Conover, a dapper young man with heavy eye-glasses, greeted Hal with
some interest, and then turned to the business in hand.

"What'd you think of 'Anti-Pellets'?" he asked. "Anti, opposed to, you
know. In the sub-line, tell what they're opposed to: indigestion,
appendicitis, and so on."

"Don't like it," returned Dr. Surtaine abruptly. "Anti-Ralgia's played
that to death. Lemme think, for a moment."

Down he plumped into Conover's chair, seized a pencil and made tentative
jabs at a sheet of paper. "Pellets, pellets," he muttered. Then, in a
kind of subdued roar, "I've got it! I've got it, Con! 'Pro-Pellets.'
Tell people what they're for, not what they're against. Besides, the
name has got the idea of pro-pulsion. See? Pro-Pellets, pro-pel!" His
big fist shot forward like a piston-rod. "Just the idea for a laxative.
Eh?"

"Fine!" agreed Conover, a little ruefully, but with genuine
appreciation of the fitness of the name. "I wish I'd thought of it."

"You did--pretty near. Anyway, you made me think of it. Anti-Pellets,
Pro-Pellets: it's just one step. Like as not you'd have seen it yourself
if I hadn't butted in. Now, go to it, and figure out your series on
that."

With kindly hands he pushed Conover back into his chair, gave him a
hearty pat on the shoulder, and passed on. Hal began to have an inkling
of the reasons for his father's popularity.