Chapter I

“Any thing over, Ben?”

“Not a dollar; I just paid the Journal’s bill for advertising, which has pretty much cleaned me out.”

“How much?”

“Forty-two dollars and twenty-five cents.”

“Ben, I don’t like to tell you that you are the biggest fool on the street; but you are.”

“Wait, Joe, and see,” returned the other, with a confident smile.

“Forty-two dollars for advertising!”

“Just so, and for three months’ advertising.”

The applicant for “any thing over” gave a peculiar whistle to define the length, breadth, and depth of his astonishment.

This conversation occurred in the store of Benjamin Weston, a young and enterprising merchant, who had just commenced business on his own account. The other person, who to use his own classic expression, was “bang up,” and wanted to borrow fifty dollars to make up the amount of a note due that day, was Joseph Weston, a cousin of the other. They had been playmates in youth and stanch friends in maturity. Though there was a great diversity of opinion on many topics, a strong sympathy existed between them.

They had commenced business at about the same time, and under nearly the same circumstances, both being obliged for the want of sufficient capital to mortgage the stock in their respective stores.

Thus far they had done well, and the prospect was that both would become wealthy and distinguished merchants.

They had married sisters, and occupied tenements in the same block. Their houses were furnished in substantially the same style, and with no material difference of expenditure. Both had been brought up to business habits, and educated into the principles of a rigid economy.

“Forty-two dollars for advertising,” repeated Joe.

“And if I had the money to spare, I would spend double that sum,” replied Benjamin.

“What benefit do you expect to realize from it?”

“You are behind the times, Joe. Benefit! What a question! I expect to make my fortune by it.”

“Humbug!”

“Look at Brandeth and Swaim.”

“Both humbugs.”

“No matter for that; if these fellows have been able to make princely fortunes by advertising humbugs, how much more so will he who deals in substantial realities!”

“All gammon!”

“We differ; time will tell who is in the right.”

“Seriously, Ben, you will ruin yourself if you go on in this manner. Forty-two dollars a quarter for advertising!”

“I shall spend a hundred the next quarter.”

“Don’t do it, Ben.”

“How does it happen, Joe, that you are in the street borrowing money? I never did such a thing since I commenced business.”

“How does it happen, Ben, that you haven’t got any money to lend?” asked Joe, with a smile.

“Because I spent it in advertising.”

“Better have spent it for opera and 2:40’s.”

“Wait, Joe, wait.”

“I spent nothing for advertising; but I will bet you the oysters my sales for the last quarter are as large as yours.”

“I will take you up on the next quarter.”

“Why not the last.”

“Advertising is somewhat like planting potatoes; you must wait for the crops.”

“Don’t believe in it, Ben. When I have a fifty spot that I don’t know what to do with, I shall put it into my family. Buy a library, a new sofa, or something of that sort. I should rather go to the White Mountains with it, than throw it away upon newspapers.”

“You don’t know your own interest, Joe.”

“Don’t I? Some kinds of business might thrive on advertising; but ours, never. Do you believe the women look in the newspapers before they go shopping?”

“Well, there was a lady in here just now, who said she saw such and such goods advertised by me.”

“Pshaw! and on the strength of that you intend to spend fifty dollars more in advertising! Ben, you are crazy;” and Joseph Weston turned his heel and left the store, assured in his own mind that his friend was going to ruin.

In his estimation such loose principles would eventually bring him to bankruptcy. But Ben was his friend, and he deeply commiserated him because he clung to such weak and pernicious doctrines.