He stalked to the door. There he turned dramatically and leveled a
forefinger at Jock. "They've got you roped and tied. But I think
you're a comer. If you change your mind, kid, come and see me."

The door slammed behind him.

"Whew!" whistled Sam Hupp, passing a handkerchief over his bald
spot.

Bartholomew Berg reached out with one great capable hand and swept
toward him a pile of papers. "Oh, well, you can't blame him.
Advertising has been a scream for so long. Griebler doesn't know
the difference between advertising, publicity, and bunk. He'll
learn. But it'll be an awfully expensive course. Now, Hupp, let's
go over this Kalamazoo account. That'll be all, McChesney."

Jock turned without a word. He walked quickly through the outer
office, into the great main room. There he stopped at the
switchboard.

"Er--Miss Grimes," he said, smiling charmingly. "Where's this Mr.
Griebler, of St. Louis, stopping; do you know?"

"Say, where would he stop?" retorted the wise Miss Grimes. "Look
at him! The Waldorf, of course."

"Thanks," said Jock, still smiling. And went back to his desk.

At five Jock left the office. Under his arm he carried the flat
pasteboard package secured by elastic bands. At five-fifteen he