“It may be a poisonous pun, but it’s an arresting catch-word,” said Waldemar, unmoved. “Single column, about fifty lines will do it in nice, open style. Caps and lower case, and black-faced type for the name and title. Insert twice a week in every New York and Brooklyn paper.”
“Isn’t it—er—a little blatant?” suggested Bertram, with lifted eyebrows.
“Blatant?” repeated its inventor. “It’s more than that. It’s howlingly vulgar. It’s a riot of glaring yellow. How else would you expect to catch the public?”
“Suppose, then, I do burst into flame to this effect?” queried the prospective “Ad-Visor.” “Et aprés? as we proudly say after spending a week in Paris.”
“Aprés? Oh, plenty of things. You hire an office, a clerk, two stenographers and a clipping export, and prepare to take care of the work that comes in. You’ll be flooded,” promised Waldemar.
“And between times I’m to go skipping about, chasing long white whiskers and brass howitzers and B-flat trombones, I suppose.”
“Until you get your work systematized you’ll have no time for skipping. Within six months, if you’re not sandbagged or jailed on fake libel suits, you’ll have a unique bibliography of swindles. Then I’ll begin to come and buy your knowledge to keep my own columns clean.”
The speaker looked up to meet the gaze of an iron-gray man with a harsh, sallow face.
“Excuse my interrupting,” said the new-comer.
“Just one question, Waldemar. Who’s going to be the nominee?”