, son. I want a hand in that copy. I know
Featherlooms better than your Sam Hupp will ever--"

Jock shook his head. "They won't stand for that, Mother. It never
works. The manufacturer always thinks he can write magic stuff
because he knows his own product. But he never can. You see, he
knows too much. That's it. No perspective."

"We'll see," said Emma McChesney curtly.

So it was that ten days later the first important conference in
the interests of the Featherloom Petticoat Company's advertising
campaign was called. But in those ten days of hurried preparation
a little silent tragedy had come about. For the first time in her
brave, sunny life Emma McChesney had lost faith in herself. And
with such malicious humor does Fate work her will that she chose
Sam Hupp's new dictagraph as the instrument with which to prick
the bubble of Mrs. McChesney's self-confidence.

Sam Hupp, one of the copy-writing marvels of the Berg, Shriner
firm, had a trick of forgetting to shut off certain necessary
currents when he paused in his dictation to throw in
conversational asides. The old and experienced stenographers, had
learned to look out for that, and to eliminate from their
typewritten letters certain irrelevant and sometimes irreverent
asides which Sam Hupp evidently had addressed to his pipe, or the
office boy, and not intended for the tube of the all-devouring
dictagraph.

There was a new and nervous little stenographer in the outer
office, and she had not been warned of this.

"We think very highly of the plan you suggest," Sam Hupp had said
into the dictagraph's mouthpiece. "In fact, in one of your
valuable copy suggestions you--"

Without changing his tone he glanced over his shoulder at his
colleague, Hopper, who was listening and approving.

"... Let the old girl think the idea is her own. She's virtually
the head of that concern, and they've spoiled her. Successful, and
used to being kowtowed to. Doesn't know her notions of copy are
ten years behind the advertising game--"

And went on with his letter again. After which he left the office
to play golf. And the little blond numbskull in the outer office
dutifully took down what the instrument had to say, word for word,
marked it, "Dictated, but not read," signed neat initials, and
with a sigh went on with the rest of her sheaf of letters.

Emma McChesney read the letter next morning. She read it down to
the end, and then again. The two readings were punctuated