Part 2

MARY. I’d rather the proposition came from you.

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

MARY. Oh, that wouldn’t interest me at all.

MARTIN. What’s your proposition, then?

MARY. (_Promptly_) My present salary doubled.

MARTIN. Um—that’s pretty steep.

MARY. You told me what I’d done _already_ was worth $50,000 to you.

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

MARY. $50, and I want $100.

MARTIN. Sounds like a hold-up. (_Crosses R._)

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.

MARTIN. Good.

MARY. (_Goes to desk, takes note-book_) Will you just write me a note stating the facts and the consideration?

MARTIN. You want it in writing? (_Crosses to table R. and sits_)

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. Great! You needn’t make the note long. Just a memorandum.

MARTIN. (_Holding up paper_) How’s that?

MARY. (_Reading_) I think that covers it—if you’ll sign it.

MARTIN. (_Confused_) Didn’t I sign it?

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

MARTIN. (_Signing_) There you are. (_Hands MARY paper_)

MARY. (_Sits on table_) Thanks. Now, Mr. Martin, there’s just one question I’d like to ask.

MARTIN. Go ahead, I’ll answer you anything.

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. It’s like this. You know old John Clark?

MARY. The man you dine with so often?

MARTIN. Yes, friends and rivals for thirty years.

MARY. He’s in Ivory Soap, isn’t he?

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.

MARY. Perhaps that’s why you’re such good friends.

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.

MARY. I know, I’ve talked to him.

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.

MARY. A bet!

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——

MARY. But he will, I’m sure he will.

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——

MARY. But you’re going to, I’m sure you are.

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!

RODNEY. Oh, you needn’t laugh! I’ll show you. (_Crosses L. C._)

MARTIN. (_Winking at MARY_) Silence, you young puppy. Oh, my poor foot! (_He exits_)

MARY. Oh, Rodney! (_Sits on sofa_)

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

RODNEY. Gout’s an awful thing, isn’t it? (_Sits on 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.

MARY. Idea for what?

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

MARY. What idea? What book?

RODNEY. It’s a cook-book.

MARY. What on earth——?

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!

MARY. (_Looking_) But what is it?

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.

MARY. (_Amazed_) What?

RODNEY. Sure. Father did; look at the money he made. Why shouldn’t I?

MARY. (_Rises, goes L._) You’re joking.

RODNEY. I’m in dead earnest. I’m going to buck the trust. (_Rises_)

MARY. But how can you?

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.

MARY. But is that very nice to your _father_?

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 the people’s soap! That isn’t a bad name, either. The People’s Soap. (_Lays book on table_)

MARY. But you haven’t any capital.

RODNEY. (_Dejected_) I never thought of that.

MARY. You’d need a lot of money.

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?

MARY. Fifty dollars a week.

RODNEY. I’ll pay you a hundred and fifty.

MARY. But you haven’t any money.

(_JOHNSON enters from door upper L._)

JOHNSON. Beg pardon, Mr. Rodney, but Mr. Ambrose Peale is here to see you.

MARY. For the fifth time——

RODNEY. (_Puzzled_) Ambrose Peale? Oh, yes, I remember. Ask him to come in.

JOHNSON. Yes, sir. (_He exits door upper L._)

MARY. Who is he?

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.

MARY. You and Mr. Peale?

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

MARY. Did you throw eggs?

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 enters from door upper L._)

PEALE. Well, well, Rodney Martin, how are you? (_To MARY_) How are you, dear lady?

RODNEY. How do you do? Miss Grayson—Mr. Ambrose Peale.

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.

MARY. Oh, are you an actor?

PEALE. (_Scornfully_) An actor? I should say not. I’m a press-agent.

MARY. Oh!

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.

MARY. I’ll be back in a few minutes.

RODNEY. Thank you, Miss Grayson. (_She exits door lower R._)

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——

RODNEY. That’s still true.

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 pulled off to give it a boost, and that’s where you come in.

RODNEY. I?

PEALE. You’ve got an aeroplane, haven’t you?

RODNEY. Yes, but——

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

RODNEY. What?

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

RODNEY. But I couldn’t do that.

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. But it’s out of the question. (_Rises, takes chair to table_)

PEALE. What’s the matter with it?

RODNEY. I wouldn’t do it, that’s all.

PEALE. Gee, that’s tough!

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

PEALE. A girl? (_RODNEY nods_) Her? (_Pointing to where MARY exited_)

RODNEY. Yes.

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.

RODNEY. Why don’t you try somebody else?

PEALE. I have! You were my last card. Well, I’m fired!

RODNEY. Fired?

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——

RODNEY. A fake story like that would really have helped?

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. It can’t, eh?

RODNEY. Oh, I know it’s advertising——

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

RODNEY. But that kind of advertising can’t be of real value. (_Sits_)

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 warm and delicate; no faded blue for theirs! What did it? The power of suggestion—advertising!

RODNEY. (_Amused_) You seem to know something about it——

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!

RODNEY. I don’t believe it.

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.

RODNEY. (_Beginning to be convinced_) Why, I suppose that’s true.

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.

RODNEY. But I never read advertisements.

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?

RODNEY. (_Amused_) Why, I know what they all mean.

PEALE. You bet you do. What kind of garters do you wear?

RODNEY. Why, let me see: Boston.

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!

RODNEY. But——

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?

RODNEY. No, I don’t.

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?

RODNEY. How do you know it was 652?

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 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?

RODNEY. No, I suppose I wouldn’t.

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

RODNEY. No.

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. Believe in it! It’s my life. What kind of eggs do you eat?

RODNEY. Why, hen’s eggs, of course.

PEALE. Why “of course”? Did you ever eat a duck’s egg?

RODNEY. Why, no.

PEALE. Do you know anything against the duck?

RODNEY. No.

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.

RODNEY. You’re beginning to convince me.

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

RODNEY. I’m for him strong.

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 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. Believe! Look around you: everything’s doing it.

RODNEY. And you are out of a job.

PEALE. Unless you do the aero-elopement.

RODNEY. (_Rises_) Then you’re out of it. Do you want to work for me?

PEALE. Sure.

RODNEY. When can you begin?

PEALE. Now.

RODNEY. What’s your salary?

PEALE. I’ve been getting $60, but I’m worth $75.

RODNEY. I’ll give you a hundred.

PEALE. What is your business? Counterfeiting?

RODNEY. No, it’s——

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?

RODNEY. Is that customary?

PEALE. It is with me.

RODNEY. Oh, all right. (_He gives him the money_)

PEALE. Just as an evidence of good faith. (_He counts money_) Well, now I’m working for you, what business are you in?

RODNEY. The soap business.

PEALE. (_Grinning_) Nice clean business. With father?

RODNEY. Against him!

PEALE. Oh!

RODNEY. My father and I have had a quarrel.

PEALE. I know, I know: fathers are very unreasonable these days.

RODNEY. I’m going to fight the soap trust.

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

RODNEY. Twenty minutes.

PEALE. How’s it going?

RODNEY. Fine, since I got an idea from you.

PEALE. They grow all over me—help yourself.

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?

RODNEY. No, I don’t care to do that. I want to make good myself.

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. (_Comprehending_) Oh! Making good with the dame, eh?

RODNEY. You see, father says I can’t earn five dollars a week.

PEALE. He isn’t right, is he?

RODNEY. No, sir, you’ll see.

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

RODNEY. I suppose it is.

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

RODNEY. Now that’s settled, we’re going to lick father.

PEALE. Yes, that’s settled. What do I do?

RODNEY. You write the ads that make us.

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.

RODNEY. I believe we’ll do it.

PEALE. Come on, come on. Let’s get busy. What’s the name of the soap?

RODNEY. It hasn’t been named.

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

RODNEY. I don’t know.

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

RODNEY. Well, let’s see.

PEALE. Where did you get it from?

RODNEY. From this cook-book.

PEALE. Are you kidding me?

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.

RODNEY. Well, how about The Most Expensive Soap in the World?

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

RODNEY. A dollar, and we’ll make it a warm delicate old rose.

PEALE. Each cake in a separate box with a paper rose on the lid.

RODNEY. Great.

PEALE. But what’ll we call it?

RODNEY. Old Rose.

PEALE. Rotten—doesn’t mean anything.

RODNEY. Let’s think.

PEALE. I am thinking. I never stop.

RODNEY. The Soap that Made Pittsburg Clean.

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

RODNEY. I had an idea a while ago: The People’s Soap.

PEALE. Not if you’re going to catch the rich boobs.

RODNEY. That’s true.

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

RODNEY. (_Looking off-stage toward where MARY went_) Love.

PEALE. Slush.

RODNEY. Money.

PEALE. (_Suddenly_) I’ve got it: Superstition—everybody’s superstitious.

RODNEY. Rot! I’m not.