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It came to me when I first heard that the Grieblers were going to broaden out. It's a real idea. I'm sure of that. I've worked it out in detail. Mr. Hupp himself said it Why, I've got the actual copy. And it's new. Absolutely. It never " "Trot it out!" shouted Ben Griebler. "I'd like to see one idea anyway, around this shop." "McChesney," said Bartholomew Berg, not raising his voice.
Old Griebler, the original gum man, had fogy notions about advertising, and as long as he lived they had to keep it down. He died a few months ago you must have read of it. Left a regular mint. Ben Griebler, the oldest son, started right in to clean out the cobwebs. Of course the advertising end of it has come in for its share of the soap and water. He wants to make a clean sweep of it.
I'll talk to you in a minute, young man that is " he turned quickly upon Berg "if that isn't against your crazy principles, too?" "Why, not at all," Bartholomew Berg assured him. "Not at all. You do me an injustice." Griebler moved up closer to the broad table. The two fell into a low-voiced talk. Jock looked rather helplessly around at Sam Hupp.
He'll see the humor of it. But I don't know whether he'll fire me, or make me vice-president of the company. Now, if you want to come over and talk to him, fair and square, why come." "Ten to one he fires you," remarked Griebler, as Jock reached the door. "There's only one person I know who's game enough to take you up on that.
"And if you decide to place your advertising future in the hands of the Berg, Shriner Company " "Now look here," interrupted Ben Griebler again. "I'll tie up with you people when you've shaken something out of your cuffs. I'm not the kind that buys a pig in a poke. We're going to spend money real money in this campaign of ours.
"Oh, now," protested Berg, his eyes twinkling, "McChesney's necktie and socks and handkerchief may form one lovely, blissful color scheme, but that doesn't signify that his advertising schemes are not just as carefully and artistically blended." Ben Griebler looked shrewdly up at Jock through narrowed lids. "Maybe.
At six o'clock Ben Griebler, his little shrewd eyes sparkling, his voice more squeakily falsetto than ever, surveyed the youngster before him with a certain awe. "This this thing will actually sell our stuff in Europe! No gum concern has ever been able to make the stuff go outside of this country. Why, inside of three years every 'Arry and 'Arriet in England'll be chewing it on bank holidays.
The colorful glittering crowd that surged all about him he seemed not to see. He made straight for the main desk with its battalion of clerks. "Mr. Griebler in? Mr. Ben Griebler, St. Louis?" The question set in motion the hotel's elaborate system of investigation. At last: "Not in." "Do you know when he will be in?" That futile question. "Can't say. He left no word.
If you think I'm going to make you a present of the money that it took my old man fifty years to pile up, then you don't know that Griebler is a German name. Good day, gents." He stalked to the door. There he turned dramatically and leveled a forefinger at Jock. "They've got you roped and tied. But I think you're a comer. If you change your mind, kid, come and see me."
Do you want to leave your name?" "N-no. Would he does he stop at this desk when he comes in?" He was an unusually urbane hotel clerk. "Why, usually they leave their keys and get their mail from the floor clerk. But Mr. Griebler seems to prefer the main desk." "I'll wait," said Jock. And seated in one of the great thronelike chairs, he waited.
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