Part 17 (2/2)

”It can't be done,” said Slosson.

”Now, wait a minute, Slosson,” Fenger put in, smoothly. ”Miss Brandeis has given us a very fair general statement. We'll have some facts. Are you prepared to give us an actual working plan?”

”Yes. At least, it sounds practical to me. And if it does to you--and to Mr. Slosson--”

”Humph!” snorted that gentleman, in expression of defiance, unbelief, and a determination not to be impressed.

It acted as a goad to f.a.n.n.y. She leaned forward in her chair and talked straight at the big, potent force that sat regarding her in silent attention.

”I still say that we can copy the high-priced models in low-priced materials because, in almost every case, it isn't the material that makes the expensive model; it's the line, the cut, the little trick that gives it style. We can get that. We've been giving them stuff that might have been made by prison labor, for all the distinction it had. Then I think we ought to make a feature of the sanitary methods used in our infants' department. Every article intended for a baby's use should be wrapped or boxed as it lies in the bin or on the shelf. And those bins ought to be gla.s.sed. We would advertise that, and it would advertise itself. Our visitors would talk about it. This department hasn't been getting a square deal in the catalogue. Not enough s.p.a.ce. It ought to have not only more catalogue s.p.a.ce, but a catalogue all its own--the Baby Book. Full of pictures. Good ones. Ill.u.s.trations that will make every mother think her baby will look like that baby, once it is wearing our No. 29E798--chubby babies, curly-headed, and dimply. And the feature of that catalogue ought to be, not separate garments, but complete outfits. Outfits boxed, ready for s.h.i.+pping, and ranging in price all the way from twenty-five dollars to three-ninety-eight--”

”It can't be done!” yelled Slosson. ”Three-ninety-eight! Outfits!”

”It can be done. I've figured it out, down to a packet of a.s.sorted size safety pins. We'll call it our emergency outfit. Thirty pieces. And while we're about it, every outfit over five dollars ought to be packed in a pink or a pale blue pasteboard box. The outfits trimmed in pink, pink boxes; the outfits trimmed in blue, blue boxes. In eight cases out of ten their letters will tell us whether it's a pink or blue baby. And when they get our package, and take out that pink or blue box, they'll be as pleased as if we'd made them a present. It's the personal note--”

”Personal slop!” growled Slosson. ”It isn't business. It's sentimental slus.h.!.+”

”Sentimental, yes,” agreed f.a.n.n.y pleasantly, ”but then, we're running the only sentimental department in this business. And we ought to be doing it at the rate of a million and a quarter a year. If you think these last suggestions sentimental, I'm afraid the next one--”

”Let's have it, Miss Brandeis,” Fenger encouraged her quietly.

”It's”--she flashed a mischievous smile at Slosson--”it's a mother's guide and helper, and adviser. A woman who'll answer questions, give advice. Some one they'll write to, with a picture in their minds of a large, comfortable, motherly-looking person in gray. You know we get hundreds of letters asking whether they ought to order flannel bands, or the double-knitted kind. That sort of thing. And who's been answering them? Some sixteen-year-old girl in the mailing department who doesn't know a flannel band from a bootee when she sees it. We could call our woman something pleasant and everydayish, like Emily Brand. Easy to remember. And until we can find her, I'll answer those letters myself.

They're important to us as well as to the woman who writes them. And now, there's the matter of obstetrical outfits. Three grades, packed ready for s.h.i.+pment, practical, simple, and complete. Our drug section has the separate articles, but we ought to--”

”Oh, lord!” groaned Slosson, and slumped disgustedly in his seat.

But Fenger got up, came over to f.a.n.n.y, and put a hand on her shoulder for a moment. He looked down at her. ”I knew you'd do it.” He smiled queerly. ”Tell me, where did you learn all this?”

”I don't know,” faltered f.a.n.n.y happily. ”Brandeis' Bazaar, perhaps. It's just another case of plush photograph alb.u.m.”

”Plush--?”

f.a.n.n.y told him that story. Even the discomfited Slosson grinned at it.

But after ten minutes more of general discussion Slosson left. Fenger, without putting it in words, had conveyed that to him. f.a.n.n.y stayed.

They did things that way at Haynes-Cooper. No waste. No delay. That she had accomplished in two months that which ordinarily takes years was not surprising. They did things that way, too, at Haynes-Cooper. Take the case of Nathan Haynes himself. And Michael Fenger too who, not so many years before, had been a machine-boy in a Racine woolen mill.

For my part, I confess that f.a.n.n.y Brandeis begins to lose interest for me. Big Business seems to dwarf the finer things in her. That red-cheeked, shabby little schoolgirl, absorbed in Zola and peanut brittle in the Winnebago library, was infinitely more appealing than this glib and capable young woman. The spitting wildcat of the street fight so long ago was gentler by far than this cool person who was so deliberately taking his job away from Slosson. You, too, feel that way about her? That is as it should be. It is the penalty they pay who, given genius, sympathy, and understanding as their birthright, trade them for the tawdry trinkets money brings.

Perhaps the last five minutes of that conference between f.a.n.n.y and Michael Fenger reveals a new side, and presents something of interest.

It was a harrowing and unexpected five minutes.

You may remember how Michael Fenger had a way of looking at one, silently. It was an intent and concentrated gaze that had the effect of an actual physical hold. Most people squirmed under it. f.a.n.n.y, feeling it on her now, frowned and rose to leave.

”Shall you want to talk these things over again? Of course I've only outlined them, roughly. You gave me so little time.”

Fenger, at his desk, did not answer, or turn away his gaze. A little blaze of wrath flamed into f.a.n.n.y's face.

”General manager or not,” she said, very low-voiced, ”I wish you wouldn't sit and glower at me like that. It's rude, and it's disconcerting,” which was putting it forthrightly.

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