"Spell it!" chorused the reporters; and H. Rutgers did, slowly and patiently. At once the _Evening Journalist_ rushed on to telephone the caption of a story to his paper. That would enable the office to get out an extra; after which would come another edition with the story itself. He was the best head-line reporter in all New York. Long before the National Street Advertising Men's Association reached the Colossal Restaurant, Caspar Weinpusslacher converted himself into a Teutonic hurricane and changed thirty short tables into three, long ones. On his lips was a smile, and in his heart a hope that glowed like an incandescent twenty-dollar gold piece, for Max Onthemaker had rushed in breathlessly and gasped: "He _is_ a smart feller, all right. What?" And he gave an _Evening Journal_ to Caspar Weinpusslacher, wherein he read this: SANDWICH PARADE PATHETIC PROTEST AGAINST INDUSTRIAL SLAVERY PAUPERS WHO WILL NEITHER STEAL NOR BEG FORCED BY SOCIETY TO STARVE SANDWICH WAGES, TWO CENTS AN HOUR MEN ABOUT TO DIE SALUTE NEW YORK The Sandwich-men's Union will hold their annual meeting at Weinpusslacher's Colossal Restaurant. They have been saving up for this, their one square meal this year. They are paid from twenty to forty cents a day and walk from fifteen to thirty miles in the ten hours. Did you know that twice in the Old and five times in the New Testament mention is made of the sandwich-men? Do you know why Catholic Spain and anti-Semitic Russia alike permit no sandwich-men to ply their time-honored occupation within their confines? There the article abruptly ended. "Weinie," said Max, exultingly, "this makes you. Be very nice to Mr. Rutgers. You'll have to pay him thousands of dollars--" "Then, you vas in league mit him?" "No. But he's a genius!" "I thought he was German," said C. Weinpusslacher, controversially. "Get busy, Weinie. The crowd will be here in a minute. And don't ask Mr. Rutgers to pay for his dinner." "Why not?" growled Weinie. He was on his way to a sure million. That made the growl natural. "What is thirty dollars for their dinner to thirty thousand dollars worth of free advertising?" "Thirty dollars," observed C. Weinpusslacher, thriftily, "is _thirty dollars_!" "Bah!" "I tell you, it is, mister." C. Weinpusslacher frowned pugnaciously. But Onthemaker knew his man. So he said: "I'll get Meyer Rabinowitz to give us an option on the property to-night before he reads the newspapers. As Rutgers said, once your place is a success, you'll have to pay any price the landlord wants. Meyer's got you! I can hear your squeals of agony already!" Max shook his head so gloomily that C. Weinpusslacher actually began to tremble with joy. The thought of making money did not move him. The thought of losing the money he had not made, did. Oh yes; born money-makers!