"Doesn't it occur to you, Guv'nor, that we're getting this thing just a
trifle too high class?"
"What makes you think that?" demanded Peter Hope.
"Our circulation, for one thing," explained Clodd. "The returns for last
month--"
"I'd rather you didn't mention them, if you don't mind," interrupted
Peter Hope; "somehow, hearing the actual figures always depresses me."
"Can't say I feel inspired by them myself," admitted Clodd.
"It will come," said Peter Hope, "it will come in time. We must educate
the public up to our level."
"If there is one thing, so far as I have noticed," said William Clodd,
"that the public are inclined to pay less for than another, it is for
being educated."
"What are we to do?" asked Peter Hope.
"What you want," answered William Clodd, "is an office-boy."
"How will our having an office-boy increase our circulation?" demanded
Peter Hope. "Besides, it was agreed that we could do without one for the
first year. Why suggest more expense?"
"I don't mean an ordinary office-boy," explained Clodd. "I mean the sort
of boy that I rode with in the train going down to Stratford yesterday."
"What was there remarkable about him?"
"Nothing. He was reading the current number of the _Penny Novelist_.
Over two hundred thousand people buy it. He is one of them. He told me
so. When he had done with it, he drew from his pocket a copy of the
_Halfpenny Joker_--they guarantee a circulation of seventy thousand. He
sat and chuckled over it until we got to Bow."
"But--"
"You wait a minute. I'm coming to the explanation. That boy represents
the reading public. I talked to him. The papers he likes best are the
papers that have the largest sales. He never made a single mistake. The
others--those of them he had seen--he dismissed as 'rot.' What he likes
is what the great mass of the journal-buying public likes. Please him--I
took his name and address, and he is willing to come to us for eight
shillings a week--and you please the people that buy. Not the people
that glance through a paper when it is lying on the smoking-room table,
and tell you it is damned good, but the people that plank down their
penny. That's the sort we want."
Peter Hope, able editor, with ideals, was shocked--indignant. William
Clodd, business man, without ideals, talked figures.
"There's the advertiser to be thought of," persisted Clodd. "I don't
pretend to be a George Washington, but what's the use of telling lies
that sound like lies, even to one's self while one's telling them? Give
me a genuine sale of twenty thousand, and I'll undertake, without
committing myself, to convey an impression of forty. But when the actual
figures are under eight thousand--well, it hampers you, if you happen to
have a conscience.
"Give them every week a dozen columns of good, sound literature,"
continued Clodd insinuatingly, "but wrap it up in twenty-four columns of
jam. It's the only way they'll take it, and you will be doing them
good--educating them without their knowing it. All powder and no jam!
Well, they don't open their mouths, that's all."
Clodd was a man who knew how to get his way. Flipp--spelled
Philip--Tweetel arrived in due course of time at 23, Crane Court,
ostensibly to take up the position of _Good Humour's_ office-boy; in
reality, and without his being aware of it, to act as its literary
taster. Stories in which Flipp became absorbed were accepted. Peter
groaned, but contented himself with correcting only their grosser
grammatical blunders; the experiment should be tried in all good faith.
Humour at which Flipp laughed was printed. Peter tried to ease his
conscience by increasing his subscription to the fund for destitute
compositors, but only partially succeeded. Poetry that brought a tear to
the eye of Flipp was given leaded type. People of taste and judgment
said _Good Humour_ had disappointed them. Its circulation, slowly but
steadily, increased.
"See!" cried the delighted Clodd; "told you so!"
"It's sad to think--" began Peter.
"Always is," interrupted Clodd cheerfully. "Moral--don't think too
much."
"Tell you what we'll do," added Clodd. "We'll make a fortune out of this
paper. Then when we can afford to lose a little money, we'll launch a
paper that shall appeal only to the intellectual portion of the public.
Meanwhile--"
A squat black bottle with a label attached, standing on the desk,
arrested Clodd's attention.
"When did this come?" asked Clodd.
"About an hour ago," Peter told him.
"Any order with it?"
"I think so." Peter searched for and found a letter addressed to
"William Clodd, Esq., Advertising Manager, _Good Humour_." Clodd tore it
open, hastily devoured it.
"Not closed up yet, are you?"
"No, not till eight o'clock."
"Good! I want you to write me a par. Do it now, then you won't forget
it. For the 'Walnuts and Wine' column."