Читать книгу Andy Blake in Advertising - Edward Edson Lee - Страница 4

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Summer came down the peaceful valley and with kindly warmth gladdened the fields and gardens made green and hardy by the magic touch of spring. It entered the hearts of men and women, and the hearts of youth, bringing laughter and contentment. It built up thoughts of things worth struggling for and simultaneously fanned the fires of optimism and determination.

Andy Blake was conscious of the lure of summer; and to release the joy that swelled in his heart he merrily whistled the final measures of “How you going to keep them down on the farm?” as the motor delivery wagon that he was driving rattled along Cressfield’s main street. Having completed his last delivery trip for the day he was in high feather. Soon he would be headed for home. At the thought of supper he became keenly alive to an emptiness in the region of his stomach and opened the throttle another notch.

“Good night! From the way this old bus rattles and squeaks any one would think she was all ready to kick in,” he grinned, slowing up for the alley crossing back of the Landers general store. As he clattered across the sidewalk a boy of the same age raced up from behind and swung on.

“Hello, Chuck,” greeted Andy, making room on the seat for the newcomer.

“Hello, yourself,” puffed Chuck Wilson. “Say, who do you think you are?—Barney Oldfield?”

“I was only going twenty,” grinned Andy.

“You mean forty,” sputtered Chuck.

“Guess you don’t know this old bus very well,” returned Andy. “She sounds a whole lot faster than she really is.”

The car seemed to groan in every one of its rather wobbly joints as Andy applied the brakes. He was about to jump down and open the garage door, with a view of putting the car away for the night, when Denny Landers, the good-natured Irish proprietor, poked his red-thatched head out of the back door of the store and called:

“Hey, Andy! Don’t put the old bus away yet. Sure, Mrs. Charley Corey—the divil take her!—has just ’phoned in another hurry-up order. She says it’s things she’s got to have to-night. Here’s a slip with the items marked down. Better come in and git the stuff ready. I’d have Miss Cummins do it but she’s busy in the dry goods.”

Andy’s face was stormy as he accepted the slip. When Landers was out of sight he turned to Chuck and growled:

“Darn the Coreys, anyhow! Just because they’re the richest people in town and live on the hill they think they can snap their fingers whenever they please and make other people jump around like a lot of trained monkeys.”

A grin spread over Chuck’s face, setting off the freckles that spotted his red nose. His eyes twinkled mischievously.

“Why don’t you quit your job if you don’t like it?”

“I like my job all right; but I don’t like the idea of making a special trip to the hill every afternoon just about quitting time. Guess it wouldn’t hurt Mrs. Corey to get her orders in on time like other people. Take it from me I’m glad all rich people aren’t as bossy as the Coreys.”

“Well, when you get rich, you can show us how to act,” teased Chuck.

“Aw, shut up, you turkey egg,” retorted Andy, disappearing into the store.

Chuck followed him to the door.

“Hey, Andy, I’ll wait and go with you if you want me to.”

“All right,” Andy called back, somewhat mollified.

While he was putting up Mrs. Corey’s order, a salesman hustled into the store and attempted to attract the attention of the busy proprietor.

“Sure, it’s a divil of a fine salesman you are to come bobbin’ in here the busiest hour of the day,” grinned Denny Landers. “Shall we talk business and let the people wait on themselves? Or would you mind makin’ yourself to home on that box over there till the rush is over?”

The salesman laughed and set his cases to one side.

“I tell you what I’ll do,” said he, his eyes sparkling boyishly. “Say the word and I’ll jump right in and help you out. Selling groceries is ‘pie’ for me. Oh, boy, this is just like old times,” as he yanked off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. In a moment he was behind the counter offering his services to one of the customers. For possibly an instant Denny Landers looked surprised; then returned to his work with a broad grin.

“He’s a real fellow,” Andy decided. “Say, boy, he’s got a lot of snap! And he isn’t afraid of getting his hands dirty. The boss is tickled over what he’s doing and that ought to make it easier for him to get an order.” It came to Andy then that salesmanship, after all, is largely a matter of service. He could plainly see that the self-appointed grocery clerk was rendering his prospective customer a service that was bound to create a friendly interest in his goods.

Andy sidled along back of the counter until he was beside the fellow.

“I hope you make a sale,” he encouraged, his eyes expressing frank admiration.

The man flashed him an answering smile as he dived into the sugar barrel.

“Thanks, kid.” Then, after a moment: “Do you have much of a call for ribbon goods?”

“Guess so. I don’t know a great deal about the dry goods, though. That’s Miss Cummins’ job. I’m on the delivery wagon mostly. Are you selling ribbons?”

“Yep. That’s my line. I see you handle pretty nearly everything in this store,” glancing around at the crowded shelves. Denny Landers was not the most orderly storekeeper in the world.

Andy grinned.

“We handle everything from peanuts to washing machines,” he said. “This is the biggest store in Cressfield.”

“So I noticed. Been working here long?”

“Started about four years ago, when I was thirteen. During school I only work mornings and evenings.”

By the time Andy had Mrs. Corey’s order ready it was nearly six o’clock.

“We’ll make it snappy,” he said to Chuck, as he positioned the spark lever and cranked the motor.

The delivery wagon clattered down Main Street, passing a group of barefooted boys who were kicking along in the dust on their way back to town after a hilarious afternoon at the swimming hole.

“Hi, Andy,” one of the boys shouted, waving his tattered straw hat.

“Give us a ride, Andy. Aw, come on.”

“Toss us something good to eat, Andy.”

The leader of the gang, a grimy-faced boy with mischief sparkling in his black eyes, jumped onto a horse block and yelled:

“Advertising Andy! The billboard king!”

“You loafers! Take it from me you have it pretty soft,” was Andy’s friendly rejoinder as he and Chuck rattled past.

Chuck grinned.

“Guess they’ve got your measure all right on this advertising stuff. You and Bud York ought to go into partnership and write ads for people.”

“Maybe we will one of these fine days,” returned Andy thoughtfully. “Bud’s pretty handy at drawing pictures. We ought to make a good team.”

“Yes, you and Bud make a good pair,” declared Chuck. “He’s forever daubing around with paints at his father’s printing office and you stay home nights and study advertising books. Miss Dick, at the public library, says you can smell a new book on advertising or salesmanship before she gets it unpacked. What are you going to do when you’ve read all her books?”

“By that time I ought to know enough about advertising to get a job in the advertising department of some company. Oh, boy, I’ll be happy when that time comes! It must be great to be able to get up ads like you see in the magazines. A fellow’s got to know how to go about doing it, too. It isn’t easy. The books I’ve been reading tell about advertising and selling campaigns, and how to write ‘copy’ and plan ‘display,’ and how to make people want to buy what you’ve got to sell, and everything.”

“It sounds like a grind,” yawned Chuck, cocking his feet on the dash. “Guess I’d rather read a ‘Poppy Ott’ story.”

Andy turned in at the most imposing house on the hill. A boy was knocking a tennis ball about in the court between the house and the drive. He stopped to look sullenly and contemptuously at the boys on the rattling delivery car.

“Hello, sugar-monkey!” he sneered as Andy drove past. “How much are prunes to-day?”

“We’re out of prunes, but we’ve got a few dog biscuits,” retorted Andy. “How many can you gobble down at a meal?”

“Hurrah!” cheered Chuck. “You sure handed him a hot one that time, Andy, old kid.”

Clarence Corey reddened.

“You fat-head! You better learn to keep a civil tongue in your head or I’ll teach you something about manners.”

“You can’t teach what you don’t know,” flared Andy.

Burning with indignation he delivered his groceries at the kitchen door. As he hopped down the steps of the back porch he saw Clarence rounding the corner, gripping the tennis racket menacingly.

“Keep an eye on him, Andy,” cautioned Chuck. “He’d swat you in a minute if he dared. Just because his Dad is an old geezer of a bank president and a church deacon, that stuck-up kid thinks he can get away with murder.”

“If I were Mother I’d quit trading at Landers’ store till he saw fit to hire decent people,” snapped Clarence darkly. He watched his chance and threw the tennis racket, striking Andy on the head as he turned to climb into the delivery wagon. “I guess that’ll teach you to be more polite to your superiors,” he jeered.

For a moment Andy was dazed by the blow; then he started forward with a cry of rage.

“You—you—” he stammered, beside himself with fury.

“Go on, get out of here, you common truck peddler! When we want your kind on the hill we’ll invite you. And take your trashy gang with you.”

“Say, who are you calling ‘trash’?” yelled Chuck, scrambling out of the delivery wagon with clenched fists.

“Leave him to me, Chuck,” gritted Andy. His quick eye lighted on the lawn hose. Like a flash he grabbed the hose and, turning the nozzle wide open, permitted a stream of cold water to play on the surprised and infuriated Clarence.

“Hey! Stop that!” yelled Clarence, trying to shield himself by holding his hands, palms outward, in front of him. “You—you lowborn puppy. If you don’t drop that hose I’ll have my father put you in jail.”

“Soak it to him good, Andy,” yelled Chuck, wild with delight.

“This isn’t half what you deserve,” gritted Andy, directing the stream so that Clarence in his white duck trousers and sport shirt was given a thorough drenching. “I ought to take you down and pound the daylights out of you. Call me sugar-monkey, will you?”

“Help! Mother! Help!” screamed Clarence. There was an answering cry from the direction of the house and Andy turned to see an angry woman flying down the steps.

“How dare you play such a wretched trick on my son?” demanded Mrs. Corey.

“He’s always picking on me, Ma,” whined Clarence, his teeth chattering.

“He started it,” declared Andy stoutly, dropping the hose. “He called me sugar-monkey just because I work in a grocery store, and he hit me—”

“He’s lying, Ma, I didn’t do a thing. He just up and turned the hose on me.”

“When Mr. Corey returns I shall have him report you to Mr. Landers,” threatened Mrs. Corey. Andy tried again to explain, but Mrs. Corey turned indignantly away and listened sympathetically to a highly colored version of the incident from Clarence.

Andy jumped into the delivery wagon and hurriedly drove out of the yard and down the hill.

“Some mess,” he said gloomily, wondering how far Mrs. Corey could go in making trouble for him.

Chuck regarded him anxiously.

“Think she’ll get you canned?” he inquired.

“Like as not. I guess if she threatened to trade somewhere else if Landers didn’t fire me he’d do it. Darn it! I wish I had held my temper.”

On arriving at the store Andy found it empty except for Denny Landers and the ribbon salesman. It was evident that the latter had just signed up the proprietor for an order of ribbons for early delivery.

“I’m a thousand times obliged to you, Mr. Landers,” thanked the salesman, pocketing the order and gathering his samples together. He shot a smile at Andy. “That’s a pretty fine boy you’ve got there.”

A grin spread over the face of the good-natured proprietor and he nodded his head.

“Sure, you’ve said a mouthful. Andy’s a humdinger—the best boy I ever had in the store. A divil of a time I’d have runnin’ the store if it wasn’t for Andy. Eh, lad?”

Something seemed to bob up in Andy’s throat, choking him. Kind-hearted by nature and responsive to kindness, he had the miserable feeling that he had betrayed the confidence of his employer by permitting his temper to get the better of his judgment.

Denny Landers placed his rough hand in a kindly way on Andy’s shoulder.

“What the divil’s eatin’ you, lad? Sure, you look as though you’ve lost your best friend.”

Andy was utterly miserable but managed to tell his story. Contrary to his expectations Denny Landers did not appear particularly concerned.

“There, there, lad! Forget it! Sure, it’s believin’ you I am that the young ape of a Clarence Corey—bad luck to his tribe!—is deservin’ of the very excellent duckin’ you gave him. And if his old man comes beefin’ around here I’ll give him an earful. But on the other hand, Andy, sure, you better be danged careful in the future. It’s a divil of a lot of trouble you can cause me if you go around duckin’ me best customers. I’d suggest that you do your scrappin’ outside of business.”

Chuck was waiting outside. Andy told him what had happened in the store and the two boys hurried down the street. At the corner they overtook the ribbon salesman, who grinned at Andy in a friendly way.

“If you ever get tired of living in a little town and want to come to the city I’ll get you a job on the fire department—seeing as you’re such a good hand at managing the hose,” he joked.

“Some time I’m coming to the city, but when I do I’m not going to be a fireman,” returned Andy.

“No?”

“He’s going to be a billboard king,” put in Chuck with a grin.

“What?”

“A billboard king. One of these advertising ginks.”

The salesman laughed heartily.

“An advertising man, eh? That’s fine!” He turned to Andy. “Are you studying advertising?”

Andy explained about the books.

“I don’t know much about advertising but I just want to be an advertising man the worst way,” he said.

“Advertising is a fine business,” encouraged the salesman. “You can’t make a mistake by learning all you can about it. Pretty nearly every business has its advertising problems. I imagine you can get a lot of good dope from books; but, of course, it’s practical experience that counts. What you want to do is to stick to your books and when you’ve covered the subject in that way get a job in the advertising department of some good company. You’ll probably have to start in a small way, but if you’ve got the right kind of stuff in you—and I believe you have—you’ll make good.”

Andy’s eyes sparkled.

“Some day I want to be the advertising manager of a big company,” he confided.

“That’s the way to talk. But to do that you’ve got to dig. Things don’t come easy in this world—the worth-while things, I mean. You’ll need a good practical education, too, so don’t get any foolish ideas in your head about quitting school. And even when you go to the city and take up real work, you better scout around and see if you can locate a night school. Go to the Y.M.C.A. secretary; he’ll get you started in the right direction.

“By the way, I have a little book in my bag that may interest you. It’s mostly about selling ribbons—how to put on special sales, and so on. It’s got a lot of good dope in it.” Opening his grip he produced the book and handed it to Andy, who thanked him. “Oh, you needn’t spread yourself on the ‘thanks’ business. I’m glad to let you have the book. And I hope that one of these days you’ll be advertising manager of one of the biggest corporations in the world. Here’s where I turn for the depot. Well, good-by, boys.”