'"
T.A. Buck threw out helpless hands. "What are we going to do about
it?"
"Do? I've already done it."
"Done what?"
"Written the kind of copy that I think Featherlooms ought to have.
I just took my knowledge of Featherlooms, plus what I knew about
human nature, sprinkled in a handful of good humor and sincerity,
and they're going to feed it to the public. It's the same recipe
that I used to use in selling Featherlooms on the road. It used to
go by word of mouth. I don't see why it shouldn't go on paper. It
isn't classic advertising. It isn't scientific. It isn't even what
they call psychological, I suppose. But it's human. And it's going
to reach that great, big, solid, safe, spot-cash mass known as the
middle class. Of course my copy may be wrong. It may not go, after
all, but--"
But it did go. It didn't go with a rush, or a bang. It went
slowly, surely, hand over hand, but it went, and it kept on going.
And watching it climb and take hold there came back to Emma
McChesney's eye the old sparkle, to her step the old buoyancy, to
her voice the old delightful ring. And now, when T.A. Buck
strolled into her office of a morning, with his, "It's taking
hold, Mrs. Mack," she would dimple like a girl as she laughed back
at him--
"With a grip that won't let go.
Pages:
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76