‘And these generally reckoned “too high-toned for our readers,”’ said Merton.
‘If I could get the secretaryship of a golf club!’ Logan sighed.
‘If you could get the Chancellorship of the Exchequer! I reckon that there are two million applicants for secretaryships of golf clubs.’
‘Or a land agency,’ Logan murmured.
‘Oh, be practical!’ cried Merton. ‘Be inventive! Be modern! Be up to date! Think of something new! Think of a felt want, as the Covenanting divine calls it: a real public need,
hitherto but dimly present, and quite a demand without a supply.’
‘But that means thousands in advertisements,’ said Logan, ‘even if we ran a hair-restorer. The ground bait is too expensive. I say, I once knew a fellow who ground-baited for salmon with potted shrimps.’
‘Make a paragraph on him then,’ said Merton.
‘But results proved that there was no felt want of potted shrimps—or not of a fly to follow.’
‘Your collaboration in the search, the hunt for money, the quest, consists merely in irrelevancies and objections,’ growled Merton, lighting a cigarette.