so that we will be able to plan intelligently. When we have completed our analysis, that will be the proper time to launch an advertising campaign.”

Enthused, George Warman got to his feet.

“You fellows talk this over between yourselves while I drive down the street and round up Tim Dine. Shave or no shave, I’m going to bring him here to listen in on this dope. When he learns that we’re really starting something he’ll want to stick with us and see it through.”

The May sun was touching the shabby buildings with slanting shafts of white light when the four young men came from the silent factory. George was in the lead, scuffing his big feet like an overgrown boy, his tongue running with factory talk. Andy was at the leader’s side, his mind receptive to all that was being said about factory processes. The bookkeeper and thin-faced, dark-eyed factory mechanic brought up the rear.

Andy had the feeling that never before in his life had he put in a happier two hours. The young men had opened up their hearts and minds to him, picturing in words their hopes and ambitions. His whole desire was to work with them and help them.

At George’s invitation Andy and the bookkeeper got into the rear seat of the waiting automobile. Tim Dine shared the front seat with the driver.

“Blake, I don’t know what your plans are for the evening, but here’s what I’ve got framed up: There’s a slick little roadhouse between here and Kingston, and I make the motion, and second it, that we all go out there and have a feed. A sort of pep meeting on the eve of the big game, as it were.”

“Fine!” agreed Andy.

The grandson’s mood changed.

“I don’t know how you fellows feel about it,” he earnestly addressed his two business associates, “but I want to tell you that I consider this one of the biggest days of my life. As I see it, with big hopes, it’s the day that marks the ‘coming back’ of Granddad’s business. I think we made a wise move when we wrote to Blake’s company and got him down here to help us.” He looked Andy squarely in the face. “Young as you are, Blake, we think you’re a real guy when it comes to knowing what’s what in advertising.”

“I’m glad you feel that way toward me and my work,” Andy returned feelingly.

“Of course, in putting this thing across, we’re going to run up against a snag with Granddad. Oh, man! He’ll fight like an old trooper when he learns that we’re scheming to spend some of his money on advertising. But we’re going to win him over. And more than that, Blake doing his part, we’re going to pull together, the four of us, and put this old factory back on its feet.”

The throttle was thrown open. And to Andy it seemed that something in the roar of the powerful motor corresponded with the mood of the young giant at the wheel.

“He’s got a man’s head and a man’s grit,” mused Andy in admiration. “He’s just the kind of a fighter I like to work with. I’m glad he likes me. I like him a lot.”