"Hm--that so?" piped Ben Griebler. "Up in my neck of the woods we
aren't so long on inspiration. We're just working men, and we wear
working clothes--"

"Oh, now," protested Berg, his eyes twinkling, "McChesney's
necktie and socks and handkerchief may form one lovely, blissful
color scheme, but that doesn't signify that his advertising
schemes are not just as carefully and artistically blended."

Ben Griebler looked shrewdly up at Jock through narrowed lids.
"Maybe. I'll talk to you in a minute, young man--that is--" he
turned quickly upon Berg--"if that isn't against your crazy
principles, too?"

"Why, not at all," Bartholomew Berg assured him. "Not at all. You
do me an injustice."

Griebler moved up closer to the broad table. The two fell into a
low-voiced talk. Jock looked rather helplessly around at Sam Hupp.
That alert gentleman was signaling him frantically with head and
wagging finger. Jock crossed the big room to Hupp's side. The two
moved off to a window at the far end.

"Give heed to your Unkie," said Sam Hupp, talking very rapidly,
very softly, and out of one corner of his mouth. "This Griebler's
looking for an advertising manager. He's as pig-headed as
a--a--well, as a pig, I suppose. But it's a corking chance,
youngster, and the Old Man's just recommended you--strong. Now--"

"Me--!" exploded Jock.