"A D V E R T I S I N G!!!"
"Advertising?" said I, dubiously.
"Yes, advertising," repeated Jack. "Try it. Put a notice in all the
papers. Begin with the Quebec papers, and then send to Montreal,
Ottawa, Toronto, Hamilton, Kingston, London, and all the other towns.
After that, send notices to the leading papers of New York,
Philadelphia, Baltimore, Richmond, St. Louis, New Orleans, Cincinnati,
Portland, Chicago, Boston, and all the other towns of the United
States."
"And while I'm about it," I added, "I may as well insert them in the
English, Irish, Scotch, French, German, Spanish, Italian, Turkish, and
Indian journals."
"Oh, bosh!" said Jack, "I'm in earnest. What's the use of nonsense? Really, my dear fellow, why not advertise in the Quebec papers? She'll be sure to see it."
"Well," said I, after some thought, "on the whole it isn't a bad idea. It can't do any harm at any rate."
"Harm? Why, my dear boy, it's your only chance."
"All right, then; let's try advertising."
And saying this, I brought out my entire writing-apparatus and displayed it on the table.
"Will you try your fist at it, Jack?" I asked.
"I? nonsense! I'm no good at writing. It's as much as I can do to write an 'I. O. U.,' though I've had no end of practice. And then, as to my letters—you ought to see them! No, go ahead, old boy. You write, and I'll be critic. That's about the style of thing, I fancy."
At this I sat down and commenced the laborious task of composing an advertisement. In a short time I had written out the following:
"A gentleman who accompanied a lady across the ice on the 3d of April, was separated from her, and since then has been anxious to find out what became of her. Any information will console a distracted breast. The gentleman implores the lady to communicate with him. Address Box 3,333."
I wrote this out, and was so very well satisfied with it, that I read it to Jack. To my surprise end disgust, he burst out into roars of laughter.
"Why, man alive!" he cried, "that will never do. You must never put out that sort of thing, you know. You'll have the whole city in a state of frantic excitement. It's too rubbishy sentimental. No go. Try again, old man, but don't write any more of that sort of thing."
I said nothing. I felt wounded; but I had a dim idea that Jack's criticism was just. It was rather sentimental. So I tried again, and this time I wrote out something very different.
With the following result:
"If the party who crossed the ice on the 3d of April with A. Z. will give her address, she will confer an unspeakable favor. Write to Box No. 3,333."
"Oh, that'll never do at all!" cried Jack, as I read it to him. "In the first place, your 'A. Z.' is too mysterious; and, in the second place, you are still too sentimental with your 'unspeakable favor.' Try again."
I tried again, and wrote the following:
"A gentleman is anxious to learn the address of a party who accompanied him over the ice on the 3d of April. Address Box No. 3,333."
"Oh, that'll never do!" said Jack.
"Why not?"
"Why, man, it's too cold and formal."
"Hang it all! What will suit you? One is too warm; another is too cold."
Saying this, I tried once more, and wrote the following:
"A. B. has been trying in vain to find the address of the party who accompanied him over the ice on the 3d of April. Will she have the kindness to communicate with him to Box No. 3,333?"
"No go," said Jack.
"Why not?"
"Well, you see, you call her a 'party,' and then announce that this 'party' is a woman. It won't do. I wouldn't like to call any lady a 'party.' You'll have to drop that word, old boy."
At this I flung down the pen in despair.
"Well, hang it!" said I. "What will do? You try it, Jack."
"Nonsense!" said he. "I can't write; I can only criticise. Both faculties are very good in their way. You'll have to start from another direction. I'll tell you what to do—try a roundabout way."
"A roundabout way?" I repeated, doubtfully.
"Yes."
"What's that?"
"Why, advertise for—let me see—oh, yes—advertise for the French driver. He was drowned—wasn't he?"
"Yes."
"Well, if you advertise for him, she will respond, and thus you will come into contact with her without making a fool of yourself."
"By Jove, Jack," said I, "that's not a bad idea! I think I get your meaning. Of course, if she has any soul, she'll sympathize with the lost driver. But what name shall I put?"
"Was he a common driver? I gathered this from your story."
"Oh, yes. It was a sleigh from the country-hired, you know, not a private sleigh."
"She couldn't have known his name, then?"
"I suppose not. It looked like a sleigh picked up hap-hazard to take her across."
"Well, risk it, and put in an assumed name. Make up something. Any name will do. The lady, I dare say, hasn't the smallest idea of the driver's name. Trot out something—Napoleon Bonaparte Gris, or any thing else you like."
"How would Lavoisier do?"
"Too long."
"Well, Noir, then."
"I don't altogether like that."
"Rollin."
"Literary associations," objected Jack.
"Well, then, Le Verrier," said I, after a moment's thought.
"Le Verrier—" repeated Jack. "Well, leave out the article, and make it plain Verrier. That'll do. It sounds natural."
"Verrier," said I. "And for the Christian name what?"
"Paul," suggested Jack.
"Paul—very well. Paul Verrier—a very good name for a Canadian. All right. I'll insert an advertisement from his distracted parent."
And I wrote out this:
Paul Verrier, of Chaudière, left his home on the 3d of April last, to convey a lady to Quebec across the ice. He has not since been heard of. As the river broke up on that day, his friends are anxious to know his fate. Any one who can give any information about those who crossed on that date will confer a great favor on his afflicted father. Address Pierre Verrier, Box 3,333.
"That's about the thing," said Jack, after I had read it to him. "That'll fetch her down. Of course, she don't know the name of the habitant that drove her; and, of course, she'll think that this is a notice published by the afflicted father. What then? Why, down she comes to the rescue. Afflicted father suddenly reveals himself in the person of the gallant Macrorie. Grand excitement—mutual explanations— tableau—and the curtain falls to the sound of light and joyous music."
"Bravo, Jack! But I don't like to settle my affairs this way, and leave yours in disorder."
"Oh, I'm all right," said Jack. "There's no immediate danger. I'm settling down into a state of stolid despair, you know. If it wasn't for that last business with Louie, I could be quite calm. That's the only thing that bothers me now."
"I should think the widow would bother you more."
"Well, to tell the truth, she's getting to be a bit of a bore. She's too affectionate and exigeante, and all that, you know. But, then, I always leave early. I dine with her at seven, and get away before nine. Then I go to Louie's—or, at least, that's the way I intend to do."
"You're going to Louie's again, then?"
"Going to Louie's again? Why, man alive, what do you take me for? Going again? I should think I was. Why, Louie's the only comfort I have left on earth."
"But Number Three?"
Jack sighed.
"Poor little thing!" said he. "She seems to be rather down just now. I think she's regretting that she didn't take my offer. But I wrote her a note to-day, telling her to cheer up, and all that."
"But Miss Phillips? What'll you do when she comes? When will she be here?"
"She's expected daily."
"That will rather complicate matters—won't it?"
"Sufficient for the day," said Jack.
"I tell you what it is, my boy. I feel very much struck by Louie's idea about the three oranges. You'll find it precious hard to keep your three affairs in motion. You must drop one or two."
"Come, now, Macrorie—no croaking. You've got me into a placid state of mind by telling me of your little affair. It gave me something to think of besides my own scrapes. So don't you go to work and destroy the good effect that you've produced. For that matter, I won't let you. I'm off, old chap. It's fifteen minutes to three. You'd better seek your balmy couch. No—don't stop me. You'll croak me into despair again. Good-night, old man!"