“Mr. Galton knows the kind you have. I suppose that's why he gave you the page.” The words, spoken in the shrewd-sounding Manchester accent, were neither flattering nor unflattering; they were merely impartial. “Well, now I've got it, I can't fall down,” said Tembarom. “I've got to find out for myself how to get next to the people I want to talk to. I've got to find out who to get next to.” Little Ann put in the final red stitch of the letter J and laid the sock neatly folded on the basket. “I've just been thinking something, Mr. Tembarom,” she said. “Who makes the wedding-cakes?” He gave a delighted start. “Gee!” he broke out, “the wedding-cakes!” “Yes,” Little Ann proceeded, “they'd have to have wedding-cakes, and perhaps if you went to the shops where they're sold and could make friends with the people, they'd tell you whom they were selling them to, and you could get the addresses and go and find out things.” Tembarom, glowing with admiring enthusiasm, thrust out his hand. “Little Ann, shake!” he said. “You've given me the whole show, just like I thought you would. You're just the limit.” “Well, a wedding-cake's the next thing after the bride,” she answered. Her practical little head had given him the practical lead. The mere wedding-cake opened up vistas. Confectioners supplied not only weddings, but refreshments for receptions and dances. Dances suggested the “halls” in which they were held. You could get information at such places. Then there were the churches, and the florists who decorated festal scenes. Tembarom's excitement grew as he talked. One plan led to another; vistas opened on all sides. It all began to look so easy that he could not understand how Biker could possibly have gone into such a land of promise, and returned embittered and empty-handed. “He thought too much of himself and too little of other people,” Little Ann summed him up in her unsevere, reasonable voice. “That's so silly.” Tembarom tried not to look at her affectionately, but his voice was affectionate as well as admiring, despite him. “The way you get on to a thing just in three words!” he said. “Daniel Webster ain't in it.” “I dare say if you let the people in the shops know that you come from a newspaper, it'll be a help,” she went on with ingenuous worldly wisdom. “They'll think it'll be a kind of advertisement. And so it will. You get some neat cards printed with your name and Sunday Earth on them.” “Gee!” Tembarom ejaculated, slapping his knee, “there's another! You think of every darned thing, don't you?” She stopped a moment to look at him. “You'd have thought of it all yourself after a bit,” she said. She was not of those unseemly women whose intention it is manifestly to instruct the superior man. She had been born in a small Manchester street and trained by her mother, whose own training had evolved through affectionately discreet conjugal management of Mr. Hutchinson.