dictagraph.

There was a new and nervous little stenographer in the outer
office, and she had not been warned of this.

"We think very highly of the plan you suggest," Sam Hupp had said
into the dictagraph's mouthpiece. "In fact, in one of your
valuable copy suggestions you--"

Without changing his tone he glanced over his shoulder at his
colleague, Hopper, who was listening and approving.

"... Let the old girl think the idea is her own. She's virtually
the head of that concern, and they've spoiled her. Successful, and
used to being kowtowed to. Doesn't know her notions of copy are
ten years behind the advertising game--"

And went on with his letter again. After which he left the office
to play golf. And the little blond numbskull in the outer office
dutifully took down what the instrument had to say, word for word,
marked it, "Dictated, but not read," signed neat initials, and
with a sigh went on with the rest of her sheaf of letters.

Emma McChesney read the letter next morning. She read it down to
the end, and then again. The two readings were punctuated with a
little gasp, such as we give when an icy douche is suddenly
turned upon us. And that was all.

A week later an intent little group formed a ragged circle about
the big table in the private office of Bartholomew Berg, head of