Bab Bab 21 · Chapter XXI

The International Organization of Boosters’ Clubs has become a

world-force for optimism, manly pleasantry, and good business. Chapters

are to be found now in thirty countries. Nine hundred and twenty of the

thousand chapters, however, are in the United States.

None of these is more ardent than the Zenith Boosters’ Club.

The second March lunch of the Zenith Boosters was the most important of

the year, as it was to be followed by the annual election of officers.

There was agitation abroad. The lunch was held in the ballroom of the

O’Hearn House. As each of the four hundred Boosters entered he took from

a wallboard a huge celluloid button announcing his name, his nickname,

and his business. There was a fine of ten cents for calling a Fellow

Booster by anything but his nickname at a lunch, and as Babbitt jovially

checked his hat the air was radiant with shouts of “Hello, Chet!” and

“How’re you, Shorty!” and “Top o’ the mornin’, Mac!”

They sat at friendly tables for eight, choosing places by lot. Babbitt

was with Albert Boos the merchant tailor, Hector Seybolt of the Little

Sweetheart Condensed Milk Company, Emil Wengert the jeweler, Professor

Pumphrey of the Riteway Business College, Dr. Walter Gorbutt, Roy

Teegarten the photographer, and Ben Berkey the photo-engraver. One of

the merits of the Boosters’ Club was that only two persons from each

department of business were permitted to join, so that you at once

encountered the Ideals of other occupations, and realized the

metaphysical oneness of all occupations--plumbing and portrait-painting,

medicine and the manufacture of chewing-gum.

Babbitt’s table was particularly happy to-day, because Professor

Pumphrey had just had a birthday, and was therefore open to teasing.

“Let’s pump Pump about how old he is!” said Emil Wengert.

“No, let’s paddle him with a dancing-pump!” said Ben Berkey.

But it was Babbitt who had the applause, with “Don’t talk about pumps to

that guy! The only pump he knows is a bottle! Honest, they tell me he’s

starting a class in home-brewing at the ole college!”

At each place was the Boosters’ Club booklet, listing the members.

Though the object of the club was good-fellowship, yet they never lost

sight of the importance of doing a little more business. After each name

was the member’s occupation. There were scores of advertisements in the

booklet, and on one page the admonition: “There’s no rule that you have

to trade with your Fellow Boosters, but get wise, boy--what’s the use of

letting all this good money get outside of our happy fambly?” And at

each place, to-day, there was a present; a card printed in artistic red

and black:

SERVICE AND BOOSTERISM

Service finds its finest opportunity and development only in its

broadest and deepest application and the consideration of its

perpetual action upon reaction. I believe the highest type of

Service, like the most progressive tenets of ethics, senses

unceasingly and is motived by active adherence and loyalty to that

which is the essential principle of Boosterism--Good Citizenship in

all its factors and aspects.

DAD PETERSEN.

Compliments of Dadbury Petersen Advertising Corp.

“Ads, not Fads, at Dad’s”

The Boosters all read Mr. Peterson’s aphorism and said they understood

it perfectly.

The meeting opened with the regular weekly “stunts.” Retiring President

Vergil Gunch was in the chair, his stiff hair like a hedge, his voice

like a brazen gong of festival. Members who had brought guests

introduced them publicly. “This tall red-headed piece of misinformation

is the sporting editor of the _Press_,” said Willis Ijams; and H. H.

Hazen, the druggist, chanted, “Boys, when you’re on a long motor tour

and finally get to a romantic spot or scene and draw up and remark to

the wife, ‘This is certainly a romantic place,’ it sends a glow right up

and down your vertebræ. Well, my guest to-day is from such a place,

Harper’s Ferry, Virginia, in the beautiful Southland, with memories of

good old General Robert E. Lee and of that brave soul, John Brown who,

like every good Booster, goes marching on--”

There were two especially distinguished guests: the leading man of the

“Bird of Paradise” company, playing this week at the Dodsworth Theater,

and the mayor of Zenith, the Hon. Lucas Prout.

Vergil Gunch thundered, “When we manage to grab this celebrated Thespian

off his lovely aggregation of beautiful actresses--and I got to admit I

butted right into his dressing-room and told him how the Boosters

appreciated the high-class artistic performance he’s giving us--and

don’t forget that the treasurer of the Dodsworth is a Booster and will

appreciate our patronage--and when on top of that we yank Hizzonor out

of his multifarious duties at City Hall, then I feel we’ve done

ourselves proud, and Mr. Prout will now say a few words about the

problems and duties--”

By rising vote the Boosters decided which was the handsomest and which

the ugliest guest, and to each of them was given a bunch of carnations,

donated, President Gunch noted, by Brother Booster H. G. Yeager, the

Jennifer Avenue florist.

Each week, in rotation, four Boosters were privileged to obtain the

pleasures of generosity and of publicity by donating goods or services

to four fellow-members, chosen by lot. There was laughter, this week,

when it was announced that one of the contributors was Barnabas Joy, the

undertaker. Everybody whispered, “I can think of a coupla good guys to

be buried if his donation is a free funeral!”

Through all these diversions the Boosters were lunching on chicken

croquettes, peas, fried potatoes, coffee, apple pie, and American

cheese. Gunch did not lump the speeches. Presently he called on the

visiting secretary of the Zenith Rotary Club, a rival organization. The

secretary had the distinction of possessing State Motor Car License

Number 5.

The Rotary secretary laughingly admitted that wherever he drove in the

state so low a number created a sensation, and “though it was pretty

nice to have the honor, yet traffic cops remembered it only too darn

well, and sometimes he didn’t know but what he’d almost as soon have

just plain B56,876 or something like that. Only let any doggone Booster

try to get Number 5 away from a live Rotarian next year, and watch the

fur fly! And if they’d permit him, he’d wind up by calling for a cheer

for the Boosters and Rotarians and the Kiwanis all together!”

Babbitt sighed to Professor Pumphrey, “Be pretty nice to have as low a

number as that! Everybody’d say, ‘He must be an important guy!’ Wonder

how he got it? I’ll bet he wined and dined the superintendent of the

Motor License Bureau to a fare-you-well!”

Then Chum Frink addressed them:

“Some of you may feel that it’s out of place here to talk on a strictly

highbrow and artistic subject, but I want to come out flatfooted and ask

you boys to O.K. the proposition of a Symphony Orchestra for Zenith.

Now, where a lot of you make your mistake is in assuming that if you

don’t like classical music and all that junk, you ought to oppose it.

Now, I want to confess that, though I’m a literary guy by profession, I

don’t care a rap for all this long-haired music. I’d rather listen to a

good jazz band any time than to some piece by Beethoven that hasn’t any

more tune to it than a bunch of fighting cats, and you couldn’t whistle

it to save your life! But that isn’t the point. Culture has become as

necessary an adornment and advertisement for a city to-day as pavements

or bank-clearances. It’s Culture, in theaters and art-galleries and so

on, that brings thousands of visitors to New York every year and, to be

frank, for all our splendid attainments we haven’t yet got the Culture

of a New York or Chicago or Boston--or at least we don’t get the credit

for it. The thing to do then, as a live bunch of go-getters, is to

_capitalize Culture_; to go right out and grab it.

“Pictures and books are fine for those that have the time to study ’em,

but they don’t shoot out on the road and holler ‘This is what little old

Zenith can put up in the way of Culture.’ That’s precisely what a

Symphony Orchestra does do. Look at the credit Minneapolis and

Cincinnati get. An orchestra with first-class musickers and a swell

conductor--and I believe we ought to do the thing up brown and get one

of the highest-paid conductors on the market, providing he ain’t a

Hun--it goes right into Beantown and New York and Washington; it plays

at the best theaters to the most cultured and moneyed people; it gives

such class-advertising as a town can get in no other way; and the guy

who is so short-sighted as to crab this orchestra proposition is passing

up the chance to impress the glorious name of Zenith on some big New

York millionaire that might--that might establish a branch factory here!

“I could also go into the fact that for our daughters who show an

interest in highbrow music and may want to teach it, having an A1 local

organization is of great benefit, but let’s keep this on a practical

basis, and I call on you good brothers to whoop it up for Culture and a

World-beating Symphony Orchestra!”

They applauded.

To a rustle of excitement President Gunch proclaimed, “Gentlemen, we

will now proceed to the annual election of officers.” For each of the

six offices, three candidates had been chosen by a committee. The second

name among the candidates for vice-president was Babbitt’s.

He was surprised. He looked self-conscious. His heart pounded. He was

still more agitated when the ballots were counted and Gunch said, “It’s

a pleasure to announce that Georgie Babbitt will be the next assistant

gavel-wielder. I know of no man who stands more stanchly for common

sense and enterprise than good old George. Come on, let’s give him our

best long yell!”

As they adjourned, a hundred men crushed in to slap his back. He had

never known a higher moment. He drove away in a blur of wonder. He

lunged into his office, chuckling to Miss McGoun, “Well, I guess you

better congratulate your boss! Been elected vice-president of the

Boosters!”

He was disappointed. She answered only, “Yes-- Oh, Mrs. Babbitt’s been

trying to get you on the ’phone.” But the new salesman, Fritz Weilinger,

said, “By golly, chief, say, that’s great, that’s perfectly great! I’m

tickled to death! Congratulations!”

Babbitt called the house, and crowed to his wife, “Heard you were trying

to get me, Myra. Say, you got to hand it to little Georgie, this time!

Better talk careful! You are now addressing the vice-president of the

Boosters’ Club!”

“Oh, Georgie--”

“Pretty nice, huh? Willis Ijams is the new president, but when he’s

away, little ole Georgie takes the gavel and whoops ’em up and

introduces the speakers--no matter if they’re the governor

himself--and--”

“George! Listen!”

“--it puts him in solid with big men like Doc Dilling and--”

“George! Paul Riesling--”

“Yes, sure, I’ll ’phone Paul and let him know about it right away.”

“Georgie! _Listen!_ Paul’s in jail. He shot his wife, he shot Zilla,

this noon. She may not live.”