“When I have,” asserted Clodd, “I’ll manage her.”

“We know all about bachelor’s children,” sneered Peter Hope, the editor.

“You leave it to me. I’ll have it for you before the end of the week,” crowed the sub-editor.

“If you do get it,” returned Clodd, “I shall throw it out, that’s all.”

“You said yourself a lady advertising-agent would be a good idea,” the sub-editor reminded him.

“So she might be,” returned Clodd; “but she isn’t going to be you.”

“Why not?”

“Because she isn’t, that’s why.”

“But if——”

“See you at the printer’s at twelve,” said Clodd to Peter, and went out suddenly.

“Well, I think he’s an idiot,” said the sub-editor.

“I do not often,” said the editor, “but on this point I agree with him. Cadging for advertisements isn’t a woman’s work.”

“But what is the difference between——”

“All the difference in the world,” thought the editor.

“You don’t know what I was going to say,” returned his sub.

“I know the drift of it,” asserted the editor.

“But you let me——”

“I know I do—a good deal too much. I’m going to turn over a new leaf.”

“All I propose to do——”

“Whatever it is, you’re not going to do it,” declared the chief. “Shall be back at half-past twelve, if anybody comes.”

“It seems to me——” But Peter was gone.

“Just like them all,” wailed the sub-editor. “They can’t argue; when you explain things to them, they go out. It does make me so mad!”

Miss Ramsbotham laughed. “You are a downtrodden little girl, Tommy.”

“As if I couldn’t take care of myself!” Tommy’s chin was high up in the air.

“Cheer up,” suggested Miss Ramsbotham. “Nobody ever tells me not to do anything. I would change with you if I could.”

“I’d have walked into that office and have had that advertisement out of old Jowett in five minutes, I know I would,” bragged Tommy. “I can always get on with old men.”

“Only with the old ones?” queried Miss Ramsbotham.