I
He handed a slip to the clerk, which the clerk read, counting the words from sheer force of habit:
Wanted-A Man With St. Vitus's Dance and an Introspective Turn of Mind. High Wages to Right Party. Apply Saturday Morning, Room 888, St. Iago Building.
“Four-sixty-four,” said the clerk.
The man raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
“Four dollars and sixty-four cents,” repeated Carroll.
The man took out a wallet and tried to pull out a bank-note, but could not because of his gloved hands. He took off the right glove, fished out one five-dollar bill and gave it to the clerk, who handed him back thirty-six cents. As the man took the change the clerk distinctly noticed that he had a big ivory-colored scar which ran from the knuckles to the wrist and disappeared under the cuff. He remembered it by reason of the freak ad and the man's voice.
The advertisement appeared in the Herald on the next day. Being Christmas, the one day of nonreading in America, few people saw it. Nevertheless, at nine on Saturday morning, ten men with spasmodically twitching necks or limbs waited for the advertiser to open the door of Room 888, on which they saw in gilt letters:
ACME VIBRATOR COMPANY
W. W. LOVELL, MANAGER
The elevator man was heard to tell an inquirer, “Here's Lovell!” And presently the voiceless man, dressed as usual in black, with black gloves, stepped from the elevator, nodded to the waiting men in the hall, and opened the door of 888. At first they thought he was a mute, but realized later that he was merely saving his bronchial tubes, just as asking men to come Saturday forenoon—pay-day and pay-hours—would save effort by bringing only men without employment.
Lovell and the afflicted entered. The outer office had half a dozen chairs, and a table, on which were some medical magazines. Lovell scrutinized the ten applicants keenly, and finally beckoned to a tall, well-built chap with a blond mustache, whose unfortunate ailment was not so extreme as the others, to follow him into the inner office. The man did so. There were a desk, three chairs, a table, and a dozen polished-oak boxes that looked as though they might contain vibrators. Lovell closed the door, sat down at the desk, motioned to the blond man to approach, and whispered:
“What's your name?”
“Lewis J. Wright.”
“Age?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Working?”
“Not steadily.”
“Profession?”
“Cabinet-maker.”
“Family?”
“No.”
“Do you object to traveling?”
“No; like it.”
“We pay sixty dollars a week, all traveling and living expenses. Will you go to London, England?”
“To do what?”
“Nothing!”
“What?”
“Nothing!” again whispered the manager, very earnestly. He seemed anxious to convince Mr. Wright of his good intentions. “Nothing at all! Sixty a week and expenses!”
“I don't understand,” said Mr. Lewis J. Wright, with an uneasy smile. His excitement aggravated the malady and his neck jerked and twitched almost constantly.
“I want a man with St. Vitus's dance.”
“That's me,” said L. J. Wright, and proved it.
“And with an introspective turn of mind. Understand?”
“Not quite,” confessed the cabinet-maker.
“A man who likes to think about himself.”
“I guess I can fill the bill all right,” asserted L. J. Wright, confidently. Sixty a week, all expenses, and a trip to London began to look very attractive.
“Then you're engaged.” The manager nodded.
“I don't know yet what I'm to do,” ventured Wright.
“Nothing, I tell you.”
“Well, I'll do it, then!” And L. J. Wright smiled tentatively; but the manager of the Acme Vibrator Company looked at him seriously—almost reprovingly—and whispered so hoarsely that Wright felt like going after cough-lozenges for him:
“Listen, Wright. You will go to London with a letter to Dr. Cephas W. Atterbury, 23, Abbey Road, St. John's Wood, N. W. Every day you will sit down in a comfortable chair in the doctor's anteroom, where the patients wait, from nine to eleven a.m. and five to seven p.m. You will think of your St. Vitus's dance. For doing this you will get sixty dollars a week from us and your hotel bill will be paid by the doctor. You may not have to sail for a month, but your salary begins on Monday. Come here every Saturday and get twenty-five dollars on account. When you sail you will get all that's owing to you besides four weeks' salary in advance, and a round-trip ticket, first-class.”
“But if I get stranded in London—”
“How can you, with three or four hundred dollars in your pocket, a return-trip ticket, and no need to spend except for clothes, which are very cheap there? Come next Saturday, but leave your name and address in case we need you. Can we depend on you?” He looked searchingly into the grayish-blue eyes of Lewis J. Wright, and seemed comforted when Lewis J. Wright answered:
“Yes. I'll go on a minute's notice.” He wrote his name and address on a slip, gave it to the manager, and went out. Lovell followed him to the outer office and, beckoning to the afflicted nine to draw near, whispered:
“I've hired a man, but I shall need more soon. Write your names and addresses and leave them here. Don't come unless I send for you,” and he distributed printed blanks on which each applicant wrote out his name, address, and answers to the questions:
1—Do you object to traveling alone?
2—Do you object to sitting in comfortable chairs?
3—Do you object to people making remarks about you?
4—Do you object to minding your own business or earning your wages?
One of the applicants spoke:
“Mr. Lovell, I'd like to know—”
Lovell, however, cut him short with a hoarse but peremptory “Don't talk! Can't answer!” pointed to his throat, and disappeared in the inner office, the door of which he closed.
Whereupon the disappointed applicants, expressing their feelings in a series of heartrending jerks, twitches, tremors, and grimaces, trooped out into the hall. There they cross-examined Wright and arrived at the conclusion that they were to be used as living advertisements for the Acme Vibrator. Doctors were employed to boom it and the company supplied dummies or “property” patients.