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“All right, I'll try,” agreed Mr. Tallboy. “Anything for a quiet life. It'll look a bit tight, though.”

“Wish I was tight,” said Mr. Ingleby. “Take it away, for God's sake, before I murder anybody.”

“I'm going, I'm going,” said Mr. Tallboy, and vanished hastily. Miss Rossiter had departed during the controversy, and Miss Meteyard now took herself out of the way, remarking, “If Pheidippides wins, you shall have a cake for tea.”

“Now we'd better start you off,” observed Mr. Ingleby. “Here's the guard-book. You'd better have a look through it to see the kind of thing, and then think up some headlines. Your story is, of course, that Dairyfields' 'Green Pastures' Margarine is everything that the best butter ought to be and only costs ninepence a pound. And they like a cow in the picture.”

“Why? Is it made of cow-fat?”

“Well, I daresay it is, but you mustn't say so. People wouldn't like the idea. The picture of the cow suggests the taste of butter, that's all. And the name—Green Pastures—suggests cows, you see.”