"The advertising department is the heart and soul of every business,"said Fulkerson,hardily,"and I like to keep my hand in with a little practise on the trumpet in private.I don't believe Mr.Dryfoos has got any idea of the extent of this thing.He's been out among those Rackensackens,where we were all born,and he's read the notices in their seven by nine dailies,and he's seen the thing selling on the cars,and he thinks he appreciates what's been done.But I should just like to take him round in this little old metropolis awhile,and show him 'Every Other Week'on the centre tables of the millionaires--the Vanderbilts and the Astors--and in the homes of culture and refinement everywhere,and let him judge for himself.It's the talk of the clubs and the dinner-tables;children cry for it;it's the Castoria of literature and the Pearline of art,the 'Won't-be-happy-till-he-gets-it of every en lightened man,woman,and child in this vast city.I knew we could capture the country;but,my goodness!I didn't expect to have New York fall into our hands at a blow.But that's just exactly what New York has done.Every Other Week supplies the long-felt want that's been grinding round in New York and keeping it awake nights ever since the war.It's the culmination of all the high and ennobling ideals of the past.""How much,"asked Dryfoos,"do you expect to get out of it the first year,if it keeps the start it's got?""Comes right down to business,every time!"said Fulkerson,referring the characteristic to March with a delighted glance."Well,sir,if everything works right,and we get rain enough to fill up the springs,and it isn't a grasshopper year,I expect to clear above all expenses something in the neighborhood of twenty-five thousand dollars.""Humph!And you are all going to work a year--editor,manager,publisher,artists,writers,printers,and the rest of 'em--to clear twenty-five thousand dollars?--I made that much in half a day in Moffitt once.I see it made in half a minute in Wall Street,sometimes."The old man presented this aspect of the case with a good-natured contempt,which included Fulkerson and his enthusiasm in an obvious liking.
His son suggested,"But when we make that money here,no one loses it.""Can you prove that?"His father turned sharply upon him."Whatever is won is lost.It's all a game;it don't make any difference what you bet on.Business is business,and a business man takes his risks with his eyes open.""Ah,but the glory!"Fulkerson insinuated with impudent persiflage.
"I hadn't got to the glory yet,because it's hard to estimate it;but put the glory at the lowest figure,Mr.Dryfoos,and add it to the twenty-five thousand,and you've got an annual income from 'Every Other Week'of dollars enough to construct a silver railroad,double-track,from this office to the moon.I don't mention any of the sister planets because Ilike to keep within bounds."
Dryfoos showed his lower teeth for pleasure in Fulkerson's fooling,and said,"That's what I like about you,Mr.Fulkerson--you always keep within bounds.""Well,I ain't a shrinking Boston violet,like March,here.More sunflower in my style of diffidence;but I am modest,I don't deny it,"said Fulkerson."And I do hate to have a thing overstated.""And the glory--you do really think there's something in the glory that pays?""Not a doubt of it!I shouldn't care for the paltry return in money,"said Fulkerson,with a burlesque of generous disdain,"if it wasn't for the glory along with it.""And how should you feel about the glory,if there was no money along with it?""Well,sir,I'm happy to say we haven't come to that yet.""Now,Conrad,here,"said the old man,with a sort of pathetic rancor,"would rather have the glory alone.I believe he don't even care much for your kind of glory,either,Mr.Fulkerson."Fulkerson ran his little eyes curiously over Conrad's face and then March's,as if searching for a trace there of something gone before which would enable him to reach Dryfoos's whole meaning.He apparently resolved to launch himself upon conjecture."Oh,well,we know how Conrad feels about the things of this world,anyway.I should like to take 'em on the plane of another sphere,too,sometimes;but I noticed a good while ago that this was the world I was born into,and so I made up my mind that I would do pretty much what I saw the rest of the folks doing here below.And I can't see but what Conrad runs the thing on business principles in his department,and I guess you'll find it so if you look into it.I consider that we're a whole team and big dog under the wagon with you to draw on for supplies,and March,here,at the head of the literary business,and Conrad in the counting-room,and me to do the heavy lying in the advertising part.Oh,and Beaton,of course,in the art.I 'most forgot Beaton--Hamlet with Hamlet left out."Dryfoos looked across at his son."Wasn't that the fellow's name that was there last night?""Yes,"said Conrad.
The old man rose."Well,I reckon I got to be going.You ready to go up-town,Conrad?""Well,not quite yet,father."
The old man shook hands with March,and went downstairs,followed by his son.
Fulkerson remained.
"He didn't jump at the chance you gave him to compliment us all round,Fulkerson,"said March,with a smile not wholly of pleasure.
Fulkerson asked,with as little joy in the grin he had on,"Didn't he say anything to you before I came in?""Not a word."
"Dogged if I know what to make of it,"sighed Fulkerson,"but I guess he's been having a talk with Conrad that's soured on him.I reckon maybe he came back expecting to find that boy reconciled to the glory of this world,and Conrad's showed himself just as set against it as ever.""It might have been that,"March admitted,pensively."I fancied something of the kind myself from words the old man let drop."Fulkerson made him explain,and then he said:
