Presto

CORNER
THE
D O N T BE
ALARMED !
course,
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there s no such
JLJIOW
11tusic Company,
y^Jrganizatton
but do you
know a {/justness that resembles it in some way
L
ATE IN AUGUST 1939 Mr. Herbert Blow of the
Blow Music Company decided to clean up his store
for the fall season. Mr. Blow's business, founded by
his grandfather some sixty years ago, is an old and respected
institution in the middle western city in which it is located.
Mr. Blow is the only music merchant in the town.
On the morning of his decision Mr. Blow called two
clerks, Mr. Klias Hinkle and Miss Ovis Plum, into executive
session in the cubbyhole behind the store which serves Mr.
Blow as an office. Both Mr. Hinkle and Miss Plum are old
and respected employees of the Blow Music Company. Both
of them were originally hired by Mr. Blow's grandfather.
"Elias—Miss Plum," began Mr. Blow, "we are going to
make some changes in the store. The salesman from that
wholesale house in Chicago that came through last year left
a trade paper here. I got around to reading it last night, and
it says that to make money in the music business you have to
keep in step with the times. It. even says there is an associa-
tion in the music business that has a convention every year
and things called clinics every once in a while. All to help
fellers learn how to sell their goods! '
Mr. Blow's enthusiasm surprised Mr. Hinkle and Miss
Plum. But they understood; they were devoted to their em-
ployer, and they realized that years of bad business had finally
left their mark on Mr. Blow. They knew that nobody could
carry Mr. Blow's burdens year in and year out without finally
cracking under the strain.
Mr. Hinkle and Miss Plum lowered their heads and stared
moodily at the floor.
"Ovis," Mr. Blow continued, "tell you what. Get yourself
a good stout rag and dust every player roll in the place.
Where they have got sort of messy from too many demonstra-
tions you take and rewind them so they don't look frayed
along the edges."
Miss Plum's and Mr. Hinkle's heads came up with a start.
Mr. Blow was indeed touched. Theory, Mr. Hinkle and Miss
Plum maintained, was all right in theory, but their employ-
er's attempt to translate his new-fangled notions into prac-
tice astounded them.
Ignoring his employees' astonishment, Mr. Blow went on:
"When you have finished with the player rolls, Ovis, take and
change the needles on the portable phonograph. Hereafter
we will use it whenever a customer wants to hear a record."
"What about—," Miss Plum gasped.
[ P A G E
T
"What about the phonograph with the horn?—the talking
machine?" Mr. Blow asked. "It's getting a little old-fashioned
and I think I'll carry it down to the basement. That way we
can make room for a radio or a 'cordion."
Elias Hinkle frowned. In all the years he had been with
the Blow Music Company he had never heard such talk.
This was Revolution.
"Don't take it too hard, Elias." Mr. Blow smiled disarm-
ingly. "There's things for you to do, too. Run down to the
hardware store and get yourself a can of oil to take the squeak
out of the stool that goes with the ebony upright in the win-
dow. As for me I'm going to take a hacksaw and cut off the
brass candlesticks on the fall board."
"What!" F.lias Hinkle stared at his employer.
"Sure, ' said Blow. "Sort of bring it down to date a little.
We can easy get some woodfiller and a little black paint and
touch up where the candlesticks come off."
Mr. Blow stopped. Mr. Hinkle and Miss Plum stood rooted
to the ground, not. believing that Mr. Blow's seizure could
end so suddenly.
"Well, go on, go on," said Mr. Blow. It exasperated him
to see lack of enthusiam in his associates. "Go on and get
started. When we get through with what I've talked about
there'll be plenty more for us to do."
Mr. Blow rolled up his shirt-sleeves. To set a good example
to his employees he unscrewed the horn of the talking ma-
chine. It came a little hard, but he succeeded in disengaging
it and setting it on the floor. As he picked up the talking
machine to take it down to the basement he tripped over
the highly carved leg of the parlor organ which stood be-
side it.
"Darn," said Mr. Blow, steadying himself. "I almost
dropped this talking machine."
He put down the talking machine and stared indignantly
at the parlor organ. The mirror above the keyboard showed
his mildly purple face through its dust. He saw that the
scrollwork around the mirror was chipped in two places,
and that the covering on the pedals was worn through.
"That," Mr. Blow thought, "comes from too many demon-
strations. For twenty years, ever since Eft Ginters started
thinkin' about buyin' that organ, he's been comin' in for
demonstrations twice a week."
"Hinkle—Elias!" Mr. Blow yelled. "C'mere and gimme a
hand with this consarned parlor organ!"
W E N T Y
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