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“I always was unlucky.”

“You'll feel unluckier still after a day with Dairyfields Margarine,” said Mr. Ingleby, gloomily. “Nothing for me, I suppose?”

“Nothing, I'm afraid. Of course Miss Rawlings has drawn the favourite—she always does.”

“I hope it breaks its beastly leg,” said Mr. Ingleby. “Come in, Tallboy, come in. Do you want me? Don't mind butting in on Mr. Bredon. He will soon become used to the idea that his room is a public place within the meaning of the act. This is Mr. Tallboy, group-manager for Nutrax and a few other wearisome commodities. Mr. Bredon, our new copy-writer.”

“How do you do?” said Mr. Tallboy, briefly. “Look here, about this Nutrax 11-inch double. Can you possibly cut out about thirty words?”

“No, I can't,” said Mr. Ingleby. “I've cut it to the bone already.”

“Well, I'm afraid you'll have to. There isn't room for all this guff with a two-line sub-head.”

“There's plenty of room for it.”

“No, there isn't. We've got to get in the panel about the Fifty-six Free Chiming Clocks.”