“Naughty-naughty,” the stenographer replied astonishingly.
“Eh?”
“One of the boys was here yesterday. You shouldn’t ought to try it more than once a week.”
“I represent the Trotter Institute of Public Opinion,” Sargent said, “and I’m quite sure none of our men were here yesterday.”
“Huh? You’re not a process server?”
“Of course not! Why, is Chapman afraid of process servers?”
“He isn’t exactly afraid of them, but he doesn’t like them. Costs him five dollars every time they nail him. But he made a deal that they don’t come oftener than once a week... What’s this Institute of — what did you say?”
“The Trotter Poll. You know.”
“Can’t say that I do. What is it?”
“We ask questions, in order to—”
“And do you listen, too? Then you’re just the man for Ben. He’ll tell you the story of his life. Just a mo’.”
Sargent stared after the redhead as she swung her hips to an office that was the last on the left-hand side. She went in and came out after only a moment.
“Okay,” she called.
Sargent walked down the aisle between the rows of cubicles. The doors of most of them were open and he caught a glimpse of a couple of youngish chaps huddled over desks, littered with books, magazines and printers’ proofs.
Then he entered the office of Ben O. Chapman. The business journal publisher was slumped in a swivel chair, toying with a large pair of shears. He was a tall, pasty-faced man with thinning blond hair and the fishiest eyes Sargent had ever seen.
“My secretary said you represent some poll,” Chapman said.
“That’s right, the Trotter Institute of Public Opinion. If I could have a few moments of your time...”
“Well, I’m pretty busy, but go ahead. I didn’t believe you people actually had men on the road, judging from the ridiculous reports you release from time to time. Now, you take the presidential poll. Anyone could have told you that the rich people were for Willkie and the poor for Roosevelt and, since there are more poor people than rich, the result was a foregone conclusion.”
“The Institute doesn’t pretend to forecast an exact opinion,” Sargent interposed. “Despite the precision of our sampling, we allow four per cent for reasonable error and—”
“Four percent isn’t close enough,” Ben Chapman cut in. “Not on important topics of the day. You’ve got to get it within one-tenth of one per cent to make your poll worth while. I learned that years ago. I conducted a poll of my own, when I was running the Sugar Beet Review. I wanted to find out whether people knew the difference between our domestic beet sugar and imported cane sugar. I decided that the best way to get an opinion was to take a representative cross section of public opinion. I hired a crew of canvassers, paying them so much per questionnaire...”
“That’s the way we work,” Sargent managed to say before Chapman waved him down with the shears.
“As I said, when I found out that the sugar beet industry was fighting a losing battle I got rid of the Sugar Beet Review. I never keep a magazine in a declining industry. I lost money on the Sugar Beet Review. Just a year before I sold it I turned down an offer of thirty thousand dollars. The biggest mistake I ever made in my life. A year later I gave the book away for five thousand dollars.
“I’ve been publishing trade papers for twenty-five years and you never can tell how a business is going. I’ve got a little turkey paper here, now, that’s an up and comer. It doesn’t carry much advertising at the present time, but I’m keeping it going because of the subscriptions. Two hundred a month, voluntarily. When you get a magazine like that you’ve got something.
“I’m sure of it,” said Sargent, “but if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”
“First, I want to ask you something. Do you make a living at what you’re doing? Oh, I guess it’s a good enough proposition for a time or while you’re looking for something, but there’s no future in it. Now, you take trade journals. They took a nose dive during the depression, but they’re coining back. I’ve got a man here on one of my papers, smartest chap you ever saw. I pay him forty-five dollars a week, but he’s the sort that you can boost up to sixty dollars and he’ll still be worth the money. A marvelous writer and the trade likes him, too. His only trouble is playing the horses and I may have to fire him. You can’t trust a man who’ll spend half his time reading dope sheets.
“Now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll start you out with thirty dollars and if you make good I’ll raise you to thirty-five after a couple of months. You’ll have complete charge of the magazine. I always give a man complete charge. If he makes good he gets the credit. If he flops — I know whom to blame.”
“But I’m not looking for a job!” Sargent cried desperately. “I represent the Trotter Institute of—”
“Of course. I never hire a man who’s worked on a paper before. They think they know everything and sit around doing nothing. I claim I can hire a crackerjack stenographer for thirty-five dollars a week and train him to be an editor. I picked up young Thayer on a street corner and made him the best advertising salesman in the business. All I ask of a man is that he give me his loyalty and work no harder than I work myself. I haven’t even had a vacation this year. You’d think a man in my position should be able to take off a couple of months every year and travel, but Sligo’s not the sort of partner you can trust this business to. Which reminds me, I want you to understand that I’m hiring you and you take your orders from me and not Sligo. Understand?”
Sargent pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “You mean... you’re hiring me as an editor?”
“Isn’t that what you came here for? I’ll start you with thirty-five, which is the most I ever start anyone with. Robertson!”
A tall, dark-complexioned young fellow of about thirty, stuck his head into the office.
“Robertson, I’m putting this man — by the way, what’s your name?”
“Frank Sargent.”
“Oh, yes, Sargent. I’m putting Sargent on Turkey Talk. Show him Pelkey’s office.”
Robertson inclined his head at Sargent and the latter followed to a cubicle about eight feet square, containing a battered desk, a swivel chair without casters, and an ancient typewriter which stood on the desk.
“Welcome to the menagerie,” Robertson said. “I’m Jim Robertson. I handle The Skating Rink.”
“That’s a trade journal for skaters?”
“No. Rinks. It goes to roller- and ice-skating rinks. I had a pair of roller skates once when I was a kid.” Robertson grinned crookedly. “Ben tell you the story of his life?”
“Eh?”
“Skip it. Well, anything you want to know about the place, I’m next door. Good luck.” Sargent was almost sure that Robertson had added “you’ll need it” under his breath, but the editor of The Skating Rink left him abruptly.
Sargent looked at the walls and the desk and finally tested the swivel chair without the casters. The spring was broken and he almost went over backward. When he regained his balance the redheaded stenographer was in his office.
“I’m Miss O’Kelly,” she said. “Mildred to the family. I hear you’re one of us.”
“So it seems. But look, what do I do?”
“Don’t you know? This is Ernie’s office, so I imagine you’re going to work on Turkey Talk.”
“Yes, so I understand. But... what do I do?”
“Why, you edit the magazine.”
“Where is it?”
“Oh, just a minute.” Mildred O’Kelly popped out of the office, but returned in a moment with a copy of Turkey Talk.