Little Men

Nobody in the Roosevelt Administration, except a few incorrigible sentimentalists, has been very deeply interested in the nation's little businessmen since the nation's little businessmen--disliking the price and pay-fixing provisions of NRA--wrung the Blue Eagle's neck. Last month Secretary of Commerce Daniel Calhoun Roper, who will be 71 next All Fool's Day, was permitted to lead his long-ignored Business Advisory Council to the White House, along with the platoon of other business bigwigs who have taken and given counsel there recently. It then occurred to Uncle Dan, who has lived on the people's bounty for most of his adult life, that it would be a good democratic thing to bring the little businessmen to Washington to see and present their plans and problems to the President, too.

Seasoned observers smelled trouble from the moment the method of selecting the conferees was made known. The 500 little businessmen whom Secretary Roper and President Roosevelt originally invited to Washington--at their own expense--were chosen largely at random from little men who had written the President. To the original 500 invitations, 300 more were added by Congressmen harried for bids by their constituents. (There was a thumb rule that a little business was one making less than $1,000,000, employing fewer than 500 workers.) Result was that Washington was captured for 48 noisy hours by 800 men (and women) who gave the impression of being predominantly nuts and exhibitionists, who had at least 800 ideas they were clamoring to put before their Government and whose clownishness and disorder made the 1935 grass roots conference seem like a Saturday afternoon in the House of Lords.

"On to Washington!" Littlest little businessman to receive an invitation was Mr. James A. Buckley of Philadelphia, Pa. Mr. Buckley's turkish-towel-making business is so small that he is able to transact all his telephonic negotiations from the pay station down at the corner saloon. It is so unprofitable that Mr. Buckley reluctantly had to forego the 125-mile trip.

Biggest of the little businessmen was not identifiable, but the biggest, loudest and, to the rest of the conferees, most objectionable delegation came from New York City. The New Yorkers--some 100 all told--were rallied by Charles Courtney. Mr. Courtney is far from obscure. He is probably the nation's cleverest locksmith, a headline character celebrated for jobs like opening the safes of sunken ships. But his leadership was challenged even before the delegation entrained for Washington by a roly-poly little dress manufacturer named Nathan Schlessel. Mr. Schlessel marched into an uproarious caucus in the Hotel New Yorker, shouting at Locksmith Courtney: "You are destructing this meeting. For five years I have been trying to get an invitation to Washington, just writing the President up and down." Mr. Schlessel, whose analysis of Recession was the presence in the land of an unidentified germ, was momentarily placated when Locksmith Courtney ex plained he was merely temporary chairman. "All right, be a chairman," Mr. Schlessel huffed. But when the secretary, a Mr. Gottlieb, gave as his credentials the fact that he operated 22 hotels, 'Mr. Schlessel roared: "My God! Twenty-two hotels he operates. He's against us. I'll bet he's a lobbyist!"

After four uproarious hours Locksmith Courtney finally named a steering committee, and next day the New York delegation entrained with such slogans as ON TO WASHINGTON TO BUST THE RECESSION. But no sooner had the New Yorkers assembled at Washington's Raleigh Hotel than the low comedy again began. The steering committee, having ingeniously dissipated a rump session by appointing its instigator sergeant at arms, joined the whole New York delegation in a preconference conference. Therewith such a babel of argument and wrangling broke out that delegates from other parts of the country, hearing the din, thought it must be the first of the general sessions and proceeded to break in. In the ensuing Walpurgisnacht, people shouted wildly at one another:

"Out of order. . . . Where's his invitation? . . . Stuffed-ballot association. . . . It's all stacked. . . . As fellow Americans, I ask you to keep quiet. . . . What is a small business? . . . We don't do things that way in California. . . . You all ought to be ashamed of yourselves. . . . We look like a bunch of cattle." Mrs. Lillian Goodman of Brooklyn's Goodman's Products Co. stomped out, declaring "It's too much commotion for me." Before the meeting broke up, someone discovered that the U.S. flags on the delegates' lapels were made in Japan.

"Will you listen? . . ." With fire in their eyes and speeches on their tongues the delegates assembled in the big Department of Commerce auditorium the following day to be welcomed by Secretary Roper. Just as he started to speak the amplifying system went dead, bringing forth a deafening crescendo of "louder, louder, LOUDER!" The Secretary cried: ''Will everyone take their seats, please!" From the rear came a loud, defiant "No!" At the instant the amplifying system was turned on again, the now disillusioned Secretary was complaining to photographers in a voice which suddenly filled the hall: "Why take pictures of me. why don't you take pictures of this splendid group of American citizens?"

In an attempt to organize the meeting Assistant Secretary of Commerce Ernest G. Draper proposed as temporary chairman a Cleveland shoe man named Fred Roth. A Pennsylvania metal products dealer uprose to complain that Roth was "handpicked. I don't think we want him." What was his business? "I am in the wholesale business," Mr. Roth answered. "I employ very few people." "How many?" "Fifteen." The delegates: "You'll do!"

Wholesaler Roth was later elected permanent chairman but neither he nor anyone else was able to preserve even a suspicion of order at any of the meetings. When delegates failed to get recognition on the floor they rushed for the speakers' platform. Ellis Harold Scott, a Rutherford, N.J. expressman, managed to make himself heard with the remarks: "This is God's country. We have not had a prayer." The delegates cheered but no prayers were offered. Extricating himself from the mob milling on the platform to the accompaniment of blinding flash bulbs, Secretary Roper grasped the microphone, pleading: "Will you listen to me for just a moment?" He wanted the delegates to break up into groups to discuss special topics like Housing, Unemployment, Social Security.

Probably two-thirds of the delegates marched out trying to find the committee meetings. But the rest remained in the auditorium. "Evidently you are not interested in the problems to be discussed at the other meetings," observed Chairman Roth. "Right!" roared the delegates. Belatedly it was discovered that general taxation had not been assigned as a discussion subject and a score of little men rushed out to constitute themselves an eleventh group. Then the fight for the microphone was resumed.

Earlier in the day Mrs. Goodman, the Brooklyn food woman, had marched to the head of the centre aisle to shout: "I want one man and one woman from each State to be allowed to speak. Am I right?" Apparently she was wrong, for a police captain in gold braid forthwith escorted her to her seat. To keep peace, if not order, Chairman Roth eventually arrived at much the same plan. A traveling Texas salesman named Clark claimed the right to speak for eleven cotton States by virtue of his extensive Southern territory but compromised on Alabama, striding to the platform drawling: "Twenty-four votes for Underwood, yes siree!" But in general the plan worked pretty well--until Chairman Roth got down the alphabet to New York. As a man, 17 New Yorkers jumped from their seats, headed for the microphone.

The rest of the delegates began to vent their pent-up anti-New York emotions: "Sit down! Throw'em out! Pass up New York! New York thinks it's the whole United States!" A Mr. Cashdan protested: "I've spent my last dollar to get here and I'll be heard. Gentlemen of the press, gentlemen of the New York press, I appeal to you." Sneered a small-town delegate: "Aw sit down, Mr. Trotsky." To Mr. Cashdan's aid rushed a Philadelphia contractor named Shafer who said he "did business with the men from New York." There was a chorus of "Throw him out," and Contractor Shafer, who somehow managed to hang onto his cigar, was dragged from the room by his collar and tossed into the hall. (He was tossed out again next day.) Finally Chairman Roth decreed: "What we all need is a good night's sleep so we can come back here tomorrow and discuss our problems like businessmen."

"Insane Asylum." By this time the press recognized that the only way to treat Secretary Roper's show was not as a conference but as a circus, with a disproportionate number of freaks. Plans for the country's salvation included changing the faces engraved on the currency, establishing a Government school for inventors, "driving out Satan," and building a $10,000,000,000 coast-to-coast express highway.* Most original little man was a Ravenna (Ohio) toy balloon maker who declared: "I am not advocating anything." Ruuner-up was Susan G. Gill, who operates a beauty shop in Narberth, Pa. and said: "I'd just like to be the mother of that group for 15 minutes."

Many of the little men were disgusted with the goings-on, called the auditorium "an insane asylum," but in open session they were no match for the lunatic fringe. Plenty of serious work was done in the group discussions but even when the reports were presented in resolution form it was clear that each group was trying to steal the show. The group on "development and location of small business" admittedly "threw the subject out the window" in favor of a thoroughgoing denunciation of the New Deal. Its conclusion: "If American leaders, as represented by the Federal Government, would light some place and maintain a constant perch rather than flit about like a canary, American business would find some encouragement."

"To the White House!" Most of the little men packed off home when the conference broke up, leaving a committee to carry its platform, a steamrollered hodgepodge, to the President next day. The White House committee was composed of Chairman Roth and the heads of the eleven discussion groups. As it worked out, however, 13 conferees made their way into the President's office for a go-minute talk. One crashed the gate by simply tagging along. The committee presented a 23-point program, asking in general the same things as were asked by Secretary Roper's big businessmen--balanced budget, modification of the capital gains tax, repeal of the undistributed profits tax, revision of the Wagner Act. But typically little-business were requests for stronger antimonopoly legislation, the creation of a permanent little business council, bigger & better bank credit through insured loans and if necessary through a special Governmental agency.

The President did most of the talking, approving most points but stepping flatly on such planks as modification of the Wagner Act, downward revision of taxes, opposition to a wages-&-hours bill. Conferees and crasher then filed out. Krock of the New York Times: "The little laughs in Washington this week were at the expense of the little businessmen. . . . But the big laugh was at the expense of the President and his Administration."

*A project which in an $8,000,000,000 form is receiving the earnest attention of Franklin Roosevelt.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.