I used to think that the office-boy did those things. But no; it seems
that it is an industry, and a very important one.
I made the discovery at a station, where the horrible and irritating
word “Phast-phix” on the picture of a gum bottle held the reluctant eye.
A sleek little man in a frock-coat and a tall hat, who had evidently
breakfasted on cloves, paused beside me.
“You might not think it,” he said, “to look at me; but that word
that you are obviously admiring so naturally--and I may say so
justly--originated with me. I invented it.”
“Why?” I asked. “Surely there are other things to do.”
He seemed pained and perplexed.
“It is my business,” he said. “That’s what I do. I have an office; I am
well known. All the best firms apply to me. For example,” he went on,
“suppose you were to bring out a fluid mutton----”
“Heaven forbid!” I cried.
“Yes, but suppose you were to,” he continued, “and you wanted a name
for it, you would come to me.”
“Why shouldn’t I think of one myself?” I asked.
“You!” he cried. “How could you? It’s a special equipment. Just try and
you’ll see. What would _you_ call it?”
“Well,” I said after a moment’s thought, “I might call it--I might call
it---- Hang it, I wouldn’t do such a thing, anyway.”
“There,” he cried triumphantly, “I knew it. You would be lost. You
would therefore come to me. I should charge you ten guineas, but in
return you would have a name that would make your fortune.”
“What would that be?” I ventured to ask.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “for certain. ‘Sheep-O,’ perhaps.
But anyway it would be a good name. ‘Flock-vim,’ perhaps. Or even
‘Mut-force.’”