lives of M. D'Aubigne, the inventor, Lord Cholme, the promoter, and Mr. Francis Lord, the airman. He handed out photographs of the three. He handed out plans of the triplane. The reporters grew tired of seeing the press-agent, for he invariably handed out some deadly-dull document without the ghost of a story attached to it. The kindly human side of the great adventure seemed non-existent. The public wanted to know what the great man really looked like, what he had for breakfast, where he went in the evening, what he thought of Fifth Avenue, of the Woolworth Building, of our glorious country. And it followed naturally that since Mr. Francis Lord maintained his silence and invisibility, it devolved upon the Press to provide imaginative replies to all these burning questions. They described Mr. Francis Lord, they drew pictures of him in original attitudes, they reported rumours of his movements, they conjectured and arranged his future plans, they concocted competitions between him and illustrious American airmen, they professed to have heard that a Swiss was already preparing to beat Mr. Francis Lord's record by a flight from Lake Geneva to Lake Erie, they used all their genius to make a public success of Mr. Francis Lord and his achievement. And then they dropped him. To us, reading the news day by day after breakfast, it was, of course, inevitable. I think my friend felt it more than I, for he has a profound faith in publicity. It is the secret of his success as a publicist, I suppose. His theory is, that no matter how good your article may be, you cannot sell it unless you advertise. You must boom, you must shout and show yourself and talk to people. You must "get next." He calls it "making an appeal." He thinks Mr. Francis Lord and his wonderful press-agent had not played up to the great traditions of American newspaper life. He sketched lightly for me a plan which he and Larkin agreed would have "put him across." "But," I argued mildly, "what could he do? Do you propose he should hire a theatre and exhibit himself? Why should he _want_ to be advertised?" My friend made a movement of impatience. "You miss the whole point," he retorted. "Why did Whistler wear that white lock of hair of his? Why did Wilde start that Green Carnation stunt? Why did Chamberlain wear a monocle, or Gladstone those big collars?" "I don't know, I'm sure," I said feebly, "unless it was...." "It was simply to fix their personalities in the public mind. If you've done a big, wise thing, the public won't take any notice of you unless you do some little, silly thing." "I wish you'd tell the public this, old man," I said. "The public don't give a darn," he returned grimly. "Evidently they don't in this case. And I don't see why they should, if you ask me. Even suppose he _had_ crossed the Atlantic, which he hasn't, for he fell into the sea--even suppose he had, what of it? Would his walking up Fifth Avenue in pink tights with an arum lily in his hand...."