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“Mr. Prout is our tame firebrand,” observed Ingleby, indulgently. “You coming up, Bredon?”

“Yes. I've got to take this stuff to be typed.”

“Right-ho! Here you are. Round this way and up this staircase by the lift, through the Dispatching and here you are—right opposite the home of British Beauty. Children, here's Mr. Bredon with a nice bit of copy for you.”

“Hand it here,” said Miss Rossiter, “and oh! Mr. Bredon, do you mind putting down your full name and address on this card—they want it downstairs for the file.”

Bredon took the card obediently.

“Block letters please,” added Miss Rossiter, glancing with some dismay at the sheets of copy she had just received.

“Oh, do you think my handwriting's awful? I always think it's rather neat, myself. Neat, but not gaudy. However, if you say so—”

“Block letters,” repeated Miss Rossiter, firmly. “Hullo! here's Mr. Tallboy. I expect he wants you, Mr. Ingleby.”

“What, again?”

“Nutrax have cancelled that half-double,” announced Mr. Tallboy with gloomy triumph. “They've just sent up from the conference to say that they want something special to put up against the new Slumbermalt campaign, and Mr. Hankin says will you get something out and let him have it in half an hour.”