AFTER that Glaubus affair, I did not see Perkins for nearly a year. He
was spending his money somewhere, but I knew he would turn up when it
was gone; and one day he entered my office hard up, but enthusiastic.
“Ah,” I said, as soon as I saw the glow in his eyes, “you have another
good thing? Am I in it?”
“In it?” he cried. “Of course, you're in it! Does Perkins of Portland
ever forget his friend? Never! Sooner will the public forget that
'Pratt's Hats Air the Hair,' as made immortal by Perkins the Great!
Sooner will the world forget that 'Dill's Pills Cure All Ills,' as
taught by Perkins!”
“Is it a very good thing, this time?” I asked.
“Good thing?” he asked. “Say! Is the soul a good thing? Is a man's right
hand a good thing? You know it! Well, then, Perkins has fathomed the
soul of the great U. S. A. He has studied the American man. He has
watched the American woman. He has discovered the mighty lever that
heaves this glorious nation onward in its triumphant course.”
“I know,” I said, “you are going to start a correspondence school of
some sort.”
Perkins sniffed contemptuously.
“Wait!” he cried imperiously.
“See the old world crumbling to decay! See the U. S. A. flying to the
front in a gold-painted horseless band-wagon! Why does America triumph?
What is the cause and symbol of her success? What is mightier than the
sword, than the pen, than the Gatling gun? What is it that is in every
hand in America; that opens the good things of the world for rich and
poor, for young and old, for one and all?”
“The ballot-box?” I ventured.
Perkins took something from his trousers pocket, and waved it in the
air. I saw it glitter in the sunlight before he threw it on my desk. I
picked it up and examined it. Then I looked at Perkins.
“Perkins,” I said, “this is a can-opener.” He stood with folded arms,
and nodded his head slowly.
“Can-opener, yes!” he said. “Wealth-opener; progress-opener!” He put
one hand behind his ear, and glanced at the ceiling. “Listen!” he said.
“What do you hear? From Portland, Maine, to Portland, Oregon; from the
palms of Florida to the pines of Alaska--cans! Tin cans! Tin cans being
opened!”
He looked down at me, and smiled.
“The back-yards of Massachusetts are full of old tin cans,” he
exclaimed. “The gar-bage-wagons of New York are crowned with old tin
cans. The plains of Texas are dotted with old tin cans. The towns and
cities of America are full of stores, and the stores are full of cans.
The tin can rules America! Take away the tin can, and America sinks to
the level of Europe! Why has not Europe sunk clear out of sight? Because
America sends canned stuff to their hungry hordes!” He leaned forward,
and, taking the can-opener from my hand, stood it upright against my
inkstand. Then he stood back and waved his hand at it.
“Behold!” he cried. “The emblem of American genius!”
“Well,” I said, “what are you going to sell, cans or can-openers?”
He leaned over me and whispered.
“Neither, my boy. We are going to give can-openers away, free gratis!”
“They ought to go well at that price,” I suggested.
“One nickel-plated Perkins Can-opener free with every can of our goods.
At all grocers,” said Perkins, ignoring my remark.
“Well, then,” I said, for I caught his idea, “what are we going to put
in the cans?”
“What do people put in cans now?” asked Perkins.