Produced by David Widger
By William Dean Howells
Not long after Lent, Fulkerson set before Dryfoos one day his scheme fora dinner in celebration of the success of 'Every Other Week.' Dryfoos hadnever meddled in any manner with the conduct of the periodical; butFulkerson easily saw that he was proud of his relation to it, and heproceeded upon the theory that he would be willing to have this relationknown: On the days when he had been lucky in stocks, he was apt to dropin at the office on Eleventh Street, on his way up-town, and listen toFulkerson's talk. He was on good enough terms with March, who revised hisfirst impressions of the man, but they had not much to say to each other,and it seemed to March that Dryfoos was even a little afraid of him, asof a piece of mechanism he had acquired, but did not quite understand; heleft the working of it to Fulkerson, who no doubt bragged of itsufficiently. The old man seemed to have as little to say to his son; heshut himself up with Fulkerson, where the others could hear the managerbegin and go on with an unstinted flow of talk about 'Every Other Week;'for Fulkerson never talked of anything else if he could help it, and wasalways bringing the conversation back to it if it strayed:
The day he spoke of the dinner he rose and called from his door: "March,
I say, come down here a minute, will you? Conrad, I want you, too."
The editor and the publisher found the manager and the proprietor seatedon opposite sides of the table. "It's about those funeral baked meats,you know," Fulkerson explained, "and I was trying to give Mr. Dryfoossome idea of what we wanted to do. That is, what I wanted to do," hecontinued, turning from March to Dryfoos. "March, here, is opposed to it,of course. He'd like to publish 'Every Other Week' on the sly; keep itout of the papers, and off the newsstands; he's a modest Boston petunia,and he shrinks from publicity; but I am not that kind of herb myself, andI want all the publicity we can get—beg, borrow, or steal—for thisthing. I say that you can't work the sacred rites of hospitality in abetter cause, and what I propose is a little dinner for the purpose ofrecognizing the hit we've made with this thing. My idea was to strike youfor the necessary funds, and do the thing on a handsome scale. The termlittle dinner is a mere figure of speech. A little dinner wouldn't make abig talk, and what we want is the big talk, at present, if we don't layup a cent. My notion was that pretty soon after Lent, now, when everybodyis feeling just right, we should begin to send out our paragraphs,affirmative, negative, and explanatory, and along about the first of Maywe should sit down about a hundred strong, the most distinguished peoplein the country, and solemnize our triumph. There it is in a nutshell. Imight expand and I might expound, but that's the sum and substance ofit."
Fulkerson stopped, and ran his eyes eagerly over the faces of his threelisteners, one after the other. March was a little surprised when Dryfoosturned to him, but that reference of the question seemed to giveFulkerson particular pleasure: "What do you think, Mr. March?"
The editor leaned back in his chair. "I don't pretend to have Mr.Fulkerson's genius for advertising; but it seems to me a little earlyyet. We might celebrate later when we've got more to celebrate. Atpresent we're a pleasing novelty, rather than a fixed fact."
"Ah, you don't get the idea!" said Fulkerson. "What we want to do withthis dinner is to fix the fact."
"Am I g