The accent of the word stirred Jeremy’s bile. He did not know that it was merely a sub-conscious stock trick of Mr. Clark’s; that there were certain words, such as “rippawtah,” “culchah,” “legislaychuh,” and the like, whereby he asserted his superiority of intellectual status, reverting to the comfortable speech of the Middle West for the communication of other thoughts. “I’m from The Record,” he said. “Take this.” The public-utilitarian began to dictate.... “Got that? Be sure to be accurate. This is important.” To the reporter it seemed neither important nor interesting. It was a statement concerning a projected change, petty, administrative, and technical, in the conduct of the trolley system. Had it been of the most vital significance, the “rippawtah” would still have grilled at the impersonal arrogance of the other’s attitude. “Got that?” repeated Mr. Clark, after another passage. “Read it over.” Jeremy laid down his pencil. “Don’t you think you’d better send for one of your stenographers?” “What for?” demanded the other. “A rippawtah ought to be able to take dictation, if he’s competent.” “A ‘rippawtah,’ as you call him, is accustomed to a certain degree of courtesy.” Mr. Montrose Clark pressed a button and his hand-perfected private secretary popped in. “Garson! Call The Record. Tell Farley to instruct his rippawtah to follow directions and not be insolent.” Red to his cheek-bones, Jeremy tore up the sheet of paper on which he had been writing, dropped the pieces upon the immaculate rug of the outraged Mr. Montrose Clark, and marched out. Straight to The Record office he went and sought Wackley. “You can have my job. I’m through.” “What’s the matter?” asked the astonished and alarmed managing editor. Jeremy told him. Wackley laughed. He had no intention of losing so valuable a man as Robson.