Sargent said, “I represent the Trotter Institute of Public Opinion. Mr. Hill has been selected as a representative businessman whose opinion we would like to obtain on important topics of the day.”
The lean man put down his fountain pen, pushed back his chair and hooked his thumbs into his suspenders. “Mister, I’m Hanson Hill and I’m proud to know you. I’ve heard of that there poll of your’n and I’d be mighty glad to give you my opinion. I’m on the right side, too. I’m from Missouri and my folks allus been Demycrats, as far back as before the war — the War Between the States.”
Sargent scribbled on one of his Trotter blanks. “That’s fine, Mr. Hill. Now, this is our first question: ‘Since Labor has the right to organize for collective bargaining without hindrance of the employer, is it your opinion that men in the service, soldiers, sailors and marines, should also be permitted to unionize and bargain for better wages and working conditions?’ ”
Hanson Hill blinked and shot a quick look over his shoulder. Then he leaned forward and said in a hoarse whisper, “Shh! These-here printers are union fellas and they wouldn’t like for me to say anything against unions. But I sure agree with you on that.”
“I didn’t make any statement,” Sargent said. “I merely asked you for your opinion.”
“I didn’t get it. Mind repeatin’ the question?”
Sargent repeated it slowly.
Hanson Hill scratched his head. “Well, I dunno. I’m ag’in labor unions, if that’s what you mean.”
“No, it wasn’t what I meant.” Sargent again repeated his question. When he finished Hanson Hill looked blankly at him.
“Yeah, sure,” he said.
Sargent wrote down “No,” then asked his second question. “Since men on relief or WPA are accepting largess from the government, is it your opinion that they should be inducted into the service, in preference to taxpayers whose money has made it possible for the relief and WPA subsidy?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Hanson Hill. “I mean — gosh, no! That’d be drafting anyone who ever was on relief or WPA, wouldn’t it?”
“The question asks whether you are in favor of such a move.”
“Well, hell, no! I got folks on relief right now, down in Missouri. I wouldn’t want them drafted, unless maybe it’s Cousin Talbot Hill, who’s a no-account anyway. Could you put him down for the draft, maybe?”
“No,” said Sargent. “I’m not employed by the government. Now, let’s see, you’re in the publishing business. What do you publish?”
“The best damn’ turkey paper in the country. Turkey Tracks. A real turkey journal for turkey folks, put out by a man who knows turkeys. That’s me.”
“How interesting! There are other turkey journals besides yours?”
The black patches of fur that were Hanson Hill’s eyebrows drew together. “There’s a skunk here in town gets out a magazine, called Turkey Talk. He don’t know no more ’bout turkeys than my Aunt Mamie does about flyin’ an airplane. Furthermore, I figure to ventilate him one of these-here fine days. He’s got no call to make dirty cracks at me.”
“Ah,” said Sargent, “a business feud.”
“It’s a feud, all right. Y’see, ’bout a year ago I came here to Chicago to see ’bout getting me a job of work. I didn’t find no more job than a hog finds acorns in a cornfield. Then along about the time I couldn’t buckle up my belt no more on account of if I had I’d cut myself in two I seen this-here Turkey Talk and, shucks, it struck home. Back in Missouri we raised turkeys. Finest Bourbon Red turkeys you ever laid eyes on. So I went up to this-here Ben Chapman and I says to him, ‘Mister, you got yourself a turkey journal, but you don’t know nothin’ about raisin’ turkeys. I know turkeys, but I ain’t got a turkey journal, so how ’bout havin’ a merger?’ Well, he was smart enough to see my point and we made a deal. I was to go out in the turkey country and get him subscriptions for his journal, a dollar per year’s term, and I was to send him fifty cents of that. Also I was to try to get turkey folks to advertise in the journal, this-here Chapman promisin’ to pay me twenty-five per cent on all the money he got from the advertising?”
“Well,” said Sargent, “that sounds like a reasonable proposition. Where does the feud come in?”
“Why, shucks, I was tellin’ you about that. There wasn’t but one turkey journal in the whole country, and when folks’d see it, they’d just naturally want to subscribe to it. Heck, I got two hundred and twenty subscriptions the first month I was working. I had to send this-here Chapman a hun’erd and ten dollars of that, which didn’t seem fair to me. I was the man gettin’ the orders for him and all he was doin’ was sendin’ these subscribers a little magazine, that didn’t cost him more’n a cent and a half a copy to print. Well, Jumpin’ Joe Shelby, that didn’t seem right to me, so I found me this-here Community Print Shop and I says to Mr. Community, I mean, Mr. Dick Matoon, who really owns the place, I says to him, ‘Mr. Matoon, let’s me and you start a turkey journal. I’ll get the subscriptions and advertisin’ and you print her.’ So that’s what we done and now look what this-here skunk says...”
Hanson Hill picked up the copy of Turkey Talk and turned to the editorial page. He read: “ ‘When Hill first came to me he had only one. shirt, which he laundered himself in his furnished room, every other Thursday.’ Now what do you think of that?”
“I’d say it was dirty — not the shirt, the editorial. It isn’t true, of course?”
“You danged right it ain’t. And I resent it. I washed that-there shirt twice a week and what’s more I ironed it, too. I got me a good notion to go down and horsewhip this Chapman fella.”
“Chapman, did you say?” Sargent exclaimed suddenly. “Say, isn’t he the publisher whose name was in the papers a couple of days ago... something about a murder committed in his office?”
“Yeah, that’s the fella sure ’nough. Chapman’s partner, Sligo, was bumped off. Wasn’t much loss, though. He was almost as bad as Chapman. He gave me a share of stock, sold it to me for a dollar. I seen a chance to make a small profit on it...”
“And you sold the stock?”
“Yeah, sure. Fella offered me twenty-five dollars. I needed the money for travelin’ expenses, on account of Chapman not givin’ me enough to get back to Missouri. Then this Sligo wanted me to sell him back the stock and got awful mad when I told him I’d already sold it.”
“To whom did you sell it?”
Hanson Hill’s bushy eyebrows came up. “Why? You wouldn’t know the fellow.”
“Of course not. I merely became interested in your story.”
“Well, it was a young fella workin’ in the place. Fella named...” And then, with the name on the very tip of his tongue, Hanson Hill shrugged and sighed, “Got to get to work, mister.”
Crestfallen, Sargent could do nothing but thank Hill for giving him the quiz information and take his departure. Outside he saw that it was twelve-thirty and so he got a bite of food in a drugstore and rode back to the offices of Business Journals, Incorporated.
Ben O. Chapman was out of the office, but the staff was assembled in the corridor between the cubbyholes of offices. They were surrounding Eileen Prescott, the beautiful advertising solicitor.
She squealed in delight when she saw Sargent. “Oh, Frankie! I was just telling the folks about my marvelous luck.”
“You mean the Crombie contract?”
“Oh, that’s ancient history. I was working this morning. I decided there was no sense in going around to all the commission houses, when most of the advertising was placed by the H. W. Quayle Company.”