"M-m-m, thanks," interrupted Sam Hupp, a little dryly. "Let me
tell you something, young 'un. I've got what you might call a
thirty-horse-power mind. I keep it running on high all the time,
with the muffler cut out, and you can hear me coming for miles.
But the Old Man,"--he leaned forward impressively,--"the Old Man,
boy, has the eighty-power kind, built like a watch--no smoke, no
dripping, and you can't even hear the engine purr. But when he
throws her open! Well, he can pass everything on the road. Don't
forget that." He turned to his desk again and reached for a stack
of papers and cuts. "Good luck to you. If you want any further
details you can get 'em from Hayes." He plunged into his work.

There arose in Jock McChesney's mind that instinct of the man in
his hour of triumph--the desire to tell a woman of his greatness.
He paused a second outside Sam Hupp's office, turned, and walked
quickly down the length of the great central room. He stopped
before a little glass door at the end, tapped lightly, and
entered.

Grace Galt, copy-writer, looked up, frowning a little. Then she
smiled. Miss Galt had a complete layout on the desk before
her--scrap books, cuts, copy, magazines. There was a little smudge
on the end of her nose. Grace Galt was writing about magnetos.
She was writing about magnetos in a way to make you want to drop
your customer, or your ironing, or your game, and go downtown and
buy that particular kind of magneto at once. Which is the
secretest part of the wizardry of advertising copy. To look at
Grace Galt you would have thought that she should have been
writing about the rose-tinted jars in Jock McChesney's hands
instead of about such things as ignition, and insulation, and ball