Our ads. done the work.  “Country weeklies and Washington hand-press dailies, of course,” says I when we was ready to make contracts.

“Man,” says Atterbury, “as its advertising manager you would cause a Limburger cheese factory to remain undiscovered during a hot summer.  The game we’re after is right here in New York and Brooklyn and the Harlem reading-rooms.  They’re the people that the street-car fenders and the Answers to Correspondents columns and the pickpocket notices are made for.  We want our ads. in the biggest city dailies, top of column, next to editorials on radium and pictures of the girl doing health exercises.”

Pretty soon the money begins to roll in.  Buck didn’t have to pretend to be busy; his desk was piled high up with money orders and checks and greenbacks.  People began to drop in the office and buy stock every day.

Most of the shares went in small amounts—­$10 and $25 and $50, and a good many $2 and $3 lots.  And the bald and inviolate cranium of President Atterbury shines with enthusiasm and demerit, while Colonel Tecumseh Pickens, the rude but reputable Croesus of the West, consumes so many apples that the peelings hang to the floor from the mahogany garbage chest that he calls his desk.

Just as Atterbury said, we ran along about three months without being troubled.  Buck cashed the paper as fast as it came in and kept the money in a safe deposit vault a block or so away.  Buck never thought much of banks for such purposes.  We paid the interest regular on the stock we’d sold, so there was nothing for anybody to squeal about.  We had nearly $50,000 on hand and all three of us had been living as high as prize fighters out of training.

One morning, as me and Buck sauntered into the office, fat and flippant, from our noon grub, we met an easy-looking fellow, with a bright eye and a pipe in his mouth, coming out.  We found Atterbury looking like he’d been caught a mile from home in a wet shower.

“Know that man?” he asked us.

We said we didn’t.

“I don’t either,” says Atterbury, wiping off his head; “but I’ll bet enough Gold Bonds to paper a cell in the Tombs that he’s a newspaper reporter.”

“What did he want?” asks Buck.

“Information,” says our president.  “Said he was thinking of buying some stock.  He asked me about nine hundred questions, and every one of ’em hit some sore place in the business.  I know he’s on a paper.  You can’t fool me.  You see a man about half shabby, with an eye like a gimlet, smoking cut plug, with dandruff on his coat collar, and knowing more than J. P. Morgan and Shakespeare put together—­if that ain’t a reporter I never saw one.  I was afraid of this.  I don’t mind detectives and post-office inspectors—­I talk to ’em eight minutes and then sell ’em stock—­but them reporters take the starch out of my collar.  Boys, I recommend that we declare a dividend and fade away.  The signs point that way.”