Perkins of Portland: Perkins The Great

by Ellis Parker Butler

Then Perkins gave me the details. There were to be three of us in the deal. There was a young man from Glaubus, Ia., in Chicago, running a street-car on the North Side. He had been raised near Glaubus, and his father had owned a farm; but the old man was no financier, and sold off the place bit by bit, until all that was left was a forty-acre swamp,—“Skunk Swamp,” they called it, because of the rank water,— and when the old man died, the son came to Chicago to earn a living. He brought along a flask of the swamp water, so that when he got homesick, he could take out the cork, smell it, and be glad he was in Chicago, instead of on the old place. Up in the corner of the swamp a spring welled up; and that spring spouted Onotowatishika water day and night, gallons, and barrels, and floods of it.

But it needed a Perkins the Great to know its value. Perkins smelled its value the first whiff he got. He had a rough map of Glaubus with the Skunk Swamp off about a mile to the west.

We patched up the deal the next day. The young fellow was to have a quarter-interest, because he put in the forty acres, and Perkins put in his time and talent for half the balance; and I got the remainder for my time and money. We wanted the young fellow to take a third interest, and put in his time, too; but he said that rather than go back to the old place, he would take a smaller share, and get a job in some nice sweet spot, like the stock-yards or a fertilizer factory. So Perkins and I packed up, and went out to Glaubus.

When we got within two miles of Glaubus, Perkins stuck his head out of the car window, and drew it back, covered with smiles.

“Smell it?” he asked. “Great! You can smell it way out here! Wait till we get on the ground! It must be wonderful!”

I did not wonder, when the train pulled up at the Glaubus Station, that the place was a small, dilapidated village, nor that the inhabitants wore a care-worn, hopeless expression. There was too much Onoto-watishika water in the air. But Perkins glowed with joy.

“Smell it?” he asked eagerly. “Great 'ad.!' You can't get away from it. You can't forget it. And look at this town. Look at the bare walls! Not a sign on any of them! Not a bill-board in the place! Not an 'ad.' of any kind in sight! Perkins, my boy, this is heaven for you! This is pie and nuts!”

I must confess that I was not so joyous over the prospect. I began to tire of Ono-towatishika water already. I suggested to Perkins that we ought to have an agency in Chicago, and hinted that I knew all about running agencies properly; but he said I would get used to the odor presently, and in time come to love it and long for it when I was away from it. I told him that doubtless he was right, but that I thought it would do me good to go away before my love got too violent. But Perkins never could see a joke, and it was wasted on him. He walked me right out to the swamp, and stood there an hour just watching the water bubble up. It seemed to do him good.

There was no shanty in the village good enough for our office, so that afternoon we bought a vacant lot next to the post-office for five dollars, and arranged to have a building put up for our use; and then, as there was nothing else for us to do, until the next train came along, Perkins sat around thinking. And something always happened when Perkins thought.

In less than an hour Perkins set off to find the mayor and the councilmen and a notary public. He had a great idea.