n
his hour of triumph--the desire to tell a woman of his greatness.
He paused a second outside Sam Hupp's office, turned, and walked
quickly down the length of the great central room. He stopped
before a little glass door at the end, tapped lightly, and
entered.

Grace Galt, copy-writer, looked up, frowning a little. Then she
smiled. Miss Galt had a complete layout on the desk before
her--scrap books, cuts, copy, magazines. There was a little smudge
on the end of her nose. Grace Galt was writing about magnetos.
She was writing about magnetos in a way to make you want to drop
your customer, or your ironing, or your game, and go downtown and
buy that particular kind of magneto at once. Which is the
secretest part of the wizardry of advertising copy. To look at
Grace Galt you would have thought that she should have been
writing about the rose-tinted jars in Jock McChesney's hands
instead of about such things as ignition, and insulation, and ball
bearings, and induction windings. But it was Grace Galt's gift
that she could take just such hard, dry, technical facts and weave
them into a story that you followed to the end. She could make you
see the romance in condensers and transformers. She had the power
that caused the reader to lose himself in the charm of magnetic
poles, and ball bearings, and high-tension sparks.

"Just dropped in to say good-by," said Jock, very casually. "Going
to run up-state to see the Athena Company--toilette specialties,
you know. It ought to be a big account."

"Athena?" Grace Galt regarded him absently, her mind still on her
work. Then her eyes cleared. "You mean at Tonawanda? And they're
sending you! Well!" She put out a congratulatory hand. Jock
gripped it gratefully.

"Not so bad, eh?" he boasted.

"Bad!" echoed Grace Galt. Her face became serious. "Do you realize
that there are men in this office who have been here for five
years, six years, or even more, and who have never been given a
chance to do anything but stenography, or perhaps some private
secretarying?"

"I know it," agreed Jock. But there was no humbleness in his tone.
He radiated self-satisfaction. He seemed to grow and expand before
her eyes. A little shadow of doubt crept across Grace Galt's
expression of friendly interest.

"Are you scared," she asked; "just the least bit?"

Jock flushed a little. "Well," he confessed ruefully, "I don't
mind telling you I am--a little."

"Good!"

"Good?"

"Yes. The head of t