Personality Plus | Page 9

writing about magnetos. She was writing about
magnetos in a way to make you want to drop your customer, or your
ironing, or your game, and go downtown and buy that particular kind of
magneto at once. Which is the secretest part of the wizardry of
advertising copy. To look at Grace Galt you would have thought that

she should have been writing about the rose-tinted jars in Jock
McChesney's hands instead of about such things as ignition, and
insulation, and ball bearings, and induction windings. But it was Grace
Galt's gift that she could take just such hard, dry, technical facts and
weave them into a story that you followed to the end. She could make
you see the romance in condensers and transformers. She had the
power that caused the reader to lose himself in the charm of magnetic
poles, and ball bearings, and high-tension sparks.
"Just dropped in to say good-by," said Jock, very casually. "Going to
run up-state to see the Athena Company--toilette specialties, you know.
It ought to be a big account."
"Athena?" Grace Galt regarded him absently, her mind still on her
work. Then her eyes cleared. "You mean at Tonawanda? And they're
sending you! Well!" She put out a congratulatory hand. Jock gripped it
gratefully.
"Not so bad, eh?" he boasted.
"Bad!" echoed Grace Galt. Her face became serious. "Do you realize
that there are men in this office who have been here for five years, six
years, or even more, and who have never been given a chance to do
anything but stenography, or perhaps some private secretarying?"
"I know it," agreed Jock. But there was no humbleness in his tone. He
radiated self-satisfaction. He seemed to grow and expand before her
eyes. A little shadow of doubt crept across Grace Galt's expression of
friendly interest.
"Are you scared," she asked; "just the least bit?"
Jock flushed a little. "Well," he confessed ruefully, "I don't mind telling
you I am--a little."
"Good!"
"Good?"

"Yes. The head of that concern is a woman. That's one reason why they
didn't send me, I suppose. I--I'd like to say something, if you don't
mind."
"Anything you like," said Jock graciously.
"Well, then, don't be afraid of being embarrassed and fussed. If you
blush and stammer a little, she'll like it. Play up the coy stuff."
"The coy stuff!" echoed Jock. "I hadn't thought much about my attitude
toward the--er--the lady,"--a little stiffly.
"Well, you'd better," answered Miss Galt crisply. She put out her hand
in much the same manner as Sam Hupp had used. "Good luck to you.
I'll have to ask you to go now. I'm trying to make this magneto sound
like something without which no home is complete, and to make people
see that there's as much difference between it and every other magneto
as there is between the steam shovels that dug out the Panama Canal
and the junk that the French left there--" She stopped. Her eyes took on
a far-away look. Her lips were parted slightly. "Why, that's not a bad
idea--that last. I'll use that. I'll--"
[Illustration: "With a jolt Jock realized she had forgotten all about
him"]
She began to scribble rapidly on the sheet of paper before her. With a
jolt Jock McChesney realized that she had forgotten all about him. He
walked quietly to the door, opened it, shut it very quietly, then made for
the nearest telephone. He knew one woman he could count on to be
proud of him. He gave his number, waited a little eager moment, then:
"Featherloom Petticoat Company? Mrs. McChesney." And waited
again. Then he smiled.
"You needn't sound so official," he laughed; "it's only your son. Listen.
I"--he took on an elaborate carelessness of tone--"I've got to take a little
jump out of town. On business. Oh, a day or so. Rather important
though. I'll have time to run up to the flat and throw a few things into a

bag. I'll tell you, I really ought to keep a bag packed down here. In case
of emergency, you know. What? It's the Athena Toilette Preparations
Company. Well, I should say it is! I'll wire you. You bet. Thanks. My
what? Oh, toothbrush. No. Good-by."
So it was that at three-ten Jock McChesney took himself, his hopes, his
dread, and his smart walrus bag aboard a train that halted and snuffed
and backed, and bumped and halted with maddening frequency. But it
landed him at last in a little town bearing the characteristics of all
American little towns. It was surprisingly full of six-cylinder cars, and
five and ten-cent stores, and banks with Doric columns, and paved
streets.
After he had registered at the hotel, and as he was cleaning up a bit, he
passed an amused eye over the bare,