This Little Gag Went...

Among Manhattan's magazine cartoon editors, Wednesday is gag day. How it began, nobody remembers for sure. Every Wednesday morning, a dogged little army of free-lance cartoonists trudges the rounds of magazine offices in midtown Manhattan to hawk their wares. They are the funnymen who draw the little back-of-the-book panels that have put millions of readers into the habit of leafing through the ad pages. Grateful advertising men call them "stoppers."

The peddling process has become as ritualized as transactions in a Bagdad bazaar. The artist 1) mopes in a waiting room, 2) is waved in to see the cartoon editor, 3) unzips his briefcase, 4) hands over a batch of rough sketches. Small talk is permitted, but he never cries "This'll kill you!" The editor riffles through the roughs, seldom grins, hands most of the sketches back, holds out a few on approval. At lunchtime many of the artists get together at either of two Manhattan restaurants--Pen & Pencil or Danny's Hideaway--to talk over their troubles and their triumphs.

Traffic Jam. Last week they had plenty of both to talk about. The major cartoon-buying magazines (Satevepost, Collier's, True, This Week, etc.) were using twice as many gag panels as in 1941, and paying more for them. (Prices were up, too, in the New Yorker's exclusive stable.) But competition was getting tougher, even for the 50 artists who make 70% of the sales to the majors.

The market was glutted with cartoons--and editors' offices were jammed on Wednesdays. To solve the traffic problem, Crowell-Collier posted a bulletin-board ultimatum: only 42 artists, all regular sellers, could see the humor editor face to face. The others would have to deal with a secretary or use the mails.

Last week the industry's biggest buyer of gag cartoons sat in his gag-littered office at Collier's and shuffled through the week's receipts: more than 2,000 roughs. (Out of 15,000 mailed in each year by unknown hopefuls who just know they can draw, Collier's finds only three good enough to buy.) Said mustached, soft-spoken Gurney Williams, 42: "The other day I found myself staring at the millionth cartoon submitted to me since I became humor editor here. I wish it could have been fresh and original. Instead, it showed several ostriches with their heads buried in the sand. Two others stood nearby. Said one to the other: 'Where is everybody?' " Having seen at least 650 switches on this ancient since 1937, he shuddered.

The only man on Collier's who also does the same job for its sister publications, American and Woman's Home Companion, Gurney Williams okays 30 to 50 cartoons a week, pays $40 to $150 apiece. His new boss, Walter Davenport (TIME, July 22), doesn't see them until they are in print. To keep his contributors on the beam Williams edits a galley-proof monthly called Gagazine (circ. 150), full of chitchat, advice and an occasional gag too rich for Collier's blood. His third updating of the famed Collier's Collects Its Wits album, I Meet Such People, will be out in the fall. Philadelphia's Satevepost sends its humor editor John Bailey to Manhattan each Wednesday to catch the parade. He pays about the same as Williams, has the same taboos (off-color gags, unkind cuts at the clergy, etc.).

For Art's Sake. Men like Williams and Bailey have worked hard in recent years to raise the artists' pay scale. But few New York cartoonists will send their work to David Smart's Esquire, in Chicago, until it has been rejected by their favorite magazine. Reason: Esquire still pays as low as $22.50 for stoppers.

For "hot" artists who are also good idea men--or who have a clever gagman or two feeding them ideas--the business is good for $12,000 to $18,000 a year, including reprint profits and advertising jobs.

But good gagmen are rare and once an artist gets his hands on one he keeps him captive if he can. Cartoonist Jeff Keate, however, shares Gagman Arnot Shepperd Jr. of St. Louis with several friends. Gagman Richard McCallister of Newtown, Conn. has been a dependable source of gags for Helen Hokinson, Robert Day, Barbara Sherman and George Price. The gagman's usual cut: 25% of the artist's pay.

Editors like Gurney Williams consider Gardner Rea, veteran of 37 years in the business, and Virgil Partch, a comparative newcomer, two of the top artists in the country. (But Peter Arno gets top pay. When he bothers to turn out a cartoon the price is reputed to be $1,000.) Partch, no Wednesday go-to-market man, lives in North Hollywood, Calif., has never been east of New Mexico, tells editors he can make his characters just as gruesome in the West as he could in New York.

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