Martin. (Rises and goes to desk) Then both of you listen to me. You’ve got to cut out this nonsense you call advertising.
Rodney. What nonsense?
Peale. (Weakly) Yes, what?
Martin. This morning there was a parade of sandwich-men in front of my house for two hours. I had to have them arrested. I got to the office to find another bunch. It annoys me.
Rodney. I’m sorry, father.
Martin. You’re trying to make a fool of me. I open a letter. It’s a circular for 13 Soap. I open my newspaper—you have a page ad. I look out of the window—there’s a billboard—I take a train, the damned porter apologizes because he’s all out of 13 Soap.
Rodney. Well, of course, all that proves how wonderful our publicity is.
Martin. (Grimly) You’re a grand young bluff, my son.
Rodney. Why, father, what do you mean?
Martin. I’ll tell you exactly what I mean: I’ve let you ramble on to see just how far you would go, but you’ve been spending a lot of money on ridiculous advertising, hoping that by annoying me I’ll buy your business to get rid of you. Well, I’m not going to. Now what have you got to say to that? Eh—eh?