“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.