IV.—Another of Our Conquerors
I used to think that the office-boy did those things. But no; it seems that it is an industry, and a very important one.
I made the discovery at a station, where the horrible and irritating word “Phast-phix” on the picture of a gum bottle held the reluctant eye.
A sleek little man in a frock-coat and a tall hat, who had evidently breakfasted on cloves, paused beside me.
“You might not think it,” he said, “to look at me; but that word that you are obviously admiring so naturally—and I may say so justly—originated with me. I invented it.”
“Why?” I asked. “Surely there are other things to do.”
He seemed pained and perplexed.
“It is my business,” he said. “That’s what I do. I have an office; I am well known. All the best firms apply to me. For example,” he went on, “suppose you were to bring out a fluid mutton——”
“Heaven forbid!” I cried.
“Yes, but suppose you were to,” he continued, “and you wanted a name for it, you would come to me.”
“Why shouldn’t I think of one myself?” I asked.
“You!” he cried. “How could you? It’s a special equipment. Just try and you’ll see. What would you call it?”
“Well,” I said after a moment’s thought, “I might call it—I might call it—— Hang it, I wouldn’t do such a thing, anyway.”
“There,” he cried triumphantly, “I knew it. You would be lost. You would therefore come to me. I should charge you ten guineas, but in return you would have a name that would make your fortune.”
“What would that be?” I ventured to ask.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “for certain. ‘Sheep-O,’ perhaps. But anyway it would be a good name. ‘Flock-vim,’ perhaps. Or even ‘Mut-force.’”
I began to long for my train.
“How do you think of such things?” I inquired. “Tell me your processes.”
He laughed deprecatingly. “I have given the subject an immense deal of thought,” he said. “For many years now I have done little else; I am always on the look-out for ideas. They come to me at all kinds of odd times and in all kinds of odd places. In bed—on a ’bus—in the train.”
“This one?” I asked.
“‘Phast-phix’?” he replied. “Oh, I thought of that instantaneously. You see, the firm came to my office to say they were putting a new gum or cement on the market, and they must have a good name for it at once. I had no time. I buried my head in my hands, for a few seconds (my regular habit) and suddenly ‘Phast-phix’ flashed into it. They were enchanted.”
“I notice,” I said, “a tendency among advertisers to transform ‘f’ into ‘ph.’”
“Yes,” he said, “they got it from me. I was the first. It is far more striking, don’t you think? To spell ‘fast-fix’ correctly wouldn’t be witty at all.”
I agreed with him.
“Tell me some more of your special inspirations,” I said. “Have you done anything lately as good as ‘Phast-phix’? But no, how could you?”
“Let me see,” he remarked. “Yes, there is the name for the new pen. They came to me in a great hurry for that, too. But as it happened I had that carefully pigeon-holed, for I am always inventing names against a rainy day. I gave it to them at once—the ‘Ri-teezi.’ You have no doubt seen it advertised.”
(Haven’t I?)
“That has been an immense success,” he went on. “It’s not a bad pen, either; but the name! Ah!”
“Anything else out of the way?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I was just going to tell you. I was approached by a firm with new blacking. All it required was an absolutely knock-out name. I gave them one, and only yesterday I had a visit from the Secretary of the Company, who was present at the Board meeting when my letter was read out. He says that the thrill that ran through the directors—sober business men, mind you—at that moment was an epoch in the history of commerce.”
“Indeed,” I remarked; “and what was the name?”
“The name?” he said. “Ah, yes. It was one of my best efforts, I think. Simple, forcible, instantaneous in its message and unforgettable in form—‘Shine-O.’”
“Yes,” I said, “that should be hard to beat. I congratulate you.” And so we parted.
I wonder if there’s really any money in that fluid-mutton idea.