Andy Blake’s Comet Coaster E-Book

Edwards Leo

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Andy was an industrious young entrepreneur who grew increasingly rich from book to book, working as he did in advertising, in his airplane, the Comet Coaster, and looking for gold and helping erect profitable buildings. Blake meets new friends, three young men struggling to save an old carriage business from going to the wall. Will advertising help? Andy is enthusiastically hopeful. The later trickery of a junior employer puts the young advertising man in a bad hole. Things seem darker than ever for the tottering business. Then comes the idea of dropping carriages for coaster wagons.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I. A FALLEN GIANT

CHAPTER II. ANDY MEETS GEORGE WARMAN

CHAPTER III. TWO OLD CRONIES

CHAPTER IV. ANDY AT WORK

CHAPTER V. FLY PAPER

CHAPTER VI. THE BOY PRODUCTS COMPANY

CHAPTER VII. THE COASTER-WAGON RODEO

CHAPTER VIII. TIM SEEKS A CONFIDANT

CHAPTER IX. A MYSTERY

CHAPTER X. THREE GAMES OF CHECKERS

CHAPTER XI. ANDY SENDS FOR BUD YORK

CHAPTER XII. INTRODUCING TRIGGER BERG

CHAPTER XIII. THE NEW FIELD CAPTAIN

CHAPTER XIV. TRIGGER BERG’S FURTHER MISADVENTURES

CHAPTER XV. ANDY MAKES A BUSINESS CALL

CHAPTER XVI. ANDY’S WINNING SCHEME

CHAPTER XVII. PLANS FOR BIG BUSINESS

CHAPTER XVIII. A STRANGE ADVENTURE

CHAPTER XIX. ANDY LEARNS OF THE TRAGEDY

CHAPTER XX. ANDY’S REMORSE

CHAPTER XXI. MR. HATCH BEGS FOR FAVORS

CHAPTER XXII. THE GREAT MIRACLE

CHAPTER I. A FALLEN GIANT

Andy Blake had the somewhat scattered feeling of being jerked out of his thoughts as the brakeman thrust his head and shoulders into the coach door and intoned the name of the railroad station.

The young advertising man knew, of course, that he was getting close to Manton; but he had failed to observe the kaleidoscopic picture of dwellings and grimy factory chimneys that flitted past the car window. Everything had been excluded from his mind except the Warman Carriage Company inquiry. In shaping his plans for handling the inquiry it was his determination to acquit himself, and his company through him, in a creditable manner.

Very trim and businesslike he appeared as he passed briskly down the aisle. A year in the city had taught him many things that have a bearing on a young man’s success in the industrial world. He had developed poise. There was a keenness in his movements, in his brisk, elastic steps, and in the alert expression of his round, friendly face. His warm brown eyes seemed to snap with suppressed energy. Full of ambition and purpose; a worker; a wide-awake youth with big dreams–advertising dreams, selling dreams, merchandising dreams–Andy was the type of boy who finds a way to worth-while victories in the great lanes of business.

About to inquire his way to the Warman Carriage Company office, he was arrested by a hand that fell lightly on his arm. Turning quickly, he found himself looking into a face that was young in its pleasing fullness and color but rather old in its expression of graveness and reserve.

“I imagine that you are Mr. Andrew Blake.”

Andy promptly acknowledged ownership of the name and held out a friendly hand.

“My name is Harry Harnden,” stated the serious-looking young man, returning the hearty handclasp. “George Warman asked me to meet you. If you will come this way, please.”

Exchanging snatches of conventional conversation as they walked away from the depot, the two young men passed a block of dingy houses fronting on the railroad track, after which they turned into a business thoroughfare.

Andy liked the appearance of the stores. They carried an air of prosperity. The wide street, busy under the ebb and flow of the early afternoon traffic, was a smooth stretch of asphalt. There was a small central park with scattered green benches. A number of children were playing in the park band stand, chasing each other, with shrill cries, up the steps and over the wooden railing, from where they dropped to the ground.

“A typical Illinois manufacturing town,” mused the observing young visitor, in shaping his opinion of Manton. “Big enough to have desirable city ways and small enough to be neighborly.”

As he kept pace with his silent companion he found his thoughts returning to the letter, a copy of which was now contained within his inner coat pocket, that Rollins and Hatch had received from the Warman Carriage Company. In substance the letter read: “We are anxious to learn to what extent advertising may be used to widen the market for carriages. If you will send a man to talk the matter over with us we will gladly defray his expenses. Kindly let us know in advance what day he will be here.”

A member of the copy staff of the Rollins and Hatch advertising agency, where we had left him in the conclusion of the initial volume of this series, Andy had been spending a short spring vacation with his widowed mother in Cressfield, his home town, when the Chicago agency employing him had gotten in touch with him on long distance. Without difficulty he had recognized the cheery voice of his young office companion.

“Hello, little one,” had been Tom Dingley’s characteristic facetious greeting. “Listen. I’ve got a job for you. Mr. Hatch wants you to add a day or two to your vacation–”

“How lovely,” Andy had interjected, knowing Dingley well.

“–and go down to Manton–it’s a little town about fifty miles south of Cressfield–and call on George Warman, Jr., of the Warman Carriage Company.”

“What for?” Andy had wanted to know.

“Business–maybe. It’s worth looking into. Rated at two hundred and fifty thousand, first-grade credit. Not so worse.”

“Have they been bit by the advertising bug?” Andy had inquired.

“Kinda looks that way. If there’s anything in it for us, sign ’em up temporarily and we’ll reward you with a box of cough drops when you get back to your desk next week.”

“I’ve got an awful cough,” Andy had barked into the mouthpiece.

“Which proves that you’ve been exposing yourself to the damp night air in some young lady’s porch swing. Now, pull out your nickel-plated Eversharp and take down this letter.”

This took two minutes.

“Well, so long,” Dingley had concluded the conversation. “I’ve talked two dollars’ worth. If I run the bill any higher Mr. Hatch will call a special directors’ meeting. You know how tight he is! When the inquiry came in I wanted to follow it up myself. No, sir, he saw a way of saving money by having you take care of it.”

“But had you not thought that I’m a bit young?”

“Oh, don’t let that worry you. We’ll write and tell them that you’re older than you look... and smarter, too! Good luck, old hunk. Give my regards to the village pump.”

The guide’s earnest voice cut in on Andy’s thoughts.

“This is our carriage factory, Mr. Blake.”

The two young men passed through a wooden gate, the weathered posts of which formed a sagging arch, while at each side a rusted wire fence stretched out, obviously enclosing the group of shabby, flat-roofed buildings that met Andy’s observing eyes. These buildings, some of which were two stories, some three stories, were cheaply constructed of wood. At some definite point the business had started, and expansion had been simply a process of building on.

From the factory there came no sounds of flapping belts; no whir of revolving machinery. Possibly the guide read the question in Andy’s eyes.

“We are closed down for a week,” he explained. “An efficiency vacation, we call it. As a matter of fact, the factory’s idleness is no hardship for us. For we are over-stocked with carriages; the orders haven’t been coming in.”

There was a detached office, a square wooden building, and opening the door the grave-faced guide courteously stood to one side on the worn door stone.

Andy found himself in a small lobby, beyond the corral of which he could see vacated desks. There was a dusty, papery stuffiness in the atmosphere. The office walls were depressingly time-stained; the furniture seemed ashamed of its creaky joints and marred surfaces. A tall iron vault door was set into one of the office walls, giving the room somewhat the aspect of a prison. Just without the vault entrance was a high, old-fashioned bookkeeping desk with its battery of pens and inkwells.

The guide reached out and touched the desk. There was a softer quality in his voice when he informed:

“I work at this desk. Bookkeeper. We haven’t much in that line to work with. For Mr. Warman is old-fashioned in his business ideas.”

“I imagine,” came politely, “that it is hard to do good work under such conditions.”

A flush mounted to the bookkeeper’s face.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Mr. Warman is a wonderfully kind old gentleman. It’s just his way, I suppose. He has done a lot for the men who work here. He keeps all the old hands, notwithstanding the fact that we’ve carried red balances for the past three years.”

“I take it that there are two Mr. Warmans,” said Andy, recalling that the letter had been signed George Warman, Jr.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Herman Warman is the owner of the factory and the old gentleman to whom I just referred. His son, George, is dead. George, Jr., is the young man who wrote to your company.”

“I understand. And is George, Jr., one of the managers?”

The bookkeeper laughed.

“Oh, no! Old Mr. Warman recognizes no authority but himself. He’s a bit stubborn and unreasonable in that respect. George helps out here and there. Mostly in the factory. He has a good business head. If he had his way we’d be more up-to-date in our equipment and methods. We talk over a lot of things–George and I and Tim Dine. Tim is a machine bug. You know his kind–always thinking up ways of producing things better and cheaper. But Mr. Warman wants the factory left unchanged. Talk new ideas to him and he goes up in the air. About twice a month he fires Tim, then hires him back. Tim would have left us long ago, for a steady job elsewhere, if it hadn’t been for George.”

Andy’s eyes sparkled. What a great game it would be, he told himself in boyish enthusiasm, to join forces with these ambitious young men and put this dying business–this fallen industrial giant–back onto its feet. He felt that advertising could do it.

“Our greatest weakness lies in our selling end,” Harnden proceeded, as though he read the other’s thoughts. “It’s no use for us to think up better manufacturing schemes if we can’t market what we build. The carriage industry, as you probably know, has met with severe reverses lately. A great many of the old carriage companies have gone out of business. But there still is a market for some carriages. George contends that advertising will enable us to reach that market and hold it. That’s why he sent for you to come here, advertising being your business. He wants you to tell us, if you can, how we can make the name “Warman’ mean the same thing in the carriage field that “Packard’ means in the automobile field. Mr. Warman, of course, knows nothing of what is going on.”

Andy smiled.

“With four of us working together we ought to be able to win the old gentleman over.”

The bookkeeper’s eyes glowed.

“You really think then, Mr. Blake, that we can put it across?”

Andy had supreme confidence in the power of advertising. If an article had merit, was his professional view, the right kind of advertising would sell it. He so expressed himself.

“As George says, things are coming to a show-down,” the encouraged bookkeeper then went on. “We’ve let Mr. Warman have his way in everything. The result, as I say, shows in red balances and idle machines. Now he must listen to us, and consent to the application of modern methods, or we’ll have to abandon the business. If you can show us that advertising will enable us to sell our carriages, George will try and induce his grandfather to O.K. the appropriation. Maybe I have told you more than I should. George will be here presently. He ‘phoned to me at noon, stating that he had to drive over to Kingston on an errand for his grandfather.”

“How old is George?” Andy inquired.

“Nineteen.”

“The grandfather must be quite old.”

“He is in his seventies, I believe.”

“Old enough, I should say, to retire.”

“So George said a few weeks ago. You should have heard the old gentleman pound his desk! That’s a trick of his.”

“Maybe you and George should do some desk pounding,” Andy grinned.

“I’ve often thought that if we had the courage to talk up to Mr. Warman we’d make more progress. For he says he likes a fighter. There’s a framed quotation to that effect on his office wall.”

“That being the case,” laughed Andy, little realizing the ludicrous circumstances that were to follow the application of the scheme that he was recommending, “I surely would take him at his word.”

Harnden shrugged.

“It might work. I’ll mention it to George when he comes in. He may be willing to try it as a last resort in getting the desired advertising appropriation through.”

A purring automobile motor died into silence just without the office. A door slammed. Andy’s eyes were filled with warm, curious interest as a young man of forceful personality came into the room, hurriedly, almost heavily, with something of a clamor.

“It’s George,” the bookkeeper’s face lit up.

CHAPTER II. ANDY MEETS GEORGE WARMAN

Manton had a scattered population of less than three thousand people when Herman Warman built his first complete carriage.

The young blacksmith had learned his trade in England. Like the conscientious craftsmen of his day he was jealous of his reputation as a carriage builder. His heart was in his work. It is not strange, therefore, that a demand grew up for the vehicles born into usefulness within the wooden walls of his small shop.

The business thrived. A man of intense ambition and purpose, naturally keen in driving a bargain, thrifty and shrewd in the handling of his money, he became, in the span of years that marked the community’s growth, a man of considerable wealth. At the peak of his success two hundred skilled carriage workers were employed in the rambling factory, the town’s oldest industry, and now the least active.

The manufacturer had an only child. George Warman was twenty-three when he came to his father with the earnest recommendation that the carriage company take up the manufacture of automobiles. A number of vehicle concerns were doing that. The automotive industry was in its infancy; now was the time to get established in the new field, the son advised, with youthful enthusiasm. It would take considerable money, of course, but it was the thing to do in order to assure the future success of the Warman business. Automobiles were coming in; carriages would naturally go out.

Strong-willed and set in his views to the point of stubbornness, Herman Warman refused to give any consideration whatsoever to his son’s suggestion. Automobiles were a silly fad, he declared vehemently. Expensive; unreliable; foul-smelling mechanical contrivances. They would never supplant horses and carriages.

Hot words passed between the two men. The son, forgetting himself in his anger, accused his father of being old-fashioned, unprogressive, over-conservative. Then he left Manton, locating in Detroit, where the automotive industry was fast taking root.

During the weeks that followed, the talkative townspeople regarded the grim-faced manufacturer with curious, questioning eyes. In a gossiping way they speculated among themselves regarding the nature of the probable quarrel that had separated father and son, sending George Warman away to the city with his wife and baby. “The Old Man’s shoulders are stooping,” they whispered to one another, a note of sympathy entering their hushed voices. And so the days passed, one on top of another, and the weeks grew into months.

With June came a telegram. Herman Warman betrayed no outward sign of emotion as he read that his only child had been killed in a racing car. Yet in that moment it is not to be doubted that a dynamic change took place in the stern old heart. Something hard and cold melted away under the warmth of restrained tears.

The following summer young Mrs. Warman passed away. Thereafter when the manufacturer’s housekeeper appeared in the streets wheeling a gocart, curious people found their interest drawn to the round-faced, two-year-old boy who looked out into the world with a pair of eyes scarcely less daring and determined than the grandfather’s.

And so in the passing of the years George Warman, Jr., grew up in his grandfather’s home, his young life constantly touched by an atmosphere of romance, because always the small-town youth who is heir to a fortune and a position of local industrial power is talked about by those people who regard wealth as the magic talisman that opens the inner chamber doors to life’s choicest sensations and experiences.

But George Warman, as he grew up, was not nearly the thorough “young gentleman” that a lot of people thought he should be. At the age of fifteen he was acknowledged to be the noisiest and most boisterous youngster in the whole town. His round, ruddy face and overgrown body suggested a life embracing clean, vigorous, healthful outdoor things. No Boy Scout had a bigger collection of medals. As a football player on the local high-school team his dogged determination to win filled the hearts of Manton’s opponents with fear and trembling. Now in his young manhood his shoulders were broad; his voice was a bit gruff; he was brusque in his ways, almost rough.

We have a mental picture of George as he comes into our story, through the office door, his big hand outstretched. “Glad to meet you, Blake,” is his frank greeting; and there is sincere feeling in Andy’s voice as he replies: “I’m glad to meet you, too, Warman.”

It never occurred to either of them, young business men that they were, that they should have called each other “mister.”

“Sorry I had to keep you waiting. Had a blow-out coming back from Kingston. Never knew it to fail when I was in a hurry.”

The young man pushed back his hat and skimmed the sweat from his red face with a crooked finger. Turning to the bookkeeper he said:

“Just saw Tim Dine down the street. Asked him to come along and sit in on our little meeting. But he had to get a shave, he said. The Rainbow Tire Company has made him another offer. Experimental work. Right in his line. We’ve got to step on the gas, Harry, and show him that he has a future here, or we’re going to lose him. I figure he’ll stick if we once get squared away on this new scheme of ours. Have you told Blake about the pickle we’re in?”

The bookkeeper nodded.

George dropped into a desk chair and sprawled his big hands and arms on the desk top. Leaning forward he directed his gaze into Andy’s face.

“How about it, Blake? Do you think you’re old enough, and know enough about advertising, to put us on our feet?”

Andy was impulsive by nature. It was a boyish trait that he had not entirely outgrown. And having unlimited confidence in his ability he wanted to jump up and say: “Sure thing I can put you on your feet.” But a certain business sense that he had acquired in his office work counseled restraint.

“I cannot answer “yes’ to your question,” was his creditable conservative reply, “because as yet I have only a vague idea of the possibilities and limitations of your proposition. So any promises that I might make would be guesswork. On the other hand,” he smiled, “I would be a poor business man and a poorer advertising man were I to say “no.’ Frankly, I think that advertising will solve your problem. But, as I say, I can’t promise it.”

The others waited for him to go on.

“An advertising campaign such as you have in mind is a thing to be arrived at through careful thought and analysis. Statistics must be dug up and studied carefully. For instance, in trying to determine the possible extent of the carriage market, I might ask you how many horses there are in the United States, assuming offhand that out of every thousand driving horses there is a logical market for a certain number of new carriages over a certain period of years. Have you any such figures?”

George Warman laughed in his noisy way.

“I can’t even tell you how many horses there are in Manton.”

“And I would like to know how many horses there were in the United States last year; and the year before that. Are there fewer horses to-day than a year or two ago? If so, what is the percentage of decrease? And what percentage of the horses in use are carriage horses?

“You can see what I mean. Before going ahead with any detailed advertising plans we must familiarize ourselves with market conditions, so that we will be able to plan intelligently. When we have completed our analysis, that will be the proper time to launch an advertising campaign.”

Enthused, George Warman got to his feet.

“You fellows talk this over between yourselves while I drive down the street and round up Tim Dine. Shave or no shave, I’m going to bring him here to listen in on this dope. When he learns that we’re really starting something he’ll want to stick with us and see it through.”

The May sun was touching the shabby buildings with slanting shafts of white light when the four young men came from the silent factory. George was in the lead, scuffing his big feet like an overgrown boy, his tongue running with factory talk. Andy was at the leader’s side, his mind receptive to all that was being said about factory processes. The bookkeeper and thin-faced, dark-eyed factory mechanic brought up the rear.

Andy had the feeling that never before in his life had he put in a happier two hours. The young men had opened up their hearts and minds to him, picturing in words their hopes and ambitions. His whole desire was to work with them and help them.

At George’s invitation Andy and the bookkeeper got into the rear seat of the waiting automobile. Tim Dine shared the front seat with the driver.

“Blake, I don’t know what your plans are for the evening, but here’s what I’ve got framed up: There’s a slick little roadhouse between here and Kingston, and I make the motion, and second it, that we all go out there and have a feed. A sort of pep meeting on the eve of the big game, as it were.”

“Fine!” agreed Andy.

The grandson’s mood changed.

“I don’t know how you fellows feel about it,” he earnestly addressed his two business associates, “but I want to tell you that I consider this one of the biggest days of my life. As I see it, with big hopes, it’s the day that marks the “coming back’ of Granddad’s business. I think we made a wise move when we wrote to Blake’s company and got him down here to help us.” He looked Andy squarely in the face. “Young as you are, Blake, we think you’re a real guy when it comes to knowing what’s what in advertising.”

“I’m glad you feel that way toward me and my work,” Andy returned feelingly.

“Of course, in putting this thing across, we’re going to run up against a snag with Granddad. Oh, man! He’ll fight like an old trooper when he learns that we’re scheming to spend some of his money on advertising. But we’re going to win him over. And more than that, Blake doing his part, we’re going to pull together, the four of us, and put this old factory back on its feet.”

The throttle was thrown open. And to Andy it seemed that something in the roar of the powerful motor corresponded with the mood of the young giant at the wheel.

“He’s got a man’s head and a man’s grit,” mused Andy in admiration. “He’s just the kind of a fighter I like to work with. I’m glad he likes me. I like him a lot.”