It pays to advertise

It Pays To Advertise

A FARCICAL FACT IN THREE ACTS

BY
Roi Cooper Megrue and Walter Hackett

Copyright, 1914, By Roi Cooper Megrue and Walter Hackett
Copyright in Great Britain and Canada
Copyright, 1917, By Samuel French

CAUTION: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that “IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE,” being fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States, is subject to a royalty, and any one presenting the play without the consent of the owner or his authorized agents will be liable to the penalties by law provided. Application for amateur acting rights must be made to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York. Applications for the professional acting rights must be made to the American Play Company, 33 West 42d Street, New York.

NEW YORK
SAMUEL FRENCH
PUBLISHER
28-30 WEST 38th STREET

LONDON
SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd.
26 SOUTHAMPTON STREET
STRAND

[2]

Especial notice should be taken that the possession of this book without a valid contract for production first having been obtained from the publisher, confers no right or license to professionals or amateurs to produce the play publicly or in private for gain or charity.

In its present form this play is dedicated to the reading public only, and no performance of it may be given except by special arrangement with Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York.

Section 28—That any person who wilfully or for profit shall infringe any copyright secured by this act, or who shall knowingly and wilfully aid or abet such infringement shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction thereof shall be punished by imprisonment for not exceeding one year, or by a fine of not less than one hundred nor more than one thousand dollars, or both, in the discretion of the court.

Act of March 4, 1909.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The advertising statistics used in the play are facts, not farce.

Scene: The library of Cyrus Martin’s home in New York City: a very handsome room, in tapestry and dark oak. Doors up left, down left, and down right. Books, chairs, divans, as necessary. Down left is an oak typewriting table with a typewriter on it. It is obviously out of place in the room, and is evidently only a temporary arrangement. Handsome walnut furniture. Mantel set on mantel. Fire dogs and irons in fireplace. All-over carpet. Handsome busts on bookcases. Chandelier and four brackets. Curtains on windows at back. It is seven o’clock in the evening—early September.

At Rise: Mary Grayson is seated at typewriter; she strums the keys idly and indifferently with one finger. She might hum a turkey-trot, keeping time with a one-finger accompaniment. In a moment Johnson, a typical English butler, enters from door upper L.

Mary. (Whirling about eagerly) What is it, Johnson? Has young Mr. Martin come in yet?

Johnson. I know, Miss, but it’s that Mr. Ambrose Peale again; he’s called four times.

Johnson. Yes, Miss. There’s a lady waiting, too, Miss, to see Mr. Martin Senior. Here’s her card.

Mary. Mme. la Comtesse de Beaurien. Tell her that Mr. Martin Senior can see no one.

Mary. Oh, bring her in, then. I’ll make her understand somehow, but, Johnson, don’t fail to let me know the minute young Mr. Martin gets home.

(Mary rises from typewriter, takes off her sleeve-protectors and smoothes out her skirt.)

(The Countess enters from door upper L. She is a very smart-looking girl of about twenty-six or twenty-seven, typically French in manner and does not speak a word of English. He exits.)

Mary. I’m sorry, but it’s quite impossible for you to see Mr. Martin. He is confined to the house with a severe attack of gout. If you will write him I will see that he gets your letter. You can address him here instead of the office; while he is ill I come here every day for the mail.

Countess. Pardon, mais je ne comprends pas—je ne parle pas l’anglais. Vous parlez Français peut-être?

Countess. Un moment, Mam’selle—peut-être je parle trop vite.... (More slowly) Je désire parler à M. Martin àpropos des affaires. Je suis riche. Mais on peut toujours être plus riche. Si je pouvais obtenir l’agence du savon Martin pour la France ça serait une belle affaire. Je donnerais cinquante mille francs pour cette agence. Répéter cela à M. Martin et je suis sûre qu’il me recevra immédiatement. Vous comprenez maintenant——

Mary. But I really don’t understand French. (Slowly and loudly) Mr. Martin is ill—sick! He can see no one—you’ll have to go—please do——

Countess. Mon Dieu! Vous êtes stupide.... (Sitting down in chair L. of table) J’attendrai M. Martin.

Mary. There’s no use your sitting down. (She goes to her) Mr. Martin doesn’t understand French, either.

Mary. Good Heavens! (She goes over and makes a wild sweeping gesture) Mr. Martin is out—out.

Countess. (Rapidly) Oui? Ah vous parlez Français? Je voudrais savoir si Mr. Martin est ici. Je voudrais lui parler tout de suite.

Mary. Heavens! She’s off again; let’s act it for her. Let’s see—(She points to Johnson) That is Mr. Martin.

Mary. We’re pretending—see, pretending? Now, you see—Mr. Martin is out—see?

Mary. Heavens, she understands, Johnson! Take her by the arm and lead her out. (Crosses L.)

Johnson. Now what’s the matter? You’d better come quietly, Miss—(He takes her by the arm)

Countess. (Shaking him off) A quelle heure rentrera-t-il? (There is a blank pause. To Mary) Maintenant—faites attention à votre tour. Regardez-moi: je suis M. Martin, vous comprenez? Moi je suis M. Martin——

Countess. (Going to door) Mr. Martin n’est pas ici; il est sorti—il est au bureau. Enfin s’il n’est pas au bureau c’est pas mon affaire. Maintenant[9] je voudrais savoir à quelle heure rentrera-t-il?

Mary. (As Countess goes) Heavens, she’s going. (She turns at door) She’s coming back.

Countess. (Returning to Mary) A quelle heure M. Martin rentrera-t-il? (There is another pause. Suddenly the Countess takes out her watch)

Mary. (Eagerly) Oh, she wants to know when he’ll be in! (She runs over and points to clock) Eight o’clock—eight—o’clock.

Countess. Oui—Oui, huit heures—je comprends. Merci bien—je m’en vais maintenant, mais je reviendrai. Au revoir.

Countess. (Going) Merci—merci—à huit heures—bonsoir—bonsoir—(She exits)

(Mary primps, and sits at typewriter again, and idly touches the keys with one finger, maintaining an eager watch on the door. She hears someone coming and hastily and busily bangs away at the typewriter. Rodney Martin enters door L. He is a young man of twenty-four with a certain quaint frank charm, in spite of his funny little mustache, English morning coat, spats and white carnation. He is by no means brainless, but simply undeveloped by reason of the kind of life he has led under appallingly frictionless conditions.)

(Mary’s previous business-like air has entirely disappeared, and she assumes the fluttering airs[10] of a timid ingenue, overdoing it for anyone except a boy madly in love with her.)

Mary. What a surprise! (Rodney goes and locks both doors L.) Why, Mr. Martin ... what are you doing?

Rodney. (Coming to her and facing her over back of chair) I want to talk with you. Mary, will you marry me?

Rodney. He won’t know anything about it until we’re married, and then what could he do?

Rodney. Don’t you bother about me. We’ll be married to-morrow, and then come home for the parental blessing.

Mary. Oh, I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be square. I’m his private secretary: he trusts me. To bring me here to his home and then to find I’d married his son on the sly—we couldn’t do that.

Rodney. You do make it sound rather bad. I wouldn’t want us to give father the worst of it; we’ve always been pretty good friends, he and I. I guess I’d better tell him—in a week or so.

Mary. You could go into business, make a big man of yourself, make me proud of you——

Rodney. You talk just like the heroine in a play I saw last night. She wanted the hero to go to work, and he did, and then for four acts everybody suffered.

Rodney. (Seriously) I should say not. Imagine going to bed every night, knowing you’ve got to get up in the morning and go to business.

Rodney. Please don’t talk like father; he’s preached a job at me ever since I left college. Why should I work? Father made millions out of soap and is forever complaining that he’s always had his nose to the grindstone, that he’s worked fourteen hours a day for thirty years, that he’s never known what fun was, that it’s all made him old before his time. I can’t see the sense of following an example like that—I really can’t. He’s got enough for you, and me, and our children. Yes, and our children’s grandchildren. I’ve explained all this to him but I can’t seem to make him understand. But it’s simple: why work when there’s millions in the family? And why even talk of money when you and I are in love? Come, kiss me. (He leans towards her; she moves away to L. He crosses R.)

Rodney. Then I’ll tell him right away. (He goes toward door L. She crosses R.)

Rodney. Afraid! (Pausing) You don’t think I’d better wait till the morning?

(Cyrus Martin knocks at the door violently, and says “ouch” in a loud tone.)

Martin. (Loudly) Ouch, ouch! The devil! (He enters) Why was that door locked?

Martin. Stop that noise! (She does so. Rodney looks at her, discouraged. She motions to him to go on. Meanwhile Martin has painfully limped to a chair down-stage by table and sinks into it. His foot gives him another twinge.) Ouch! Oh, my poor foot!

(Rodney turns appealingly to Mary. She ignores him. He turns back to his father and tries to muster up his courage.)

Martin. Curious! That’s just what I wanted with you—I’ve wanted it all day ... and now we’ll have it—Miss Grayson!

Martin. Get out. (She exits through door upper L., without noticing Rodney, who stands looking after her dejectedly. As he hears the door close) Now, what do you mean by overdrawing your allowance again?

Rodney. (Innocently) What it simply proves is that I was right when I told you my allowance was too small.

Rodney. And if my allowance is too small for one, it’s much too small for two.

Martin. Yes, girl—you’re not going to marry an automobile or a polo pony—you’re going to marry a girl, aren’t you? Some blue-eyed, doll-faced, gurgling, fluttering little fool. Oh, why doesn’t God give young men some sense about women?

Martin. You’ve got to listen. I won’t permit any such absurd, ridiculous marriage! Thank Heaven, you had sense enough not to elope——

Rodney. I wanted to, but she wouldn’t. She insisted on your being told, so you see what an injustice——

Martin. Injustice? Can’t you see that she[15] wished me to know, so that if I disapproved and cut you off, she’d not be stuck with you on her hands.

Martin. No, my boy, wait a minute. Remember, I’m your friend even if I am your father. (Rises, goes to door R. to ring bell) Don’t you believe it’s only your money she wants?

Martin. I’ll tell that scheming secretary that if you persist in this marriage, I’ll disinherit you! Then watch her throw you over.

Martin. Poppycock! You’re afraid to put her to the test: you’re afraid she will chuck you.

Martin. Wait a minute. My precious son informs me that you and he intend to marry.

Martin. And I wish to tell you that if he marries you, he doesn’t get one penny of my money, and that means he’ll starve.

Martin. Making a grand-stand play, eh? You think I’m too fond of him not to relent? Well, you’re wrong. Neither of you can get a nickel from me: you can both starve together.

Martin. What can you do? You’re not a producer—you never will be. (Crosses to L.) You’re just an idler. You couldn’t earn five dollars a week, but you’ll have a chance to try. You’ll get out of my house to-night or I’ll have you thrown out.

Martin. Not another word, sir, not another word! (He kicks chair, and stamps out angrily, thru lower L. door)

Mary. (Half crying) Oh, Rodney, Rodney, what have I done? I’m so—so sorry.

Rodney. You haven’t done anything—neither of us has. Father didn’t seem to give us a chance to. He did it all——

Rodney. You were bully the way you stuck up for me. When you said we’d starve together, I just choked all up.

Rodney. Just because he’s got a lot of money he seems to think there isn’t any left, but I’ll show him. I may not have much at the start, but watch my finish.

Rodney. Yes, indeed—father couldn’t make me do it, but you have. I’ll work for you.

Rodney. I should say not! Work for someone else? No, sir—I’m going in business for myself—for you. I’m going to show the stuff that’s in me. Of course, we can’t get married till I’ve made good. Will you wait?

Rodney. I don’t know yet. I’m going upstairs to pack a suit-case and think. (Crosses to R.) I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. (He grabs her and kisses her hastily but heartily)

(She goes over and raps three times on the door through which Martin left, and backs away from it. She stands there expectantly. In a moment Martin tiptoes in with no trace of a limp. She puts her fingers to her lips to indicate silence, and points off-stage R. to indicate where Rodney has gone. Martin tiptoes nearer, nodding his head, questioning and eager. Mary smilingly nods her head in reply.)

Martin. I said I didn’t think you could, but you have, and I owe you $2,500. (Crosses to chair L. of table to make out check)

Martin. And it’s worth $50,000 to me to have my boy really want to work, not just to do it to please me. What a difference an incentive makes! (Hands her the check)

Martin. (Crosses to L.) Especially if it’s a girl. And to think I begged and threatened Rodney for months, and then you plan this scheme, you invent my gout, you rehearse me, you come up here for six short weeks and—Bing, you get him so he’s in love with you.

Mary. He said he wouldn’t marry me till he’d made good—if I’d just wait. (Sits in chair R. of table)

Mary. Of course I am. When I break our engagement he may feel sort of lonely for a while and give up women forever, but pretty soon some charming girl of his world will come along—some limousine lady, and they’ll live happy ever after.

Mary. It wouldn’t work out. I’m a business woman. Even if your son did love me—really love—I wouldn’t marry him. Just now he’s twenty-four with an India-rubber heart that is easy to stretch and easier to snap back. All boys at twenty-four are like that.

Martin. (Reminiscently) I guess so. I remember when I was a young man, there was a girl ... my heart was broken for a week—perhaps ten days. I went down to the club one night and got spifflicated—however, however—(Abruptly changing the subject) What’s my son going to work at?

Mary. That wasn’t our agreement. I only undertook to get him to start to work.

Martin. Quite—quite. I was just thinking we might make some new agreement to have you keep him on the job.

Martin. What do you say to your present salary,[20] and at the end of the year I will personally give you a check for twenty-five per cent of what Rodney has made.

Martin. Merely a figure of speech, my dear. Let’s see, you’re getting $40 a week, and....

Mary. Then let’s drop it. This new contract was your idea, not mine. Good-evening. (She starts to go, gets to door, which she bangs as if she had gone. She remains however in the room)

Martin. Hold on—hold on—(He turns and sees her, and then chuckles at her joke on him. She laughs, too) I was simply figuring. Tell you what I’ll do: $75 a week and 10 per cent of what Rodney makes.

Mary. Seventy-five a week and 10 per cent of what he makes? All right, I’ll go you.

Mary. (Goes to desk, takes note-book) Will you just write me a note stating the facts and the consideration?

Mary. Certainly, it’s always safer that way. (He writes. As he writes) As soon as you see Rodney, you’ll have to discharge me.

Martin. I will, violently. I make a pretty good actor under your direction. How did you like that irate father stuff?

Mary. (Smiling) No, and never put off till to-morrow what you can sign to-day.

Mary. (Sits on table) Thanks. Now, Mr. Martin, there’s just one question I’d like to ask.

Mary. Why is it, when Rodney’s been out of college for two years, that it’s only the last three months you’ve been so persistent about getting him to work?

Martin. (Emphatically) I should say he is—one of the big men there. We’ve fought all our lives over soap, but he’s never been able to lick me, and—well, I haven’t been able to lick him, either.

Martin. Perhaps it is. Anyhow, as it’s fifty-fifty in business, we’ve lately narrowed the fight down to a family matter. You know old John Clark has a son, too: Ellery—nasty, egotistical, self-satisfied young puppy.

Martin. Well, old Clark thinks Ellery is the prince of all modern business, and he kept pitying me so much about Rodney’s being an idler—a rich man’s son—it got on my nerves, so lately I made a bet with him.

Martin. I bet him thirty thousand dollars my son could make more in a year than his son could. So I had to get Rodney busy, and he’s got to make good. He can’t be such a pin-head as he looks! If there’s anything in heredity there must be something of me in him, and we’ve got to find it—we’ve got to develop Rodney, dig deep, maybe blast. If he doesn’t win out——

Martin. It isn’t just the money. I guess I’m a sentimental old fool, but I’m proud. I want my boy to be Rodney Martin, not just Cyrus Martin’s son, and I want to show old Clark that as a judge of character he’s a bigger fool than I am. If I don’t get that bet——

Martin. By George, Miss Grayson, if I weren’t a bit old and on the shelf, I’d marry you myself. You and I could clean up all the loose change in America. (Rodney enters R. Martin, seeing him, changes his whole attitude. Rises) I don’t care to discuss the matter further, Miss Grayson: consider yourself discharged. Good evening. (Crosses to L.)

Rodney. It’s all right, Mary. You can have a job in my office. (Crosses to C.)

Martin. (Scornfully) Your office, ha! (Suddenly) Oh, my foot, my poor foot! (He limps painfully towards door) Your office! It’s a joke, young man!

Martin. (Winking at Mary) Silence, you young puppy. Oh, my poor foot! (He exits)

(Rodney goes up-stage, and passes behind sofa so that he is at the R. end of sofa.)

Mary. Oh, Rodney, I’m afraid I’ve spoiled everything for you—your future——

Rodney. Nonsense, you’ve made my future. Without you, I’d never have got the idea, the big idea.

Rodney. The idea to make money out of; that’s all you need. And, just think, I found it in this book.

Rodney. Well, you see, when I was packing I stumbled across this book; it fell open at this page—fate was on the job—it was a hunch. Look!

Rodney. It’s an old family recipe for making cheap soap. It says it’s the cheapest soap in the world. Cheaper even than the manufacturers make it. I’m going into the soap business.

Rodney. I don’t know, but I will. You see, I’ll have all the popular sympathy: independent young son of soap-king fights father; don’t buy from the trust.

Rodney. Has he been nice to me? It’s great! Down with monopoly! Hurrah for the people! I’ve heard political speeches like that. Hurrah for[24] the people’s soap! That isn’t a bad name, either. The People’s Soap. (Lays book on table)

Rodney. (Bracing up) Well, I’ll just have to get it, that’s all, and you’ll be my secretary. Of course, till I make big money I wouldn’t ordinarily have thought of taking you away from father—but as long as he discharged you—well, you work for me now. What does father pay you?

Rodney. He’s got something to do with the theater. When I was in Harvard two years ago I met him one night in the lobby of the theater. I haven’t seen him since—it was the night we had our egg fight.

Rodney. No, no, the fellows threw eggs at the people on the stage. You see, it was a college play——

Rodney. I forgot to bring any. Peale was the manager of the show and was mighty decent to me—kept me out of jail.

Peale. Well, well, Rodney Martin, how are you? (To Mary) How are you, dear lady?

Peale. Ambrose Peale—that’s me absolutely. Well, I’m still in the show business. (To Mary) Ever see “The Belle of Broadway”? Great show, great girls, great cast.

Peale. But, say, be sure to catch that show; it may leave the city soon—out-of-town bookings, you know—but remember the name: “The Belle of Broadway.” And now if you’ll excuse me, Miss, I came to talk business with Mr. Martin.

Rodney. Business? Surely—surely. (Winking at Mary) I’m a business man—now.

Peale. Now, I’m not much on handing myself flowers across the footlights, but do you happen to remember what I did for you the night of the egg fight?

Rodney. You fixed things with the chief of police and kept me from being expelled.

Peale. By George, you do remember. And you said any time you could do anything for me——

Peale. You’re immense, son. Now, it’s this way—have a chair. (He sits. Rodney does likewise) Between you and me, “The Belle of Broadway” is an awful thing—business gone to pot. Something’s got to be done. Some great stuff[26] pulled off to give it a boost, and that’s where you come in.

Peale. Then everything’s all right. Now you abduct the leading lady, Julia Clark, to-morrow night, in your aeroplane—elope with her——

Peale. Sure—some stunt, too—never been done. Julia’ll stand for it—she’s game for any press gag——

Peale. Certainly you can. I’m telling you Julia’ll stand for it—a bird of a story—no performance. Why? You’re up in the air with the leading lady. The next night standing room only to catch a look at the girl you’re stuck on. I can see the headlines now: Soap King’s Son Takes New Star Among the Stars—with flashlights.

Rodney. I’m not backing down—anything in reason, but you see, there’s someone who might object.

Peale. (Rises and puts chair back) I guess it’s cold: girls are funny about their beaux doing a little innocent thing like eloping with some other girl.

Peale. Sure, that stunt would have kept us going, but now, on the level—well, the show’s so bad, people won’t even go see it on a pass. We’ll close Saturday and I’m out——

Peale. Helped a whole lot: given us a fresh start, and then I’d have pulled off some new stunts and saved my job.

Rodney. Oh, nonsense. If that were true, I’d feel mighty uncomfortable at not being able to oblige you, but an obvious trumped-up lie like that can’t be any good.

Peale. You bet it’s advertising. What made Anna Held? Milk baths. What made Gaby Deslys? A dago king.

Peale. Oh, you’re one of those guys who don’t believe in advertising, are you? Now, don’t get me talking advertising. That’s where I live, where I have my town house and country estate, my yacht and motors. That’s my home. Maybe you think love is important? Piffle. Advertising, my boy, the power of suggestion, the psychology of print; say a thing often enough and hard enough and the other chap’ll not only believe you, he’ll think it’s his own idea, and he’ll fight for it. Some old gink, a professor of psychology, showed forty Vassar girls the other day two samples of satin, one blue, one pink, same grade, same value, same artistic worth. One he described as a delicate warm old rose, the other a faded blue. He asked them to choose their favorite. Thirty-nine out of the forty picked the old rose. Why? Because they’d been told it was[28] warm and delicate; no faded blue for theirs! What did it? The power of suggestion—advertising!

Peale. I not only seem to, I do. You heard me tell that girl of yours a few minutes ago that “The Belle of Broadway” was the biggest hit in town. Ask her to go to the theater. Give her her choice and I’ll bet you four dollars to a fried egg she picks “The Belle of Broadway.” Advertising!

Peale. Well, try it—and say, what makes you go to the theater yourself? I’ll tell you—it’s what you’ve read about the play or what some fellows told you.

Peale. And what he tells you, some other guy has told him. Ninety-seven per cent of the public believe what they’re told, and what they’re told is what the other chap’s been told—and the fellow who told him read it somewhere. When you see a thing in print about something you don’t really know anything about, you come pretty near believing it. And all the advertiser has to do is to tell you right and you’ll fall.

Peale. Oh, you don’t, eh? I guess you do. If I say His Master’s Voice, you know that advertises a phonograph. You’re on to what soap “It Floats” refers to. There’s a Reason—Uneeda—Quaker Oats—Phoebe Show—Children Cry For it—Sapolio—Grape Nuts—Peruna—The Road of Anthracite—Spearmint—Pierce Arrow—57 Varieties—Kodak—White Seal—Gold Dust Twins—He Won’t Be Happy Till He Gets It—Bull Durham—Pianola—Cuticura—Melachrino—Clysmic—Goodyear—Steinway—Thermos—Coca-Cola—The Watch that Made The Dollar Famous. I suppose you don’t know what any of them mean?

Peale. Exactly. What do you know about ’em? Nothing. Are they any better than any other garter? You don’t know—I don’t know—but all my life, every magazine I’ve ever looked into has had a picture of a man’s leg with a certain kind of garter on it—Boston—so when I go into a store to buy a pair of garters I just naturally say Boston; so do you. What do you know about Mennen’s Talcum Powder? Nothing, except that it has the picture of the homeliest man in the world on the box and it’s so impressed your imagination, you just mechanically order Mennen’s. If I say to you, E. & W., you don’t think it’s a corset, do you? If I say C. B., you don’t think it’s a collar, and what about the well-known and justly famous B. V. D.’s? You don’t read advertisement? Rot!

Peale. No ‘but’ about it: advertising’s responsible for everything. When a department store advertises a seven-dollar shirt-waist for four dollars, you don’t believe it’s on the level, do you?

Peale. Neither do I, but there’s a hell of a lot of women who do. When Bryan advertised the Grape Juice Highball, do you know that its sale went up 652 gallons a day?

Peale. I’ll let you into a little secret: I don’t know. I don’t know a damned thing about grape juice, and as long as my health and strength keep[30] up, I hope I never will, but if I said I’d read in a newspaper that the sale had gone up 652 gallons, you wouldn’t have doubted it, would you?

Peale. And you’d have told somebody else and he’d have believed you, too. Say, do you drink much?

Peale. Can you tell the difference between a vintage wine and last year’s champagne? Sure, you can: it costs more. Son, the world is full of bunk. Ninety-seven per cent of the people are sheep, and you can get ’em all by advertising.

Rodney. You are gradually making me come to the conclusion that you believe in publicity.

Peale. Exactly. When a duck lays an egg it’s a damn fool and keeps quiet about it, but when a hen does, my boy—cluck-cluck all over the place! She’s advertising. So you eat hen’s eggs.

Peale. If I’m beginning to convince you, that’s advertising, too. Say, are you for Roosevelt or against him?

Peale. I’m against him. I read one paper, you read another. I think he’s a faker, you think he’s a great man. But does either of us really know anything about him except what we’ve read? Have you ever met Roosevelt or talked to him or known anybody who did know him? I haven’t, but the[31] point is, whatever we may think, good or bad, we’ve heard a lot about him, because he’s the best advertiser in the world. And that, my son, is the whole secret of it: get ’em talking about you, get ’em praisin’ if you can, or get ’em cussin’, but for the love of Heaven, don’t let ’em be quiet. Mention your name—have ’em argue about you—boost or knock—be a hero or a villain, but don’t be a dub. Why, give me the money, a little time, a few pages of advertising, and I can sell you shares in the Atlantic Ocean!

Rodney. (Excited) You really believe that with proper advertising you could build up a great business?

Peale. Don’t tell me. As long as it don’t send me to state’s prison or the chair, it’s all right. Could I have about $25 advance on my salary now?

Peale. Just as an evidence of good faith. (He[32] counts money) Well, now I’m working for you, what business are you in?

Peale. Well, you’re no piker. You’ve picked out a nice refined job. How long have you been at it?

Rodney. I’m going to get a factory, advertise like the very dickens: Soap King’s son fights father—and licks him, too, by George!

Peale. Wait a minute, wait a minute, do you know why your father is the soap king?

Rodney. I suppose because he controls all the soap business in the country except Ivory.

Peale. Exactly, and the way he keeps control of it is by buying out all his live competitors. Now, here’s a blue-ribbon champion of the world scheme. Why don’t we make good and sell out to father?

Peale. Well, if father is forced to buy you out, isn’t that enough? What do you want?

Rodney. I’ve got to be a success on my own. I’ve got to show father, and—Miss Grayson.

Peale. I hope so. Pretty tough if you couldn’t. Some job trying to sell soap if father’s against us.

Peale. I tell you: why not make such a hit with the soap, advertise it so strong, he’ll just have to back you?

Peale. It’s my chance. Think, I’ll never have to see “The Belle of Broadway” again! I’ll write ads, I’ll conduct a campaign that’ll keep your father awake, and in three months at the most he’ll be begging for a chance to back us.

Peale. Well, what is there about it that makes it different from any other soap?

Peale. Well, what could there be about some soap that was different from some other soap?

Rodney. No. Half an hour ago I decided to go in to business, and I happened to find this recipe for soap in a cook-book—it’s the cheapest soap in the world. (Reflecting) That’s not a bad title: the cheapest soap in the world. (A pause. They reflect)

Peale. You’re wrong, son. There’s an awful bunch of people that buy a lot of expensive stuff, not because it’s better, but because it costs more—and the poor nuts think it ought to be better—so can that cheap stuff.

Peale. My boy, I could kiss you. A pupil after my own heart—fifty cents a cake.

Peale. Too long, and no good anyway, because Pittsburg isn’t clean. You need something catchy.

Peale. We need something that’s universally appealing. What is it? What is it?

Peale. I say, there’s a bit of luck for us right at the start—a pin with the head toward you. (Rodney[35] stoops to pick it up) See, you were going to pick it up! Everybody is superstitious. Oh, they say they’re not, just as you did, but did you ever meet a guy who, if he didn’t mind walking under a ladder, didn’t hate to spill salt, or else he wanted to see the moon over his right shoulder—or he picked up pins, or carried a lucky coin, wouldn’t do things on Friday? Why, the whole world’s superstitious. Get something on that and you hit everybody. I’ve got eighty-six horseshoes home myself. I never saw a gink that would sit thirteen at table. We’re all crazy. (They pause and think. They both sit on end of table)

Peale. (Coming over and kissing Rodney on the brow) Son, it’s all over: the old man’ll be on his knees in a month.

Peale. With furniture and everything. Say—(Mary enters from door lower R. Seeing her) There’s the dame; ask her to go to the theater, just to prove what I say. See for yourself. (He goes up-stage)

Rodney. (Turning to her) Oh, Mary, to celebrate, let’s go to the theater to-morrow night?

Peale. (To Rodney) I guess I don’t know about advertising, eh? (To Mary) My last official act is giving you a box for to-morrow night. (He writes)

Mary. Thank you. (Crosses to Rodney. To Rodney) I didn’t mean to bother you, but I’m so interested: I thought, regarding Mr. Peale’s business, I’d like to hear——

Rodney. It’s all settled, Mary. Mr. Peale, my general manager. Mr. Peale, my secretary. Mary, here it is: The Thirteen Soap—Unlucky for Dirt: The Most Expensive Soap in the World.

Mary. (Genuinely) Why, that’s perfectly wonderful—who thought of it? (Looking at Peale)

Rodney. We’re going to make our soap famous by advertising, and then force father to back us.

Peale. With fifty thousand dollars I can make the Great American People have hysterics for the Thirteen Soap.

Rodney. Fifty thousand dollars, and I’ve got only a thousand. Oh! (Sits on chair R. of desk)

Mary. (Rises, and comes down-stage between Rodney and Peale) But couldn’t you start with less?

Peale. Not and do it right. No use wasting money piking when you advertise. Splurge, my lad, splurge or let it remain dormant.

Rodney. I’ve got a thousand in the bank; the aeroplane’s worth four—it cost eight.

Rodney. The motors ought to bring another four. That’d be seven, isn’t that something?

Peale. Seven thousand is not to be spoken of venomously, but in advertising—well, going easy, it might last you a week.

Mary. Not very much: he’s conservative. He doesn’t believe in reckless advertising.

Peale. Why, he’s licked now, and I’ll tell you why. We can advertise just for your father’s benefit alone.

Peale. Why, plaster this neighborhood with Thirteen Soap advertisements. Do the same around your father’s office so that every time he went out or came in he’d see Thirteen Soap. We could advertise only in the newspapers he reads. We’d send him circulars every mail. I could make a splurge just for him that would look like we were giving up $10,000 a day. Within a month he’d think that Thirteen Soap was the only soap in the world.

Rodney. And we’ve got one thousand—all cash, and eleven thousand in prospects. Go ahead.

Countess. (Entering and coming over to Rodney. To Rodney) Vous êtes M. Martin?

Countess. (Quickly) Je suis madame la comtesse de Beaurien. Je désire parler à M. Martin àpropos des affaires du savon. Je voudrais obtenir l’agence du Savon Martin pour la France.

Countess. Je suis madame la comtesse de Beaurien. Je désire obtenir l’agence du Savon Martin pour la France. Je peux donner cinquante mille francs pour cette agence. Et enfin, voulez-vous arranger cette affaire pour moi? Je suis riche, j’ai beaucoup de recommendations—je suis bien connue à Paris.

Rodney. Wait a minute. Wait a minute. (To Peale) She wants the agency for father’s soap for France and is willing to pay 50,000 francs for the concession.

Rodney. (Inspired. Crosses to Mary) No, no, why not keep father out of this? We’ll sell her the agency for the Thirteen Soap—that’d be another $10,000 for us. Peale, she’s a gift from the gods! (Goes to Countess)

Rodney. Oh, if I only knew how to talk French!—Madame—êtes-vous superstitious?

Peale. (He goes and takes the Countess’ parasol)[41] Pardon me.... (Starts to raise it. With a cry of protest: “Faites pas ça”, she stops him) She’s superstitious, all right—(To her) It ought to be a pipe to land you.

Rodney. (Slowly) Nous manfacturons, I mean manufacturong—un nouveau savon—see? Savon Treize—(He holds up his fingers to indicate thirteen)

Countess. (Laughing) Savon Treize—pas bon pour sal—c’est bien—c’est bien.

Rodney. Je start—je begin—je commence—un nouveau compagnie—le très grande compagnie de la universe—je suis le president.

Peale. Je suis le advertising agent. (After laugh, Johnson enters from door upper L. with a letter, and exits door lower L.)

Rodney. I’m the whole thing, see—and if we can do business with you for the French agency——

Rodney. That’s a man I might get money from. (Johnson enters from door lower L.) He’s a great friend of the family. Used to dangle me on his knee, and all that sort of thing. (He sees Johnson) Oh, Johnson.

Countess. Mon Dieu—enfin quelqu’un qui parle Français! Je suis Madame la Comtesse de Beaurien—et je désire parler avec monsieur àpropos des affaires du Savon Treize.

Marie. (Back at her quickly) Ah mais oui—je comprends parfaitement. Je dirai à monsieur ce que vous avez dit. Ah je suis ravie d’avoir trouvé aux Etats Unis une compatriote avec laquelle je pourrai parler ma belle langue de France. (They talk together violently in French, and at the end of the speech, the Countess kisses Marie)

Rodney. Mary, take them away—take them into the library. Explain to Marie about the agency—Mary can translate your slang to Marie and she can turn it into French.

Mary. I’ll do my best. Come, Marie. (Crosses to door lower R., and opens it) Bring the Countess.

(Marie and Countess, chattering volubly in French, followed by Mary, exit door lower R.)

Rodney. (Grandly) My father’s oldest friend. Why, the way I’ll handle him, ten thousand ought to be easy.

Rodney. And as a business man I’d like to talk to you regarding a very interesting business proposition in which I am now interested.

Rodney. (Gulping) I thought I’d like to borrow ten—say a few thousand dollars.

Smith. If it was a new club or some tomfoolery, in a minute—but to put money into your business—it’d be just throwing it away. Why don’t you get your father to back you?

Smith. I’ll bet he’ll think this as funny as I do. (He exits L. Rodney sinks down dejectedly into a chair. Peale enters with contracts)

Peale. But it’s all right. We’re going to sign the contract with her to-night.

Peale. You know, this has got the show business beat a mile. (He exits door lower R.)

Rodney. That’s all right—you needn’t go, Mary. Mr. Smith, this is the future Mrs. Martin.

Smith. (Crosses to Mary) You don’t say so? Well, well, a thousand congratulations!

Smith. Of course, it sounded funny to me at first, but when I thought things over, after all, why shouldn’t you be a success in business?

Smith. Of course, you haven’t tried much. But as you said, I am an old friend—and I figured if you gave me your word that you’d return the money within a year—perhaps after all it would only be the act of an old friend to take a chance. That’s what friends are for.

Rodney. (Enthusiastically) I’ll never forget it. I tell you, old friends do count. Thanks, thanks.

Smith. (Embarrassed) That’s all right—don’t thank me. Good-night, Miss Grayson, and I hope you’ll be very happy.

Rodney. Good-night. Good-night. (Smith exits door upper L. At door, calling after him) Oh, Mr. Smith, have you your car with you?

Rodney. Well, tell the chauffeur to drive slow and careful. (Rodney grabs Mary by her two hands and dances around excitedly) Ten thousand—and he lent it to me. Oh, isn’t it great? (He kisses her) Wait till I tell Peale. (Exit door R.)

Countess. (Off-stage, to Rodney) Oh, Monsieur, c’est une affaire magnifique. (She enters, followed by Marie—to Marie) Je vous remercie, Marie, de ce que vous avez fait. Ah, les Américains ce sont des gens d’affaires superbes mais les dames—oh, là, là, qu’elles se fichent au diable! (Exits door upper L.)

Marie. She said the American men are splendid but the women were crazy and they could all go to hell. (Exits door upper L.)

Mary. Oh, Mr. Martin, he’s perfectly splendid. So full of energy, hustle and ideas. He’s a different man already. You were right: he only needed development.

Martin. (Shrewdly) Would you rather take a guarantee of $2,500 additional and give up that 10 per cent of his profits?

Martin. You know, Miss Grayson, you’re making me believe we’ll win that $30,000 from old John Clark. (Crosses down R.)

Mary. Oh, indeed we will: you should have just seen Rodney borrow $10,000 from Mr. Smith, without the least trouble.

Martin. When Smith told me Rodney tried to touch him—well, I thought the least I could do was to back my son, so I sent Smith to make good with him.

Martin. Well, I owed the boy a chance, anyhow. (Seeing Rodney, turns to him, crossly) So you’re still here, are you?

Martin. Really going into business, eh? Well, when you fail, don’t come sniveling back here! You can’t count on a dollar from me.

Rodney. I won’t snivel—and I don’t want your money. I don’t need it. Why, I’d have gone[48] to work long ago if I’d known how easy it is to raise $10,000.

Martin. (Grinning at Mary) You would, eh? Well, what soft easy-going business have you picked out?

Martin. (Genuinely annoyed) What? Why, he can’t make any money out of soap. (Crosses to Mary) That takes brains.

Rodney. Yes, sir, I’m going to manufacture the Thirteen Soap: Unlucky for Dirt: The Most Expensive Soap in the World! I’m going to break the trust; I’m going to attack monopoly. I’m going to appeal to the American people for fair play against the soap trust. You’ve always wanted me to go into business. Well, I’m in, and forgive me, father, but I’m going to put you out of business. I’m going to advertise all over the world.

Rodney. Yes, yes, we can: think what advertising means: the power of suggestion—the psychology of print. Why, 97 per cent of the public believe what they’re told, and what they’re told is what the other chaps have been told, and the fellow who told him read it somewhere. Advertising is responsible for everything. People are sheep, and advertising is the way to make ’em follow your lead. (He is beginning to forget the speech) Say, what makes you go to the theater? (Peale enters from door R. Martin starts to speak) Don’t tell me: I’ll tell you. It’s what you’ve read of the play or what some[49] fellows told you, and the fellow that told him, read it—in a newspaper. (Remembering—rapidly) And that, my boy, is the whole secret of it. You’ve got to be talked about—get ’em praisin’ or cussin’, but don’t let ’em be quiet. I want to tell you; what kind of duck eggs do you eat?

Rodney. Do you know anything against the duck? No, you don’t, but when a duck lays an egg it’s a damn fool and keeps quiet, but when a hen does—cluck, cluck, all over the place! Advertising!

(The Second curtain:—Peale and Rodney on either side of Martin, are talking advertising, while Mary has her fingers to her ears.)

(The Third curtain:—Martin is protesting angrily to Mary, while Rodney and Peale are talking gleefully to each other and shaking hands.)

Scene: The private office of the 13 Soap Company. A rather commonplace room, furnished comfortably but not elaborately. The walls have several posters extolling the virtues of 13 Soap—such as “Do you believe in signs?” “13 Soap is unlucky for dirt.” “Be Clean. Cheap Soap for Cheap People.” “13 Soap is the most expensive soap in the world, one dollar a cake.” There is a particularly large stand in the up-stage wall bearing the legend:

“The average cake of soap gives you 56 washes. A cake of 13 soap gives you only 24,

But
What Washes!”

There is a door on the left and two more at right. At back are windows through which the audience sees the building across the street literally covered with 13 Soap posters. There is a desk, down C., with chairs, cabinets, a hatrack, a water-cooler, a safe, etc., which complete the equipment of the room. Light oak office furniture. Three telephones, one on stand right, one on desk left, and one on desk center. Shades on windows. All over carpet. Four brackets.

The time is one month after the first act, about ten o’clock in the morning.

The curtain rises on an empty stage. Rodney’s voice heard off-stage:

Rodney. (Enters from door upper R.) Forward march! (Six sandwich-men enter door upper R., bearing boards: “13 Soap—unlucky for dirt”) Halt! (They stop) Now, you understand you’re all to go down to Mr. Cyrus Martin’s office, 226[51] Broadway, and parade there all day—and to-morrow the same thing. Be in front of his house to-night at six sharp, you understand?

Rodney. Then forward march! (They exit through door L. Rodney goes to his desk. Business with papers, etc. Peale enters from door upper R.)

Rodney. (Grinning) Yes, I’m just beginning to get on to myself. By George, I certainly used to look like the devil. Do you observe the clothes?

Peale. (R. C. Crosses up; removes coat, and places it L. of C. corner L. of desk) Why, you are getting to be a regular business man.

Rodney. Business is great stuff. I thought it’d bore me, but it’s immense; it’s the best game I ever played. What’s the news with you?

Peale. (Sits in chair L. of desk) Yes, your father and I. He went to the Iroquois in Buffalo. I had all the billboards in the neighborhood plastered thick—and 48-sheet stands along the streets to the Union Station. From the time the old man got in until he got out, he couldn’t look anywhere without seeing 13 Soap. I even found out the number of his room and had a small balloon floating 13 Soap streamers right outside his window. I took a page in all the Buffalo papers—bribed the hat boy to keep putting circulars in his hat every time he checked it, and sent him one of our new folders every mail. They have eight mails a day in Buffalo. I came back with him on the train and when he went into the washroom last night I had the porter say “Sorry, sir, we ain’t got no Thirteen Soap, but you can’t[52] hardly keep any on hand—it’s such grand, grand soap.” (Rises and crosses to R.)

Rodney. I’ve got a bully new advertising scheme. When you go into a barber shop where do you look?

Rodney. No, no, at the ceiling—we’ll put ads on all the barber’s ceilings.

Peale. (Scornfully) Old stuff! It’s been done—is that what you call a new scheme?

Rodney. Well, that wasn’t my big idea. (Goes up-stage, sits in chair behind desk)

Rodney. Here they are. (He produces large blue-print) Pretty real looking, aren’t they?

Rodney. If he ever does drop in to make a deal I thought we ought to have something to make a front, something that looks like a plant.

Rodney. And by the way, if we can, let it leak out that it’s the Ivory Soap people who are backing us with unlimited capital.

Rodney. Sure, father’s always hated ’em in business. His oldest friend, though, is John Clark, one of the big bugs in Ivory Soap. Clark’s got a son, Ellery, that father dislikes because he’s such a success in business—always held him up to me as a[53] model son to pattern by. It’d make father wild if he thought that old Clark was going to back us; Ivory Soap’s the only bunch he’s never been able to lick. (Rises and goes down R.)

Peale. (Goes down L.) Then that scheme ought to be good for a great rise out of father.

Rodney. Say, by the way, I put over a corker on him this morning: I arranged for a parade of sandwich-men up and down in front of his house. I just sent another bunch to his office.

Peale. Oh, we’re bound to land him sooner or later, keeping after him the way we have.

Peale. Well, it takes time to create a demand. These 200 cakes of pink castile you bought looked swell in our old rose wrappers, didn’t they?

Rodney. I’ll bet she was here before either of us—she always is. By George, isn’t she a corker?

Peale. (Indifferently) Oh, she’s all right. (Takes pad and pencil from pocket and sits in arm-chair L.)

Rodney. All right!? Why, the girls you read about don’t mean anything compared to Mary. She’s got Juliet beat a mile. Every time I think of her I want to yell or do some darn fool thing, and every time I see her I just want to get down and kiss her shoes. I just want to walk around after her all the rest of my life and say “Are you comfortable, my love? Are you happy? If there is anything on the wide earth you want, let me get it for you, Mary.” What a wonderful name that is—just like her, simple and honest and beautiful! Mary!

Peale. (Reflectively) If we could only land[54] one hard wallop on father after that Buffalo business!

(Mary enters from door upper R. with MSS. case. Hangs up hat, then goes to desk, sitting back of it C.)

Rodney. (To Mary) Ah, you’re here—now everything’s all right, it’s a great world.

Rodney. By George, Miss Grayson, you do look simply stunning! You’re twice as pretty to-day as you were yesterday, and to-morrow you’ll be——

Mary. (To Peale) Quite right—in business hours, only business. (Takes list of assets and liabilities from case)

Mary. Is it? I was surprised myself when I balanced our accounts this morning. I have here a statement of our assets and liabilities. We owe $22,818.09.

Mary. Mr. McChesney, the advertising man, was here this morning, and he won’t wait any longer for his money.

Mary. (Looking at statement) Yes, and owe him $9,400. And unless he has $2,500 of it to-day he’ll put you out of business.

Peale. That’s the trouble of dealing with business men. They’re so particular about being paid. Now, you take a lot of actors——

Rodney. Yes, what are we going to do when McChesney comes here to-day for money—cash?

Peale. Well, don’t you worry, old son, we’ll fix father somehow. Nobody can stop good advertising. Why, I met a little fellow on the train last night. He gets $50,000 a year just for writing ads. He says a good trade-mark is 70% of the battle, and we’ve got the best trade-mark I ever heard of.

Peale. Absolutely. Half of all modern advertising success is based on a good trade-mark, and ours is a bird.

Rodney. By George, that’s true, we simply have got to keep going. We’ll manage somehow.

Peale. Now you’re talking. We’ll conduct the greatest campaign since George W. Advertising was a young man.

Miss Burke. (Entering with one letter from[56] door upper R.) Here’s the morning mail. (Rodney takes letter, returns front of desk, Miss Burke exits R.)

Rodney. She says she was delayed abroad, but that she’s due to-day on the Imperator or Rotter or whatever you call it, this morning, and that she’s coming to see us at eleven.

Peale. Fear not. Remember, though a Countess, she is still a woman: give her time.

Peale. Well, I’ve got a hunch everything’s going to be all right, or she wouldn’t have written us at all.

McChesney. (Entering from door upper R.) Thought I’d come right in instead of waiting to have her tell me you were out. (Going to Rodney)

McChesney. (Throwing him off) You may be in the soap business, but cut out the soft soap with me. Where’s my money? Have you got it?

McChesney. That doesn’t go with me. Do you think you can put me off? You can bet your blooming liabilities you can’t. I think this whole concern is bunk and I’m going after you good——

Rodney. It’s simply that I haven’t had time to examine your bill in detail. This afternoon, however, I——

McChesney. I’ve heard that before. Now, see here, Mr. Martin—your father’s an honest man: he won’t stand for his son not paying me my money. I’ll see him now. (He starts for door)

Rodney. Wait a minute, wait a minute. I’ll give you a check for $2,500 on account. I presume that will be satisfactory.

Rodney. You understand, Mr. Peale, that not a cent of that fifty thousand dollars we appropriated for our October advertising campaign is to go to him?

McChesney. Now, Mr. Martin, I’ll admit I’m[58] hasty tempered. I’m sorry I made a mistake, but a contract is a contract and——

Peale. (Goes to McChesney, takes his arm and leads him to door upper R.) Come on, Mac—this way to the elevator. (Delighted) Watch your step.

Mary. (Rises and goes to Rodney) No, you’ve only got us into more difficulty. You know, there’s no money in the bank.

Rodney. But the check won’t go through the clearing-house until to-morrow morning and by then we’ll have the $15,000 from the Countess.

Rodney. Nothing. I wish I could. That’s the fellow I told you about. John Clark’s pride.

Mary. (She starts down R.) Oh, Rodney, find out how Ellery’s doing in business, will you?

Peale. (Crosses to arm-chair L.) You’re spoiling[59] that girl. She used to be a good business woman. Now half the time, instead of using her brains she just sits and looks at you as if you were some marvellous antique work of art. (Sits)

Ellery. Oh, I suppose you are. Must take a lot of time to get up your advertisements.

Peale. (Rises, goes to Ellery and offers hand) You like ’em? I write ’em! My name’s Peale! (Goes back to chair L. Sits)

Ellery. You see, it’s like this, old top. I’ve been having rather a time with father lately—silly old man—insisted on the absurd idea of my going into business. Beastly bore.

Ellery. It’s a preposterous idea—men of intelligence go in for the professions. I paint.

Ellery. But I don’t consider it a compliment to be a success in business—think of all the blighters who are.

Ellery. Father keeps reminding me of your success every day—most irritating. You see, of course he’s sore, because I never bothered much about business. Oh, I have tackled a thing or two. But luck was always against me. It just happened it didn’t work out right. Not my fault, you understand?

Ellery. Of course, if I ever devoted myself to business! But, after all, when you know you can do a thing you want to, why bother to do it, if it bores you?

Ellery. (Sighing) And father has been so offensive lately, I’ve decided to give a little time to business and make a success of it. I can, you know.

Ellery. Oh, rather. I have it all figured out. For my scheme I’ve got to raise seventy-five hundred dollars, and I wanted to talk to you about it. This idea of mine is an automobile proposition. I really need $10,000, and I’ve only got $2,500.

(Rodney and Peale exchange looks and walk over to Ellery, one on each side of him.)

Rodney. Ellery, why do you want to go into the automobile business? It’s dangerous—unsafe——

Rodney. Ellery, our families are old friends. Now, if you really want to show your father you’re a money-maker, why don’t you buy some shares in our company?

Ellery. I don’t care much about the idea of being in the soap business—rather vulgar.

Rodney. It’s a very simple proposition. All you do is invest and then sit still and deposit your checks when we pay dividends.

Rodney. We’re not letting the general public[61] in—but it’d be such a joke on your father for you to make money.

Ellery. Yes, wouldn’t it? (They all laugh) I fancy he’d be mighty glad I had sense enough to go in with you.

Ellery. That sounds rather ripping. But what would I get for my twenty-five hundred?

Peale. Four cakes a year to every person in this country would represent an annual output of 400,000,000 cakes—and think of all the babies who’ll be born next year. They’ll all have to be washed.

Ellery. (After a long pause, rises and shakes hands with Rodney) I’ll do it.

Rodney. We can’t agree to hold the matter open until next Monday. (Goes to chair behind desk and sits)

Ellery. Yes, that wouldn’t be so distressing. If I can get him—I find him considerably easier to talk to on the ’phone. I can always ring off.

Peale. Come this way—it’ll be quieter for you if he’s noisy. (Goes to Ellery, takes his arm, and leads him to door lower R.)

Peale. (Pushing him out) Never mind the social chatter. Ellery, you don’t mind my calling you Ellery—do you, Ellery? (To her) You see, Ellery has work to do. (Exit Ellery. Mary goes to L.) If that’s a model son, thank God I was born a black sheep!

Ellery. (Sticking his head in at door) How do you use this ’phone? I’ve never run a switchboard!

Rodney. (To Mary as she goes) And get his father for him; it may mean $2,500 more for us.

Peale. (Runs to door R. shouting to Mary) Do anything: hold his hand—kiss him! (She exits. To Rodney) Do you need an interpreter for the Countess?

Rodney. (As he speaks, goes over and pulls down a shade on which is painted an advertisement in French) I can understand anything she says about money. You can help me count it.

Countess. Ah, magnifique, superbe, superbe! Je suis désolée d’être si en retard, mais c’est très compliqué à la douane. (Coming down in front of desk)

Rodney. Do you want to spoil everything? Don’t kiss her till we get the money. The money with you?

Rodney. (Looking at it) Draft for $20,000 in full payment for French rights of the 13 Soap.

Countess. Je vous donnerai ce chèque pour vingt mille dollars, mais comme je ne vous dois que quinze mille, vous pourrez me donner votre chèque pour cinq mille. Cela finira notre affaire.

Peale. Slip it to me, kid, slip it to me. I’m dying on my feet. (Takes check from Rodney)

Rodney. She says she’ll give us the draft for $20,000, but as she only owes us $15,000, we must give her back our check for $5,000.

Rodney. But we haven’t any money in the bank. Suppose we get her check cashed first. Then we can pay her.

Peale. Sure, great! I’ll go right over to the bank to get it certified. (Countess takes check from Peale and tears it up) What’s the matter with you? What’s the matter?

Rodney. She spoke English! She’s a fake. (Rodney and Peale stare at her speechless, Peale pointing toward the draft)

Countess. (Sits on desk) You see, I was going to trim you out of your $5,000 check, but as long as you haven’t any money, your check’s no good, so you’ve busted up my whole scheme.

Countess. I didn’t start out to: you wished it on yourselves. I came to trim your father. You remember, I wanted to see him, but I looked so soft you thought you’d grab me off and sell me the French agency of your Thirteen Soap. I didn’t think your father could be as big a boob as you were, so I changed my plans. Do you get me?

Peale. Yes, I get you and now I’m going to get the cops to get you. (Starts up-stage)

Countess. (Laughs. Crosses down L.) I should burst into laughter. Why, you pikers, I’m on: you’re busted. You haven’t any money and you have got a phoney company.

Countess. Preserve it. Preserve it. (Crosses to center) Don’t forget, I’ve understood everything you two guys were talking about.

Countess. (To Rodney) “Kiss her hand—it’s French stuff.” (To Peale) “Ah, there, you little life-saver.” (To Rodney) “The money with you—argent avec vous?” Gee, your French is rotten. (To Peale, who moves away) “Shall I kiss her?” (A pause) Send for the cops and I’ll blow the whole thing to the papers. (A pause) Well, I guess we’re quits. If you had any money I’d ask for a piece of change to keep me quiet, but as it is, I can’t waste my time.

Countess. I was educated over there—immense, wasn’t I? You never tumbled at all.

Countess. Well, I can talk good French—but my English is punk. (Sits on desk)

Countess. No, I don’t hit a fellow when he’s down. Anyhow, we’re all in the same class. Three fakes.

Rodney. What’s happened to Ellery? Let’s find him. (They start for door R.)

Ellery. Well, I couldn’t reach the old man on the ’phone, and that did make matters so much easier. I don’t fancy talking to father on the ’phone.

Ellery. (Smiling happily) Why, he’s on his yacht somewhere on the Sound—he won’t be home till Monday, so I can’t possibly get the money for you to-day.

(Rodney and Peale walk up-stage while the Countess drops her handkerchief. Ellery picks it up and smiles back delightedly at her. Mary enters from door lower R.)

Mary. Look out. McChesney’s coming back here—I just saw him across the street.

Rodney. Ellery, you’ll have to go—we’ve got a big job on our hands. Au revoir, Countess.

Countess. Au revoir, Monsieur. (With marked accent) Is there no one to see me to my taxi? These American buildings are so big I am lost.

Countess. Au revoir, Mr. Martin—(Turning to Rodney) Vous êtes trop aimable. Je vous remercie beaucoup de votre politesse. Au revoir—(Goes to Peale—in undertone) So long, kid, call[69] me up sometime. (And then, chattering a stream of German to Ellery, they exit door left)

Rodney. (Closes door after Countess exits) Well, I’ve got to hand it to her. The Countess is a fake. Ellery is a flivver and McChesney’s on his way here with that phoney check. (Goes to his chair behind desk)

McChesney. No, I won’t wait. You’re two swindlers. I’ve just come from the bank. Your check’s no good.

McChesney. I’m going to the sheriff now, and unless you make the check good at my office in an hour, I’m going to cancel your advertising, cover up your billboards and send you both to jail, and that goes. (He exits)

Mary. The swindler! And the man from the Edison Company is here to say that unless they get[70] some money at once they’ll cut off the current from all our signs, and the agent of the landlord is waiting for the rent. He seems very suspicious and wants to be paid for last month right away. What can I say to them?

Mary. You know I want you to succeed, but there’s no use fighting odds like these—you haven’t any money, you’re way in debt, and you mustn’t be disgraced. Please send for your father. I’m sure he’ll help you.

Mary. Do telephone him right away. (Crosses to door lower R.) Now I must try to fix the Edison man and the landlord, or they’ll be in here. (To Peale) What can I say to them?

Peale. Not yet. I’d like to have a pull enough to get a cell with a southern exposure.

Peale. He must be here to make a deal. Our scheme worked—we’ve put it over, and what did it? Advertising.

Rodney. But father’s no fool. We’ve got to be very careful. How’ll we handle it? I’m not used to putting it over on father.

Peale. Don’t forget the factory and the Ivory Soap people and the plans, and get busy. You know. (He makes motions and brings letter-file from rack and throws contents on desk) That rubber-stamp stuff.

Peale. Yes, we have—a trade-mark. You know it’s good, so do I. We only need your father to back us and we’ll make a lot of money for him in spite of himself.

Ellery. (Coming in at private door left) Oh, I beg pardon, but I was so fascinated at meeting the Countess, I forgot my stick.

Rodney. Can’t see you now, Ellery. (He goes over and pulls down two windows shades on which are painted ads of 13 Soap)

Peale. (Giving him gloves) No, can’t ever see you again, Ellery. Here’s your cane. Now, hurry, Ellery. (He starts to lead him to door)

Rodney. (Suddenly goes to Ellery) Hold on, hold on, Ellery, can you wait in there five minutes?

Rodney. Oh, she’ll wait for you, and charge the taxi to Mr. Peale. He’ll be right in and explain everything to you.

Ellery. I don’t want to detain the Countess too long. Hate to keep a lady waiting—all that sort of thing. You know what women are. (He exits left)

Rodney. He’s the son of Ivory Soap. Coach him with some important message from old John Clark to us about a merger, and when father begins to wabble, have Ellery come in with the message. That’ll send father kerflop to the mat.

Peale. (Going) Master! Great, great, I get you. I’ll fix Ellery. This is your father’s Waterloo. (At door) As soon as I’ve taught Ellery his lesson I’ll be right back. I’ll tell him when we ring the bell twice, to bust in with his little recitation.

Peale. He couldn’t get on to anything but a weighing machine. (He goes out left)

(Rodney pushes the buzzer and then takes up the ’phone, keeping his eye on the door. In a moment Cyrus Martin enters.)

Rodney. No, much obliged, but we can’t consider it. No stock for sale—it’s quite out of the question. Good-bye. (Ringing off and then pretending to be surprised, turns and sees his father) Why, hello, father.

Rodney. (Rodney gets very busy with papers and rubber-stamp) Sit down, won’t you? Be with you in just a minute.

(Rodney very busy again with filing papers and opening and closing drawers. Martin looks at him in astonishment.)

Martin. Thanks—(He bites off end and lights it, and as he does so, Rodney again gets busy with similar business) Surprised to see me, I suppose?

Rodney. Not a bit. (He starts signing a contract. Martin, who has risen, attempts to glance at it, and as he does so, Rodney calmly turns it over and blots it. Martin turns away) There, that’s done! Now, father, what can I do for you?

Martin. Well, my boy—I just dropped in for a social call. The fact is, I’ve rather missed you.

Martin. (Abruptly) Thought I’d have a look in and find out how things were going. (Sits in arm-chair R.)

Rodney. Fine—fine—everything’s breezing right along. Of course, I’m always glad to see you, but right now, father I’m pretty busy, so you’ll excuse me if—(He gets busy again with rubber-stamp)

Martin. (With a certain sarcasm) Well, if you can spare the time, I’d like a little business talk with you, Rodney.

Rodney. Certainly, in just a minute. (Gets busy with papers. Pushes the buzzer)

Rodney. That’s all right, come right in. Father, you remember Mr. Peale—Peale, my father——

Peale. (Sitting in chair left) A bit tired—just back from Buffalo where I’ve been conducting a big campaign.

Martin. (Rises and goes to desk) Then both of you listen to me. You’ve got to cut out this nonsense you call advertising.

Martin. This morning there was a parade of sandwich-men in front of my house for two hours. I had to have them arrested. I got to the office to find another bunch. It annoys me.

Martin. You’re trying to make a fool of me. I open a letter. It’s a circular for 13 Soap. I open my newspaper—you have a page ad. I look out of the window—there’s a billboard—I take a train, the damned porter apologizes because he’s all out of 13 Soap.

Martin. I’ll tell you exactly what I mean: I’ve let you ramble on to see just how far you would go, but you’ve been spending a lot of money on ridiculous advertising, hoping that by annoying me I’ll buy your business to get rid of you. Well, I’m not going to. Now what have you got to say to that? Eh—eh?

Rodney. (Quickly) But I have a lot to say. We may not have a big business now, but we have got a trade-mark, the catchiest trade-mark ever invented for soap. We’re a growing concern. Just because our advertising annoys you, you mustn’t think it’s valueless. Why, it’s so good that capital is chasing us: our money is practically unlimited. Is that a fair statement, Peale?

Rodney. Not at all. And since you’re so skeptical, father, I don’t mind letting you see the plans for our new factory. (Takes plans from desk)

Rodney. Yes, father—these are the offices, this is Miss Grayson’s office, this is Mr. Peale’s office, and this is mine.

Rodney. (Reprovingly) Now, father, you cannot expect me to divulge a business secret to you, a rival manufacturer.

Peale. Absolutely. (Martin turns and reflectively walks up-stage. Peale very obviously picks up push-button and pushes buzzer twice; it rings off left. There is a pause, and then in a moment, Ellery enters)

Ellery. Well, I really can’t wait any longer. The party downstairs in the taxi—you follow me?

Ellery. (Remembering) Oh, yes, of course. If you’ll keep it open until Monday I’ll get the money for you then.

Peale. (Interrupting quickly) We’ll see what we can do, but just now, Ellery, we’re very much occupied. (He has him by the arm)

Rodney. Oh, just a minute: you’d better give your father back the plans—say they’re quite satisfactory. (Gives plans to Peale)

Rodney. He is very indiscreet—if it had been anybody but father he’d have given our whole plan away.

Martin. You’re not going to take him in—that pin-head? Why, he didn’t even seem to know what he was trying to get at.

Martin. (Grunting) Ivory Soap? (He walks up and down while Rodney and Peale exchange gleeful glances. After a considerable pause) Well, thinking things over, why should you and I fight?

Martin. Quite true, and therefore I should be the one to call it off. Now, son, here’s the idea: I’d rather have you with me than against me—the money doesn’t matter much. In your way, while I don’t endorse that kind of publicity, I suppose you boys think your sensational ads are good.

Martin. Not at all. (To Rodney) And if you’re going to have a backer, wouldn’t I be better than the Ivory Soap people?

Peale. Oh, you have our goodwill now, sir. (Rises and bows very profusely, then sits)

Martin. Oh, I guess it won’t take all the money I’ve got. What’s your proposition?

Rodney. It’s a wonderful autumn, isn’t it? These crisp cold bracing mornings.

Rodney. (Rising quickly) One hundred thousand dollars cash, you assume all the contracts and obligations of this company, give us 40% of the profits, a contract for me at $20,000 a year; for Miss Grayson at $10,000, (Peale coughs)—and another for Mr. Peale at the same figure.

Martin. You needn’t. Your trade-mark might appeal to a lot of superstitious idiots, but as a business proposition I don’t think much of it. But now I’ll show old John Clark he can’t butt into my family affairs or get Ellery mixed up with my boy’s business.

Rodney. (Motioning her to be quiet) I’ll be right out. (To Martin, very nervously) You see, father, we’re thinking of taking larger offices. Come, Peale. We’ll be right back, father.

Martin. (Stands there watching them proudly. Miss Grayson enters door lower R.) Hello, Miss Grayson, it’s mighty good to see you again—I——

Martin. Oh, yes, he just went out for a minute to see the agent of the landlord——

Mary. Oh, I’m so happy you’ve settled with him! You have settled, haven’t you? (Goes to arm-chair R.)

Mary. Oh, good. Isn’t it wonderful for him? (Very sweetly) Just think! Without you he couldn’t have lasted out the day. (Crossing down in front of desk)

Martin. Couldn’t have lasted out the day, ha, ha! Then our little scheme to put Rodney on his feet didn’t work?

Martin. Everything’s great now—(Knocked off his feet, then recovering himself) Oh, by the way, in our negotiations the one thing that Rodney didn’t fully go into was the nature of the assets.

Mary. The assets! They must have made even you laugh. Why, we haven’t any! (She laughs)

Martin. (Trying to laugh) Haven’t any! Ha—ha—by the way, there was a report on the Street to-day that the Ivory Soap people were going to make a deal with Rodney—build him a factory—

Mary. Oh, he didn’t come here on business: Ellery came to borrow some money from Rodney—isn’t that funny?

Martin. (Changing his whole manner) The young scoundrel! (Starts to go up-stage)

Martin. (Stops) Thank you, Miss Grayson, for telling me. Do you know what he tried to do to me? Hold me up for a hundred thousand dollars, make me think Ivory Soap was backing him, too—and but for you, he’d have succeeded.

Martin. You saved me a lot of money and kept me from being a fool. Thank you! Good-morning. (Starts for door upper R.)

Martin. At last! (Coming to her, lays hat on desk) So that was his scheme all the time, was[81] it? He didn’t go into business on the level, but just for my benefit? And you were helping him. Well, he can thank you again for having failed.

Martin. Yes it is, from the start. You got up the plan of my pretending to put him out of the house——

Mary. But your bet—you bet $30,000 with John Clark. You don’t want to lose that?

Martin. Well, if Ellery’s trying to borrow money from Rodney it looks like an even break—and anyhow I’d lose the bet twice over rather than have my son think he could make a fool of his father.

Mary. But he is a good business man: he’d make you proud of him. You don’t know how hard he’s worked, how fine he’s been; he’s simply wonderful. If he could keep on a little longer, I know he’d succeed. If you’ll just help him, he’ll make money. You’ll see he will.

Martin. Of course, you want him to make money. You’re thinking of that percentage contract with me.

Mary. I’m not! Oh, I’m not! I can’t see him fail. Listen: I’ll try to give you back what you’ve given me—I don’t care anything about the contract. I’ll tear it up now if you’ll just help him.

Mary. (Proudly) Yes, I am—now. But that[82] doesn’t matter. We’ve got to save him—save his business.

Martin. Let him get out of it—it’ll do him good. I’ve been a sentimental fool. I’ve made it all too easy for him. (Coming down R.)

Martin. Yes it is, and I don’t propose to repeat the error. He’s lied to me all the way through. We’ll let him face the truth; now we’ll see what he’s made of.

Martin. Because you took me for a bigger fool than I am. My own son can’t do that to me. I’ve found out now that you’re broke.

Martin. (Stopping her) No! (To Rodney) And all the time you were lying to me about the Ivory Soap people and the factory they were going to put up. You thought you could make an ass of me—get the best of me, did you? Well, you can’t. I’m finished with you and your 13 Soap. You’ve[83] got a swelled head, you’re a smart alec, you’re a complete fake, you’re a cheat, young man——

Rodney. I did try to be smart. I was stuck on myself. I thought business was a cinch. But you’re right. I have been a fake. This whole thing never seemed real—it was just fun—like a game; but I’ve waked up, and now it’s serious. I tried to get the best of you, but I’ll take my licking. I don’t want any charity: I know what’s coming to me and I’ll take my medicine.

Rodney. You told me never to come back to you for a nickel, and I won’t. I told you, too, that I wouldn’t snivel—well, I’m not going to. Good-bye, father——

Rodney. Please, father, it’s up to me and nobody else, to get out of this. Please go. (He holds out his hand)

Peale. (Coming over and putting hand on his shoulder) Say, little boss, you can’t fire me. I’m just going to stick around, whatever happens.

(Mary touches Peale on the arm and motions him[84] to go out. He nods understandingly and exits upper R. Mary comes to Rodney.)

Mary. Oh, Rodney, Rodney, it was all my fault. Your father had no idea of the truth—I didn’t understand; I thought you sent for him to help you. I told him about our company. I did it all—betrayed you.

Rodney. (Changing completely. Rises) But if father thinks just because he laced it into me I’m licked, he’s wrong. Maybe I have been a fake but, by George, I won’t be any longer. (Goes down R.)

Rodney. When I’ve got you, you bet I am. Say, do you really think a long speech from father and no money to work with are enough to stop me? No, sir; what father said got me for a minute, but I’m not a quitter, and I’ll prove it. There must be something of father in me: I can’t be such a pin-head as I look. I’ll get out of this mess the best way I can, and then I’ll shine shoes or sell peanuts. I’ll start at the bottom instead of finishing there. I’ll make money—I’ll——

Mary. Oh, Rodney, Rodney, now I am proud of you! (She kisses him unexpectedly and heartily)

Rodney. (Overjoyed) What! That’s the first time you ever really kissed me—all by yourself—like that. By George, you must love me!

Mary. You bet I do. (She kisses him again and they clinch as Peale enters excitedly, coming down R.)

Rodney. (Still with Mary in his arms) Nothing in the world can interrupt me—What is it?

Peale. A telegram. It’s the first we ever received, and—I was afraid to open it.

Mary. (Having opened it) “Rodney Martin, President 13 Soap Company, 226 Broadway”——

Mary. “Ship at once, collect, 50,000 cakes 13 Soap. Marshall Field, Chicago.”

Peale. We’ve started—we’ve begun! We’re actually going to sell some soap.

Rodney. The tide’s turned—didn’t I tell you advertising pays? We’ll sweep the country—Europe—Asia—Africa! Go in with father? Not for a million dollars! (Starts up-stage)

Mary. We can’t fill it: we’ve never made any soap. (Start stand staring at each other aghast)

Rodney. (With dawning hope. Rises) But he can’t know about this Marshall Field order—maybe we could buy some soap before he’d have a chance to stop them selling to us?

Rodney. Where’s the ’phone book? (She grabs red classified directory from desk) We’ll call up two or three of his branch offices. (He has hurriedly begun turning over pages, as Peale on one side and Mary on the other, help him) Skins, skates, shirts—where’s soap?

Rodney. Ah, here it is! Soap manufacturers—(Skimming down page) 276 Broad—here’s one of father’s factories.

Mary. So have I: 480 Audubon. (They drop[87] book and each dashes to a ’phone. As they give the number of ’phone, curtain. During two curtains, till they finish lines)

Johnson. Very good, sir. (He exits. Martin opens another paper, again sees an advertisement of 13 Soap and with considerable irritation sweeps the whole pile off the desk as Johnson enters, followed by Mary) Miss Grayson. (Johnson exits)

Martin. That’s something in his favor: can’t see much use in women tying up in men’s business.

Rodney. Because after we’d got that much from one of your branch factories you shut off our supply.

Mary. (Accusingly) And you knew it very well. (Crossing to R. side of Mr. Martin)

Rodney. We’ve still got 45,000 cakes to deliver, if we can get ’em from you. Why let all that money get out of the family? It’s a business proposition.

Martin. That day at the office you were pretty game, son, and to tell the truth, I felt so sorry for you, I kind of had to do something, so I sent that wire——

Martin. Well, I figured an order like that would stall off your creditors, and then I had fixed it with one of our factories to let you have 5,000 cakes at three cents a cake. I knew it would mean some ready cash for you from Marshall Field——

Martin. Oh, I just wired ’em I’d be responsible, and, say—(Turning to Rodney, who rises) you had a nerve to charge ’em sixty cents a cake—and I had to pay the bill! That shipment cost me $3,000 for $150 worth of soap. (Peale laughs) That isn’t funny, young man.

Rodney. No, it isn’t: I thought we’d really made good, and all the time it was you behind us——

Martin. You see, my boy, even if you did nearly trim me, I’ve got a sort of sneaking fondness for you. Look here, son, why not quit? There’s no market for dollar soap.

Martin. I had a letter from Marshall Field a few days ago asking me what to do with the soap. They hadn’t sold a cake. I told ’em to dump it in the Chicago River; it might help to clean it up.

Peale. We only finished a great big advertising campaign in Chicago two days ago.

Martin. If your trade-mark was so marvelous, somebody besides your poor old father would have bought your soap.

Martin. Oh, yes, I do: sound, conservative advertising, but not the crazy, sensational stuff you go in for.

Mary. Oh, you’re just mad because the soap trust didn’t think of 13 Soap itself.

Martin. Why, we wouldn’t touch a fool thing like that. If you deliver the goods, your goods will advertise you—that’s always been our policy.

Rodney. I’m sorry, father, but you are old-fashioned to knock the modern way of advertising. Why, do you know, the National Biscuit Company was on the verge of failing until they hit on the title, Uneeda Biscuit?

Rodney. Their trade-mark made ’em. They value that trade-mark now at six million dollars.

Peale. Great stuff. (Turning to Martin)—and Spearmint Gum just as a trade-mark is worth seven millions.

Rodney. And the Fairbanks people count their trade-mark, The Gold Dust Twins, at $10,000,000.

Rodney. It costs you five dollars. Don’t you know there’s a mighty good safety razor for a quarter, and dozens at a dollar, but you use the Gillette because Gillette was there first; you buy[92] his razor at a high price simply because of its trade-mark.

Peale. Ivory Soap in the magazines alone used $450,000 worth of space in 1913—and at three cents a cake wholesale, that represents 15,000,000 cakes for magazine advertising alone.

Peale. Yes, and a lot of other guys didn’t believe that iron ships would float or that machines heavier than air would fly, or that you could talk to ’Frisco on a wire or send a message across the Atlantic without a wire. Pardon me, sir, but you want to get on to yourself.

Martin. You’ve got a fine lot of theories, but what have they done for those 5,000 cakes of 13 Soap out at Marshall Field’s?

Rodney. That’s true. Every time the American Tobacco Company puts out a new cigarette they start off by appropriating $200,000 to boom it.

Rodney. And think what other firms spend! I’ve gone into this thing, father——

Rodney. Sure, it’s an absolutely accurate list of what some of the big advertisers spent in the thirty-one leading magazines last year. Eastman Kodak, $400,000, Postum Coffee, $125,000, Arrow Collars, $400,000, Melachrino Cigarettes, $100,000, Welch’s Grape Juice, $100,000.

Rodney. Quaker Oats, $367,000, and these are only a few. You can’t see how it pays, but you do know that it must pay or they wouldn’t do it.

Peale. Yes. Does it when you realize that those thirty-one magazines have only about 10,000,000 readers?

Rodney. And that there are a hundred million people in this country. Why just to appeal to one-tenth of the population, fifty million dollars was spent in magazines last year, and each year people are getting better educated—more people are wanting to read. It won’t be long before there are 25,000,000 people buying magazines, and you can reach all of them by advertising—get a new market, a new population to deal with. Think what national advertising is accomplishing! It sells automobiles, vacuum cleaners, talking machines, rubber heels, kodaks, washing machines, foods, clothes, shoes, paints, houses, plumbing, electric irons, fireless cookers—mostly to a lot of people who’d never even hear of ’em if it weren’t for advertisements.

Peale. But nowadays it isn’t only people who have stoves to sell or tooth-brushes, that are spending money on publicity. Banks are advertising for money, nations for immigrants, colleges for students, cities for citizens, and churches for congregations, and you sit there thinking it doesn’t pay to advertise.

Mary. Six hundred and sixteen million dollars were spent last year in magazines and newspapers, billboards and electric signs.

Rodney. Bringing education and comfort and fun and luxury to the people of the United States. It’s romance, father, the romance of printing-presses, of steel rails, of the wireless, of trains and competition, the romance of modern business, and it’s all built on advertising. Advertising is the biggest thing in this country, and it’s only just begun.

Martin. (After a pause) Why didn’t you boys go into the advertising business? You seem to know something about that?

Peale. (Fairly tearing his hair) Oh, what’s the use! He’s the old school—we’re new blood. (Coming to L. of C.)

Martin. When you boys get through talking and you’re flat broke and down and out, come around and see me: I’ll show you an old business that has a lot of money that isn’t radical and manages to keep going without wasting a fortune in fool advertising.

Martin. Risk my business reputation on a silly scheme like Dollar Soap? I should say not!

Peale. Oh, come on. What’s the use of talking to a man whose brain is deaf? (Exit door upper L., keeping in step, single-file)

Martin. (Rises and comes to center) Say when you get a new line of patter, come around. I like to hear you. Dollar Soap!

Johnson. (Enters) I beg pardon, a gentleman to see you, sir. (Johnson hands Martin a card on silver tray)

Bronson. (Sits in chair R. of desk) While, of course, we understand that the 13 Soap is made by your son, Mr. Rodney Martin, at the same time as you wired us you would be responsible for that order, Marshall Field felt that I should first see you in the matter.

Bronson. Of course, of course. That is why we’d like to place our order through you.

Bronson. Through some error we received only 5,000 cakes, instead of 50,000 but that’s all gone.

Bronson. Yes, and we want the balance of the original order you were kind enough to throw our way, and as much more soap as we can get.

Martin. But only the other day I had a letter from Marshall Field saying they hadn’t sold a cake.

Bronson. (Laughing) I know, I know. We felt at first that of course there could be no popular market for a dollar soap; we weren’t as far-sighted as you were. (Martin clears his throat) But of[96] course, when those extraordinary advertisements appeared, so different from your usual conservative publicity, the sales began immediately! We sold the 5,000 cakes in two days.

Bronson. Of course, what else? Now we want to handle your goods exclusively in the west—with extensive immediate deliveries. Can that be arranged?

Bronson. (Misunderstanding him) Of course we might do a little better if we could settle the matter at once.

Martin. As a matter of courtesy I should like to talk things over with my own boy——

Bronson. Very well. I’ve some matters to attend to. I’ll be back in half an hour. (Going to door upper L.) It’s a wonderful soap, Mr. Martin.

Martin. Wonderful soap—plain pink castile,[97] I’ve got to get in on this. (He goes to ’phone) 1313 Bryant. Hello, is this the 13 Soap Company?

Martin. Just a minute. Is Mr. Rodney Martin in? No? Never mind who I am. Good-bye. Johnson, call up my son’s office every ten minutes and let me know the minute he comes in. Don’t tell ’em who’s calling. (Crosses to R.)

Johnson. I mean, sir, when she was here two months ago she could only talk French.

Martin. Indeed! Well, I’m not interested in the languages she speaks. Who is she, and what does she want?

Countess. Attendez, you listen to me: two months ago there in that very room, I buy the[98] French rights for the 13 Soap. I pay him 15,000 dollar and now I cannot get any soap.

Countess. But I have seen him, and he give me no satisfaction. If I cannot get any soap, I must have my money, one or the other, or I put him in the jail. He is a cheat. I have here ze contract. I sue him in the court.

Countess. Feel! Ah, mon dieu—I trick no one, I play fair, I am an honest woman. Mais je vous dis que je suis honnête, très honnête dans mes affaires. Monsieur votre fils m’a donné le contrat, et j’insiste qu’il est très malhonnête. Je n’ai pas l’habitude d’être si maltraitée, monsieur, et je répète que je ferai tout mon possible d’obtenir les quinze mille dollars que me doit Monsieur votre fils, et s’il ne me les donne pas, je le poursuivrai sans cesse. Comprenez-vous, Monsieur? (She takes the contract from him)

Countess. Pardon, Monsieur, always I am excited I speak the French. But! If you love your son, you pay me back, or else he go to jail. What you say?

Countess. Yes. But it is more to me than it is to you. You pay me, or he go to prison. Now what you say?

Martin. By George, just the man I want to see! Show him right in. Hold on, hold on. Now, Duchess, if you don’t mind, just step in this room a minute. (Indicating room lower R.)

Martin. Here is a nice room. (Points to room lower L.) You will find it very comfortable.

Countess. Very well, I wait. (Crosses to left) But in fifteen minutes if I do not get the 15,000 dollar, I go to my lawyers, and your son—poof! he is done. (Talking in French as she exits)

Martin. If you reach him while Mr. Peale’s here don’t mention Rodney’s name; just call him “that party.” I’ll understand. (Crosses R.)

Peale. Now, one moment, Mr. Martin. I just want to say that I am a man of few words—that this isn’t advertising, it’s personal. I know you don’t like me.

Peale. Fresh? Well, I guess that’s right, too. But that’s me—I’m not your style. Here’s the idea: your son has been immense to me. Great kid, and it struck me the reason you wouldn’t back him was because I was mixed up in his business. So I just came to say if that’s the situation, why I’m out, that’s all. You go ahead with him alone.

Peale. I should say not. I’m just a hired hand. He could can me any moment, but he’s not the kind of guy who’d do that.

Peale. I should say not. Why, he and Miss Grayson do all the signing. If I could have signed contracts, I’d have spent a million dollars in advertising. And believe me, you ought to back him, because, honest, Mr. Martin, it’s a great scheme—the 13 Soap, on the level, if it’s handled right and the publicity end is——

Peale. That’s right, too. Well, I guess that’s all. I wanted to tell you how I stood about Rodney. That’s off my chest, so good afternoon. (Starts to go)

Martin. Wait a minute. What did you boys mean by trimming that poor Countess on the French rights?

Martin. She said she’d put Rodney in jail for fraud unless I made good that $15,000. I’ve got to pay her—can’t see the boy disgraced.

Peale. I’ll get it for you cheap. Pardon me, sir, but I know how to handle dames like her.

Martin. Good, good. Peale, I’ve got to go out on an important soap deal. (He starts to go, then goes to Peale) Oh, by George, I nearly forgot. There’s another matter I must attend to first. Peale, you’ll find the Countess in there. Do the best you can—we’ll settle the details when I get back. Make yourself at home.

Martin. Johnson, send over half a dozen boxes of these cigars to Mr. Peale’s house. He’ll give you the address. (He exits left)

Johnson. Very good, sir. (He exits. Peale walks over to the window and looks out at the 13 Soap signs)

Peale. (The telephone rings. Peale looks at it, it rings again, he goes over to desk and raises it) Yes, Sweetie—this is the garage. How long does it take to go to Coney Island? How in hell do I know? (Business of changing money and watch to different pockets. Goes to door L., and opens it) Countess de Bull Run. (He goes into some fake French) De juis—de joie—politesse noblesse oblige.

Countess. You ought to take up French—your accent’s immense. Well, little sweetheart?

Peale. See here, now, if you’re aiming to trim the old man, I won’t stand for it.

Countess. Don’t tell old Martin what I tried to do to you boys. He’s the kind that would put me in jail. I’ll be on the level. I did come here to try to trim him, but I’ll cut it out. Honest, I will. Oh, Ambrose, I don’t like being a grafter. I’ve had to do a lot of things I didn’t want to. You don’t know how hard it is for girls like me. I never had a show. I ran away from home when I was a kid. I’ve been pretty much up against it. Is what I’ve done to other guys going to butt in and queer me?

Countess. Give me a chance to be on the square. It ain’t easy for a girl to fight it out all by herself when she’s all alone: no money—no friends and you got to live—live on five a week. You got a lot for a good time, haven’t you? God, I’ve been lonely sometimes; you’ve got to be pretty smart to steer straight—but I’ve done it, I’ve done it, I’ve done it. (She breaks down and sits on chair R. of desk)

Peale. (Kindly) Now, see here, Countess—(He pats her on back)—don’t do that—don’t, don’t—(She is sobbing a little) Oh, quit it. (A pause) Keep it for some poor boob who’ll fall for it.

Countess. (Completely changing to a radiant smile. Rises) Well, it’s always worth trying once.

Peale. (Genially) Sure it is. Why, you had me winging for a minute, but when you pulled that wheeze about “I’ve done it,” three times in succession, I knew it was phoney.

Peale. Nix, nix, you came here to trim him for the $15,000 on the French rights.

Peale. Yes, he left me here to settle it. Where’s the contract? Come on—gimme—gimme——

Countess. Oh, I suppose I’ve got to. Oh, I’m sick of soap anyhow. 13 may be a lucky hunch for you boys, but it has been a hoodoo for me.

Peale. And now, my little hearts of lettuce, this concludes your portion of the evening’s entertainment.

Countess. Well, I guess I’m not wanted, so I’ll trot. I’ll trot. (Goes to door upper L.) So long, you 13 Soap suds. (Exits)

Rodney. They say our advertising’s wonderful and has created such a demand they want to handle the soap in town. (Goes around table down R.)

Peale. (Wonderingly) Then all the things we said to your father are really true? (Goes up center)

Rodney. You see, when I show father this letter from Macy’s he’s got to admit we’ve won out, and supply us with soap.

Peale. You have my permission—(Crosses to L. Mary crosses to table R.) This isn’t my house. (Bronson enters. Johnson exits) This way, sir.

Rodney. Oh, these are my partners. You can talk before them. This is Mr. Peale and Miss Grayson, may I present—Mr.——?

Bronson. Sorry? Why, your 13 Soap the last few days has had a most remarkable sale at our store.

(Mary and Rodney take arm-chair from L. of table and place it in center of stage.)

Bronson. Good, good. We foresee a tremendous sale for your goods. It’s an amazing soap.

Bronson. We would be glad to contract now for 250,000 cakes. (Peale just flops into chair) With deliveries to begin next week.

Rodney. Here’s an idea: in view of our pressing orders, would you consider for the moment paying[107] us merely for the use of our trade-mark without any soap at all?

Bronson. With a license from you to use the title, we could probably arrange to have the soap manufactured by Cyrus Martin of the soap trust.

Bronson. I should have to call up our Chicago office, but I think I can safely say we would be prepared to offer you at least two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

Mary. Hadn’t we better discuss the matter a little more fully first among ourselves?

Bronson. Perhaps I could wait somewhere for a few minutes while you talk things over?

Mary. When Mr. Martin comes back, don’t tell him that Rodney and Mr. Peale are here, or Bronson, either; say I’m alone.

Johnson. Yes, Miss, but Mr. Martin just drove up in his car, he’ll be here directly——

Mary. I do. I’ve got a great idea. You two boys go into that room, (Indicating lower R.) and stay there. When I ring this buzzer twice, you call me on this ’phone—there’s a switch in there—and never mind what I say. Hurry now, both of you.

Peale. Well, I’ll slip you something that may help you when you see father. You tell him that I’ve got that contract. He’ll understand.

Peale. Neither do I. Come on, she’s got more brains than both of us. (They exit R.)

Mary. Mr. Peale—oh, Mr. Peale’s gone back to the office—but he told me to tell you that he’d got that contract——

Mary. We are all smart—it’s a smart firm. We just got a letter from Macy’s for 10,000 cakes of 13 Soap, and this time you didn’t send a telegram——

Martin. Macy’s, eh? Well, well. Now, I’ll be frank. I want Rodney to come in with me—and you’ve got to help. You started this scheme. Now finish it up.

Martin. Well, Macy’s, for one thing. That shows sensational advertising does pay. Those boys are right. I’ve been too conservative, but anyhow I’ve got the whip hand: Rodney can’t get his soap for Macy’s except from me, and if I’m going to furnish three-cent soap that he sells wholesale for sixty cents, I’m going to be in on the profits. Any young man who can do that is just bound to have me for a partner whether he wants me or not. What do you say, Miss Grayson?

Mary. (Calmly) Sit down. That isn’t all: we get 51% of the stock, you put up a factory and give Rodney $50,000 a year, Peale, $30,000, and me $20,000.

Martin. As my son once observed, what a lovely autumn we’re having! (He leans back and lights a cigar. As he does so, Mary pushes the buzzer twice. N. B. The audience must hear this buzzer. Almost instantly the ’phone rings. Mary quickly takes ’phone)

Mary. (In ’phone) Oh, hello—(To Martin) It’s for me. Hello, Rodney—you’ve seen Bronson?

Mary. (In ’phone) He did? Why, that’s a splendid offer. I hardly dared think Marshall Field would be so generous.

Mary. No, I think you’d better come right up from the office and see me before you sign anything.

Mary. (Quickly) Oh, hello, hello. (She jiggles ’phone) Oh, dear, we’ve been cut off. Still, it doesn’t matter; it’s all settled now.

Martin. (He crosses to table R., sits and makes memoranda. Writing) Fifty-one per cent—Rodney—fifty thousand. And what’s that young man’s name again—Spiel——?

Martin. That certainly is one hell of a name—thirty thousand—Grayson twenty thousand. There. (To Mary) You sign here.

Mary. No, you sign first. (Martin grunts and signs) Now I’ll sign for Rodney. (She does so gleefully)

Mary. You don’t know how great it is. (Mary starts for door) Now, I’ve a big surprise for you. Rodney’s not at the office—he’s in there.

Mary. Only that I thought I’d handle you less sentimentally than he would. You see, once before[112] I spoiled Rodney’s plan. This time I thought I ought to fix it up for him. (Opening door) Rodney—Ambrose.

Mary. Rodney, it’s all settled. Your father has gone in with us. I’ve the contract.

Rodney. Then I don’t care what the arrangement is—now that we can make good—twenty per cent of the profits, and any old salary.

Martin. Twenty per cent! Why, she buncoed me out of fifty-one per cent and half a million down.

Mary. (To Rodney) And by the terms of my contract with you, you now owe me 10% of what Rodney has made: $50,000.

Martin. So that’s why you held me up, eh? Just to get your 10%. Say, young lady, I’ve got a lot of other money that you are overlooking.

Martin. (To Rodney) I’ll tell you what I mean. She got engaged to you to make you go to work—she only left me to keep you on the job because I promised her 10% of what you earned. All the time that she’s been pretending she would marry you, she’s been making use of you. (Goes to R. of table to sign check)

Mary. (To Martin) You owe me fifty thousand dollars—can I have the check, please?

Mary. What’s the difference? If I’d really loved him, you’d have objected to his marrying only a typewriter.

Martin. Objected! If you’d been on the level I’d have been proud to have you for my daughter. (Handing check to Rodney)

Rodney. Certainly it is: you two put up a joke on me, and Mary and I thought we’d put up one for you. Mary told me about that fool contract weeks ago.

Rodney. Because we were married this morning, and we thought before we told you of our marriage we’d get her percentage for a wedding present. (Hands check to Peale. He gives it to Mary)

Martin. By George, you boys were right: I am an old fool. Anyhow, I’ll win that bet from old John Clark.

Mary. Oh, yes, we had a long talk, with him,[114] right in this room, about a proposition from Marshall Field——

Martin. A quarter of a million? Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourself to try to trim these poor boys like that. You know that 13 Soap is worth half a million in Chicago alone, and you try to take advantage of these kids’ ignorance. Why, it’s outrageous, but you can’t trim me! No, sir, we wouldn’t take a million. Do you know that the Uneeda trade-mark is valued at six million, the Gold Dust Twins at ten million and our trade-mark is better than theirs! We’re going to advertise all over the world. That’s what advertising means: the power of suggestion—the psychology of print. All you have to do is to say a thing often enough and hard enough, and ninety-seven per cent of the public’ll fall. Say, what kind of garters do you wear? Boston! Why? Because all your life every time you opened a magazine you saw a picture of a man’s leg with a certain kind of a garter on it—Boston!

ACT I.

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ACT II.

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ACT III.

Stage Properties

Side Properties

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	ORIGINAL CAST
Mary Grayson	Ruth Shepley
Johnson	George Schaeffer
Comtesse de Beaurien	Louise Drew
Rodney Martin	Grant Mitchell
Cyrus Martin	John Cope
Ambrose Peale	Will Deming
Marie	Cecile Bretone
William Smith	Harry Driscole
Donald McChesney	W. J. Brady
Miss Burke	Vivian Rogers
Ellery Clark	Kenneth Hill
George Bronson	Sydney Seaward

The Project Gutenberg eBook of It pays to advertise

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THE CAST

ACT I

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ACT II.

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ACT III.

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Act	I.	Library at Cyrus Martin’s.
Act	II.	The office of The 13 Soap Company
Act	III.	Same as Act I.

Mary Grayson
Johnson	Butler at the Martins’
Comtesse de Beaurien
Rodney Martin
Cyrus Martin
Ambrose Peale
Marie	Maid at the Martins’
William Smith
Miss Burke	Clerk
George McChesney
Charles Bronson
Ellery

Act	I.	The library at Cyrus Martin’s.
Act	II.	Rodney Martin’s Office.
Act	III.	Same as Act I.