And so Chestie sat him down at his little school-desk in the attic, which he had fixed up neatly as his office with a newsprint of St. Elmo as his patron saint, and after three non-union days’ labor he carved out this modest little synopsis of his advertisorial equipment: I AM CHESTERTON OF SQUIRRELVILLE—I write serial follow-ups that tear the teeth out of indifference, pull the wool off the sky-piece of scepticism, rouse interest to a frenzy and send the prospect screaming down the aisle to pay tithe to the titillating tin box. A sample letter will cost you $100.00. Three letters for $200.00. Cash with order regardless of rating. Business already booked makes delivery of copy impossible to guarantee under seven months after order is placed. Looking the copy over once more, Chesterton decided that there was only one thing the matter with it. The price was too much to the Clothing Sale. So he raised it another $100.00 and then fired the copy off to a couple of good advertising media. Then he lit up a piece of tampa twine and walked out in the backyard and put chicken-wire around all the trees so the goats would not bark them when the stampede commenced. One week later the Postman was rolling up Chesterton’s mail in barrels. One year later, all Squirrelville was working in various departments of the Chesterton Advertising Agency. _Lesson for Today:_ If you’re going to “do,” then do; otherwise, don’t. HOT SKETCH NO. 6 THE SALESMAN WHO BECAME BUYER BILL was a Salesman with a series of chins, who chewed the ends of his cigars and was by nature Very Sociable. The bell sprints would all stampede for his Leathers when he arrived at a/an hotel, and the Clerk always had some little confidential pleasantry to whisper into his large jovial ear when handing him his Room Key. Bill abhorred all forms of convention, had no use for vests, and never called any man “Mr.” past the introduction, no matter how high the social or financial pinnacle from which the party breathed his ozone. In the course of a twenty-minute conversation a Mr. John Wanamaker would become plain “Wanamaker,” then “John” and finally “Jack,” whether Jack liked it or not. Truthfully speaking, it cannot be said that Bill’s particular brew of bon-hominy made as big a hit with the average Buyer as it did, for example, with the drayman who juggled the trunks up to the Hotel. As a matter of bald clean-shaven fact, most of the Larger Buyers in Bill’s territory threw up a redoubt of icy Reserve every time he wheezed in to see them; and, to anyone of Bill’s Genial and Sunny Nature, such an aggressive exhibition of unsociabiliousness is sure to prove a thorn in the flank. Thus it was that Bill in time made no dark secret of his Real Opinion of any man who thought he had to starch all up like a Bank President just because a pull with the Powers had made him a Buyer instead of a Bill Clerk.