“Get next to a thing,” he would say. “Study it, learn to love it, use it--then you will know how to boom it. Take Murdock's Soap. Perkins of Portland boomed it. He bought a cake. Used it. Used it on his hands, on his face, on his feet. Bought another cake--washed his cotton socks, washed his silk tie, washed his woollen underwear. Bought another cake--shaved with it, shampooed with it, ate it. Yes, sir, ate it! Pure soap--no adulteration. No taste of rosin, cottonseed--no taste of anything but soap, and lots of that. Spit out lather for a month! Every time I sneezed I blew a big soap-bubble--perspired little soap-bubbles. Tasted soap for a year! Result? Greatest ad. of the nineteenth century. 'Murdock's Soap is pure soap. If you don't believe it, bite it.' Picture of a nigger biting a cake of soap on every billboard in U. S. A. Live niggers in all the grocery windows biting cakes of Murdock's Soap. Result? Five hundred thousand tons of Murdock's sold the first year. I use no other.” And so, from his “Go-lightly” shoes to his Pratt's hat, Perkins was a relic of bygone favorites in dress. The result was comical, but it was Perkins; and I sprang from my chair and grasped his hand. “Perkins!” I cried. He raised his free hand with a restraining motion, and I noticed his fingers protruded from the tips of the glove. “Say,” he said, still standing on my threshold, “have you a little time?” I glanced at my watch. I had twenty minutes before I must catch my train. “I'll give you ten minutes,” I said. “Not enough,” said Perkins. “I want a year. But I'll take ten minutes on account. Owe me the rest!” He turned and beckoned into the hall, and a small boy appeared carrying a very large glass demijohn. Perkins placed the demijohn on a chair, and stood back gazing at it admiringly. “Great, isn't it?” he asked. “Biggest demijohn made. Heavy as lead! Fine shape, fine size! But, say--read that!” I bent down and read. The label said: “Onotowatishika Water. Bottled at the spring. Perkins & Co., Glaubus, Ia.” I began spelling out the name by syllables, “O--no--to--wat--” when Perkins clapped me on the back. “Great, hey? Can't pronounce it? Nobody can. Great idea. Got old Hunyadi Janos water knocked into a cocked hat. Hardest mineral water name on earth. Who invented it? I did. Perkins of Portland. There's money in that name. Dead loads of money. Everybody that can't pronounce it will want it, and nobody can pronounce it--everybody'll want it. Must have it. Will weep for it. But that isn't the best!” “No?” I inquired. “No!” shouted Perkins. “I should say 'no!' Look at that bottle. Look at the size of it. Look at the weight of it Awful, isn't it? Staggers the brain of man to think of carrying that across the continent! Nature recoils, the muscles ache. It is vast, it is immovable, it is mighty. Say!” Perkins grasped me by the coat-sleeve, and drew me toward him. He whispered excitedly.