Life — December 11, 1913 — page 14: what you’re looking at

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

“TS this the office of Mr. S. Claus?” The courteous stranger, who bore unmistakable evidence of being the last word in business men, paused upon the threshold. “Come right in,” said the rather portly person, who was seated back of a steel desk, surrounded with tele- phones, wireless telegraph apparatus, dictagraphs, filing systems and, in fact, everything that modern science has invented to make business more un- comfortable. The portly gentleman, in spite of all temptations still retained a wealth of hoary whiskers. He indi- cated a luxurious chair as he offered the stranger a special cigar of his own. “Not the kind that some of my lady customers present to their hus- bands,” he said, with a quiet smile. “You realize, sir, that time is money. What can I do for you in, say about fifty-five seconds?” The stranger took out his order book. “Getting down to business,” he re- plied, “I am the general advertising agent for about everything in sight. I suppose you will take your usual space this year?” Yes “About three-fourths Christmas annuals?” “T should say so.” “Would you like to have me put out the usual phalanx of imitation Santa Clauses for the department stores?” “Well, I never did run very much to those guys, but on the principle that ‘imitation is the sincerest flattery’, I suppose we might as well let that item Pass.” “And you would like to be men- tioned all the way from ninety mil- lion to about one hundred and ten mil- lion times in the American home, say for two or three weeks before your time-honored reindeer joke is sprung on everybody?” “Well, yes, in round number: “IT suppose a couple of hundred leading editorials on the Christmas spirit will be wanted, together with a few side lines about the kissing under the mistletoe, filling stockings and the fact that you are the only real thing there is, etc, etc?” of all the “LIFE: Pals “Yes, that is about right.” The stranger got up. “Very well, sir, 1 will leave you. Oh, by the way”—he came forward and leaned over confidentially : Mr. Claus, I am a hard, cold, adver- ing proposition, I have been in the ness, as you know, for a great many years and either myself or others con- nected with my concern have taken your order for the annual advertising, and we haven't charged you a cent for it.” Mr. Claus smiled. “I understand all about that,” he re- plied, “but you fellows get your: rake- off all right. You don’t suppose, for instance, that the department stores would keep young girls, who ought to be home toasting slippers, standing on their pins for from twelve to eighteen hours a day, unless the advertising that you give me was getting good results to you? “Well, we won't talk about that, but what I was going to say was this: Would you do us a little favor this year?” ‘ame it.” “Can't you distribute a proportion of your annual gifts to some of the people who really would get pleasure out of them? Can't you furnish some of the poor East Side children with dolls? You know even a rag doll isn’t a bad thing. It contains probably more sentiment to the square inch than the Willie (who got a microscope for Christmas) : A FLEA, WILL you? slit-skirt Newport variety. Distribute some rag dolls, some tin horses and some cornucopias of candy, and just scatter a portion of good old-fashioned joy among a lot of people who have never before seen the light of day.” Mr. Claus pondered. “Your proposition interests me,” he replied, “but would you have me take away these things from my old cus- tomers?” “Yes. There was a considerable pause. Finally Mr. Claus got up and leaning over, his face suffused with a new light, he said: “Old man, I will do it. I will obey that good impulse for once in my life, but do you know I have a suspicion that you are not an advertising agent. You have just said that you were, but I never saw you before. Are you the one with whom I have been dealing all these years?” “Your word on that proposition. It is a bargain?” “Yes, and I never go back on my word.” The stranger smiled. ‘ery well, sir,” he replied, raising his hand to his face and lifting off a mask so perfect that even the eye of such an old fellow as Santa Claus could not detect it. “ You are right. I am not the man you thought I was. I am the new tariff.” SAY, COOK, LEND ME