“'Perkins's Patent Porous Plaster
Makes all pains and aches fly faster.”
“But, my dear sir,” I said, “is the plaster good?”
Mr. Perkins of Portland leaned over and whispered in my ear, “There is no plaster.”
“What?” I cried.
“Not yet,” he said, “that will come later. We will get that later. Law of supply and demand, you know. When there is a demand, there always turns up a supply to fill it. See the point? You look bright. See this. We advertise. Get, say, fifty thousand orders at ten dollars each; total, five hundred thousand dollars. What next? We sell out. We go to some big concern. 'Here,' we say—'Here is an article advertised up to the handle. Here are orders for five hundred thousand dollars' worth. Thing on the boom. Give us two hundred thousand cash, and get up your old plaster, and fill the orders. Thanks. Good day.' See? They get a well-established business. We get a clear profit of one hundred and fifty thousand. What next? We get up another ad. Invest our whole capital. Sell out for a million. Invest again, sell out again. In ten years we can buy Manhattan Island for our town-seat and Chicago for our country-seat. The richest firm in the world—Perkins and—”
“Brown,” I said, supplying the blank; “but I haven't fifty thousand dollars, nor yet ten thousand.”
“What have you got?” he asked, eagerly. “Just five thousand.”
“Done!” Perkins cried.
And the next day we had the trade-mark registered, and had made contracts with all the Cleveland papers.
“You see,” said Perkins, “we are shy of money. We can't bill the universe with a measly little five thou. We've got to begin small. Our territory is Ohio. Perkins's Patent Porous Plaster shall be known to every Buckeye, and we will sell out for twenty thousand.”