“Nothing. Just ‘JOHN.’ All caps, Gussing,” said Mrs. Bowser, and her protruded chin symbolized a made-up mind.
She signed the memo so fiercely that she broke her pen—a Bowser-sold Product—“The Last-a-Lifetime Pen—Shakspere Would Have Used One.”
“Now,” ordered Mrs. Bowser, “take this to Mr. Bowser at once and see that it is called to his attention.”
Miss Gussing bounded from the room on her rubber heels—they were “Spine-Pals—Your Backbone’s Best Buddy.” Soon she bounded back. She carried reverently an orange memo which she placed on the desk. Mrs. Bowser plucked it up, read it, scowled.
“Memo to Mrs. Bowser. In re christening baby. I cannot permit my son to be named John. Suggest conference on this subject in Quiet Room at 4:40. Do you check?
“(Signed) J. Sanford Bowser, President.”
“Memo, Gussing.” Mrs. Bowser was almost feverish. “To Mr. Bowser. In re christening baby. Must remind you baby is my son as well as yours. I insist on John. I will have conference with you in Quiet Room at 4:40.
“(Signed) P. I. Bowser, Associate President.”
The Quiet Room was a Bowser institution. It was his idea, and he was proud of it.
“It’s Psychological!” he exclaimed. “I Believe in Psychology. Do you know”—here he lowered his voice as one imparting a confidence—“Psychology Plays a Big Part in Modern Business?”