Murder Must Advertise

Chapter VIII. Convulsive Agitation of an Advertising Agency

It was on the Friday of the week in which all these stirring incidents occurred that Pym’s Publicity, Ltd. became convulsed by the Great Nutrax Row, which shook the whole office from the highest to the lowest, turned the peaceful premises into an armed camp and very nearly ruined the Staff Cricket Match against Brotherhood’s, Ltd.

The hardworking and dyspeptic Mr. Copley was the prime mover of all the trouble. Like most fomenters of schism, he acted throughout with the best intentions-and indeed, when one looks back upon the disturbance in the serene perspective of distance and impartiality, it is difficult to see what he could have done, other than what he did. But as Mr. Ingleby observed at the time, “It isn’t what Copley does, it’s the way he does it”; and in the heat and fury of the battle, when the passions of strong men are aroused, judgment easily becomes warped.

The thing started in this way:

At a quarter past six on the Thursday evening, the office was deserted, except for the cleaners and Mr. Copley, who, by an altogether exceptional accident, was left working overtime upon a rush series of cut-price advertisements for Jamboree Jellies. He was getting along nicely, and hoped to be through by half-past six and home in good time for 7.30 supper, when the telephone in the Dispatching rang violently and insistently.

“Dash it!” said Mr. Copley, annoyed by the din, “they ought to know the office is closed. You’d think they expected us to work all night.”

He went on working, trusting that the nuisance would cease of itself. Presently it did cease, and he heard the shrill voice of Mrs. Crump informing the caller that there was nobody in the office. He took a soda-mint tablet. His sentence was shaping itself beautifully. “The authentic flavour of the fresh home-grown orchard fruit-of apricots ripening in the sunny warmth of an old, walled garden…”

“Excuse me, sir.”

Mrs. Crump, shuffling apologetically in her carpet slippers, poked a nervous head round the door.

“What is it now?” said Mr. Copley.

“Oh, if you please, sir, it’s the Morning Star on the telephone very urgent, asking for Mr. Tallboy. I told them they was all gone ’ome, but they says it’s very important, sir, so I thought I’d better ask you.”

“What’s it all about?”

“Somethink about the advertisement for tomorrow morning, sir-somethink’s gone wrong and they say, did it ought to be left out altogether or can we send them somethink else, sir?”

“Oh, well!” said Mr. Copley, resigned, “I suppose I’d better come and speak to them.”

“I dunno whether I done right, sir,” continued Mrs. Crump, anxiously pattering after him, “but I thought, sir, if there is a gentleman in the office I ought to tell him about it, because I didn’t know but what it mightn’t be important-”

“Quite right, Mrs. Crump, quite right,” said Mr. Copley. “I daresay I can settle it.”

He strode competently to the telephone and grasped the receiver.

“Hullo!” he said, petulantly, “Pym’s here. What’s the matter?”

“Oh!” said a voice. “Is that Mr. Tallboy?”

“No. Mr. Tallboy’s gone home. Everybody’s gone home. You ought to know that by this time. What is it?”

“Well,” said the voice, “it’s about that Nutrax half-double for tomorrow’s feature page.”

“What about it? Haven’t you had it?”

(Just like Tallboy, thought Mr. Copley. No organization. You never could trust these younger men.)

“Yes, we’ve got it,” said the voice, doubtfully, “but Mr. Weekes says we can’t put it in. You see-”

“Can’t put it in?”

“No. You see, Mr.-”

“I’m Mr. Copley. It’s not in my department. I really know nothing about it. What’s the matter with it?”

“Well, if you had it there before you, you’d see what I mean. You know the headline-”

“No, I don’t,” snapped Mr. Copley, exasperated. “I tell you it’s not my business and I’ve never seen the thing.”

“Oh!” said the voice, with irritating cheerfulness. “Well, the headline is: ARE YOU TAKING TOO MUCH OUT OF YOURSELF? And, taken in conjunction with the sketch, Mr. Weekes thinks it might lay itself open to an unfortunate interpretation. If you had it there before you, I think you’d see what he means.”

“I see,” said Mr. Copley, thoughtfully. Fifteen years’ experience told him that this was disaster. There was no arguing with it. If the Morning Star got it into their heads that an advertisement contained some lurking indelicacy, that advertisement would not be printed, though the skies fell. Indeed, it was better that it should not. Errors of this kind lowered the prestige of the product and of the agency responsible. Mr. Copley had no fancy for seeing copies of Morning Star sold at half-a-crown a time in the Stock Exchange to provide a pornographer’s holiday.

In the midst of his annoyance, he felt the inward exultation of the Jeremiah whose prophecies have come true. He had always said that the younger generation of advertising writers were No Good. Too much of the new-fangled University element. Feather-headedness. No solid business sense. No thought. But he was well-trained. He carried the war instantly into the enemy’s camp.

“You ought to let us know earlier,” he said, severely. “It’s ridiculous to ring up at a quarter past six, when the office is closed. What do you expect us to do about it?”

“Not our fault,” said the voice, brightly. “It only came in ten minutes ago. We’re always asking Mr. Tallboy to let us have the blocks in better time, just to prevent this kind of situation.”

More and more confirmation of Mr. Copley’s prophecies. General slackness-that was what it was. Mr. Tallboy had left promptly at 5.30. Mr. Copley had seen him go. Clock-watchers, the whole lot of them. Tallboy had no business to leave before he had got an assurance from the paper that that block was received and that all was in order. Moreover, if the messenger had not delivered the parcel to the Morning Star til 6.5, he had either started too late, or had dawdled on the way. More bad management. That Johnson woman-no control, no discipline. Before the War there would have been no women in advertising offices, and none of these silly mistakes.

Still, something must be done.

“Very unfortunate,” said Mr. Copley. “Well, I’ll see if I can get hold of somebody. What’s your last moment for making an alteration?”

“Must have it down here by 7 o’clock,” said the voice, ineluctably. “As a matter of fact, the foundry is waiting for that sheet now. We only want your block to lock the forme. But I’ve spoken to Wilkes, and he says he can give you till seven.”

“I’ll ring you,” said Mr. Copley, and rang off.

Rapidly his mind raced over the list of people who were fitted to cope with the situation. Mr. Tallboy, the group-manager; Mr. Wedderburn, his group-secretary; Mr. Armstrong, the copy-chief responsible; the writer of the copy, whoever he was; in the last resort, Mr. Pym. It was a most unfortunate moment. Mr. Tallboy lived at Croydon, and was probably still swaying and sweltering in the train; Mr. Wedderburn-he really had no idea where he lived, except that it was probably in some still more remote suburb. Mr. Armstrong lived in Hampstead; he was not in the telephone-book, but his private number would doubtless be on the telephone-clerk’s desk; there was some hope of catching him. Mr. Copley hurried downstairs, found the list and the number and rang up. After two wrong numbers, he got the house. Mr. Armstrong’s housekeeper replied. Mr. Armstrong was out. She could not say where he had gone or when he would return. Could she take a message? Mr. Copley replied that it didn’t matter and rang off again. Half-past six.

He consulted the telephonist’s list again. Mr. Wedderburn did not appear upon it and presumably was not on the ’phone. Mr. Tallboy’s name was there. Without much hope, Mr. Copley got on to the Croydon number, only to hear, as he expected, that Mr. Tallboy had not yet returned. His heart sinking, Mr. Copley rang up Mr. Pym’s house. Mr. Pym had just that minute left. Where for? It was urgent. Mr. and Mrs. Pym were dining at Frascati’s with Mr. Armstrong. This sounded a little more hopeful. Mr. Copley rang up Frascati’s. Oh, yes. Mr. Pym had engaged a table for 7.30. He had not yet arrived. Could they give a message when he did arrive? Mr. Copley left a message to ask Mr. Pym or Mr. Armstrong to ring him up at the office before 7 o’clock if possible, but he felt convinced that nothing could possibly come of it. No doubt these gadding directors had gone to a cocktail party somewhere. He looked at the clock. It was 6.45. As he looked, the telephone rang again.

It was, as he had expected, the Morning Star, impatient for instructions.

“I can’t get hold of anybody,” explained Mr. Copley.

“What are we to do? Leave it out altogether?”

Now, when you see in a newspaper a blank white space, bearing the legend: “THIS SPACE RESERVED FOR SO-AND-SO LTD.,” it may mean nothing very much to you, but to those who know anything of the working of advertising agencies, those words carry the ultimate, ignominious brand of incompetency and failure. So-and-so’s agents have fallen down on their job; nothing can be alleged in mitigation. It is the Thing That Must Not Happen.

Mr. Copley, therefore, while savagely reflecting that it would serve the whole bunch of slackers and half-wits right if the space was left blank, ejaculated hastily: “No, no! on no account. Hold the line one moment. I’ll see what I can do.” In so doing he acted very properly, for it is the first and almost the only rule of business morality that the Firm must come first. Dashing hastily along the passage, he entered Mr. Tallboy’s room, which was on the same floor as the Dispatching and Copy departments, on the far side of the iron staircase. One minute brought him there; another minute, spent rummaging in Mr. Tallboy’s drawers, gave him what he wanted-an advance proof of the wretched Nutrax half-double. A glance showed him that Mr. Weeke’s doubts were perfectly justified. Each harmless enough in itself, sketch and headline together were deadly. Without waiting to wonder how so obvious a gaffe had escaped the eagle eyes of the department chiefs, Mr. Copley sat down and pulled out his pocket pencil. Nothing now could be done about the sketch; it must stand; his job was to find a new headline which would suit the sketch and the opening line of the copy, and contain approximately the same number of letters as the original.

Hurriedly he jotted down ideas and crossed them out. “WORK AND WORRY SAP NERVE-STRENGTH”-that was on the right lines, but was a few letters short. It was rather flat, too; and besides, it wasn’t quite true. Not work-over-work was what the copy was talking about. “WORRY AND OVERWORK”-no good, it lacked rhythm. “OVERWORK AND OVERWORRY”-far better, but too long. As it stood, the headline filled three lines (too much, thought Mr. Copley, for a half-double), being spaced thus:

Are You Taking

TOO MUCH OUT

OF YOURSELF?

He scribbled desperately, trying to save a letter here and there. “NERVOUS FORCE”? “NERVE-FORCE”? “NERVE-POWER”? The minutes were flying. Ah? how about this?

OVER-WORK &

OVER-WORRY-

waste Nerve-Power !

Not brilliant, but dead on the right note, unexceptionable and offering no difficulties about spacing. On the point of rushing back to the ’phone it occurred to him that the instrument on Mr. Tallboy’s desk might have been left connected to the switchboard. He removed the receiver; a reassuring buzz assured him that it was so. He spoke urgently:

“Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Look here. Can you cut away the headline and re-set in Goudy Bold?”

“Ye-es-Yes, we can just do that if we get it at once.”

“I’ll dictate it.”

“Right-ho! Fire away.”

“Start exactly where you start now with ‘ARE YOU TAKING.’ First line in caps, same size as the caps you’ve got there for ‘TOO MUCH OUT.’ Right. This is the line: ‘OVER-WORK &’-with hyphen in Over-work and an ampersand. Got that?”

“Yes.”

“Next line. Same size. Start two ems further in. ‘OVER-WORRY,’ Hyphen. Dash. Got that?”

“Yes.”

“Now, third line, Goudy 24-point upper and lower. Start under the W. ‘Waste Nerve-Power!’ Capital N, capital P, and screamer. Got that?”

“Yes; I’ll repeat. First line Goudy caps., starting level with cap A of present headline. O,V,E,R, hyphen, W,O,R,K, ampersand; second line, same fount, 2 ems to the right, O,V,E,R, hyphen, W,O,R,R,Y, dash. Third line. Start under W, Goudy 24 point upper and lower: lower-case w,a,s,t,e, capital N,e,r,v,e, hyphen, capital P,o,w,e,r, screamer. That O.K.?”

“That’s right. Much obliged.”

“Not at all. Much obliged to you. Sorry to bother you. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Mr. Copley sank back, mopping his brow. It was done. The firm was saved. Men had been decorated for less. When it came to an emergency, when all the jumped-up jacks-in-office had deserted their posts, it was on him, Mr. Copley, the old-fashioned man of experience, that Pym’s Publicity had to depend. A man who could grapple with a situation. A man not afraid of responsibility. A man whose heart and soul were wrapped up in his job. Suppose he had rushed off home on the stroke of half-past five, like Tallboy, caring nothing whether his work was done or not-what would have happened? Pym’s would have been in the cart. He would have something to say about it in the morning. He hoped it would be a jolly good lesson to them.

He pulled the roll-top of Mr. Tallboy’s desk down again over the disgracefully untidy set of pigeon-holes and the cluttered mass of paper that it nightly concealed, and as he did so, received fresh proof of the disorderliness of Mr. Tallboy’s habits. From some mysterious nook where it had become caught up, a registered envelope dislodged itself, and fell with a plump little flop to the floor.

Mr. Copley stooped at once and picked it up. It was addressed in block letters to J. Tallboy, Esq., at the Croydon address, and had already been opened. Peeping in at the slit end, Mr. Copley observed what could be nothing but a thickish wad of green currency notes. Yielding to a not unnatural impulse, Mr. Copley pulled them out, and counted, to his astonishment and indignation, no less than fifty of them.

If there was one action more than another which Mr. Copley condemned as Thoughtless and Unfair (long advertising practice had given him a trick of thinking in capital letters), it was Putting Temptation in People’s Way. Here was the colossal sum of Fifty Pounds, so carelessly secured that the mere opening of the desk sent it skittering to the floor, for Mrs. Crump and her corps of charladies to find. No doubt they were all very honest women, but in these Hard Times, a working woman could hardly be blamed if she succumbed. Worse still, suppose the precious envelope had got swept up and destroyed. Suppose it had fallen into the waste-paper basket and thence made its way to the sack and the paper-makers, or, still worse, to the furnace. Some innocent person might have been Falsely Accused, and laboured for the rest of her life under a Stigma. It was intolerable of Mr. Tallboy. It was Really Wicked.

Of course, Mr. Copley realized exactly what had happened. Mr. Tallboy had received this Large Sum (from whom? there was no covering letter; but that was hardly Mr. Copley’s business. Possibly these were winnings on dog-races, or something equally undesirable) and had brought it to the office, intending to bank it at the Metropolitan & Counties Bank at the corner of Southampton Row, where the majority of the staff kept their accounts. By some accident, he had been prevented from doing this before the Bank closed. Instead of bestowing the envelope safely in his pocket, he had thrust it into his desk, and at 5.30 had rushed off home in his usual helter-skelter way, and forgotten all about it. And if he had since given another thought to it, reflected Mr. Copley indignantly, it was probably only to assume that it would be “perfectly all right.” The man really ought to be given a lesson.

Very well, he should be given a lesson. The notes should be placed in safe custody and he, Mr. Copley, would give Mr. Tallboy a good talking-to in the morning. He hesitated for a moment as to the best plan. If he took the notes away with him, there was the possibility that he might have his pocket picked on the way home, which would be very unfortunate and expensive. It would be better to take them to his own room and lock them securely in the bottom drawer of his own desk. Mr. Copley congratulated himself upon the conscientious foresight that had prompted him to ask for a drawer with a proper lock.

He accordingly carried the packet to his room, put it safely away underneath a quantity of confidential papers dealing with future campaigns for tinned food and jellies, tidied up his own desk and locked it, pocketed the keys, brushed his hat and coat and took his virtuous departure, not forgetting to replace the telephone receiver upon its hook as he passed through the Dispatching.

He emerged from the doorway into the street, and crossed the road before turning south to the Theobald’s Road tram-terminus. On gaining the opposite pavement, he happened to glance back, and saw the figure of Mr. Tallboy coming up on the other side from the direction of Kingsway. Mr. Copley stood still and watched him. Mr. Tallboy named into Pym’s entrance and disappeared.

“Aha!” said Mr. Copley to himself, “he’s remembered about the money after all.”

It is at this point that Mr. Copley’s conduct is perhaps open to censure. A charitable fellow-feeling would, one imagines, have prompted him to dodge back through the traffic, to return to Pym’s, to take the lift to the top floor, to seek out the anxious Mr. Tallboy and to say to him: “Look here, old man, I found a registered packet of yours sculling about and put it away in safety and, by the bye, about that half-double for Nutrax-” But he did not.

Let us remember, in mitigation, that it was now half-past seven, that there was no chance of his getting back to his evening meal much before half-past eight, that he was of dyspeptic habit and dependent upon regular hours, and that he had had a long day, concluding with an entirely unnecessary piece of worry and hustle occasioned by Mr. Tallboy’s tiresomeness.

“Let him suffer for it,” said Mr. Copley, grimly. “It serves him right.”

He caught his tram and departed on his tedious way to a remote northern suburb. As he jolted and ground along, he planned to himself how, next day, he would score over Mr. Tallboy and earn commendations from the powers that were.

There was one factor with which Mr. Copley, in his anticipatory triumph, had failed to reckon; namely, that to obtain the full effect and splendour of his coup de théâtre it was necessary for him to get to the office before Mr. Tallboy. In his day-dream, he had taken this for granted-naturally so, since he was a punctual man at all times, and Mr. Tallboy was apt to be more punctual in departing than in arriving. Mr. Copley’s idea was that, after making a stately report to Mr. Armstrong at 9 o’clock, in the course of which Mr. Tallboy would be called in and admonished, he should then take the repentant group-manager privately to one side, read him a little lecture on orderliness and thought for others, and hand him over his fifty pounds with a paternal caution. Meanwhile, Mr. Armstrong would mention the Nutrax incident to the other directors, who would congratulate themselves on having so reliable, experienced, and devoted a servant. The words sang themselves into a little slogan in Mr. Copley’s head: “You can Count on Copley in a Crisis.”

But things did not turn out that way. To begin with, Mr. Copley’s late arrival on the Thursday night plunged him into a domestic storm which lasted into the night and still muttered with thunderous reverberations on the following morning.

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Copley, acidly, “that while you were telephoning to all these people, it was too much trouble to think of your wife. I don’t count at all, naturally. It’s nothing to you that I should be left imagining all kinds of things. Well, don’t blame me if the chicken is roasted to a chip and the potatoes are sodden, and you get indigestion.”

The chicken was roasted to a chip; the potatoes were sodden; and, in consequence, Mr. Copley did get a violent indigestion, to which his wife was obliged to minister with soda-mint and bismuth and hot-water bottles, voicing her opinion of him at every application. Not until six o’clock in the morning did he fall into a heavy and unrefreshing slumber, from which he was aroused at a quarter to eight by hearing. Mrs. Copley say:

“If you are going to the office today, Frederick, you had better get up. If you are not going, you may as well say so, and I will send a message. I have called you three times, and your breakfast is getting cold.”

Mr. Copley, with a bilious headache over his right eye and a nasty taste in his mouth, would gladly have authorized her to send the message-gladly have turned over upon his pillow and buried his woes in sleep, but the recollection of the Nutrax half-double and the fifty pounds rushed over him in a flood and swept him groaning from between the sheets. Seen in the morning light, to the accompaniment of black spots dancing before his eyes, the prospect of his triumph had lost much of its glamour. Still, he could not let it go with a mere explanation by telephone. He must be on the spot. He shaved hastily, with a shaking hand and cut himself. The flow of blood would not be staunched. It invaded his shirt. He snatched the garment off, and called to his wife for a clean one. Mrs. Copley supplied it-not without reprimand. It seemed that the putting on of a clean shirt on a Friday morning upset the entire economy of the household. At ten minutes past eight, he came down to a breakfast he could not eat, his cheek ludicrously embellished with a tuft of cotton-wool and his ears ringing with migraine and conjugal rebuke.

It was impossible, now, to catch the 8.15. Sourly, he caught the 8.25.

At a quarter to nine, the 8.25 was hung up for twenty minutes outside King’s Cross on account of an accident to a goods train.

At 9.30, Mr. Copley crawled drearily into Pym’s, wishing he had never been born.

As he entered the office from the lift, the reception-clerk greeted him with a message that Mr. Armstrong would like to see him at once. Mr. Copley, savagely signing his name far away below the red line which divided the punctual from the dilatory, nodded, and then wished he had not, as a pang of agony shot through his aching head. He mounted the stair and encountered Miss Parton, who said brightly:

“Oh, here you are, Mr. Copley! We thought you were lost. Mr. Armstrong would like to see you.”

“I’m just going,” said Mr. Copley, savagely. He went to his room and took off his coat, wondering whether a phenacetin would cure his headache or merely make him sick. Ginger Joe knocked at the door.

“If you please, sir, Mr. Armstrong says, could you spare him a moment.”

“All right, all right,” said Mr. Copley. He tottered out into the passage, and nearly fell into the arms of Mr. Ingleby.

“Hullo!” said the latter, “you’re wanted, Copley! We were just sending out the town-crier. You’d better nip along to Armstrong pronto. Tallboy’s out for your blood.”

“Ar’rh!” said Mr. Copley.

He shouldered Mr. Ingleby aside and went on his way, only to encounter Mr. Bredon, lurking at the door of his own room, armed with an imbecile grin and a Jew’s harp.

“See the conquering hero comes,” cried Mr. Bredon, following up this remark with a blast upon his instrument.

“Jackanapes!” said Mr. Copley. Whereupon, to his horror, Mr. Bredon executed three handsome cart-wheels before him down the passage, finishing up accurately before Mr. Armstrong’s door, and just out of Mr. Armstrong’s line of sight.

Mr. Copley knocked upon the glass panel, through which he could see Mr. Armstrong, seated at his desk, Mr. Tallboy, upright and indignant, and Mr. Hankin standing, with his usual air of mild hesitation, on the far side of the room. Mr. Armstrong looked up and beckoned Mr. Copley in.

“Ah!” said Mr. Armstrong, “here’s the man we want. Rather late this morning, aren’t you, Mr. Copley?”

Mr. Copley explained that there had been an accident on the line.

“Something must be done about these accidents on the line,” said Mr. Armstrong. “Whenever Pym’s staff travels, the trains break down. I shall have to write to the Superintendent of the line. Ha, ha!”

Mr. Copley realized that Mr. Armstrong was in one of his frivolous and tiresome moods. He said nothing.

“Now, Mr. Copley,” said Mr. Armstrong, “what’s all this about the Nutrax half-double? We’ve just had an agitated telegram from Mr. Jollop. I can’t get hold of the Morning Star man-what’s his name?”

“Weekes,” said Mr. Tallboy.

“Weekes-golly, what a name! But I understand-or Mr. Tallboy understands-from somebody or other, that you altered the Nutrax headline last night. I’ve no doubt you’ve got an excellent explanation, but I should like to know just what we’ve got to say to Mr. Jollop.”

Mr. Copley pulled himself together and embarked on an account of the previous night’s crisis. He felt that he was not doing himself justice. Out of the tail of his eye, he could see the dab of cotton-wool on his cheek waggling absurdly as he spoke. He pointed out with emphasis and acerbity the extremely unfortunate suggestion conveyed by the sketch and the original headline.

Mr. Armstrong burst into a hoot of laughter.

“My God!” he shouted. “They’ve got us there, Tallboy! Ho, ho, ho! Who wrote the headline? I must tell Mr. Pym about this. Why the devil didn’t you catch it, Tallboy?”

“It never occurred to me,” said Mr. Tallboy, unaccountably crimson in the face. Mr. Armstrong hooted again.

“I think Ingleby wrote it,” added Mr. Tallboy.

“Ingleby, of all people!” Mr. Armstrong’s mirth was not to be restrained. He pushed the buzzer on his desk. “Miss Parton, ask Mr. Ingleby to step in here.”

Mr. Ingleby arrived, cool and insolent as ever. Mr. Armstrong, half speechless with joy, thrust the original pull of the advertisement at him, with a comment so barbarically outspoken that Mr. Copley blushed.

Mr. Ingleby, unabashed, capped the comment with a remark still more immodest, and Miss Parton, lingering, notebook in hand, gave a refined snigger.

“Well, sir,” said Ingleby, “it’s not my fault. My original rough was illustrated with a very handsome sketch of a gentleman overwhelmed with business cares. If the innocents in the Studio choose to turn down my refined suggestion in favour of a (male epithet) and a (female epithet) who look as though they’d been making a night of it, I refuse to be responsible.”

“Ha, ha!” said Mr. Armstrong. “That’s Barrow all over. I don’t suppose Barrow-”

The end of the sentence was more complimentary to the Studio-chief’s virtue than to his virility. Mr. Hankin suddenly exploded into a loud snicker of laughter.

“Mr. Barrow is rather fond of cashiering any suggestion put forward by the Copy Department,” said Mr. Copley. “I hardly like to suggest that there is any inter-departmental jealousy behind it, but the fact remains-”

But Mr. Armstrong was feeling hilarious, and paid no attention. He recited a limerick, amid applause.

“Well, it’s all right, Mr. Copley,” he said, when he had partially recovered himself. “You did quite right. I’ll send an explanation to Mr. Jollop. He’ll have a fit.”

“He’ll be surprised that you passed it,” said Mr. Hankin.

“Well, he may be,” agreed Mr. Armstrong, pleasantly. “It isn’t often I overlook anything indecent. I must have been off-colour that day. So must you, Tallboy, Oh, dear! Mr. Pym will have something to say about it. I shall enjoy seeing his face. I only wish it had gone through. He’d have sacked the whole department.”

“It would have been very serious,” said Mr. Copley.

“Of course it would. I’m very glad the Morning Star spotted it. All right. Now that’s settled. Mr. Hankin, about that whole page for Sopo-”

“I hope,” said Mr. Copley, “you are satisfied with what I did. There wasn’t much time-”

“Quite all right, quite all right,” said Mr. Armstrong. “Very much obliged to you. But, by the way, you might have let somebody know. I was left rather up in the air this morning.”

Mr. Copley explained that he had endeavoured to get into touch with Mr. Pym, Mr. Armstrong, Mr. Tallboy and Mr. Wedderburn, but without success.

“Yes, yes, I see,” said Mr. Armstrong. “But why didn’t you ring up Mr. Hankin?”

“I am always at home by six,” added Mr. Hankin, “and it is very seldom that I go out. When I do, I always leave directions where I am to be found.” (This was a dig at Mr. Armstrong.)

Dismay seized upon Mr. Copley. He had clean forgotten Mr. Hankin, and he knew well enough that Mr. Hankin, mild as were his manners, was quick to resent anything in the nature of a slight.

“Of course,” he stammered. “Of course, yes, I might have done that. But Nutrax being your client, Mr. Armstrong-I thought-it never occurred to me that Mr. Hankin-”

This was a bad tactical error. It was, to begin with, contrary to the great Pym Principle that any member of the Copy Department was supposed to be ready to carry on with any part of the work at any time, if called upon. And it also suggested that Mr. Hankin was, in that respect, less versatile than Mr. Copley himself.

“Nutrax,” said Mr. Hankin, in a thin manner, “is certainly not a favourite account of mine. But I have coped with it in my time.” (This was another side-blow at Mr. Armstrong, who had temperamental periods when he was apt to hand all his clients over to Mr. Hankin, pleading nervous exhaustion.) “It is really no further outside my scope than that of the junior copy-writers.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Armstrong, perceiving that Mr. Hankin was on the point of doing the undesirable thing, and ticking off a member of the department before a member of another department, “it’s not of any great consequence, and you did your best in an awkward crisis. Nobody can think of everything. Now, Mr. Hankin”-he dismissed the small fry with a nod-“let’s get this Sopo question settled once and for all. Don’t go, Miss Parton, I want you to take a note. I’ll see to Nutrax, Mr. Tallboy. Don’t worry.”

The door closed behind Mr. Copley, Mr. Ingleby and Mr. Tallboy.

“My God!” said Ingleby, “what a howl! Went with a bang from start to finish. It only wanted Barrow to make it complete. That reminds me, I’ll have to go and pull his leg. This’ll teach him to turn down my intelligent suggestions. Hullo! there’s the Meteyard. I must tell her what Armstrong said about old Barrow.”

He dived into Miss Meteyard’s room, from which unladylike shouts of mirth were soon heard to proceed. Mr. Copley, feeling as though his head were filled with hard knobs of spinning granite that crashed with sickening thuds against his brainpan, walked stiffly away to his own quarters. As he passed the Dispatching, he had a vision of Mrs. Crump, in tears, standing before Mrs. Johnson’s desk, but he paid no attention. His one agonized yearning was to shake off Mr. Tallboy, who padded grimly at his heels.

“Oh, Mr. Tallboy!”

Mrs. Johnson’s rather shrill voice came to Mr. Copley like an order of release. He shot home like a bolting rabbit. He must try phenacetin and chance the consequences. Hastily he swallowed three tablets without even troubling to fetch a glass of water, sat down in his revolving chair and closed his eyes.

Crash, crash, crash, went the lumps of granite in his brain. If only he could remain where he was, quite quietly, for half an hour-

The door was flung violently open.

“Look here, Copley,” said Mr. Tallboy, in a voice like a pneumatic drill, “when you were hugger-muggering round with my desk last night did you have the unprintable bloody impertinence to interfere with my private belongings?”

“For heaven’s sake,” moaned Mr. Copley, “don’t make such a row. I’ve got a splitting headache.”

“I don’t care a highly-coloured damn if you’ve got a headache or not,” retorted Mr. Tallboy, flinging the door to behind him with a slam like the report of an 11-inch gun. “There was an envelope in my desk last night with fifty pounds in it, and it’s gone, and that old (epithet) Mrs. Crump says she saw you (vulgar word)-ing about among my papers.”

“I have your fifty pounds here,” replied Mr. Copley, with as much dignity as he could muster. “I put it away safely for you, and I must say, Tallboy, that I consider it extremely thoughtless of you to leave your property about for the charwomen to find. It’s not fair. You should have more consideration. And I did not rummage about in your desk as you suggest. I merely looked for the pull of the Nutrax half-double, and when I was closing the desk, this envelope fell out upon the floor.”

He stooped to unlock the drawer, experiencing a ghastly qualm as he did so.

“You mean to tell me,” said Mr. Tallboy, “that you had the all-fired cheek to take my money away to your own damned room-”

“In your own interests,” said Mr. Copley.

“Interests be damned! Why the devil couldn’t you leave it in a pigeon-hole and not be so blasted interfering?”

“You do not realize-”

“I realize this,” said Mr. Tallboy, “that you’re an expurgated superannuated interfering idiot. What you wanted to come poking your blasted nose in for-”

“Really, Mr. Tallboy-”

“What business was it of yours, anyway?”

“It was anybody’s business,” said Mr. Copley-so angry that he almost forgot his headache-“who had the welfare of the firm at heart. I am considerably older than you, Tallboy, and in my day, a group-manager would have been ashamed to leave the building before ascertaining that all was well with his advertisement for the next day’s paper. How you came to let such an advertisement pass in the first place is beyond my understanding. You were then late with the block. Perhaps you do not know that it was not received by the Morning Star till five minutes past six-five minutes past six. And instead of being at your post to consider any necessary corrections-”

“I don’t want you to teach me my job,” said Mr. Tallboy.

“Pardon me, I think you do.”

“Anyhow, what’s that got to do with it? The point is, you stick your nose into my private affairs-”

“I did not. The envelope fell out-”

“That’s a bloody lie.”

“Pardon me, it is the truth.”

“Don’t keep saying ‘pardon me’ like a bloody kitchen-maid.”

“Leave my room!” shrieked Mr. Copley.

“I’m not going to leave your damned room till I get an apology.”

“I think I ought to receive the apology.”

“You?” Mr. Tallboy became almost inarticulate. “You-! Why the hell couldn’t you have had the decency to ring me up and tell me, anyway?”

“You weren’t at home.”

“How do you know? Did you try?”

“No. I knew you were out, because I saw you in Southampton Row.”

“You saw me in Southampton Row, and you hadn’t the ordinary common decency to get hold of me and tell me what you’d been after? Upon my word, Copley, I believe you jolly well meant to get me into a row. And collar the cash for yourself, too, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“How dare you suggest any such thing?”

“And all your rot about consideration for the charwomen! It’s sheer damned hypocrisy. Of course I thought one of them had had it. I told Mrs. Crump-”

“You accused Mrs. Crump?”

“I didn’t accuse her. I told her I had missed fifty pounds.”

“That just shows you,” began Mr. Copley.

“And fortunately she’d seen you at my desk. Otherwise, I suppose I should never have heard anything more about my money.”

“You’ve no right to say that.”

“I’ve a damn sight more right to say it than you had to steal the money.”

“Are you calling me a thief?”

“Yes, I am.”

“And I call you a scoundrel,” gasped Mr. Copley, beside himself, “an insolent scoundrel. And I say that if you came by the money honestly, which I doubt, sir, which I very much doubt-”

Mr. Bredon poked his long nose round the door.

“I say,” he bleated anxiously, “sorry to butt in, and all that, but Hankie’s compliments and he says, would you mind talking a little more quietly? He’s got Mr. Simon Brotherhood next door.”

A pause followed, in which both parties realized the thinness of the beaverboard partition between Mr. Hankin’s room and Mr. Copley’s. Then Mr. Tallboy thrust the recovered envelope into his pocket.

“All right, Copley,” he said. “I shan’t forget your kind interference.” He bounced out.

“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” moaned Mr. Copley, clasping his head in his hands.

“Is anything up?” queried Mr. Bredon.

“Please go away,” pleaded Mr. Copley, “I’m feeling horribly ill.”

Mr. Bredon withdrew on catlike feet. His inquisitive face beamed with mischief. He pursued Mr. Tallboy into the Dispatching, and found him earnestly talking to Mrs. Johnson.

“I say, Tallboy,” said Mr. Bredon, “what’s wrong with Copley? He looks jolly fed-up. Have you been twisting his tail?”

“It’s no affair of yours, anyway,” retorted Mr. Tallboy, sullenly. “All right, Mrs. J., I’ll see Mrs. Crump and put it right with her.”

“I hope you will, Mr. Tallboy. And another time, if you have any valuables, I should be obliged if you would bring them to me and let me put them in the safe downstairs. These upsets are not pleasant, and Mr. Pym would be greatly annoyed if he knew about it.”

Mr. Tallboy fled for the lift without vouchsafing any reply.

“Atmosphere seems a bit hectic this morning, Mrs. Johnson,” observed Mr. Bredon, seating himself on the edge of the good lady’s desk. “Even the presiding genius of the Dispatching looks a trifle ruffled. But a righteous indignation becomes you. Gives sparkle to the eyes and a clear rosiness to the complexion.”

“Now that’ll do, Mr. Bredon. What will my boys think if they hear you making fun of me? Really, though, some of these people are too trying. But I must stand up for my women, Mr. Bredon, and for my boys. There isn’t one of them that I wouldn’t trust, and it isn’t right to bring accusations with nothing to support them.”

“It’s simply foul,” agreed Mr. Bredon. “Who’s been bringing accusations?”

“Well, I don’t know if I ought to tell tales out of school,” said Mrs. Johnson, “but it’s really only justice to poor Mrs. Crump to say-”

Naturally, in five minutes’ time, the insinuating Mr. Bredon was in possession of the whole story.

“But you needn’t go and spread it all round the office,” said Mrs. Johnson.

“Of course I needn’t,” said Mr. Bredon. “Hullo! is that the lad with our coffee?”

He sprang alertly from his perch and hastened into the typists’ room, where Miss Parton was detailing to a prick-eared audience the more juicy details of the morning’s scene with Mr. Armstrong.

“That’s nothing,” announced Mr. Bredon. “You haven’t heard the latest development.”

“Oh, what is it?” cried Miss Rossiter.

“I’ve promised not to tell,” said Mr. Bredon.

“Shame, shame!”

“At least, I didn’t exactly promise. I was asked not to.”

“Is it about Mr. Tallboy’s money?”

“You do know, then? What a disappointment!”

“I know that poor little Mrs. Crump was crying this morning because Mr. Tallboy had accused her of taking some money out of his desk.”

“Well, if you know that,” said Mr. Bredon artlessly, “in justice to Mrs. Crump-”

His tongue wagged busily.

“Well, I think it’s too bad of Mr. Tallboy,” said Miss Rossiter. “He’s always being rude to poor old Copley. It’s a shame. And it’s rotten to accuse the charwomen.”

“Yes, it is,” agreed Miss Parton, “but I’ve no patience with that Copley creature. He’s a tiresome old sneak. He went and told Hankie once that he’d seen me at the dog-races with a gentleman friend. As if it was any business of his what a girl does out of business hours. He’s too nosey by half. Just because anybody’s a mere typist it doesn’t mean one’s a heathen slave. Oh! here’s Mr. Ingleby. Coffee, Mr. Ingleby? I say, have you heard about old Copley pinching Mr. Tallboy’s fifty quid?”

“You don’t say so,” exclaimed Mr. Ingleby, shooting a miscellaneous collection of oddments out of the waste-paper basket as a preliminary to up-turning it and sitting upon it. “Tell me quickly. Golly! what a day we’re having!”

“Well,” said Miss Rossiter, lusciously taking up the tale, “somebody sent Mr. Tallboy fifty pounds in a registered envelope-”

“What’s all this?” interrupted Miss Meteyard, arriving with some sheets of copy in one hand and a bag of bulls’ eyes in the other. “Here are some lollipops for my little ones. Now let’s hear it all from the beginning. I only wish people would send me fifty poundses in registered envelopes. Who was the benefactor?”

“I don’t know. Do you know, Mr. Bredon?”

“Haven’t the foggiest. But it was all in currency notes, which is suspicious, for a start.”

“And he brought them to the office, meaning to take them to the Bank.”

“But he was busy,” chimed in Miss Parton, “and forgot all about them.”

“Catch me forgetting about fifty pounds,” said Miss Parton’s bosom-friend from the Printing.

“Oh, we’re only poor hardworking typists. Fifty pounds or so is nothing to Mr. Tallboy, obviously. He put them in his desk-”

“Why not in his pocket?”

“Because he was working in his shirt-sleeves, and didn’t like to leave all that wealth hanging on a coat-peg-”

“Yes; well, he forgot them at the lunch-hour. And in the afternoon, he found that the blockmaker had done something silly with the Nutrax block-”

“Was that what delayed it?” inquired Mr. Bredon.

“Yes, that was it. And, I say, I’ve found out something else. Mr. Drew-”

“Who’s Mr. Drew?”

“That stout man from the Cormorant Press. He said to Mr. Tallboy he thought the headline was a bit hot. And Mr. Tallboy said he had a nasty mind and anyhow, everybody had passed it and it was too late to alter it then-”

“Jiminy!” said Mr. Garrett, suddenly bursting into speech, “it’s a good thing Copley didn’t get hold of that. He’d have rubbed it in, all right. I must say, I think Tallboy ought to have done something about it.”

“Who told you that?”

“Mr. Wedderburn. Drew asked him about it this morning. Said he noticed they’d thought better of it after all.”

“Well, get on with the story.”

“By the time Mr. Tallboy had had the block put right, the Bank was shut. So he forgot about it again, and went off, leaving the fifty quid in his desk.”

“Does he often do that sort of thing?”

“Goodness knows. And old Copley was working late on his jellies-”

Clack, clack, clack. The story lost nothing in the telling.

“-poor old Mrs. Crump was weeping like a sponge-”

“-Mrs. Johnson was in such a bait-”

“-making a most awful row. Mr. Bredon heard them. What did he call him, Mr. Bredon?”

“-accused him of stealing the money-”

“-thief and scoundrel-”

“-what Mr. Brotherhood must have thought-”

“-give them the sack, I shouldn’t wonder-”

“-my dear, the thrills we get in this place!”

“And, by the way,” observed Mr. Ingleby, maliciously, “I pulled Barrow’s leg all right about that sketch.”

“You didn’t tell him what Mr. Armstrong said?”

“No. At least, I didn’t tell him Mr. Armstrong said it. But I gave him a hint to that effect off my own bat.”

“You are awful!”

“He’s out for the blood of this department-especially Copley’s.”

“Because Copley went to Hankie last week about a Jamboree display and complained that Barrow didn’t follow his directions, and so now he thinks this business is a plot of Copley’s to-”

“Shut up!”

Miss Rossiter leapt at her typewriter and began to pound the keys deafeningly.

Amid a pointed silence of tongues, Mr. Copley made his entrance.

“Is that Jelly copy of mine ready, Miss Rossiter? There doesn’t seem to be much work being done here this morning.”

“You’ve got to take your turn, Mr. Copley. I have a report of Mr. Armstrong’s to finish.”

“I shall speak to Mr. Armstrong about the way the work is done,” said Mr. Copley. “This room is a bear-garden. It’s disgraceful.”

“Why not give Mr. Hankin a turn?” snapped Miss Parton, unpleasantly.

“No, but really, Copley, old sport,” pleaded Mr. Bredon, earnestly. “You mustn’t let these little things get your goat. It’s not done, old thing. Positively not done. You watch me squeeze copy out of Miss Parton. She eats out of my hand. A little kindness and putting her hair in papers will work wonders with her. Ask her nicely and she’ll do anything for you.”

“A man of your age, Bredon, should know better,” said Mr. Copley, “than to hang round here all day. Am I the only person in this office with work to do?”

“If you only knew it,” replied Mr. Bredon, “I’m working away like anything. Look here,” he added, as the unhappy Mr. Copley withdrew, “do the poor old blighter’s muck for him. It’s a damned shame to tease him. He’s looking horribly green about the gills.”

“Right-ho!” said Miss Parton, amiably, “I don’t mind if I do. May as well get it over.”

The typewriters clacked again.