H. R. on horseback, in correct riding attire, following seven mounted
traffic-squad men, appeared on the scene.
"There he is!" said Mr. Onthemaker to the reporters, dutifully yielding
the center of the stage to its rightful possessor. After all, there was
only one H. R., and both H. R. and Max Onthemaker knew it.
"That's the commissioner," said a clerk to the atmosphere.
"It's young Vandergilt!" asserted the fickle one who had thought
McGinnis was fine-looking.
Before the traffic squad could dismount, H. R. jumped down from his
horse, threw the reins to one of the mounted officers, said, "Look after
him!" so decisively that no remonstrance was possible, approached the
group, and said, "I'm Mr. Rutgers!"
Fifth Avenue was impassable now.
"_Who_ is it?" asked ten thousand who had been asking, "_What_ is it?"
Those who had heard proudly repeated the name to those who had not.
Within forty seconds, as far as Thirty-fourth Street, intelligent
New-Yorkers were saying, "It's Mr. Rutgers!"
Officer McGinnis touched his white-gloved hand to his cap.
"That's Hendrik Rutgers!" explained Max Onthemaker to the reporters.
H. R. looked Mr. MacAckus in the eye and said, with patrician frigidity:
"If you think you have any ground for a civil action, go ahead. My
office is in the Allied Arts Building. I'll accept service in person or
through my counsel here."
A murmur went up: these were law-abiding men. They therefore must be not
only right, but mighty sure of it. All the lieutenant dared say, when he
saw the representative of business and the representative of the leisure
class was: "Gentlemen, I'm afraid you're blocking traffic. Perhaps, if
you went inside--"
"Follow me!" said H. R. to his men, and he led them into Thirty-seventh
Street. He halted fifty feet from the corner.
Mr. MacAckus had followed and unlimbered his heavy artillery.
"This infernal outrage--"
H. R. lost all patience. He said to the mounted lieutenant, "Take us to
the magistrate!" To Max Onthemaker he whispered, "Got the papers with
you?"
"And the reporters, too," answered the able counsel with much pride, as
though the reporters were his own private property loaned to the cause
for the occasion without charge.
Seeing that the police made no move, H. R. said, determinedly: "I insist
upon going before the magistrate. You can report it at the station later
and save us time."
This made the police officer hesitate. It always does. It works on the
principle of treating your opponent as if he were a taxicabby who has
overcharged.
"I guess that's the best way," said the lieutenant.
"Thank you, Inspector. Will you kindly tell one of your men to bring my
mount along? Thank you!" said H. R.
Politeness pays. By saying "thank you" in advance of the service no
gentleman can refuse.
At the Magistrate's Court the session was short and sweet.
Mr. Onthemaker looked eloquent. The clerk who had typewritten the
restraining orders whispered, "It's No. 5!" and his chief picked it out
of the seventeen without hesitation. Everybody was impressed by the
obvious efficiency. Efficiency must never be hidden.
The argument prepared by Mr. Onthemaker was one of the best his Honor
had ever heard. He needed it for his own fall campaign. It certainly
read well. He even read it in print--in advance.
"Let me see your argument," said the magistrate, and when Mr. Onthemaker
gave him the speech he put it in his inside pocket. He did not know what
to say until he saw the reporters taking notes. Then he knew.
"Discharged!" he said. It was the most popular decision in New York.
Max Onthemaker looked at his watch. Morris Lazarus by this time had
doubtless applied for an order restraining Valiquet's from interfering
with the lawful business of Jean Gerard, Walter Townsend, J. J. Fleming,
William Mulligan, William F. Farquhar, Marmaduke de Beanville, Wilton
Lazear, Percival Willoughby, and Francis Drake.
"We have secured an injunction against Valiquet's. Here it is," said Mr.
Onthemaker. "You are the vice-president of your _corporation_. You might
as well learn your own business from me." Then, with a fierce frown
that there might be no back talk, he explained, with utter finality,
"This is a _certified copy_!"
He approached Mr. MacAckus and took advantage of the contiguity to
whisper: "If you don't wish to make your concern the laughing-stock of
America get busy and keep the newspapers from printing that you were
fool enough to oppose us in our perfectly legal position. Bear in mind
that if you fight us you make us."
"No compromise!" said H. R., sternly.
"No, sir," answered Onthemaker, meekly. Then he hissed at MacAckus, "Do
as I tell you, you boob!"
Mr. MacAckus clearly realized that this was a conspiracy. That always
makes business men fear that they may lose money. The fear of that
always sharpens their wits. It comes from a lifetime's training.
It was all Mr. Josslyn's fault. This made Mr. MacAckus almost despair.
But he said, very kindly, to the reporters, "Gentlemen, will you all be
good enough to call at our office before you print anything?"
The reporters, very kindly also, told him they would.
The free sandwiches returned to Fifth Avenue.
It was an ovation!
Art again had triumphed!
Proudly, up and down, from Thirty-fourth to Forty-second and back on the
other side, they marched unhindered.
The reporters did justice to the story. Like all really big stories, it
was legitimate news. They had indeed suspected advertising until H. R.
refused to speak about himself.
"All you please about my poor sandwiches, but not one word about me. I
have merely tried to rehabilitate the pariahs of the great mercantile
world by reviving the lost art of perambulating publicity. If I have
succeeded in making sandwiches free in New York, my work is done. Please
do not mention my name!" Then he leaned over confidentially and said,
very earnestly: "My family is conservative, and they hate to see the old
name in print. Don't use it, boys. Please! That's why I never sign more
than my initials!"
Ah, it was not alone modesty, but high social position and inherited
wealth that were responsible for "H. R." instead of the full name? And
the reporters? News is what is novel; also what is rare. H. R. was
therefore doubly news. The minds of the reporters did not work like
H. R.'s, but they arrived at the same point at the same time. This is
genius--on the part of the other man.
Keeping your mouth shut after it happens is a still higher form of
genius.
The newspapers gave him from two to six columns. Since the reporters
could not get anything about H. R. from H. R., they got everything from
Max Onthemaker, from the sandwich-men, from Andrew Barrett, and also
from their inner consciousness and psychological insight.
Nine newspapers; nine different heroes; one name--and initials at that!
X
Andrew Barrett was made office-manager as well as business-getter. He
was ordered to pay for the two additional clerks and the bookkeeper out
of his own commissions or resign. He paid. This was real business
because even then young Mr. Barrett was overpaid for his work. But his
real acumen was in recognizing a great man.
Since the pay-roll was a matter of Mr. Andrew Barrett's personally
selected statistics, H. R. was certainly a wonder.
On Tuesday morning H. R., feeling that his own greatness had already
become merely a matter of greater greatness, turned, manlike, to
thoughts of love: he would share his greatness!
He would make Grace Goodchild marry him. He was sure he would succeed.
He saw very clearly, indeed, how Mr. Goodchild, being a conservative
banker, could be compelled to say yes.
In addition he would make Grace love him.
The strongest love is that love which is stronger than hatred or fear.
Therefore the love that begins by hating or fearing is best. To overcome
the inertia of non-loving is not so difficult as to stop the backward
motion and turn it into forward.
He sat down and wrote a note:
DEAR GRACE, I am sending you herewith a few clippings.
Remember what I told you. Don't let father prejudice you.
Hope to see you soon. Busy as the dickens.
Yours,
H. R.
_P.S._--I love you because you are _You!_ Certainly I am
crazy. But, dear, _I know it_!
With the note he sent her eighty-three inches of clippings and fourteen
pictures. If that wasn't fame, what was? He also sent flowers.
That afternoon before the _the dansant_ hour he called at the Goodchild
residence.
"Miss Goodchild!" he said to the man, instead of asking for her. He
pulled out his watch, looked at it, and before the man could say he
would see if she were at home to H. R., added, "Yes!"
He was punctual, as the man could see. The man therefore held out a
silver card-tray.
"Say it's Mr. Rutgers," H. R. told him. "And straighten out that rug.
You've walked over it a dozen times!"
It was plain to see that it was H. R. who really owned this house. He
must, since he wasn't afraid of the servants. And the worst of it was
that the footman could not resent it: the gentleman was so obviously
accustomed to regarding servants as domestic furniture. He dehumanized
footmen, deprived them of souls, left them merely arms and legs to obey,
machine-like. They call such "well-ordered households." Certainly not.
It isn't a matter of the orders, but of the soul-excision.
Grace Goodchild walked in--behind her mother. The footman stood by the
door, evidently by request.
Everything in civilized communities is by request.
"How do you do?" said H. R., pleasantly. "Is this mother?" He bowed to
Mrs. Goodchild--the bow of a social equal--his eyes full of a highly
intelligent appreciation of physical charm. Then he asked Grace, "Did
you read them?"
Mrs. Goodchild had intended to be stern, but the young man's undisguised
admiration softened her wrath to pleasant sarcasm.
"I wished to see for myself," she said, not very hostilely, "if you were
insane. I see you are--"
"I am," agreed H. R., amicably, "and have been since I saw her. And the
worst of it is, I am very proud of it."
"Will you oblige me by leaving this house quietly?"
"Certainly," H. R. assured her. "I didn't come to stay--this time. I'm
glad to have seen you. Has Grace told you I'm to be your son-in-law?"
He looked at her proudly, yet meekly. It was wonderful how well he
managed to express the conflict. Then he apologized contritely. "I was
too busy to call before. My grandmother has never met you, has she?" He
looked at her anxiously, eager to clear Mrs. Goodchild's name before the
court of his family.
At one fell swoop H. R. had deleted the name of Goodchild from the
society columns.