Ben Griebler removed the cigar from his lips.  He was stuttering with anger.  With a mingling of despair and boldness Jock saw the advantage of that stuttering moment and seized on it.  He stepped close to the broad table-desk, resting both hands on it and leaning forward slightly in his eagerness.

“Mr. Berg—­I have a plan.  Mr. Hupp can tell you.  It came to me when I first heard that the Grieblers were going to broaden out.  It’s a real idea.  I’m sure of that.  I’ve worked it out in detail.  Mr. Hupp himself said it—­Why, I’ve got the actual copy.  And it’s new.  Absolutely.  It never—­”

“Trot it out!” shouted Ben Griebler.  “I’d like to see one idea anyway, around this shop.”

“McChesney,” said Bartholomew Berg, not raising his voice.  His eyes rested on Jock with the steady, penetrating gaze that was peculiar to him.  More foolhardy men than Jock McChesney had faltered and paused, abashed, under those eyes.  “McChesney, your enthusiasm for your work is causing you to forget one thing that must never be forgotten in this office.”

Jock stepped back.  His lower lip was caught between his teeth.  At the same moment Ben Griebler snatched up his hat from the table, clapped it on his head at an absurd angle and, bristling like a fighting cock, confronted the three men.

“I’ve got a couple of rules myself,” he cried, “and don’t you forget it.  When you get a little spare time, you look up St. Louis and find out what state it’s in.  The slogan of that state is my slogan, you bet.  If you think I’m going to make you a present of the money that it took my old man fifty years to pile up, then you don’t know that Griebler is a German name.  Good day, gents.”

He stalked to the door.  There he turned dramatically and leveled a forefinger at Jock.  “They’ve got you roped and tied.  But I think you’re a comer.  If you change your mind, kid, come and see me.”

The door slammed behind him.

“Whew!” whistled Sam Hupp, passing a handkerchief over his bald spot.

Bartholomew Berg reached out with one great capable hand and swept toward him a pile of papers.  “Oh, well, you can’t blame him.  Advertising has been a scream for so long.  Griebler doesn’t know the difference between advertising, publicity, and bunk.  He’ll learn.  But it’ll be an awfully expensive course.  Now, Hupp, let’s go over this Kalamazoo account.  That’ll be all, McChesney.”

Jock turned without a word.  He walked quickly through the outer office, into the great main room.  There he stopped at the switchboard.

“Er—­Miss Grimes,” he said, smiling charmingly.  “Where’s this Mr. Griebler, of St. Louis, stopping; do you know?”

“Say, where would he stop?” retorted the wise Miss Grimes.  “Look at him!  The Waldorf, of course.”

“Thanks,” said Jock, still smiling.  And went back to his desk.

At five Jock left the office.  Under his arm he carried the flat pasteboard package secured by elastic bands.  At five-fifteen he walked swiftly down the famous corridor of the great red stone hotel.  The colorful glittering crowd that surged all about him he seemed not to see.  He made straight for the main desk with its battalion of clerks.