that they were interested. They seemed to,"--he faltered and
blushed a little,--"to like me, you know. I played golf with
Snyder that afternoon and he beat me. Won two balls. The next
morning I found there's been a couple of other advertising men
there. And while I was talking to Snyder--he was telling me about
the time he climbed up and muffled the chapel bell--that fellow
Flynn, of the Dowd Agency, came in. Snyder excused himself, and
talked to him for--oh, half an hour, perhaps. But that was all. He
was back again in no time. After that it looked like plain
sailing. We got along wonderfully. When I left I said, 'I expect
to know you both better--'"

"I guess," interrupted the Old Man slowly, "that you'll know them
better all right." He reached out with one broad freckled hand
and turned back the page of a desk memorandum. "The Athena account
was given to the Dowd Advertising Agency yesterday."

It took Jock McChesney one minute--one long, sickening minute--to
grasp the full meaning of it all. He stared at the massive figure
before him, his mouth ludicrously open, his eyes round, his breath
for the moment suspended. Then, in a queer husky voice:

"D'you mean--the Dowd--but--they couldn't--"

"I mean," said Bartholomew Berg, "that you've scored what the
dramatic critics call a personal hit; but that doesn't get the box
office anything."

"But, Mr. Berg, they said--"