Jimaboy got a check from the Storylovers that afternoon, and in the hilarity consequent upon such sudden and unexpected prosperity the Post-Graduate School of W. B. was forgotten. But not permanently. Late in the evening, when Jimaboy was filing and scraping laboriously on another story,—he always worked hardest on the heels of a check,—Isobel thought of the pen-drawings and looked in vain for them.
"What did you do with the W. B. jokes, Jimmy?" she asked.
"I didn't do anything with them. Don't tell me they're lost!"—in mock concern.
"They seem to be; I can't find them anywhere."
"Oh, they'll turn up again all right," said Jimaboy; and he went on with his polishing.
They did turn up, most surprisingly. Three days later, Isobel was glancing through the thirty-odd pages of the swollen Sunday Times, and she gave a little shriek.
"Horrors!" she cried; "the Times has printed those ridiculous jokes of ours, and run them as advertisements!"
"What!" shouted Jimaboy.
"It's so; see here!"
It was so, indeed. On the "Wit and Humor" page, which was half reading matter and half advertising, the Post-Graduate School of W. B. figured as large as life, with very fair reproductions of Isobel's drawings heading the displays.