Jimmy opened the folded newspaper in his hand and passed it to his brother agent with a playful little flourish. As the latter read the indicated section Jimmy watched him out of the corner of his eye carefully looking for signs of approval. Along about the second paragraph a knowing smile began to curl the corners of Mr. Wilson’s mouth. His companion heaved a sigh of profound satisfaction and lolled back at peace with all the vasty universe. “That’s a pretty good start,” commented the other handing the paper back. “Rather a choice line of language, too.” “You said something,” returned Jimmy. “I’ve got a date with a couple of those words the next time I run into a dictionary. I betcha old E. Cartwright never gets wise. Nothing succeeds like the little old salve.” When the meeting of Local No. 78 of the Publicity Promoters’ Mutual Admiration Society adjourned about ten minutes later, Tom Wilson inquired if Jimmy was planning any more attacks on the common enemy. The latter yawned in simulation of great nonchalance. “Oh, I’ve got a few ideas I hope to put into general circulation before the day is over,” he remarked casually. “Old Henry P. Inspiration has been working overtime for me since I turned highbrow. I’ll walk down to the theatre with you.” Jimmy’s imagination indulged in grand and lofty tumbling on the way to the playhouse. It also soared and it may be stated, with due regard for veracity, that it looped the loop and otherwise comported itself in a highly sensational manner. If he had voiced only half of the weird notions for publicity that came to him, Tom Wilson would have undoubtedly felt constrained to take him firmly by the arm and lead him to an alienist. Jimmy’s mind always worked that way when he was particularly exalted. Usually there were one or two of the wild ideas that surged within him that could afterwards stand the cold light of reason and that served as the basis of successful onslaughts on the custodians of newspaper space. As the pair approached the big skyscraper that housed the Star, Jimmy turned to his companion. “You don’t mind if I drop in here and correct an ad proof, do you?” he asked. The other shook his head and they both entered the business office of the newspaper. Directly confronting them was a huge sign hung over the counter. It carried this legend in large letters: THE STAR’S APPLE PIE CONTEST IS NOW ON ENTER YOUR PIES EARLY Jimmy stood still and let the words sink in. They bore to him a message of infinite hope. He leaned over eagerly to the young woman behind the counter. “Say, miss,” he inquired. “Where can I get the dope on this pie contest?” “Miss Slosson, the pie editor—right in the back of the office here,” responded the girl. Jimmy grabbed Tom Wilson by the arm and led him towards the rear of the room. “I’m going to put it over on this sheet again just for luck,” he confided.