Carmel was not long in discovering Gibeon’s attitude toward
advertising. The local merchants regarded it much as they did taxes,
the _dull season_, so called (for in Gibeon’s business world there
were only two seasons, the dull and the busy) and inventory sales.
All were inevitable, in the course of nature, and things which always
had and always would happen. One advertised, not with enthusiasm and
in expectancy of results, but because men in business did advertise.
Smith Brothers’ grocery bore reluctantly the expense of a four-inch
double-column display which was as unchanging as the laws of the Medes
and Persians. It stated, year in and year out, that Smith Brothers were
the headquarters for staple and fancy groceries. The advertisement
was as much a part of their business as the counter. The Busy Big
Store was more energetic; its copy was changed every year on the 1st
of January. Seven years before, Miss Gammidge let it be known through
the columns of the _Free Press_ that she was willing to sell to the
public millinery and fancy goods, and that statement appeared every
week thereafter without change of punctuation mark. The idea that
one attracted business by means of advertising was one which had not
penetrated Gibeon, advertising was a business rite, just as singing
the Doxology was an indispensable item in the service of the local
Presbyterian church. It was done, as cheaply and inconspicuously as
possible, and there was an end of it.
As for subscribers, they were hereditary. Just as red hair ran in
certain families, subscribing to the paper ran in others. It is
doubtful if anybody took in the paper because he wanted it; but it
was tradition for some to have the _Free Press_, and therefore they
subscribed. It was useful for shelf covering. Red hair is the exception
rather than the rule; so were subscribing families.
Carmel pondered deeply over these facts. If, she said to herself, all
the merchants advertised as they should advertise, and if all the
inhabitants who should subscribe did subscribe, then the _Free Press_
could be made a satisfactorily profitable enterprise. How might these
desirable results be obtained? She was certain subscribers might be
gotten by making the paper so interesting that nobody could endure to
wait and borrow his neighbor’s copy; but how to induce merchants to
advertise she had not the remotest idea.
There was the bazaar, for instance, which did not advertise at all;
the bank did not advertise; the two photographers did not advertise;
the bakery did not advertise. She discussed the matter with Tubal
and Simmy, who were not of the least assistance, though very eager.
She did not discuss it with Prof. Evan Bartholomew Pell because that
member of the staff was engaged in writing a snappy, heart-gripping
article on the subject of “Myths and Fables Common to Peoples of Aryan
Derivation.” It was his idea of up-to-date journalism, and because
Carmel could think of nothing else to set him to work at, she permitted
him to continue.
“Advertising pays,” she said to Tubal. “How can I prove it to these
people?”
“Gawd knows, Lady. Jest go tell ’em. Mebby they’ll believe you.”
“They won’t b’lieve nothin’ that _costs_,” said Simmy, with finality.
“I’m going out to solicit advertising,” she said, “and I’m not coming
back until I get something.”
“Um!... G’-by, Lady. Hope we see you ag’in.”
In front of the office Carmel hesitated, then turned to the left. The
first place of business in that direction was identified by a small
black-and-gold sign protruding over the sidewalk, making it known that
here one might obtain the handiwork of Lancelot Bangs, Photographer.
In glass cases about the doors were numerous specimens of Lancelot’s
art, mostly of cabinet size, mounted on gilt-edged cards. Mr. Bangs,
it would appear, had few ideas as to the posturing of his patrons.
Gentlemen, photographed alone, were invariably seated in a huge chair,
the left hand gripping the arm, inexorably, the right elbow leaning
upon the other arm, and the head turned slightly to one side as if the
sitter were thinking deep thoughts of a solemn nature. Ladies stood,
one foot advanced, hands clasped upon the stomach in order that the
wedding ring might show plainly; with chins dipped a trifle downward
and eyes lifted coyly, which, in dowagers of sixty, with embonpoints
and steel-rimmed spectacles, gave a highly desirable effect.
Carmel studied these works of art briefly and then climbed the
uncarpeted stairs. Each step bore upon its tread a printed cardboard
sign informative of some business or profession carried on in the rooms
above, such as Jenkins & Hopper, Fire Insurance; Warren P. Bauer,
D.D.S., and the like. The first door at the top, curtained within,
was labeled Photographic Studio, and this Carmel entered with some
trepidation, for it was her first business call. As the door swung
inward a bell sounded in the distance. Carmel stood waiting.
Almost instantly a youngish man appeared from behind a screen depicting
a grayish-blue forest practically lost to view in a dense fog. At sight
of Carmel he halted abruptly and altered his bearing and expression
to one of elegant hospitality. He settled his vest cautiously, and
passed his hand over his sleek hair daintily to reassure himself of its
perfect sleekness. Then he bowed.
“A-aa-ah.... Good morning!” he said, tentatively.
“Mr. Bangs?”
“The same.”
“I am Miss Lee, proprietor of the _Free Press_.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Lee, though, of course, I knew
who you were right off. I guess everybody in town does,” he added.
“We don’t have many move here that would photograph as well as you
would--bust or full length.... What kin I do for you?”
“I came to talk to you about advertising in the _Free Press_.”
“Advertising!” Manifestly he was taken aback. “Why, I haven’t ever
advertised. Haven’t anythin’ to advertise. I just take pictures.”
“Couldn’t you advertise that?”
“Why--everybody knows I take pictures. Be kind of funny to tell folks
what everybody knows.” He laughed at the humor of it in a very genteel
way.
“You would like to take more pictures than you do, wouldn’t you? To
attract more business.”
“Can’t be done.”
“Why?”
“Wa-al, folks don’t get their pictures taken like they buy flour.
Uh-uh!... They got to have a reason to have ’em taken--like a weddin’,
or an engagement, or gettin’ to be sixty year old, or suthin’ sim’lar.
No. Folks in Gibeon don’t just go off and get photographed on the spur
of the moment, like you might say. They hain’t got any _reason_ to.”
“There are lots of people here who have never been photographed, aren’t
there?”
“Snags of ’em.”
“Then why not induce them to do it at once?”
“Can’t be done, no more’n you can induce a man to have a weddin’
anniversary when he hain’t got one.”
“I believe it could. I think we could put the idea into their heads and
then offer them inducements to do it right off.”
He shook his head stubbornly and glanced down at the crease in his
trousers. Carmel’s eyes twinkled as she regarded him, for he was quite
the dressiest person she had seen in Gibeon. He was painstakingly
dressed, laboriously dressed. He was so much dressed that you became
aware of his clothes before you became aware of him.
“Mr. Bangs,” she said, “you look to me like a man who is up to the
minute--like a man who would never let a chance slip past him.”
“Folks do give me credit for keepin’ my eyes open.”
“Then I believe I can make you a proposition you can’t refuse. I just
want to prove to you what advertising can do for your business. Now, if
you will let me write an ad for you, and print it, I can show you, and
I know it. How much are your best cabinet photographs?”
“Twelve dollars a dozen.”
“Would there be a profit at ten dollars?”
“Some--_some_.”
“Then let me advertise that for a week you will sell your twelve-dollar
pictures for ten. The advertisement will cost five dollars. If my
advertisement brings you enough business so your profit will be double
that amount, you are to pay for the ad. If it is less, you needn’t
pay.... But if it does bring in so many customers, you must agree to
run your ad every week for three months.... Now, I--I _dare_ you to
take a chance.”
Now there was one thing upon which Lancelot Bangs prided himself, and
that was his willingness to take a chance. He had been known to play
cards for money, and the horse races of the vicinity might always count
upon him as a patron. Beside that, he had a natural wish to impress
favorably this very pretty girl whose manner and clothes and bearing
coincided with his ideal of a “lady.”
“I’ll jest go you once,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, and was turning toward the door when Lancelot
arrested her.
“Er--I wonder if I could get your opinion?” he said. “You come from
where folks know what’s what.... This suit, now.” He turned completely
around so she might view it from all sides. “How does it stand up
alongside the best dressers where you come from?”
“It--it is very impressive, Mr. Bangs.”
“Kind of figgered it would be. Had it made to order. Got a reputation
to keep up, even though there’s them that tries to undermine it. Folks
calls me the best-dressed man in Gibeon, and I feel it’s my duty to
live up to it.... Well, I ain’t vain. Jest kind of public duty. Now
George, he’s set out to be the best-dressed man, and so’s Luke. That’s
why I got this suit and this shirt and tie. I aim to show ’em.”
“I should say you were doing it,” said Carmel. “And who are Luke and
George?”
“George Bogardus is the undertaker, and Luke Smiley clerks in the bank.”
“I haven’t seen them,” said Carmel, “but I’m certain you haven’t the
least cause for worry.”
“Would you call this suit _genteel_?”
“That’s the word. It is exactly the word. It--it’s the most genteel
suit I ever saw.”
She was about to leave when a rapping on the back door of the studio
attracted Mr. Bangs’s attention, and attracted it so peculiarly that
Carmel could not but remark it with something more than curiosity.
If one can have suspicion of an individual one does not know, with
whose life and its ramifications she is utterly unaware, Carmel was
suspicious of Mr. Bangs. It was not an active suspicion--it was a vague
suspicion. It resembled those vague odors which sometimes are abroad in
the air, odors too faint to be identified, so adumbrant one cannot be
sure there is an odor at all.... Mr. Bangs, who had been the picture of
self-satisfaction, became furtive. For the first time one ceased to be
aware of his clothes and focused upon his eyes....
“Er--pardon me a moment,” he said, in a changed voice, and made
overrapid progress to answer the knock. It was inevitable that Carmel’s
ears should become alert.
She heard a door opened and the entrance of a man who spoke in an
attempted whisper, but not a successful whisper. It was as if a
Holstein bull had essayed to whisper.
“Sh-sssh!” warned Mr. Bangs.
“It’s here,” said the whisper. “Back your jitney into the first tote
road this side of the hotel, and then mosey off and take a nap.
Everything’ll be fixed when you git back.”
“Sh-sssh!” Mr. Bangs warned a second time.
Carmel heard the door open and close again, and Mr. Bangs returned.
“Express Parcel,” he said, with that guilty air which always
accompanies the unskillful lie.
The zest for selling advertising space had left Carmel; she wanted
to think, to be alone and to consider various matters. She felt a
vague apprehension, not as to herself, but of something malign,
molelike, stealthy, which dwelt in the atmosphere surrounding Gibeon.
Perfunctorily she took her leave, and, instead of pursuing her quest,
returned to her desk and sat there staring at the picture above her
head.
Gibeon! She was thinking about Gibeon. The town had ceased to be a more
or less thriving rural community, peopled by simple souls who went
about their simple, humdrum round of life pleasantly, if stodgily.
Rather the town and its people became a protective covering, a sort of
camouflage to conceal the real thing which enacted itself invisibly.
She wondered if Gibeon itself realized. It seemed not to. It laughed
and worked and went to church and quarreled about line fences and dogs
and gossiped about its neighbors as any other town did.... Perhaps,
unaccustomed to the life, excited by new environment, she had given
too great freedom to her imagination.... She did not believe so. No.
Something was going on; some powerful evil influence was at work,
ruthless, malevolent. Its face was hidden and it left no footprints. It
was capable of murder!... What was this thing? What was its purpose?
What activity could include the doing away with a sheriff and the
services of a rural fop like Lancelot Bangs?...
Carmel was young. She was dainty, lovely. Always she had been shielded
and protected and petted--which, fortunately, had not impaired the
fiber of her character.... Now, for the first time, she found herself
staring into the white, night eyes of one of life’s grim realities;
knew herself to be touched by it--and the knowledge frightened her....
Evan Bartholomew Pell stayed her unpleasant thoughts, and she was
grateful to him.
“Miss Lee--I have--ah--been engaged upon a computation of some
interest--academically. It is, of course, based upon an arbitrary
hypothesis--nevertheless it is instructive.”
“Yes,” said Carmel, wearily.
“We take for our hypothesis,” said Evan, “the existence of a number
of men willing to evade or break the law for profit. Having assumed
the existence of such an association, we arrive upon more certain
ground.... Our known facts are these. Intoxicating liquor is prohibited
in the United States. Second, intoxicants may be bought freely over
the Canadian line. Third, the national boundary is some twenty miles
distant. Fourth, whisky, gin, et cetera, command exceedingly high
prices in the United States. I am informed liquor of excellent quality
commands as much as a hundred dollars per dozen bottles, and less
desirable stock up to fifty and seventy-five dollars. Fifth, these same
liquors may be bought for a fraction of that cost across the line.
Now, we arrive at one of our conclusions. The hypothetical association
of lawless men, provided they could smuggle liquor into this
country, would realize a remarkable percentage of profit. Deducting
various costs, I estimate the average profit per dozen bottles would
approximate thirty-five dollars. I fancy this is low rather than
excessive. One thousand cases would fetch a profit of thirty-five
thousand dollars.... Let us suppose an efficient company engaged in
the traffic. They would smuggle into the country a thousand cases a
month.... In that case their earnings would total three hundred and
fifty thousand dollars.... Ahem!... Interesting, is it not?”
“Yes,” said Carmel, “but what set you thinking about it?”
Evan peered at her gravely through his spectacles, as he might peer at
some minute zoological specimen through a microscope, and was long in
replying.
“I--er--was merely wondering,” he said, “if a life of lawlessness could
not offer greater rewards than--ah--respectable journalism.”
“Are you proposing that I become a--rum runner?”
“Not exactly,” said Evan Bartholomew, “not precisely. I was, so to
speak, offering you an opportunity to exercise your reason.... If
exercise is salubrious for the body, why not for the mind?” He cleared
his throat and turned his back upon her abruptly.
“The various sciences you have studied,” she said, sharply, “did not
include good manners.”
“As I understand it,” said Evan, “our relations are not social, but
purely of a business nature. If I am in error, I beg you to correct me.”
Carmel smiled. What a strange, self-centered, egotistical little
creature he was! So this was what became of infant prodigies.... They
dried up into dusty intellect, lived for intellect alone; became a
species of hermit living in social poverty in the cave of their own
skulls!
“I cannot,” she said, “fancy you in any relation which remotely
approximated social.”
“H’m!” said Professor Pell.