"Oh, no," the girl said positively. "Why should they do that?" "Well," Fleetwood said, watching her closely, "I overheard them talking just now, and they were saying something about following someone called Fleetwood Cassidy." "Oh, sure," the girl said and smiled in a way that didn't in the least degree mar her expression of profound placidity. "Everyone follows him." Fleetwood gaped. "Huh?" he said. "Uh-huh," the girl said. "The _Call_...." She broke off as an elderly man hailed her from the other end of the counter. "Hey, Kitty," he pleaded. "I haven't got all night, you know." "Sure, Max," Kitty answered amiably, and departed. "Wait!" Fleetwood said, but she didn't turn back. * * * * * Fleetwood furrowed his brow and pondered her last words. The call ... she had said. The call. The call of what? The call _to_ what, for that matter. Then it struck him like a coarsely threaded bolt flung out of the blue. The _Call_! Of course! The _Saturday Morning Call_! The very magazine which one of the girls, Clare or Connie, had bought and tucked so conspicuously under her arm on leaving the store. Fleetwood's mind raced. It was perfectly plain, cut and dried like an apricot in season. The _Call_ was the signal, the emblem of some secret society or organization which, for their own sinister purposes, was keeping tabs on him. The members made themselves known and communicated with each other through displaying the _Call_ under their arms. But why? It was absurd; by his very profession he was supposed to be a watcher, not a watchee. As he pondered this latest and newest equation he turned his gaze automatically to the magazine racks and the several issues of the _Call_ which were on display there. He looked, and fell back aghast, unable to believe his eyes But there it was nonetheless, in spite of his disbelief: BEGINNING IN THIS ISSUE! the banner across the cover gasped breathlessly, FLEETWOOD CASSIDY AND THE KIPPERED CAPER! As well he might, after taking this in, Fleetwood went limp on his stool, washed through with conflicting emotions. It was plain that either he or the world had lost all sanity. He closed his eyes and commanded his head to stop reeling. Even so, it was some moments before he regained sufficient composure to reopen his eyes and bend down to take up one of the magazines for a closer inspection. And when he did, it rattled and flapped about in his grip like a struggling egret in a blizzard. He maneuvered the magazine to the counter and eased an elbow onto it to hold it still. He gazed at it hollowly for some moments before, taking his courage in his hands, he opened it and churned through it to the first page of THE KIPPERED CAPER. He stared in silent wonder. There, rendered in natural tints, staring back at him with all the sweep and grandeur purchaseable from the hand of a top flight commercial artist, was his own face.