Jock was at ease immediately.  “Quite a lot; yes.  I practically rewrote the Gridiron play that we gave last year, and I was assistant advertising manager of the college publications for two years.  That gives a fellow a pretty broad knowledge of advertising.”

“Oh, Lord!” groaned Sam Hupp, and covered his eyes with his hand, as if in pain.

Jock stared.  The affronted feeling was returning.  Sam Hupp recovered himself and smiled a little wistfully.

“McChesney, when I came up here twelve years ago I got a job as reception-room usher.  A reception-room usher is an office boy in long pants.  Sometimes, when I’m optimistic, I think that if I live twelve years longer I’ll begin to know something about the rudiments of this game.”

“Oh, of course,” began Jock, apologetically.  But Hupp’s glance was over his head.  Involuntarily Jock turned to follow the direction of his eyes.

“Busy?” said a voice from the doorway.

“Come in, Dutch!  Come in!” boomed Hupp.

The man who entered was of the sort that the boldest might well hesitate to address as “Dutch”—­a tall, slim, elegant figure, Van-dyked, bronzed.

“McChesney, this is Von Herman, head of our art department.”

Their hands met in a brief clasp.  Von Herman’s thoughts were evidently elsewhere.

“Just wanted to tell you that that cussed model’s skipped out.  Gone with a show.  Just when I had the whole series blocked out in my mind.  He was a wonder.  No brains, but a marvel for looks and style.  These people want real stuff.  Don’t know how I’m going to give it to them now.”

Hupp sat up.  “Got to!” he snapped.  “Campaign’s late, as it is.  Can’t you get an ordinary man model and fake the Greek god beauty?”

“Yes—­but it’ll look faked.  If I could lay my hands on a chap who could wear clothes as if they belonged to him—­”

Hupp rose.  “Here’s your man,” he cried, with a snap of his fingers.  “Clothes!  Look at him.  He invented ’em.  Why, you could photograph him and he’d look like a drawing.”

Von Herman turned, surprised, incredulous, hopeful, his artist eye brightening at the ease and grace and modishness of the smart, well-knit figure before him.

“Me!” exploded Jock, his face suffused with a dull, painful red.  “Me!  Pose!  For a clothing ad!”

“Well,” Hupp reminded him, “you said you’d do anything.”

Jock McChesney glared belligerently.  Hupp returned the stare with a faint gleam of amusement shining behind the absurd glasses.  The amused look changed to surprise as he beheld the glare in Jock’s eyes fading.  For even as he glared there had come a warning to Jock—­a warning sent just in time from that wireless station located in his subconscious mind.  A vivid face, full of pride, and hope, and encouragement flashed before him.

“Jock,” it said, “don’t let ’em buffalo you.  They’ll try it.  If they give you a broom and tell you to sweep down the back stairs—­”