“Then stand on your head and find out for yourself,” cried the rude Butcher’s Bill, shouldering his tray and walking off again whistling loudly.
“I wonder what he means?” thought Boy, staring at the letters; he could make nothing of them, though, and was just going to walk away when he saw the Advertiser General looking out of one of the windows above the signboard.
“Come in,” he called. “I want to speak to you very particularly.”
Boy pushed the door open and found some steps inside which led up to a large studio, in which he found the Advertiser General and the Public Rhymester.
They both rushed at him as soon as he entered the door and each seized one of his arms.
“Please promise me your vote,” they both exclaimed in one breath.
“Oh dear!” cried Boy, “I’m quite tired of telling everybody I have already voted.”
The Advertiser General and the Public Rhymester both looked greatly disappointed, and each let go of his arm and went back to his work.
“What are you doing, please?” inquired Boy.
“Can’t you see?” replied the Advertiser General snappishly. “We’re making advertisements. Have you finished that Poem for Watzematta Tea yet?” he asked of the Public Rhymester.