e than a
broken-down wreck who might swoon from starvation?"

"But one moment," said Roland. "Are you sure that the present
proprietors will want to sell?"

"Want to sell," cried Mr. Petheram enthusiastically. "Why, if they know
you want to buy, you've as much chance of getting away from them without
the paper as--as--well, I can't think of anything that has such a poor
chance of anything. If you aren't quick on your feet, they'll cry on
your shoulder. Come along, and we'll round them up now."

He struggled into his coat, and gave his hair an impatient brush with a
note-book.

"There's just one other thing," said Roland. "I have been a regular
reader of 'Squibs' for some time, and I particularly admire the way in
which the Woman's Page----"

"You mean you want to reengage the editress? Rather. You couldn't do
better. I was going to suggest it myself. Now, come along quick before
you change your mind or wake up."

Within a very few days of becoming sole proprietor of 'Squibs,' Roland
began to feel much as a man might who, a novice at the art of steering
cars, should find himself at the wheel of a runaway motor. Young Mr.
Petheram had spoken nothing less than the truth when he had said that
he was full of ideas for booming the paper. The infusion of capital into
the business acted on him like a powerful stimulant. He exuded ideas at
every pore.

Roland's first notion had been to engage a staff of contributors. He was
under the impression that contributors were the life-blood of a weekly
journal. Mr. Petheram corrected this view. He consented to the purchase
of a lurid serial story, but that was the last concession he made.
Nobody could accuse Mr. Petheram of lack of energy. He was willing, even
anxious, to write the whole paper himself, with the exception of the
Woman's Page, now brightly conducted once more by Miss March. What he
wanted Roland to concentrate himself upon was the supplying of capital
for ingenious advertising schemes.

"How would it be," he asked one morning--he always began his remarks
with, "How would it be?"--"if we paid a man to walk down Piccadilly in
white skin-tights with the word 'Squibs' painted in red letters across
his chest?"

Roland thought it would certainly not be.

"Good sound advertising stunt," urged Mr. Petheram. "You don't like it?
All right. You're the boss. Well, how would it be to have a squad of
men dressed as Zulus with white shields bearing the legend 'Squibs?' See