“I’ve got a literary problem that’s worrying me to death.  I’m doing a series of ads for the Zeeco Car and I want to make each of ’em a real little gem—­reg’lar stylistic stuff.  I’m all for this theory that perfection is the stunt, or nothing at all, and these are as tough things as I ever tackled.  You might think it’d be harder to do my poems—­all these Heart Topics:  home and fireside and happiness—­but they’re cinches.  You can’t go wrong on ’em; you know what sentiments any decent go-ahead fellow must have if he plays the game, and you stick right to ’em.  But the poetry of industrialism, now there’s a literary line where you got to open up new territory.  Do you know the fellow who’s really the American genius?  The fellow who you don’t know his name and I don’t either, but his work ought to be preserved so’s future generations can judge our American thought and originality to-day?  Why, the fellow that writes the Prince Albert Tobacco ads!  Just listen to this: 

It’s P.A. that jams such joy in jimmy pipes.  Say—­bet you’ve often bent-an-ear to that spill-of-speech about hopping from five to f-i-f-t-y p-e-r by “stepping on her a bit!” Guess that’s going some, all right—­but just among ourselves, you better start a rapidwhiz system to keep tabs as to how fast you’ll buzz from low smoke spirits to tip-top-high—­once you line up behind a jimmy pipe that’s all aglow with that peach-of-a-pal, Prince Albert.

Prince Albert is john-on-the-job—­always joy’usly more-ISH in flavor; always delightfully cool and fragrant!  For a fact, you never hooked such double-decked, copper-riveted, two-fisted smoke enjoyment!

Go to a pipe—­speed-o-quick like you light on a good thing!  Why—­packed with Prince Albert you can play a joy’us jimmy straight across the boards!  And you know what that means!”

“Now that,” caroled the motor agent, Eddie Swanson, “that’s what I call he-literature!  That Prince Albert fellow—­though, gosh, there can’t be just one fellow that writes ’em; must be a big board of classy ink-slingers in conference, but anyway:  now, him, he doesn’t write for long-haired pikers, he writes for Regular Guys, he writes for me, and I tip my benny to him!  The only thing is:  I wonder if it sells the goods?  Course, like all these poets, this Prince Albert fellow lets his idea run away with him.  It makes elegant reading, but it don’t say nothing.  I’d never go out and buy Prince Albert Tobacco after reading it, because it doesn’t tell me anything about the stuff.  It’s just a bunch of fluff.”

Frink faced him:  “Oh, you’re crazy!  Have I got to sell you the idea of Style?  Anyway that’s the kind of stuff I’d like to do for the Zeeco.  But I simply can’t.  So I decided to stick to the straight poetic, and I took a shot at a highbrow ad for the Zeeco.  How do you like this: