I
THE International Organization of Boosters' Clubs has be
come 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 wall-board
a huge celluloid button announcing his name, his nick
name, 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 portait-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.''