Weber Withdraws

Complaint is sometimes made that the titans have departed from U. S. Business. But for the past 15 years Business has had at its core & centre the legendary equal of any of the 19th Century mythmen--Orlando Weber. Last week, without ever having found out much about him, U. S. Business lost him.

Having in ten short years made Allied Chemical & Dye Corp. into the most successful chemical company in the U. S., Orlando Weber planned to retire in 1929. The Depression came. When he quit last week he could proudly point to a $400,000,000 balance sheet with $55,000,000 in cash or its equivalent; more proudly to $200,000,000 paid in dividends with no Depression interruption; and most proudly to the fact that he has never cut wages.

But, as he laid down the Allied sceptre last week, Mr. Weber indulged in no prideful pointing. He never has. The most conspicuous thing about Mr. Weber and his company is secretiveness. He has never made a public speech, written a paper, submitted to an interview or posed for a photograph. His company has never joined either a trade association or a cartel or the NRA or a chamber of commerce. He had no bankers because he never needed them. The chemical industry is necessarily mysterious business but, with Allied's brilliant dictator, mystery was almost a fetish.

One myth has it that neither Mr. Weber nor any of his directors had ever been inside Allied's great atmospheric nitrogen works at Hopewell, Va. A more authentic tale is that, while in Germany, Mr. Weber politely refused an invitation to inspect the famed nitrogen fixation plant of I. G. Farbenindustrie because he felt he could not return the courtesy. Instead he tramped some five miles around the plant --outside.

But, with Mr. Weber's withdrawal last week, came a profound, if involuntary, break in Allied's tradition of secrecy. Directors announced that application would be made for permanent listing under the Securities & Exchange Act--a move that requires full & complete disclosure of almost every corporate secret. Prospect of having his salary (once reputedly as high as $780,000 per year) or his stockholdings spread before the Public, may have hastened Mr. Weber's retirement. Alternative to Allied listing was to have its 2,400,000 shares banished to over-the-counter trading.

Orlando Weber has been the absolute autocrat of Allied since 1920 when he was easily acknowledged to be the ablest executive in any of the six chemical concerns which were merged to form the giant corporation. Born 56 years ago in Grafton, Wis., he was a bicycle racer in the 1890's--far-famed as "The Pride of Milwaukee."

Like many an oldtime cyclist, Orlando Weber jumped into automobiles at the Century's turn. He distributed Pope Toledos in Chicago. His business potency had been proven as a vice president of Maxwell Motors in 1917 when Eugene Meyer persuaded him to enter one of the chemical companies that later went into Allied.

From Allied's headquarters at No. 61 Broadway, Manhattan, Mr. Weber ran his organization like a military machine. Every last detail of routine was governed by policy and elaborate regulations. Promotions were rapid and salaries high but Allied got a reputation for killing its executives. To find the right man for a key job, Mr. Weber would make and break half a dozen officers in quick succession. Corporate camaraderie was discouraged--thereby discouraging corporate politics, a bane of big business. Allied officials did not even lunch together. But, from general headquarters right down through the 70-odd plants scattered the length & breadth of the land, the whole Allied personnel had one thing in common: Fear. Some employes hesitated to take vacations lest other men would have their jobs when they returned.

But to criticisms of his policies--and some notable stockholders were critical--Mr. Weber had an unanswerable argument: they worked. His profits were $30,000,000 in 1929. But, more remarkable, they were $17,000,000 last year.

Allied also chose to walk alone in the chemical industry, ignoring its competitors' new policies and products until it slowly and surely passed judgment on the innovation. Partly, that was due to its remoteness from the public: its customers are steady and its products standard. A farmer may spread Arcadian nitrates on his fields; a townsman may drive his car over Tarvia roads or keep out the rain with Barrett roofing; a housewife may buy Polar moth balls. But the average indirect consumer never sees the aniline in his blue serge suit, the tanning alkalis in his oxfords, the caustic soda in his soap, the soda ash in his window panes. For Allied is primarily a purveyor of heavy chemicals to heavy industry.

A tall, heavy-framed man with powerful shoulders and a slow, enigmatic smile, Orlando Weber may have been thought icy by the few hirelings that ever saw him. But with his friends he can be gracious, charming and an exciting conversationalist. For years he has delved deep in broad economic studies, has latterly developed strong doctrines concerning economic nationalism and the necessity of upping farm income by subsidy schemes. These he delights to propound to many an aghast or incredulous Wall Streeter. And he retired not to a leisurely country life on his Mt. Kisco, N. Y. estate but to further research.

When his withdrawal was announced last week Mr. Weber promised "that as stockholder he would continue to give the present management his active support and assistance." Certainly the Weber tradition will not fade from No. 61 Broadway for many a year. Of new President-Chairman H. F. Atherton nothing was known. No pictures of him were available, and all efforts to learn something about him were courteously rebuffed with the statement: "It is against policy."

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