Evening Star Newspaper, March 3, 1935, Page 77

S - N — - o~ . | ——E SN it o - Nan When a THIS WEEK NEEDED - Roma What Happens to a Business Red- Haired Girl Puts Her Finger in the Pie A Short Love Story 3y BEN ANCY giggled as she read over what she had written: “Mr. Andrew McGiven, Acme Advertising Agency. Dear Sir: Here istheheadol’agirl who wants that job of copywriter you advertised. Though I blush to say it, the head contains what Acme adver- tising needs most — ideas. Proof: this appli- cation is original. Unlike others you received. Iou’ll remember it. More about me tomorrow. Her eyes twinkled as she reflected, ‘* ‘Be original,’ he said, that time he talked to our advertising class at the Institute. And original I am, Andy.” Carefully she clipped to the letter part of a snapshot enlargement showing the back of her bobbed head. *‘Nobody could guess who it is from that,” she assured herself. She sealed and stamped the envelope, marked it ‘‘No. 1,” then picked up letter No. 2. To this she attached a picture of her eyes, cut out of a portrait enlargement which her kid brother, who was a nut on photog- raphy, had made. “I have two good eyes,”” she had written, “which I endeavor to keep wide open all day long, observing people, their buying habits, their peculiarities, etc. That's important for one who writes ads, don't you think? More tomorrow. L."’ Nancy had once heard McGiven bawl out one of his ad writers. ‘‘You don't use your eyes, or you wouldn't write such drivel. If you're going to be a copywriter, you've got to make a business of observing people.” She pictured Andy reading this. She could see that broad grin on his freckled face, see him run his fingers through that thatch of red hair. “The dame’s good,” Nancy imagined him saying. ‘‘Wonder who she is.” Nancy’s eyes grew wistful. A little smile played around her dimple. This was the way shealwayslooked whenshestai ' :d day-dream- ing about Andy. Andy, the important head of the copywriting department of the Acme, who hardly knew that Nancy, just a tiny unim- portant cog in the filing department, even existed. Oh yes, he did know she was on the payroll, unless he had forgotten. For one day, more than a year ago, she had timidly approached him. “Mr. McGiven, I'd like to be a copywriter,"” she had announced, her voice trembling with eagerness. ‘‘I'd love to write ads. Here are some ideas I worked out on our laundry account. It needs a new slant, I think.” Andy had looked at her quizzically, then glanced through what she had written. “Lousy,” he grunted. Then when he looked up and saw tears in her eyes, he smiled sym- pathetically. ‘‘Sorry, Miss er —. I didn’t get your name."’ ‘‘Lee,” said Nancy, and her heart sank. He didn't even remember seeing her. ‘‘I'm in the filing department.” ‘Oh, yes. I remember now. Well, Miss Lee, why don't you stick to filing? You've got a good job and I'm sure you're very efficient. Wouldn't it be too bad for Acme to ruin a valuable filer to add to an already bum copy department?’’ He grinned, and even though he broke her heart, she loved that smile, and his big, nervous fingers jabbing at paper with a pen point, slapping the glass top of his desk with a ruler, ruffling his hair, always busy at something. A sensible girl would have quit her foolish- ness after that, and settled down to work for promotion to chief of the filing department. But Nancy was stubborn. You might suspect that if you noticed her firm little chin. That was the trouble though. Scarcely anybody did notice Nancy behind her big shell-rimmed glasses, which effectively nullified the beauty DEAN of her brown eyes and which so over-shadowed her face that you completely failed to observe that enticing curve of her short upper lip and the ripeness of her mouth. So Nancy stubbornly cherished the idea of be- coming a copywriter, and she studied the ads of the Acme agency, and considered some of them terrible. Instead of chasing out nights with dates as a wise girl would and always keeping an eye peeled for a likely catch, she would stay home evenings and write ads that never got anywhere but into the waste basket. And think about Andy. To show how silly Nancy was, you have only to know that she dreamed about being an ad writer, even after Andy had taken the starch out of her; and that she also had romantic notions about Andy, even though he probably had forgotten she existed. She didn’t altogether quit her romancing, even after she read on the society page of the ‘“Times" that Andy was seen continually with Susan Platt, the daughter of the president of the Old National Bank. Obviously Nancy had|a screw loose somewhere, or she wouldn’t still moon over that dog-eared set of proofs of the travel ad series which Andy had written himself, and which was acknowledged by all to be a honey. When Andy wrote about moonlight nights on deck, waltzing under tropical skies, and all that business, this un- romantic-looking girl in the filing department would close her eyes and see herself among the honeymoon couples leaning over the rail watching the flying fish, and always the handsome young bridegroom with his arm about her bore a strikingly close resemblance to Andy. Nancy shook herself out of her reverie and read over the third letter in her plot to interest Andy. ‘“‘Enclosed is a lock of my hair. Yes, it's red. But that shouldn't prejudice you. I've got the fight that goes with red hair. I'll fight to put a product over, fight for my Boss, even fight a client to save good copy. Couldn't you usesomeof that among your copywriters?’’ ““With the jellyfish he’s got in his depart- ment, that ought to touch a tender spot,” she reflected. “Guess there’s no danger of the hair giving me away. There are two other girls in the office with red hair. Nobody pays any attention to me anyway,"’ she concluded, with a wry smile. The fourth letter she liked best of all, and you can easily understand why. ‘‘I'm being very daring today,’’ she had written. ‘‘Here is a picture of my lips.” She had carefully cut them out of the photo. No other features showed. They looked tempting. ‘‘This is strictly business, however,” the letter pro- ceeded. ‘‘I think you can tell about people from their lips, don't you?” She pictured Andy’s big whimsical mouth. ‘“These lips indicate imagination, and a slight romantic strain. Those are essential traits for the writing of good ads. I sometimes wonder, Mr. McGiven, if you are romantic enough. Your Bermuda series made us all long for honey- moons, but your candy ads seem flat. If you would think of yourself as a girl receiving from her Prince Charming a terribly expensive box of chocolates, you'd write about June roses, and starlight and the feel of soft lips, instead of sanitary kitchens and pure in- gredients.” The fifth letter she didn’t think was so hot. It showed a picture of her hands. The kid brother who bid fair to become a portrait photographer had photographed them. one day, fussing with lights and shadows to get an artistic pose. Just the hands, with a queer Chinese ring that her uncle had brought back from the Orient on the middle finger of llustration by Howard Chandler Christy ‘“But You Are Beautiful,”” He Exclaimed With Astonishment. ‘I Never Dreamed It.” the right one. The hand was not long and graceful as you might imagine, but small, rather chubby, with short fingers. Nancy couldn't see anything pretty about her hands, but Bob had won a third prize in an amateur photograph contest with the picture. ‘*‘Here’s a picture of my hand,” the letter read. “My hands aren’t artistic, but they are ideal hands for a copywriter. They can pound the typewriter, and they are all the time scribbling down ideas for ads, no matter when they come. I even wake up at night someumesandget an idea. You see I'm a nut on copywriting.” “A crazy letter,”” she reflected. “But the whole thing's crazy anyway, so I'll send it. That ring won't give me away. I don't wear it to the office.” So Nancy mailed the letters, one each day. She had only a vague idea of what she'd do after Andy received them. Go in to see him, probably. She trembled to remember her former squelching. Still, she knew more about ad writing now. Maybe if he liked the letters, he'd give her a trial. Perhaps he’d train her. And the silly girl could picture him standing by her desk, discussing her copy, smiling with that curious wrinkling around the eyes that she doted on. “Mr. Mac got his copy writer yet?” she inquired of Hettie, his private stenographer, one day in the elevator. She tried to appear casual. “No. Just a lot of goofy applications.” Her letters weren’t making much of a stir, apparently. She was beginning to think that the idea was nutty anyway. Then, a few days later, she overheard Andy's assistant gos- siping with another pen pusher just outside the door of the filing department. “What upeet McGiven so this morning?” ““That letter from the dame who knocked the Sweetheart Candy series. You know, the female who wants to be a copywriter, and has been sending pictures of her lips and eyes and ltehtebackofluhmdthhhuappliuuon “What'd she say about the candy ads?” ““Thought they didn't have enough moon- light and roses in them. Boss had been getting a kick out of her letters until then. Wouldn't have been so bad but the Old Man himeelf hlewmtoMacnofioemstubmmdiu it. When Mac showed it to Prescott for a joke, the Old Man took it seriously and said he thought that dame was right. Said the Sweet- heart series would have to be romanced more or we'd lose the account.” ‘“McGiven get sore?” ‘‘Yeah, though he didn't dare show it to the old Man. But is he gunning for that dame! When she follows up her_letters in person and asks for the job, he’ll blast her out of the office.” “Thanks for the tip-off, boys,” Nancy muttered to herself. ‘‘Can’t take it, can you, Andy?” She sighed, and her shoulders. “Well that's that. Little Nancy rqmanhcdmms. felloutofadrgwer,ahe ( Continued on Page 13 )