terms as "stocks," and "sales" and "propositions" proclaimed them
intent on bagging the day's business. Sam Hupp's next words
brought him back to reality with a jerk.

"I think you have to change at Buffalo. It gets you to Tonawanda
in the morning. Rotten train."

"Tonawanda!" repeated Jock.

"Now listen, kid." Sam Hupp leaned forward, and his eyes behind
their great round black-rimmed glasses were intent on Jock. "I'm
not going to try to steer you. You think that advertising is a
game. It isn't. There are those who think it's a science. But it
isn't that either. It's white magic, that's what it is. And you
can't learn it from books, any more than you can master trout
fishing from reading 'The Complete Angler.'" He swung about and
swept the beauty lotions before him in a little heap at the end of
his desk. "Here, take this stuff. And get chummy with it. Eat it,
if necessary; learn it somehow."

Jock stood up, a little dazed. "But, what!--How?--I mean--"

Sam Hupp glanced up at him. "Sending you down there isn't my idea.
It's the Old Man's. He's got an idea that you--" He paused and put
a detaining hand on Jock McChesney's arm. "Look here. You think I
know a little something about advertising, don't you?"

"You!" laughed Jock. "You're the guy who put the whitening in the
Great White Way. Everybody knows you were the--"