His repast consisted of a sandwich and a small bottle of well-frapped champagne.  To him, lunching, came a drummer of the patent medicine trade; a blatant and boastful fellow, from whose methods the diplomat in Mr. Belford Couch revolted.  Nevertheless, the newcomer was a forceful person, and when, over two ponies of brandy ordered by the luncher in the way of inevitable hospitality, he launched upon a criticism of some of the recent Certina legislative strategy as lacking vigor (a reproach by no means to be laid to the speaker’s language), Mr. Couch’s tenderest feelings were lacerated.  With considerable dignity for one in his condition, he bade his guest go farther and fare worse, and in mitigation of the latter’s Parthian taunt, “Kid-glove fussing, ’bo,” called Heaven and earth and the whole cafe to witness that, abhorrent though self-trumpeting was to him, no man had ever handled more delicately a prickly proposition than he had handled the Certina legislative interests.  Gazing about him for sympathy he espied the son of his chief passing between the tables, and hailed him.

Two casual meetings with Certina Charley had inspired in Hal a mildly amused curiosity.  Therefore, he readily enough accepted an invitation to sit down, while declining a coincident one to have a drink, on the plea that he was going to work.

“Say,” appealed Charley, “did you hear that cough-lozenge-peddling boob trying to tell me where to get off, in the proprietary game?  Me!”

“Perhaps he didn’t know who you are,” suggested Hal tactfully.

“Perhaps he don’t know the way from his hand to his face with a glass of booze, either,” retorted the offended one, with elaborate sarcasm.  “Everybody in the trade knows me.  Sure you won’t have a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“Don’t drink much myself,” announced the testimonial-chaser.  “Just once in a while.  Weak kidneys.”

“That’s a poor tribute from a Certina man.”

“Oh, Certina’s all right—­for those that want it.  The best doctor is none too good for me when I’m off my feed.”

“Well, they call Certina ‘the People’s Doctor,’” said Hal, quoting an argument his father had employed.

“One of the Chief’s catchwords.  And ain’t it a corker!  He’s the best old boy in the business, on the bunk.”

“Just what do you mean by that?” asked Hal coldly.

But Certina Charley was in an expansive mood.  It never occurred to him that the heir of the Certina millions was not in the Certina secrets:  that he did not wholly understand the nature of his father’s trade, and view it with the same jovial cynicism that inspired the old quack.

“Who’s to match him?” he challenged argumentatively.  “I tell you, they all go to school to him.  There ain’t one of our advertising tricks, from Old Lame-Boy down to the money-back guarantee, that the others haven’t crabbed.  Take that ‘People’s Doctor’ racket.  Schwarzman copied it for his Marovian Mixture.  Vollmer ran his ‘Poor Man’s Physician’ copy six months, on Marsh-Weed.  ‘Poor Man’s Doctor’!  It’s pretty dear treatment, I tell you.”