“Well, it’s this way,” said Jimmie eagerly. “I’ve got to smear the Frolics girls all over the front page of one of your newspapers, and I’ve got an idea how to do it. Now don’t stop and pull that ‘it can’t be done’ gag on me. That’s the pet line of every house manager from Bangor, Maine, to San Diego. Every time you spring a new one they throw up their mitts and tell you that ‘it can’t be done.’ Clean the sand out of your running gear and go along with me on this one for once in your life.” Mr. Seymour raised a protesting hand and tried to break in, but Jimmy rattled on. “I’m going to pull a story,” he continued, “that a bunch of prominent members of the Washington Automobile Club are going to take all the girls for a joy ride next Sunday morning to a point midway between Washington and Baltimore and that another bunch of leading citizens—members of the automobile club of your own fair city are going to pick ’em up there in their cars and bring ’em into town. Ain’t it a great little idea?” A sardonic smile brightened the face of the cynical Mr. Seymour. “It’s certainly a great little idea, Mr. Martin,” he said, “and I have no doubt that all the city editors in town will be so grateful to you for letting them in on the story that they will have gold medals struck off commemorating the event.” The underlying sarcasm of this speech did not check Jimmy’s enthusiasm. “Of course, someone will have to stand for the story,” he said. “I’m not going up cold to any paper with a yarn like that and expect ’em to fall for it, without some confirmation. What I want you to do is to tip me off to some friend of yours, some nice, agreeable party who’s a member of the club and whose name carries a lot of class, a party who’s a good enough scout to help a fellow in a pinch. I’ll talk him into standing for the yarn, and slipping me a list of names. Can’t you suggest someone?” Mr. Seymour’s eyes gleamed maliciously. He leaned over and grasped Jimmy’s arm in a pretense of great friendliness. “I know just the man,” he said, “just the man.” “Well, spill his name,” replied Jimmy. “I’ll get to him before lunch.” “Donald McDonald’s the man,” said Mr. Seymour. “He’s the vice-president of the club and the president of the Merchant’s Trust Company. He’s a jovial, jolly, good fellow who’d be tickled to death to stand for a stunt like that. Just mention my name. There’s no doubt in the world, but what he’ll help us out. Is there, Larabee?” Mr. Larabee, the architect, who was having a desperate time trying to smother a chuckle, assumed an expression of great wisdom and remarked: “You couldn’t have suggested a better choice, Seymour.” “His office is on the eleventh floor of the Merchants’ Trust building,” broke in Seymour. “Two blocks down and one block to the right.” Jimmy jumped down from the desk, jabbed on his hat and started for the door. “Thanks, fellows, for the tip,” he called back over his shoulder. “I’ll see you in a little while.”