The Clarion

THE CONVERT

Old Home Week passed in a burst of glory and profit.  True to its troublous type, the “Clarion” had interfered with the profit, in two brief, lively, and effective campaigns.  It had published a roster of hotels which, after agreeing not to raise rates for the week, had reverted to the old, tried and true principle of “all the traffic can bear,” with comparative tables, thereby causing great distress of mind and pocket among the piratical.  Backed by the Consumers’ League, it had again taken up the cudgels for the store employees, demanding that they receive pay for overtime during the celebration and winning a partial victory.  No little rancor was, of course, stirred up among the advertisers.  The usual threats were made.  But the business interests of Worthington had begun to learn that threatening the “Clarion” was a futile procedure, while advertisers were coming to a realization of the fact that they couldn’t afford to stay out of so strong a medium, even at increased rates.

The raise in the advertising schedule had been partly Esmé Elliot’s doing.  As a condition of her engagement to Hal, she demanded a resumption of the old partnership.  Entered into lightly, it soon became of serious moment, for the girl had a natural gift for affairs.  When she learned that on the basis of circulation the “Clarion” would be justified in increasing its advertising card by forty per cent, but dared not do so because of the narrow margin upon which it was working, she insisted upon the measure, supporting her argument with a considerable sum of money of her own.  Hal revolted at this, but she pleaded so sweetly that he finally consented to regard it as a reserve fund.  It was never called for.  The turn of the tide had come for the paper.  It lost few old advertisers and put on new ones.  It was a success.

No one was more delighted than Dr. Surtaine.  Forgetting his own prophecies of disaster he exalted Hal to the skies as a chip of the old block, an inheritor of his own genius for business.

“Knew all along he had the stuff in him,” he would declare buoyantly.  “Look at the ‘Clarion’ now!  Most independent, you-be-damned sheet in the country.  And what about the chaps that were going to put it out of business?  Eating out of its hand!”

Of Esmé the old quack was quite as proud as of Hal.  To him she embodied and typified, in its extreme form, those things which all his money could not buy.  That she disliked the Certina business and made no secret of the fact did not in the least interfere with a genuine liking between herself and its proprietor.  Dr. Surtaine could not discuss Certina with Hal:  there were too many wounds still open between them.  But with Esmé he could, and often did.  Her attitude struck him as nicely philosophic and impersonal, if a bit disdainful.  And in these days he had to talk to some one, for he was swollen with a great and glorious purpose.

He announced it one resplendent fall day, having gone out to Greenvale with that particular object in view, at an hour when he was sure that Hal would be at the office.

“Esmé, I’m going to make you a wedding present of Certina,” he said.

“Never take it, Doctor,” she replied, smiling up at him in friendly recognition of what had come to be a subject of stock joke between them.

“I’m serious.  I’m going to make you a wedding present of the Certina business.  I guess there aren’t many brides get a gift of half a million a year.  Too bad I can’t give it out to the newspapers, but it wouldn’t do.”

“What on earth do you mean?” cried the astonished girl.  “I couldn’t take it.  Hal wouldn’t let me.”

“I’m going to give it up, for you.  You think it ain’t genteel and high-toned, don’t you?”

“I think it isn’t honest.”

“Not discussing business principles, to-day,” retorted the Doctor good-humoredly.  “It’s a question of taste now.  You’re ashamed of the proprietary medicine game, aren’t you, my dear?”

Esmé laughed.  Embarrassment with Dr. Surtaine was impossible.  He was too childlike.  “A little,” she confessed.

“You’d be glad if I quit it.”

“Of course I would.  I suppose you can afford it.”

As if responding to the touch of a concealed spring, the Surtaine chest protruded.  “You find me something I can’t afford, and I’ll buy it!” he declared.  “But this won’t even cost me anything in the long run.  Esmé, did I ever tell you my creed?”

“‘Certina Cures,’” suggested the girl mischievously.

“That’s for business.  I mean for everyday life.  My creed is to let Providence take care of folks in general while I look after me and mine.”

“It’s practical, at least, if not altruistic.”

“Me, and mine,” repeated the charlatan.  “Do you get that ‘and mine’?  That means the employees of the Certina factory.  Now, if I quit making Certina, what about them?  Shall I turn them out on the street?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” admitted the girl blankly.

“Business can be altruistic as well as practical, you see,” he observed.  “Well, I’ve worked out a scheme to take care of that.  Been working on it for months.  Certina is going to die painlessly.  And I’m going to preach its funeral oration at the factory on Monday.  Will you come, and make Hal come, too?”

In vain did Esmé employ her most winning arts of persuasion to get more from the wily charlatan.  He enjoyed being teased, but he was obdurate.  Accordingly she promised for herself and Hal.

But Hal was not as easily persuaded.  He shrank from the thought of ever again setting foot in the Certina premises.  Only Esmé’s most artful pleading that he should not so sorely disappoint his father finally won him over.

At the Certina “shop,” on the appointed day, the fiancés were ushered in with unaccustomed formality.  They found gathered in the magnificent executive offices all the heads of departments of the vast concern, a quiet, expectant crowd.  There were no outsiders other than Hal and Esmé.  Dr. Surtaine, glossy, grave, a figure to fill the eye roundly, sat at his glass-topped table facing his audience.  Above him hung Old Lame-Boy, eternally hobbling amidst his fervid implications.

Waving the newcomers to seats directly in front of him, the presiding genius lifted a benign hand for silence.

“My friends,” he said, in his unctuous, rolling voice, “I have an important announcement to make.  The Certina business is finished.”

There was a silence of stunned surprise as the speaker paused to enjoy his effect.

“Certina,” he pursued, “has been the great triumph of my career.  I might almost say it has been my career.  But it has not been my life, my friends.  The whole is greater than the part:  the creator is greater than the thing he creates.  They say, ‘Surtaine of Certina.’  It should be, ‘Certina of Surtaine.’  There’s more to come of Surtaine.”

His voice dropped to the old, pleading, confidential tone of the itinerant; as if he were beguiling them now to accept the philosophy which he was to set forth.

“What is life, my dear friends?  Life is a paper-chase.  We rush from one thing to another, Little Daisy Happiness just one jump ahead of us and Old Man Death grabbing at our coat-tails.  Well, before he catches hold of mine,”—­the splendid bulk and vitality of the man gave refutation to the hint of pathos in the voice,—­“I want to run my race out so that my children and my children’s children can point to me and say, ’One crowded hour of glorious life is worth a cycle of Cathay.’”

With a superb gesture he indicated Hal and Esmé, who, he observed with gratification, seemed quite overcome with emotion.

“That is why, my friends, I am withdrawing certina, and turning to fresh fields; if I may say so, fields of more genteel endeavor.  Certina has made millions.  It could still make millions.  I could sell out for millions to-day.  But, in the words of the sweet singer, I come to bury it, not to praise it.  Certina has done its grand work.  The day of medicine is almost over.  Interfering laws are being passed.  The public is getting suspicious of drugs.  Whether this is just or unjust is not the question which I am considering.  I’ve always wanted my business to be high-class.  You can’t run a high-class business when the public is on to you.

“Don’t think, any of you, that I’m going to retire and leave you in the lurch.  No.  I’m looking ahead, for you as well as for me.  What’s the newest thing in science?  Foods!  Specific foods, to build up the system.  That’s the big thing of the future here in America.  We’re a tired nation, a nerve-wracked nation, a brain-fagged nation.  Suppose a man could say to the public, ’Get as tired as you like.  Work to your limit.  Play to your limit.  Go the pace.  When you’re worn out, come to us and we’ll repair the waste for a few dollars.  We’ve got a food—­no drugs, no medicines—­that builds up brain and nerve as good as new.  The greatest authorities in the world agree on it.’  Is there any limit to the business that food could do?

“Well, I’ve got it!  And I’ve got the backing for it.  Mr. Belford Couch will tell you of our testimonials.  Tell ’em the whole thing, Bel:  we’re all one family here.”

“I’ve been huntin’ in Europe,” said Certina Charley, rising, in accents of pardonable pride:  “and I’ve got the hottest bunch of signed stuff ever.  You all know how hard it is to get any medical testimonials here.  They’re all afraid, except a few down-and-outers.  Well, there’s none of that in Europe.  They’ll stand for any kind of advertising, so long as it’s published only in the United States—­provided they get their price.  And it ain’t such an awful price either. I got the Emperor’s own physician for one thousand five hundred dollars cash.  And a line of court doctors and swell university professors anywhere from one thousand dollars way down to one hundred.  It’s the biggest testimonial stunt ever pulled.”

“And every mother’s son of ’em,” put in Dr. Surtaine, “staking a high-toned scientific reputation that the one sure, unfailing, reliable upbuilder for brain-workers, nervous folks, tired-out, or broken-down folks of any kind at all is”—­here Dr. Surtaine paused, looked about his entranced audience, and delivered himself of his climax in a voice of thunder: 

“CEREBREAD!”

The word passed from mouth to mouth, in accents of experimentation, admiration, and acceptance.

“Cere, from cerebellum, the brain, and bread the universal food.  I doped it out myself, and as soon as I hit on it I shipped Belford Couch straight to Europe to get the backing.  I wouldn’t take a million for that name, to-day.

“See what you can do with a proposition of that sort!  It hasn’t got any drugs in it, so we won’t have to label it under the law.  It ain’t medical; so the most particular newspaper and magazines won’t kick on the advertising.  Yet, with the copy I’m getting up on it, we can put it over to cure more troubles than Certina ever thought of curing.  Only we won’t use the word ‘cure,’ of course.  All we have to do is to ram it into the public that all its troubles are nervous and brain troubles.  ‘Cerebread’ restores the brain and rebuilds the nerves, and there you are, as good as new.  Is that some plan?  Or isn’t it!”

There was a ripple of applausive comment.

“What’s in it?” inquired Lauder, the factory superintendent.

“Millions in it, my boy,” cried the other jubilantly.  “We’ll be manufacturing by New Year’s.”

“That’s the point. What’ll we be manufacturing?”

“By crikey!  That reminds me.  Haven’t settled that yet.  Might as well do it right now,” said the presiding genius of the place with Olympian decision.  “Dr. De Vito, what’s the newest wrinkle in brain-food?”

“Brain-food?” hesitated the little physician.  “Something new?”

“Yes, yes!” cried the charlatan impatiently.  “What’s the fad now?  It used to be phosphorus.”

“Ye-es.  Phosphorus, maybe.  Maybe some kind of hypophosphite, eh?”

“Sounds all right.  Could you get up a preparation of it that looks tasty and tastes good?”

“Sure.  Easy.”

“Fine!  I’ll send you down the advertising copy, so you’ll have that to go by.  And now, gentlemen, we’re the Cerebread factory from now on.  Keep all your help; we’ll need ’em.  Go on with Certina till we’re sold out; but no more advertising on it.  And, all of you, from now on, think, dream, and live Cerebread.  Meeting’s adjourned.”

The staff filed out, chattering excitedly.  “He’ll put it over.”—­“You can’t beat the Chief.”—­“Is’n’t he a wonder!”—­“Cerebread; it’s a great name to advertise.”—­“No come-back to it, either.  Nobody can kick on a food.”—­“It’s a sure-enough classy proposition, with those swell European names to it!”—­“Wish he’d let us in on the stock.”

Success was in the air.  It centered in and beamed from the happy eyes of the reformed enthusiast, as, crossing over the room with hands extended to Esmé and Hal, he cried in a burst of generous emotion: 

“It was you two that converted me.”

THE END