ideas at every pore.

Roland's first notion had been to engage a staff of contributors. He
was under the impression that contributors were the life-blood of a
weekly journal. Mr. Petheram corrected this view. He consented to the
purchase of a lurid serial story, but that was the last concession he
made. Nobody could accuse Mr. Petheram of lack of energy. He was
willing, even anxious, to write the whole paper himself, with the
exception of the Woman's Page, now brightly conducted once more by Miss
March. What he wanted Roland to concentrate himself upon was the
supplying of capital for ingenious advertising schemes.

"How would it be," he asked one morning--he always began his remarks
with, "How would it be?"--"if we paid a man to walk down Piccadilly in
white skin-tights with the word 'Squibs' painted in red letters across
his chest?"

Roland thought it would certainly not be.

"Good sound advertising stunt," urged Mr. Petheram. "You don't like it?
All right. You're the boss. Well, how would it be to have a squad of
men dressed as Zulus with white shields bearing the legend 'Squibs?'
See what I mean? Have them sprinting along the Strand shouting, 'Wah!
Wah! Wah! Buy it! Buy it!' It would make people talk."

Roland emerged from these interviews with his skin crawling with modest
apprehension. His was a retiring nature, and the thought of Zulus
sprinting down the Strand shouting "Wah! Wah! Wah! Buy it! Buy it!"
with reference to his personal property appalled him.