“I’ve seen some of their stuff advertised—­somewhere,” interrupted Jock, “but I don’t remember—­”

“There you are.  You see the head of this concern is a little bit frightened at the way she seems slated to become a lady cold cream magnate.  They say she’s scared pink for fear somebody will steal her recipes.  She has a kid nephew who acts as general manager, and they’re both on the job all the time.  They say the lady herself looks like the spinster in a b’gosh drama.  You can get a boy to look up your train schedule.”

Train!  Schedule!  Across Jock McChesney’s mind there flashed a vision of himself, alert, confident, brisk, taking the luxurious nine o’clock for Philadelphia.  Or, maybe, the Limited to Chicago.  Dashing down to the station in a taxi, of course.  Strolling down the car aisle to take his place among those other thoroughbreds of commerce—­men whose chamois gloves and walking sticks, and talk of golf and baseball and motoring spelled elegant leisure, even as their keen eyes and shrewd faces and low-voiced exchange of such terms as “stocks,” and “sales” and “propositions” proclaimed them intent on bagging the day’s business.  Sam Hupp’s next words brought him back to reality with a jerk.

“I think you have to change at Buffalo.  It gets you to Tonawanda in the morning.  Rotten train.”

“Tonawanda!” repeated Jock.

“Now listen, kid.”  Sam Hupp leaned forward, and his eyes behind their great round black-rimmed glasses were intent on Jock.  “I’m not going to try to steer you.  You think that advertising is a game.  It isn’t.  There are those who think it’s a science.  But it isn’t that either.  It’s white magic, that’s what it is.  And you can’t learn it from books, any more than you can master trout fishing from reading ‘The Complete Angler.’” He swung about and swept the beauty lotions before him in a little heap at the end of his desk.  “Here, take this stuff.  And get chummy with it.  Eat it, if necessary; learn it somehow.”

Jock stood up, a little dazed.  “But, what!—­How?—­I mean—­”

Sam Hupp glanced up at him.  “Sending you down there isn’t my idea.  It’s the Old Man’s.  He’s got an idea that you—­” He paused and put a detaining hand on Jock McChesney’s arm.  “Look here.  You think I know a little something about advertising, don’t you?”

“You!” laughed Jock.  “You’re the guy who put the whitening in the Great White Way.  Everybody knows you were the—­”

“M-m-m, thanks,” interrupted Sam Hupp, a little dryly.  “Let me tell you something, young ’un.  I’ve got what you might call a thirty-horse-power mind.  I keep it running on high all the time, with the muffler cut out, and you can hear me coming for miles.  But the Old Man,”—­he leaned forward impressively,—­“the Old Man, boy, has the eighty-power kind, built like a watch—­no smoke, no dripping, and you can’t even hear the engine purr.  But when he throws her open!  Well, he can pass everything on the road.  Don’t forget that.”  He turned to his desk again and reached for a stack of papers and cuts.  “Good luck to you.  If you want any further details you can get ’em from Hayes.”  He plunged into his work.