To Mr. Ingleby, perspiring over his guard-books, entered the detested form of Mr. Tallboy, a sheet of paper in his hand.

“Is this your copy?”

Mr. Ingleby stretched out a languid hand, took the paper, glanced at it and returned it.

“How often have I got to tell you blasted incompetents,” he demanded amiably, “that those initials are on the copy for the purpose of identifying the writer? If you think my initials are DB you’re either blind or potty.”

“Who is DB anyway?”

“New fellow, Bredon.”

“Where is he?”

Mr. Ingleby jerked his thumb in the direction of the next room.

“Empty,” announced Mr. Tallboy, after a brief excursion.

“Well, have a look for him,” suggested Ingleby.

“Yes, but look here,” said Mr. Tallboy, persuasively, “I only want a suggestion. What the devil are the Studio to do with this? Do you mean to say Hankin passed that headline?”

“Presumably,” said Ingleby.

“Well, how does he or Bredon or anybody suppose we’re going to get it illustrated? Has the client seen it? They’ll never stand for it. What’s the point in laying it out? I can’t think how Hankin came to pass it.”

Ingleby stretched his hand out again.

“Brief, bright and brotherly,” he observed. “What’s the matter with it?”

The headline was:

____________________!

IF LIFE’S A BLANK

TAKE NUTRAX

“And in any case,” grumbled Tallboy, “the Morning Star won’t take it. They won’t put in anything that looks like bad language.”

“Your look-out,” said Ingleby. “Why not ask ’em?”

Tallboy muttered something impolite.

“Anyway, if Hankin’s passed it, it’ll have to be laid out, I suppose,” said Ingleby. “Surely the Studio-oh! hullo! here’s your man. You’d better worry him. Bredon!”

“That’s me!” said Mr. Bredon. “All present and correct!”

“Where’ve you been hiding from Tallboy? You knew he was on your tail.”

“I’ve been on the roof,” admitted Bredon, apologetically. “Cooler and all that. What’s the matter. What have I done?”

“Well, this headline of yours, Mr. Bredon. How do you expect them to illustrate it?”

“I don’t know. I left it to their ingenuity. I always believe in leaving scope to other people’s imagination.”

“How on earth are they to draw a blank?”

“Let ’em take a ticket in the Irish Sweep. That’ll larn ’em,” said Ingleby.

“I should think it would be rather like a muchness,” suggested Bredon. “Lewis Carroll, you know. Did you ever see a drawing of a muchness?”

“Oh, don’t fool,” growled Tallboy. “We’ve got to do something with it. Do you really think it’s a good headline, Mr. Bredon?”

“It’s the best I’ve written yet,” said Bredon enthusiastically, “except that beauty Hankie wouldn’t pass. Can’t they draw a man looking blank? Or just a man with a blank face, like those ‘Are these missing features yours?’ advertisements?”

“Oh, I suppose they could,” admitted Tallboy, discontentedly. “I’ll put it up to them anyhow. Thanks,” he added, belatedly, and bounced out.

“Cross, isn’t he?” said Ingleby. “It’s this frightful heat. Whatever made you go up on the roof? It must be like a gridiron.”

“So it is, but I thought I’d just try it. As a matter of fact, I was chucking pennies over the parapet to that brass band. I got the bombardon twice. The penny goes down with a tremendous whack, you know, and they look up all over the place to see where it comes from and you dodge down behind the parapet. It’s a tremendous high parapet, isn’t it? I suppose they wanted to make the building look even higher than it is. It’s the highest in the street in any case. You do get a good view from up there. ‘Earth hath not anything to show more fair.’ It’s going to rain like billy-ho in about two ticks. See how black it’s come over.”

“You seem to have come over pretty black, if it comes to that,” remarked Ingleby. “Look at the seat of your trousers.”

“You do want a lot,” complained Bredon, twisting his spine alarmingly. “It is a bit sooty up there. I was sitting on the skylight.”

“You look as if you’d been shinning up a pipe.”

“Well, I did shin down a pipe. Only one pipe-rather a nice pipe. It took my fancy.”

“You’re loopy,” said Ingleby, “doing acrobatics on dirty pipes in this heat. Whatever made you?”

“I dropped something,” said Mr. Bredon, plaintively. “I went down on to the glass roof of the wash-place. I nearly put my foot through. Wouldn’t old Smayle have been surprised if I’d tumbled into the wash-basin on top of him? And then I found I needn’t have gone down the pipe after all; I came back by the staircase-the roof-door was open on both floors.”

“They generally keep them open in hot weather,” said Ingleby.

“I wish I’d known. I say, I could do with a drink.”

“All right, have a glass of Sparkling Pompayne.”

“What’s that?”

“One of Brotherhood’s non-alcoholic refreshers,” grinned Ingleby. “Made from finest Devon apples, with the crisp, cool sparkle of champagne. Definitely anti-rheumatic and non-intoxicant. Doctors recommend it.”

Bredon shuddered.

“I think this is an awfully immoral job of ours. I do, really. Think how we spoil the digestions of the public.”

“Ah, yes-but think how earnestly we strive to put them right again. We undermine ’em with one hand and build ’em with the other. The vitamins we destroy in the canning, we restore in Revito, the roughage we remove from Peabody ’s Piper Parritch we make up into a package and market as Bunbury’s Breakfast Bran; the stomachs we ruin with Pompayne, we re-line with Peplets to aid digestion. And by forcing the damn-fool public to pay twice over-once to have its food emasculated and once to have the vitality put back again, we keep the wheels of commerce turning and give employment to thousands-including you and me.”

“This wonderful world!” Bredon sighed ecstatically. “How many pores should you say there were in the human skin, Ingleby?”

“Damned if I know. Why?”

“Headline for Sanfect. Could I say, at a guess, ninety million? It sounds a good round number. ‘Ninety Million Open Doors by which Germs can Enter-Lock Those Doors with Sanfect.’ Sounds convincing, don’t you think? Here’s another: ‘Would you Leave your Child in a Den of Lions?’ That ought to get the mothers.”

“It’d make a good sketch-Hullo! here comes the storm and no mistake.”

A flash of lightning and a tremendous crack of thunder broke without warning directly over their heads.

“I expected it,” said Bredon. “That’s why I did my roof-walk.”

“How do you mean, that’s why?”

“I was on the look-out for it,” explained Bredon. “Well, it’s here. Phew! that was a good one. I do adore thunderstorms. By the way, what has Willis got up against me?”

Ingleby frowned and hesitated.

“He seems to think I’m not nice to know,” explained Bredon.

“Well-I warned you not to talk to him about Victor Dean. He seems to have got it into his head you were a friend of his, or something.”

“But what was wrong with Victor Dean?”

“He kept bad company. Why are you so keen to know about Dean, anyway?”

“Well, I suppose I’m naturally inquisitive. I always like to know about people. About the office-boys, for instance. They do physical jerks on the roof, don’t they? Is that the only time they’re allowed on the roof?”

“They’d better not let the Sergeant catch ’em up there in office-hours. Why?”

“I just wondered. They’re a mischievous lot, I expect; boys always are. I like ’em. What’s the name of the red-headed one? He looks a snappy lad.”

“That’s Joe-they call him Ginger, of course. What’s he been doing?”

“Oh, nothing. I suppose you get a lot of cats prowling about this place.”

“Cats? I’ve never seen any cats. Except that I believe there’s a cat that lives in the canteen, but she doesn’t seem to come up here. What do you want a cat for?”