His slim
brown fingers never stopped in their work of guiding the pen in
its zigzag path.
"It is work," he sneered, "to delight the soul of an artist. I am
now engaged in the pleasing task of putting the bones in a
herringbone suit."
But Jock did not smile. Here was another man, he thought, who had
been given a broom and told to sweep down the stairway.
Von Herman was regarding him almost wistfully. "I hate to let you
slip," he said. Then, his face brightening, "By Jove! I wonder if
Miss Galt would pose for us if we told her what a fix we were in."
He picked up the telephone receiver. "Miss Galt, please," he said.
Then, aside, "Of course it's nerve to ask a girl who's earning
three thousand a year to leave her desk and come up and pose
for--Hello! Miss Galt?"
Jock, seated on the edge of the models' platform, was beginning to
enjoy himself. Even this end of the advertising business had its
interesting side, he thought. Ten minutes later he knew it had.
Ten minutes later there appeared Miss Galt. Jock left off
swinging his legs from the platform and stood up. Miss Galt was
that kind of girl. Smooth black hair parted and coiled low as only
an exquisitely shaped head can dare to wear its glory-crown.
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