MR. BIRDLIP was a good old man, of unimpeachable simplicity. He had
achieved enormous wealth in an honourable business, and then found (to
his mild distress) that the great traffic he had built up conducted
itself automatically. He had, in a way, been gently shouldered out of
his own nest by the capable men whose fortunes he had made. But his
zealous and frugal spirit required some sort of problem to feed upon,
and he delighted his heart by owning a newspaper. _The Evening Lens_ was
his toy and the child of his dotage.
So the Persian rugs and walnut panelling of his private suite in the
huge Birdlip Building saw him rarely. He was supremely happy in the
dingy sanctum at the back of the old _Lens_ office, where the hum of the
presses and the racket of the city room (which he still, by an innocent
misunderstanding, called the “sitting room”) delighted his guileless
heart. He would sit turning over the pages of each edition as it came
upstairs (putting his second finger up to his tongue before he turned
each leaf) and poring industriously over the market reports, the comics,
and the Woman's Page. With his pink cheeks, his dapper little figure in
a brown suit and cream-coloured waistcoat, and his eager, shy, chirping
manner, he was very like a robin. Although he was full of gigantic
schemes, which he broached naively in the editorial council every now
and then, he never wittingly interfered with his editor-in-chief,
in whom he had full confidence. But his gentle and jejune mind had a
disastrous effect on the paper no less. Almost unconsciously the Lens
was written and edited down to his standard, as a roomful of adults will
amiably prattle so as to carry along a child in the conversation.
Mr. Birdlip's amazing success in his original field had been due partly
to his decent sagacity, honesty, and persistence, and partly to his
sheer fortune in finding (at the very outset of his enterprise) several
men of rugged ability, who became the pearls in his simple oyster-shell.
As a result of this, it had become his fixed mental habit to believe
that somewhere, some day, he would encounter the man or men who would
make the _Lens_ the greatest newspaper in the country. This, indeed, was
his candid ambition, and he never went anywhere without keeping his eyes
open for the anticipated messiah.
He was greatly taken by broad primitive effects: when he noticed that a
Chicago daily always called itself “The World's Greatest Newspaper” he
was marvellously struck by the power of this slogan, and lamented that
he had not thought of it first. The question as to whether the slogan
were true or not never occurred to him. He liked to have the keynote
sentences in the leading editorial emphasized in blackface type, so that
there might be no danger of any one's missing the point. Desiring for
his beloved sheet “this man's art and that man's scope,” as the sonnet
puts it, every now and then he thought he had discovered the prodigy,
and some new feature would be added to the paper at outrageous expense,
only to be quietly shovelled out six months or a year later. In the
meantime, the auditor was growing very gray, and even Mr. Birdlip's
quick blue eye was sometimes hazed with faint perplexity when he studied
the circulation charts. Perhaps it would have been kinder if someone
could have told him that a boyhood spent in splitting infinitives is
not sufficient training for one to become an Abraham Lincoln of the
newspaper business.
As he trotted in and out of the _Lens_ office, with his rosy air of
confidence and his disarming simplicity (which made his white hair seem
a wanton cruelty on the part of Time, that would wither a man's cells
while his mind was still on all fours), Mr. Birdlip was the object of
furtive but very sharp study on the part of some cynical journalists
whom he hired. It was a genuine amazement to Sanford, the dramatic
critic, that the owner was so entirely unaware of his (Sanford's)
abilities, which certainly (he thought) called for a salary of more
than sixty dollars a week. Sanford often meditated about this, and not
entirely in secret. In fact, it was generally admitted among the younger
members of the staff, when they gathered at Ventriloquo's for lunch,
that the Old Man was immaculately ignorant of all phases of the
newspaper business. While the spaghetti and mushrooms cheered the
embittered gossips, merry and quaint were the quips sped toward the
unsuspecting target. Sanford's private grievance was that though for
over a year he had been doing signed critiques of plays, which were
really spirited and honest, not once had the Old Man condescended to
mention them, or to show any sign of uttering an _Ecce Homo_ in his
direction. As far as he was concerned, he felt that the weekly battle of
Manila Envelopes was a conspicuous rout, and he frequently rehearsed the
exact tone in which he would some day say to the managing editor: “You
may fire when ready, Gridley.” Little did Sanford realize that the only
time Mr. Birdlip had attempted to read the “Exits and Entrances” column
he had met the name of Æschylus, had faltered, and retreated upon the
syndicated sermon by the Rev. Frank Crane.
*****
“I saw 'Ruddigore' the other evening,” said Sanford to his cronies, as
they called for a second round of coffee. “There's a line in it that
describes old Birdie fore, aft, and amidships. Something like this: 'He
is that particular variety of good old man to whom the truth is always a
refreshing novelty'.”
They complauded. Rightly or wrongly, these high-spirited and
sophisticated young men had decided that Mr. Birdlip's naïveté was
so refreshingly complete that it gave them an aesthetic pleasure to
contemplate it. It had the exquisite beauty of any absolute perfection.
Their employer's latest venture, which had been to pay $200,000 for the
exclusive right to publish and syndicate the mysterious formulae of a
leading Memory Course, had shocked them very greatly.
It touched them in a tender spot to know that there had been all that
money lying round the office, unused, which was now to be squandered (as
they put it) on charlatanry, when they felt that they might just as well
have had some of it.
“The Old Man is always looking for some special stunt, and trying to
discover someone on the outside,” said one. “He can't see the material
right under his nose.”
“It's really rather pathetic: he's crazy to get out a great newspaper,
but he hasn't the faintest idea how to do it.”
“Yes, give him credit for sincerity. It isn't just circulation he
wants.”
“Circulation's easy enough, if that's what you're after. The three
builders of circulation are Sordid, Sensational, and Sex--”
“And the greatest of these is Sex.”
“Oh, he's decent enough. He won't pander.”
“He panders to stupidity. He's fallen for this Memory bunk. And when he
finds that's a flivver, he'll try something else, equally fatuous. He's
making the old _Lens_ ridiculous.”
They smoked awhile, meditatively.
“What I would like to figure out,” said Sanford, “is some way of making
an impression on the Old Man. I've got to get more money. The
trouble--some part of it is, I feel instinctively that he and I live in
different worlds. We hardly even talk the same language. Well, there's
no chance of his learning my way of thinking; so I suppose I'll have to
learn his.”
“He's the man who puts the nil in the Manila envelope,” said one of the
others.
“As far as we are concerned, yes. But there's plenty of the stuff going
round on Fridays for the kind of people he understands.”
“He seems to be an absent-minded old bird. When I talk to him, it's as
though I were trying to speak through a fog.”
“It looks to me as though his mind had overstayed its leave of absence.”
“He likes the kind of men who, as he says, 'have both feet on the
ground'.”
“Yes, but you've got to have at least one foot in the air if you're
going to get anywhere.”
“See here,” said the literary editor, who was more tolerant than the
others. “What's the use of panning the Old Man? He's trying to put the
paper over, just as hard as we are. Maybe harder. But he doesn't know.
And I believe he knows he doesn't know. I think the chief trouble is,
they all knuckle down to him so. They're scared of him. They think the
only way they can hold their jobs is by agreeing with him. If someone
could only put him wise----”
“But how _can_ you put him wise? He doesn't see anything unless it's
laid out for him in a strip cartoon or a full-page ad. The kind of thing
that interests him is the talk he hears in a Pullman smoker or club
car.”
“That's a fact. You know he always says he likes to go travelling,
because he picks up ideas from people on the train. 'Of course I
place you! Mr. Mowbray Monk of Seattle. And is your Rotary Club still
rotating?' That kind of talk.”
“I think you're right,” said Sanford. “He doesn't see us because we have
too much protective colouring. We are only the patient drudges. We don't
talk that Pullman palaver about Big Business. We've got to learn to
talk his language. What is that phrase of Bacon's--we've got to bring
ourselves home to his business and bosom----”
“Let's get back to the office,” said the disillusioned literary editor.
“That's the way to bring home the bacon.”
*****
A few days later Sanford was at his desk, clipping and pasting press
agents' flimsies for the Saturday Theatre Page. This was a task which he
hated above all others, and he was meditating sourly on the scarcity
of truth in human affairs. At this moment Mr. Birdlip happened to pass
along the corridor outside the editorial rooms. Sanford heard him say:
“Miss Flaccus, will you get me a seat in the club car, ten o'clock
train to-morrow? I've got to run over to New York to take lunch with Mr.
Montaigne.”
Sanford put down his shears, relit his pipe, and began to pursue a
fugitive idea round the suburbs of his mind. Presently he drew out his
check book from a drawer and did some calculating on a sheet of paper.
“A hundred dollars,” he said to himself. “I guess it's worth it.”
The following morning, dressed in a new suit and with shoes freshly
burnished, Sanford was at the terminal twenty minutes before train time.
With him was a young man carrying a leather portfolio. To observe the
respectful demeanour of this young man, no one would have suspected that
he was Sanford's young brother-in-law, rejoicing in cutting his classes
at college for a day's masquerading. Sanford bought some cigars (a form
of smoking which he detested) and carefully removed the bands from all
but one of them.
Presently Mr. Birdlip appeared, cheerfully trotting up the stairs.
Sanford and his companion followed discreetly. As Mr. Birdlip went
through the gate, they were close behind. Entering the club car, Mr.
Birdlip sat down and opened a morning paper. Sanford and his companion
were prompt to take the two adjoining seats. Sanford began to look over
_System_ and _Printers' Ink_, and perhaps his interest in these vigorous
journals was not wholly unfeigned, for it was the first time he had
studied them. The young man beside him drew out a mass of papers from
his leather bag, and in a moment of stillness just before the train
started said in a clear voice:
“Pardon, sir, but there is some important dictation here that ought to
be attended to.”
Sanford assumed the air of a man wearied with tremendous affairs. .
“Very well, what comes first?”
“The New York _Budget_ has wired for an answer in regard to their
proposition.”
Sanford blew a luxurious whiff of smoke. “Take this letter: My dear Mr.
Ralston. Replying to your inquiries as to whether I would be willing to
take charge of the editorial page of the _Budget_ for a few months,
to put the paper on its feet, I am willing to consider the matter, and
would be pleased to discuss it with you if you will run over to see me.
I am very busy just now, and could not possibly undertake the work
for some weeks. I have been retained in an advisory capacity by a big
Western syndicate which was badly in need of some circulation building;
and until I can put their paper up to a half-million figure I have not
much spare time. Their paper has gone up a couple of hundred thousand
since I mapped out a campaign for them, but I would not feel justified
in discontinuing my services to them until these gains are properly
consolidated. I will be in my office at ten o'clock next Tuesday morning
if you care to see me. Very truly yours.”
Mr. Birdlip was hidden behind his paper, but something in the angle at
which the sheets were held led Sanford to believe that the old gentleman
was listening.
“Very well, Edwards,” he said. “What's next?”
“Here's this letter from Lord Southpeak of the London _Gazette_ asking
if he can see you when he comes over next month.”
“Cable Southpeak I shall be very happy to see him if he gets here before
the fifteenth. I am going on my vacation then.”
The attentive Edwards scribbled rapidly in his notebook.
“Just pick out the most urgent stuff,” said Sanford. “I don't care to
bother with anything that isn't really pressing. I've got an important
conference on in New York to-day, and I want to keep my mind clear.
Blackwit of the Associated Press has asked me to say a few words to his
directors on 'Journalism as a Function of Public Conscience'.”
Edwards ran rapidly through an imposing mass of documents.
“That long-distance call from the Chicago _Vox_,” he said. “You promised
to give Mr. Groton some word this morning.”
“Call him up when we get to Penn. Station,” said Sanford. “Tell him I
can't give him any decision yet awhile. Tell him that loyalty to my own
city will keep me there for some time. You might tell him that I believe
the _Lens_ has great possibilities if properly handled. I should not
care to build up the property of a Chicago paper while there is a chance
of the _Lens_ becoming the great evening paper of the East.”
“Yes, sir,” said Edwards, jotting down what, might pass for stenography.
The train was running smoothly through level green country, and Mr.
Birdlip laid down his paper on his lap. Sanford was ready to catch his
eye.
“Good morning, Mr. Birdlip,” he said, genially.
“Good morning,” said the owner of the _Lens_, whose bright gaze
exhibited a lively tincture of interest.
“Here are the typed notes of your remarks on 'Newspaper Circulation as a
Byproduct of the Multiplication Table',” said Edwards, in a loud voice.
“You can let those wait,” said Sanford, carelessly. “I don't want to
be bothered with anything else this morning. Give me a memorandum of
anything that needs to be attended to when we get to New York.” He
turned to Mr. Birdlip. “I find that in these busy days one has to attend
to some of one's work even on the train. It is about the only place
where one is never interrupted.”
“Did I hear you say something about Circulation?” said Mr. Birdlip. “Are
you specially interested in that problem?”
“I have given it a good deal of thought,” said Sanford. “But I would
hardly dignify it by calling it a problem. It is perfectly simple. It
is purely a matter of taking the right attitude toward it. So many
newspaper proprietors regard it merely as a problem in addition. Now it
should be considered rather as a matter of multiplication. Instead of
trying to add ten to your figures, why not multiply by ten? The result
is so much more satisfactory.”
This sounded so plausible that Mr. Birdlip felt ashamed to ask how it
was to be done.
“Will you have a cigar, sir?” asked Sanford, handing out the only one
with a band on it. Mr. Birdlip accepted it, and looked as though he were
about to ask a question. Sanford went on rapidly.
“Speaking of circulation,” he said, “when I am consulted I am always
surprised to note that newspaper proprietors are so prone to view
the matter merely as a question of distribution; of--well, of
merchandising,” he added, as his eye fell upon that word in his copy
of _System_. “Indeed it rests upon quite another basis. The essence of
merchandising” (he repeated the word with relish, noting its soothing
effect on his employer) “is what?”
He made a dramatic pause, and Mr. Birdlip, carried away, wondered what
indeed was the essence.
“The essence of merchandising,” said Sanford (he smote the arm of his
chair, and leaned forward in emphasis), “and by merchandising I mean of
course in the modern sense, merchandising on a big scale, is nothing but
Confidence. Confidence, an impalpable thing, a state of mind. Now,
sir, what is it that upbuilds circulation? It is Public Confidence. The
assurance on the part of the public that the newspaper is reliable. It
is a secret and inviolable conviction on the part of the reader that the
integrity and enterprise of the paper are beyond cavil, in other words,
unimpeachable. In order to create the Will-to-Purchase on the part of
the prospect, in order to beget that desirable state of mind, there must
be a state of mind in the paper itself. Note that word _Mind_. Now
what is the Mind of the paper? I always ask every newspaper owner who
consults me, what is the Mind of his paper?”
Without waiting for Mr. Birdlip to be embarrassed by his inability to
answer this question, the ecstatic Sanford continued:
“The Mind of the paper is, of course, the Editorial Department. How
subtle, how delicate, how momentous, is that function of commenting on
the great affairs of the world! As I said in an address to a Rotary
club recently, of what use to have all the mechanical perfections ever
invented unless your editors are the right men? Walter Whitman, the
efficiency engineer, said: 'Produce great persons: the rest follows.'
That is the kind of production that counts most. Get great personalities
for your editors, and watch the circulation rise. Of course the right
kind of editors must be very highly paid.”
This was a strange doctrine to Mr. Birdlip, who never read the editorial
page of his own paper, and secretly wondered how the editors found so
much to write about.
“The great error that so many newspaper owners make,” said Sanford,
sonorously, “is to think of their product as they would of any other
article of commerce which is turned out day by day, in standardized
units, from a factory. A newspaper is not standardized. It is born anew
every issue. It is not a manufacturing routine that puts it together:
it is a human organism, built up out of human brains. Every unit
is different. It depends not primarily on machinery but on human
personalities. I cannot understand why it is that newspaper owners yearn
for the finest and most modern presses, and yet are often content to
staff their journals with second-rate men.”
“I agree with you,” said Mr. Birdlip. “It is all a question of getting
the right man. That is one reason why I am so fond of travelling; I
always meet up with new ideas. Now, sir (I am sorry I do not know your
name, for your face is rather familiar; I think I must have met you
at some Rotary club), you seem to me a man of forceful and aggressive
character. You are the kind of man I should like to have on the _Lens_,
I heard you mention the paper to your secretary awhile back; you must be
interested in it.”
Sanford was perfectly cool. “I might consider it,” he said.
“I think you would find the _Lens_ a pleasant paper to work on,” said
Mr. Birdlip. “I flatter myself that the staff is a capable one, for the
most part.”
“I should insist on being given a free hand,” said Sanford. “Perhaps the
position of circulation manager----?”
“Let me think a moment,” said Mr. Birdlip. “I suppose I ought to visit
with my editor-in-chief before firing any one to make room for you. But I
must say I like the way you talk, straight from the shoulder, like that
Dr. Cranium, you know. That's the sort of stuff we need.”
“Right!” cried Sanford. “If you always talk straight from the shoulder,
you'll never talk through your hat.”
Mr. Birdlip relished this impromptu aphorism. “Well, now, let me see,”
he said, pondering. “The editor-in-chief, the managing editor, the
editorial writers--they're all pretty good men.”
“Of course I shouldn't care for a merely routine position,” said
Sanford. “The only position I would consider would be one in which I
could really build up circulation for you.” He was wondering inwardly
whether to stand out for a ten thousand salary.
“Quite so,” said Mr. Birdlip. “I think I have it. How would you care
to run a column? 'Straight From the Shoulder'--wouldn't that be a fine
title?”
“Fine!” said Sanford, but not without a secret shudder. Still, he
thought, gold can assuage anything; and he reflected on the rich,
sedentary, and care-free life of a syndicated philosopher.
“Very well,” said the owner. “I've been looking around for a man with
both feet on the ground----”
(“Both feet on the pay envelope is my idea,” said Sanford to himself.)
“And I think you're just the man I want. There's only one place in the
paper I can think of that really needs a change. There's a fellow on
the staff called Sanford, runs a kind of column, terrible stuff. I don't
think he amounts to much. Now why couldn't you take his job?”
Sanford has never forgiven his brother-in-law for that curious strangled
sound he emitted.