ver. I guess we'll have to let the Muse have that for an advertisement
instead of a poem the next time, March. Well, the old gentleman given
you boys your scolding?" The person of Fulkerson had got into the room
long before he reached this question, and had planted itself astride a
chair. Fulkerson looked over the chairback, now at March, and now at the
elder Dryfoos as he spoke.

March answered him. "I guess we must have been waiting for you,
Fulkerson. At any rate, we hadn't got to the scolding yet."

"Why, I didn't suppose Mr. Dryfoos could 'a' held in so long. I
understood he was awful mad at the way the thing started off, and wanted
to give you a piece of his mind, when he got at you. I inferred as much
from a remark that he made." March and Dryfoos looked foolish, as men do
when made the subject of this sort of merry misrepresentation.

"I reckon my scolding will keep awhile yet," said the old man, dryly.

"Well, then, I guess it's a good chance to give Mr. Dryfoos an idea of
what we've really done--just while we're resting, as Artemus Ward says.
Heigh, March?"

"I will let you blow the trumpet, Fulkerson. I think it belongs strictly
to the advertising department," said March. He now distinctly resented
the old man's failure to say anything to him of the magazine; he made
his inference that it was from a suspicion of his readiness to presume
upon a recognition of his share in the success, and he was determined to
second no sort of appeal for it.

"The advertising department is the heart and soul of every business,"
said Fulkerson, hardily, "and I like to keep my hand in with a little
practise on the trumpet in private. I don't believe Mr. Dryfoos has
got any idea of the extent of this thing. He's been out among those
Rackensackens, where we were all born, and he's read the notices in
their seven by nine dailies, and he's seen the thing selling on the
cars, and he thinks he appreciates what's been done. But I should just
like to take him round in this little old metropolis awhile, and show
him 'Every Other Week' on the centre tables of the millionaires--the
Vanderbilts and the Astors--and in the homes of culture and refinement
everywhere, and let him judge for himself. It's the talk of the clubs
and the dinner-tables; children cry for it; it's the Castoria of
literature and the Pearline of art, the 'Won't-be-happy-till-he-gets-it
of every en lightened man, woman, and child in this vast city. I knew we
could c