melodrama. This stuff," and he waved a hand toward the paper-laden
table, "is an advertising campaign plan for the Griebler Gum
Company, of St. Louis. Oh, don't look impressed. The office hasn't
handed me any such commission. I just got the idea like a flash,
and I've been working it out for the last two weeks. It worked
itself out, almost--the way a really scorching idea does,
sometimes. This Griebler has been advertising for years. You
know the Griebler gum. But it hasn't been the right sort of
advertising. Old Griebler, the original gum man, had fogy notions
about advertising, and as long as he lived they had to keep it
down. He died a few months ago--you must have read of it. Left a
regular mint. Ben Griebler, the oldest son, started right in to
clean out the cobwebs. Of course the advertising end of it has
come in for its share of the soap and water. He wants to make a
clean sweep of it. Every advertising firm in the country has been
angling for the contract. It's going to be a real one. Two-thirds
of the crowd have submitted plans. And that's just where my kick
comes in. The Berg, Shriner Company makes it a rule never to
submit advance plans."

"Excuse me if I seem a trifle rude," interrupted Mrs. McChesney,
"but I'd like to know where you think you've been wronged in
this."

"Right here!" replied Jock, and he slapped his pocket, "and here,"
he pointed to his head. "Two spots so vital that they make old
Achilles's heel seem armor-plated. Ben Griebler is one of the
show-me kind. He wants value received for money expended, and
while everybody knows that he has a loving eye on the Berg,
Shriner crowd, he won't sign a thing until he knows what he's