H. R. at that very moment was in his office. He had prepared a few model
epistles for his Public Sentiment Corps to write to the newspapers,
asking whether the composition of the ideal hunger-appeaser had been
printed and when the tickets for the Mammoth Hunger Feast would be
offered for sale. This would keep alive interest in his plans and in the
personnel of his public commissions. People had grown to believe that
all sorts of commissions were necessary not only to free but even to
intelligent government.
He had his list of names ready for the reporters when they called.
"The announcement as to how we shall sell the tickets--each at
twenty-five cents--to pay for a wonderful meal for a hungry person and a
coupon attached, with ten thousand dollars in cash if you have
brains--will be made to-morrow."
"But--" expostulated a fat reporter.
"To-morrow!" said H. R., feeling strong enough now to be nasty to the
press. Either he was or he was not yet News. He would decide that matter
for all time.
"Do you think we are your hired press agents to--" angrily began the fat
one.
"I don't give a damn if I never see you again. I don't care what you
print or what you don't print, nor when. We do our advertising through
the medium of sandwiches. Get to hell out of here and remember the libel
laws; also that I pay my lawyers by the year. They are not very busy
just now." To the others he said, kindly, "That's all to-day, boys. I'm
busy as blazes."
Cursing the absurd libel laws which prevent all newspapers from printing
the truth, the fat reporter took his list of names and his leave at one
and the same time. You can't treat even frauds humorously nowadays.
H. R. had won again!
He summoned Andrew Barrett and said to him: "Get this sandwich out
to-morrow. It is one of our own. S. A. S. A. account; all-day job."
"The men objected to the other--"
"Seven thirty-cent tickets to Weinpusslacher's apiece," interrupted
H. R., impatiently. "Get them from Weinie. He owes us three thousand."
"Great! Greatissimo!" shouted young Mr. Barrett. He hated to pay out
real money, and the members were getting ugly. They wanted pay for
everything, even for sandwiching for the Cause.
"Go to the costumer of the Metropolitan Opera House, to Madame Pauline,
and to Monsieur Raquin of the Rue de la Paix who is stopping at the
Hotel Regina, and to the fashion editor of the _Ladies' Home Mentor_,
and ask each to send us a design for a ticket-seller's costume. They
will be worn by perfectly beautiful girls. There will be one hundred of
them. I myself vote for the Perfect Thirty-eight, about five feet seven
and one-half tall. My model of perfection is Miss Goodchild. Get busy.
And, Barrett--"
"Yes, sir."
"Here is the text for the sandwich." H. R. handed a sheet of paper to
his lieutenant, who read thereon: