sleep like a dormouse.




CHAPTER VIII


Clem Sypher stood at the front door of Penton Court a day or two
afterwards, awaiting his guests and taking the air. The leaves of the oaks
that lined the drive fell slowly under the breath of a southwest wind, and
joined their sodden brethren on the path. The morning mist still hung
around the branches. The sky threatened rain.

A servant came from within the house, bringing a telegram on a tray. Sypher
opened it, and his strong, pink face became as overcast as the sky. It was
from the London office of the Cure, and contained the information that one
of his largest buyers had reduced his usual order by half. The news was
depressing. So was the prospect before him, of dripping trees and of
evergreens on the lawn trying to make the best of it in forlorn bravery.
Heaven had ordained that the earth should be fair and Sypher's Cure
invincible. Something was curiously wrong in the execution of Heaven's
decrees. He looked again at the preposterous statement, knitting his brow.
Surely this was some base contrivance of the enemy. They had been
underselling and outadvertising him for months, and had ousted him from the
custom of several large firms already. Something had to be done. As has
been remarked before, Sypher was a man of Napoleonic methods. He called for
a telegraph form, and wrote as he stood, with the tray as a desk:

"If you can't buy advertising rights on St. Paul's Cathedral or