Life — August 9, 1906 — page 7: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

LPR * A Lesson in Finance By Wattace Irwin OL. PETER GREEN sat at his desk in the local offices of the Vulnerable Insurance Company at Comerstone. The Colonel’s commanding bulk, as he dictated in a husky staccato to the stenographer at his elbow, suggested a body of conceit wholly surrounded by fat. He prided himself on his finesse, his business strategy, his ability to overstep a point of ethics in order to compass a point of advantage. He likened himself to Napoleon; but the managers, clerks and office boys who danced the carpet at his bidding were more apt to compare him with Nero. A confidential clerk entered with a card. “Thomas Devinney, Jr., representing the Patriotic Art Co.,”" read the Colonel with something between a whistle and a snort. ‘Representing the” He turned suddenly to the clerk, who backed away apologetically. “Is that young— rascal outside?” “Yes, sir, I think so, sir,” responded the clerk, stroking feeble side-whiskers above a pale cheek. “Think so, do you? Send him in!” A tall young man closed the door carefully behind him, removed his pearl-grey, flat-crowned hat and stood waiting. The magnate continued sorting over the letters on his desk, not looking up. His stenographer, who sat patiently waiting with tab on knee, regarded the youth with pitying interest. He was twenty and good looking, clad in a suit of loose-fitting tweeds whose just-out-of-college cut added pathos to his pose of careful unconcern. Col. Green continued to present a broad back and bulging neck. The youth shifted from one polished shoe to the other. “Well!” finally thundered from the unmoving bulk, ‘‘what do you want there? What?” The young man opened a portfolio, disclosing several colored portraits of General U. S. Grant. These he presented, thrusting the pile close under the nose of the preoccupied Colonel. His speech suggested a recitation well learned and oft repeated. “I am representing the Patriotic Art Company, sir, and having in mind your well-known admiration for our greatest General; know in fact, your sentiments as a veteran of the Civil War, as well as an art connoisseur, I” “Hold on!” roared the Colonel, looking suddenly up. “I don’t know you, young man, but I knew your father, and 1 think it’s a pretty business for a son of ‘Tom Devinney to be hawking chromos around insurance offices.” “Perhaps you have a better position to offer me, Colonel Green,” suggested young Devinney with the impudence of a runner who has gained his second wind. The elderly man ignored the hint. “I knew your father— liked him, too, although I don’t think he had enough business sense to gum envelopes. What he called his ‘sense of honor’ was what ailed him. Went under, of course, as any man’s bound to do who don’t play the game. Cut throat or be cut, young man, that’s what you've got to learn. So you're selling pictures, hey? What got you into that?” “Well, you see, when I got out of college they offered me a job with this patriotic picture proposition. I thought they’d offer me the presidency and give me a chance to start at the top and work downward. But there wasn’t any vacancy at the top—there’s always room at the bottom.” “Hum!” said Col. Green, pursing his fat lips. ‘So you , think you'll make a business man. Sit down there and show me how you'll go at it to sell me a picture.” The youth resumed his recitation, beginning at the beginning. “I am representing the Patriotic Art Com”—— “Stop!” commanded the Colonel, upholding the hand of authority. “You have said that before.” “Well knowing your local reputation as an art connois- seur” “What are you going over the same ground for? Give us something new.” “Beautifully tinted by the famous zinco-ceramic process, only one hundred copies having been struck off and the plates subsequently destroyed.” “Now, look here, young man,” growled the magnate, “that sort of talk will go in the village post-office, but it won't go in the realm of modem business. Because you're Tom Devin- ney’s son, I'll volunteer one thing. If I’d spent my time trying to persuade people to take my goods I’d never have reached this chair. No, sir. You've got to make people take ’em. Make ’em buy when they don’t know it—give ’em chloroform —choke it down ’em while they’re asleep. You won’t do, sir. You don’t know how to make me buy your pictures. You. can’t bunco me into taking 'em while I’m not looking. You won’t do—good day!” ’ “But, Colonel Green!” “Don’t waste any more of my time! Good day, I said.” The young man withdrew and stood in front of the Vulner- able Insurance Building. “I don’t know how to make you take my pictures, hey? I can’t bunco you into taking ‘em while you're not looking, can’t I? All right, just watch me,” he said as he swung on a front seat of a trolley car marked ‘Fairview Heights.” Colonel Green’s new mansion stood on the summit of that commanding knoll, to the real estate enthusiast known as “Beautiful Fairview.” The house,a boastful creation of stone, adorned with ornate pillars and nondescript windows, stared haughtily like an ugly woman wearing a bright and hideous bonnet. Up the new-washed concrete walk Thomas Devinney, Jr., marched boldly, his budget of portraits swung defiantly in view. He presented his card and waited amidst the gilt and upholstered wonders of the drawing-room. “High art and frenzied finance,” thought Tommy; “a portrait of U. S. Grant ought to give the finishing touch.” Mrs. Peter Green, the meek and colorless complement of the Colonel, entered. “T noticed by your card,” she said, ‘‘that you have the same name—are you the son of Judge Thomas Devinney whom Colonel Green used to know so well?” “Yes,” said the young man, ‘and I have often heard my comicbooks.com