There is a tide

by J. C. Snaith

“I guess there’s something better than clever in it.” Mame gazed critically at the photograph.

“Well, dear child, I guess there is, too.”

Her friend looked at her tenderly and then laughed to herself softly.

LII

THEY lost no time in getting to work. First they went to Henrietta Street and called upon Allardyce, Inc. Taking wise men into their counsels, they started to plan a campaign whose aim was the making of Elmer Pell Dobree a household name in Britain. They infected Allardyce, Inc., with their own enthusiasm; not perhaps such a difficult process. Every mail was bringing news of breaking records across the water. Prairie City was the best in its kind since Mark Twain. Indeed some of the highbrows thought really and truly it was better.

The publishers were taken with Mame. All the natural zip of the booster-born sprang to the surface as she lightly gave off her ideas for the big drum. Very bright some of these ideas were. There was one in particular which appealed to these shrewd men. Unfortunately, to carry it out would cost money. But as smart Miss Amethyst Du Rance, a writer herself, by the way, declared, quoting from a favourite calendar that had once adorned the wall at the back of her typewriter in that identical office which soon would be famous over the breadth of two continents, If you want to make Omelettes you’ve got to break Eggs.

This boom was going to cost money. No use burking that fact in political economy. But it was going to be worth it. Lady Violet Treherne—that very distinguished-looking girl who had accompanied the corking little Miss Du Rance into the back parlour: Celimene, by the way, of the Morning News—was of that opinion, too. Prairie City was the goods. It was the big stuff. Every dime spent on boosting it would earn a dollar.

Allardyce, Inc., of the Allardyce Building, East Forty-ninth Street, New York City, U.S.A., and 1-a Henrietta Street, London, England, not to mention 16 Rue de la Paix, Paris, France; 39 Stratton Street, Johannesburg, S.A., and 105 Victoria Avenue, Melbourne, Australia; in short, wherever the honest mother tongue is spoken, Allardyce, Inc., decided to fall for Miss Du Rance and her little campaign. Still it was going to cost money.

“It’ll be worth it all the time.” The air of Miss Du Rance was already victorious. “You do your bit and we’ll do ours. That’s all we ask.”

The head of the London branch of the well-known firm personally bowed the two ladies into their taxi. He had not been so impressed in years. Full of vim this Miss Du Rance. Portentously full of pep. No wonder they made good in cradle-rocking Britain, when they came over, these one-hundred-per-cent little ladies from the U.S. And the cunning minx kept back a few grains of the pep for her final shot. As she offered a hand in parting, at its most fashionable angle, to Allardyce, Inc., she said in her new and careful Mayfair manner: “When Elmer Pell Dobree arrives in this country, Lady Violet Treherne will give a luncheon for him at the Savoy Hotel. All the most worth-while folks in London will be invited to meet him. I tell you, sir, although you mustn’t tell the world just now, she has already arranged with her friend the Prime Minister, if he happens to be disengaged at the mo-ment, to attend the gathering and to give an ad-dress on the Value of Literary Art in International Relations.”