What do you want to do?"
Jock's mouth fell open. "Do!" he stammered. "Do! Why--anything--"
Sam Hupp's quick eye swept over the slim, attractive, radiant,
correctly-garbed young figure before him. Unconsciously he rubbed
his bald spot with a rueful hand.
"Know anything about writing, or advertising?"
Jock was at ease immediately. "Quite a lot; yes. I practically
rewrote the Gridiron play that we gave last year, and I was
assistant advertising manager of the college publications for
two years. That gives a fellow a pretty broad knowledge of
advertising."
"Oh, Lord!" groaned Sam Hupp, and covered his eyes with his hand,
as if in pain.
Jock stared. The affronted feeling was returning. Sam Hupp
recovered himself and smiled a little wistfully.
"McChesney, when I came up here twelve years ago I got a job as
reception-room usher. A reception-room usher is an office boy in
long pants. Sometimes, when I'm optimistic, I think that if I live
twelve years longer I'll begin to know something about the
rudiments of this game."
"Oh, of course," began Jock, apologetically. But Hupp's glance was
over his head. Involuntarily Jock turned to follow the direction
of his eyes.
"Busy?" said a voice from the doorway.
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