“Yes,” I admitted, “it has the full legal allowance of smell. There's
no doubt about it being a medicinal water. Nobody would mistake it for
a table water, Perkins. A child would know it wasn't meant for perfume;
but what is it good for? What will it cure?”
Perkins tilted his Pratt hat over one ear, and crossed his legs.
“Speaking as one Chicago man to another,” he said slowly, “what do you
think of rheumatism?”
“If you want me to speak as man to man, Perkins,” I replied, “I may say
that rheumatism is a mighty uncomfortable disease.”
“It's prevalent,” said Perkins, eagerly. “It's the most prevalent
disease on the map. The rich must have it; the poorest can afford
it; the young and the old simply roll in it! Why, man,” he exclaimed,
“rheumatism was made 'specially for O-no-to-so-forth water. There's
millions and millions of cases of rheumatism, and there's oceans and
oceans of Perkins's World-Famous O-no-to-what-you-call-it water. Great?
What will cure rheumatism? Nothing! What will O-no-to-so-on water cure?
Nothing! There you are! They fit each other like a foot in a shoe.”
He leaned back, and smiled. Then he waved his hand jauntily in the air.
“But I'm not partial,” he added. “If you can think of a better disease,
we'll cure it. Anything!”
“Perkins,” I said, “would you take this water for rheumatism?”
“Would I? Say! If I had rheumatism I'd live on it. I'd drink it by the
gallon. I'd bathe in it--”
He stopped abruptly, and a smile broke forth at one corner of his mouth,
and gradually spread over his face until it broke into a broad grin,
which he vainly endeavored to stifle.
“Warm!” he murmured, and then his grin broadened a little, and he
muttered--“Lukewarm!”--and grinned again, and ran his hand through his
hair. He sat down and slapped his knee.
“Say!” he cried, “Greatest idea yet! I'm a benefactor! Think of the poor
old people trying to drink that stuff! Think of them trying to force it
down their throats! It would be a sin to make a dog drink it!”
He wiped an actual tear from his eye.
“What if I had to drink it! What if my poor old mother had to drink it!
Cruelty! But we won't make 'em. We will be good! We will be generous! We
will be great! We will let them bathe in it. Twice a day! Morning and
night! Lukewarm! Why make weak human beings swallow it? And besides,
they'll need more! Think of enough O-no-to-so-forth water to swim in
twice a day, and good old Perkins paying the freight!”
Without another word I reached over and clasped Perkins by the hand. It
was a silent communion of souls--of the souls of two live, up-to-date
Chicagoans. When the clasp was loosened, we were bound together in
a noble purpose to supply O-no-to-something water to a waiting,
pain-cursed world. We were banded together like good Samaritans to
supply a remedy to the lame and the halt. And Perkins paying the
freight.
Then Perkins gave me the details. There were to be three of us in the
deal. There was a young man from Glaubus, Ia., in Chicago, running a
street-car on the North Side. He had been raised near Glaubus, and his
father had owned a farm; but the old man was no financier, and sold
off the place bit by bit, until all that was left was a forty-acre
swamp,--“Skunk Swamp,” they called it, because of the rank water,--
and when the old man died, the son came to Chicago to earn a living. He
brought along a flask of the swamp water, so that when he got homesick,
he could take out the cork, smell it, and be glad he was in Chicago,
instead of on the old place. Up in the corner of the swamp a spring
welled up; and that spring spouted Onotowatishika water day and night,
gallons, and barrels, and floods of it.
But it needed a Perkins the Great to know its value. Perkins smelled
its value the first whiff he got. He had a rough map of Glaubus with the
Skunk Swamp off about a mile to the west.
We patched up the deal the next day. The young fellow was to have a
quarter-interest, because he put in the forty acres, and Perkins put in
his time and talent for half the balance; and I got the remainder for my
time and money. We wanted the young fellow to take a third interest, and
put in his time, too; but he said that rather than go back to the old
place, he would take a smaller share, and get a job in some nice sweet
spot, like the stock-yards or a fertilizer factory. So Perkins and I
packed up, and went out to Glaubus.
When we got within two miles of Glaubus, Perkins stuck his head out of
the car window, and drew it back, covered with smiles.
“Smell it?” he asked. “Great! You can smell it way out here! Wait till
we get on the ground! It must be wonderful!”
I did not wonder, when the train pulled up at the Glaubus Station, that
the place was a small, dilapidated village, nor that the inhabitants
wore a care-worn, hopeless expression. There was too much
Onoto-watishika water in the air. But Perkins glowed with joy.
“Smell it?” he asked eagerly. “Great 'ad.!' You can't get away from it.
You can't forget it. And look at this town. Look at the bare walls! Not
a sign on any of them! Not a bill-board in the place! Not an 'ad.' of
any kind in sight! Perkins, my boy, this is heaven for you! This is pie
and nuts!”
I must confess that I was not so joyous over the prospect. I began to
tire of Ono-towatishika water already. I suggested to Perkins that we
ought to have an agency in Chicago, and hinted that I knew all about
running agencies properly; but he said I would get used to the odor
presently, and in time come to love it and long for it when I was away
from it. I told him that doubtless he was right, but that I thought it
would do me good to go away before my love got too violent. But Perkins
never could see a joke, and it was wasted on him. He walked me right out
to the swamp, and stood there an hour just watching the water bubble up.
It seemed to do him good.
There was no shanty in the village good enough for our office, so
that afternoon we bought a vacant lot next to the post-office for five
dollars, and arranged to have a building put up for our use; and then,
as there was nothing else for us to do, until the next train came along,
Perkins sat around thinking. And something always happened when Perkins
thought.
In less than an hour Perkins set off to find the mayor and the
councilmen and a notary public. He had a great idea.
They had a park in Glaubus,--a full block of weeds and rank growth,--and
Perkins showed the mayor what a disgrace that park was to a town of the
size and beauty of Glaubus. He said there ought to be a fountain and
walks and benches where people could sit in the evenings. The mayor
allowed that was so, but didn't see where the cash was to come from.
Perkins told him. Here we are, he said, two public-spirited men come
over from Chicago to bottle up the old skunk spring, and make Glaubus
famous. Glaubus was to be our home, and already we had contracted for
a beautiful one-story building, with a dashboard front, to make it look
like two stories. If Glaubus treated us right, we would treat Glaubus
right. Didn't the mayor want to help along his city?
The mayor certainly did, if he didn't have to pay out nothin'.
All right, then, Perkins said, there was that old Skunk Swamp. We were
going to bottle up a lot of the water that came out of the spring and
ship it away; and that would help to clean the air, for the less water,
the less smell. All Perkins wanted was to have those forty acres of
swamp that we owned plotted as town lots, and taken in as the Glaubus
Land and Improvement Company's Addition to the town of Glaubus. It would
cost the village nothing; and, as fast as Perkins got rid of the lots,
the village could assess taxes on them, and the taxes would pay for the
park.
The mayor and the council didn't see but what that was a square deal,
so they called a special meeting right there; and in half an hour we had
the whole thing under way.
“But, Perky,” I said, when we were on the train hurrying back to
Chicago, “how are you going to sell those lots? They are nothing but mud
and water, and no sane man would even think of paying money for them.
Why, if the lot next the post-office is worth five dollars, those lots
a mile away from it, and ten feet deep in mud, wouldn't be worth two
copper cents.”
“Sell?” said Perkins, sticking his hands deep into the pockets of his
celebrated “Baffin Bay” pants. “Sell? Who wants to sell? We'll give 'em
away! What does the public want? Something for nothing! What does it
covet? Real estate! All right, we give 'em real estate for nothing! A
lot in the Glaubus Land and Improvement Company's Addition to the town
of Glaubus free for ten labels soaked from O-no-to-thing-um-bob water
bottles. Send in your labels, and get a real deed for the lot, with a
red seal on it. And Perkins pays the freight!”
Did it go? Does anything that Perkins the Great puts his soul into
go? It went with a rush. We looked up the rheumatism statistics of the
United States, and, wherever there was a rheumatism district, we billed
the barns and fences. We sent circulars and “follow-up” letters, and
advertised in local and county papers. We shipped the water by single
demijohns at first, and then in half-dozen crates, and then in car-lots.
We established depots in the big business centres, and took up magazine
advertising on a big scale. Wherever man met man, the catchwords,
“Perkins pays the freight,” were bandied to and fro. “How can you afford
a new hat?” “Oh, 'Perkins pays the freight'!”
The comic papers made jokes about it, the daily papers made cartoons
about it, no vaudeville sketch was complete without a reference to
Perkins paying the freight, and the comic opera hit of the year was the
one in which six jolly girls clinked champagne glasses while singing the
song ending:
“To us no pleasure lost is,
And we go a merry gait;
We don't care what the cost is,
For Perkins pays the freight.”
As for testimonials, we scooped in twenty-four members of Congress,
eight famous operatic stars, eighty-eight ministers, and dead loads of
others.
And our lots in the Glaubus Land and Improvement Company's Addition to
the town of Glaubus? We began by giving full-sized dwelling-house
lots. Then we cut it down to business-lot size; and, as the labels kept
pouring in, we reduced the lots to cemetery lot size. We had lot owners
in Alaska, Mexico, and the Philippines; and the village of Glaubus fixed
up its park, and even paved the main street with taxes. Whenever a lot
owner refused to pay his taxes, the deed was cancelled; and we split the
lot up into smaller lots, and distributed them to new label savers.
We also sent agents to organize Rheumatism Clubs in the large cities.
That was Perkins's greatest idea, but it was too great.
One morning as Perkins was opening the mail, he paused with a letter
open before him, and let his jaw drop. I walked over and laid my hand on
his shoulder.
“What is it, Perky?” I asked.
He lay back in his chair, and gazed at me blankly. Then he spoke.
“The lame and the halt,” he murmured. “They are coming. They are coming
here. Read it?”
He pushed the letter toward me feebly. It was from the corresponding
secretary of the Grand Rapids Rheumatic Club. It said:
“Gentlemen:--The members of the club have used Onotowatishika water for
over a year, and are delighted to testify to its merits. In fact, we
have used so much that each member now owns several lots in the
Glaubus Land and Improvement Company's Addition to the town of Glaubus;
and, feeling that our health depends on the constant and unremitting
use of your healing waters, we have decided as a whole to emigrate to
Glaubus, where we may be near the source of the waters, and secure them
as they arise bubbling from the bosom of Mother Earth. We have withheld
this pleasant knowledge from you until we had completed our arrangements
for deserting Grand Rapids, in order that the news might come to you as
a grateful surprise. We have read in your circulars of the beautiful
and natural advantages of Glaubus, and particularly of the charm of the
Glaubus Land and Improvement Company's Addition to the town of Glaubus,
and we will come prepared to rear homes on the land which has been
allotted to us. We leave to-day.”