"After that?" repeated Doyle. "Well, after that for three years I did newspaper work; then I was appointed Governor Parker's private secretary; he was in office two years; and then I had an offer from Henry Eastman, of Eastman and Peabody, and I went with him as confidential clerk, and have been with him since a year ago last month. And that, I guess, is about the whole story."

Gordon leisurely drained his glass, glancing once more with appreciation about the familiar little room. The return to civilization and the Federal Club had not been unwelcome. Then, with deliberate scrutiny, he gazed at the young man who sat opposite. Slender, wiry and muscular, Doyle's thin, alert, sensitive face seemed a fit index to the whole make-up of the man. Limited to one word in which to describe him, that word would have been "energy." Twinkling brown eyes, an aggressive chin, a mouth firm and resolute, but with a humorous droop at the corners, all in all Jim Doyle appeared not to be one of those men who are content with viewing the world from a distance, spectators detached, remote, but one who was perforce most decidedly in and of it, rubbing elbows with it, slapping it on the back, and asking after its health with all the friendly good-nature imaginable.

"Well," said Gordon judicially, "you've made a good record for yourself. There's no question about that at all. You've been something of a rolling stone, to be sure, but in the process you've managed to gather considerable moss. You're getting five thousand dollars a year, and from what I hear, I judge you're earning it, too, which doesn't always mean the same thing. And yet I want you to leave your nice, comfortable job, and try your luck with me. And," he added deliberately, "I think you'll come, too."

Doyle's face showed no surprise. For him, indeed, variety had been the very spice of life, and with each succeeding change in occupation and in fortune, his capacity for being astonished had grown correspondingly less. Therefore he simply waited, not without interest, and after a moment's pause, Gordon continued.

"I rather think," he said banteringly, "that I'll show you all the advantages of the proposition first, with the intention of thus dazzling your mind so that you'll be in a hurry to accept, without thinking of the possible objections that might occur to you later on. It seems almost too much luck for one man. You'll think, when you hear about it, that I've been lying awake nights planning it for you, and, to be frank, that's more than half true, too."

He paused again, meeting Doyle's amused glance with an answering smile. "I can see you're pleased," he said, "and I won't keep you in suspense any longer. I want you to come with me in a position which will bear the same name as the one you now occupy, confidential clerk. But the name's the only thing that's the same. In reality you're going to be something entirely different; advertising agency, publicity bureau, whatever name of that kind you choose to call it; and, seriously, it's going to be the chance of your life."

Doyle looked interested, and a trifle puzzled as well. "How?" he asked tersely.

"How?" repeated Gordon, "I'll tell you how mighty quick. First of all, except that you'll be in close touch with me all the time, you'll be your own master, free to come and go as you like. Next, you'll run up against a lot of different men, all working in different lines, but all useful to know; men who, if they take a notion to, can help you along like the very devil. Third, the position pays ten thousand a year salary, and if you're inclined to take an occasional flier in the market, there's no reason why you shouldn't double that. But that's your business, of course. Good men differ on the wisdom of playing the market, even from what seems to be the inside. The ten thousand, however, like the past, is secure. So there's your story. What do you think of it?"

Doyle leaned back in his chair, with a little puzzled frown. "It's a trifle vague, isn't it?" he said mildly; "not the salary end; that's refreshingly definite, but the duties, I mean. What is it I advertise? Fish, or toothpowder, or soap?"

Gordon laughed, then suddenly grew grave. "I beg your pardon," he said, "I got ahead of my story for a moment. It's going to be a worse job than any of those you've mentioned, for you've got to advertise me. Here's the idea right here. For certain reasons, which will develop later, I want to get myself very much before the public. It's going to help me, and incidentally, if you decide to come in with me, it's going to help you. Now let me be sure I make myself plain. It isn't any cheap notoriety I'm after; what I want is a big public following, especially among the so-called lower classes. I want you to get me so well known, and so favorably known, through the city, through the state, through the country, even, that the great mass of the people, clerks, artisans, working people of all descriptions, will say, 'Here's a man that's all right. Here's a man we're willing to follow!' When that's once accomplished, I've got a number of different things in view. The others I needn't bother you with now, but the first is in connection with a big mining deal, which I want to try as a test of how strong I really am with the public, besides at the same time cleaning up a couple of millions or so on the side. So you can see that your end of the thing's no joke; it's a big job; there's no question about that. What I want to know is whether you think you're the man for the place. Personally I believe you are. What do you say?"

Doyle leaned forward confidentially across the table, his eyes twinkling as he spoke. "Mr. Gordon," he said, "I'm so damned modest that I hate to tell you what I think, but since you've asked me, I can only say that I entirely agree with you. I think I can make good on the job, but you won't go up in the air if I ask you one question first?"

Gordon smilingly shook his head. "No, I'll promise that," he answered; "fire away."

Doyle pondered a moment. "The two best things," he said slowly, "that I ever heard Mr. Eastman get off were these. One was on a matter where a crowd of street railway men, to round out their system, had to get a franchise to run through a little town. It was something they had to have, and there was a lot of discussion as to the best way to go about it. All sorts of things were proposed, until finally Mr. Eastman spoke up. 'The real point, gentlemen,' he said, 'is a simple one. All we've got to do is to act and talk and even look so straight that they'll finally say, "These fellows are so damned fair and so damned reasonable about this thing that we'd better let 'em have their franchise."' Well, one or two of the smart Alecs in the crowd, the kind that think because they're rotten themselves, every one else is rotten, too, kind of gave him the laugh; thought he was a little simple minded and out of date on the thing. Finally, though, they let him engineer it his way, and it went through flying, just as nice as could be. The other time was on a big consolidation scheme, and there was a lot of discussion about including a particular statement in a report that was going to be made to the public. One man thought it would affect the public favorably; another thought it would make a good impression on the stock-holders; one or two spoke against it; then they called on Mr. Eastman for his opinion; he was for it, and he said so; he summed up the points that had been made in favor of making it public, and then in conclusion he said in that dry way of his, 'And I think, gentlemen, that on this proposition you forget what is to my mind the most important point of all; that besides all the other good things that may be said of this clause, it has the additional merit of being true.' Most of them thought he was joking, I suppose, but I knew mighty well he wasn't, and the result of the thing showed that he was right again, as he generally is.

"So, according to my ideas, picked up partly from watching him, and partly on the outside, the only thing that'll really go with the general public in the long run is honesty, either real or imitation, and the trouble with the imitation kind is that it doesn't last very long before it begins to show wear. And that's why I'd like to ask you right out plain, without meaning any insult, whether this mining deal and the other schemes are fakes or not. Not because I've got any conscience; I never had much, to start with, and since I've got into things down town a little, I haven't any at all, but I mean just as a matter of business policy. You might put a fake deal through, and come out flying, but I wouldn't want to go into it myself unless it was straight."

He paused suddenly, refilled his glass, and then added, "After which, you probably think I'm several kinds of a damn fool."

Gordon laughed with thorough enjoyment. "On the contrary," he said, "I find all the good reports I've had on you being borne out. You've got the right idea on these things, or, at least, you've got the same ideas that I have, which with most people means the same thing. No, I'm glad to say that these schemes of mine are all straight as a string. On the mining deal, of course there'll be inflation, and the usual amount of legitimate stock market manipulation, and also, too, you can't make an omelette without breaking some eggs, and some of the general public will undoubtedly suffer, as they always do, for being fools enough to speculate. But in a general way, the proposition's perfectly legitimate, and I think without further discussion on that point we'll agree that you're the man I'm looking for. Now there are two other things I want to get straightened out. First, this advertising scheme. Is it feasible? Can it be successfully carried out?"

Doyle thought a moment only. His active brain had been busied with so many projects, real and imaginary, in his brief span of life, that it was hard very greatly to surprise him. He nodded assent.

"Why, sure," he rejoined succinctly, "it can be done, all right, but, if we do it the way it ought to be done, it's going to cost you money; a whole lot of money."

Gordon looked his approval. "Yes," he answered, "I know it, and of course I shouldn't think of going into it at all if I wasn't ready to foot the bills. I'm in condition, however, financially, to meet almost any expense within the bounds of reason. So much for that. Now here's the final consideration. We've agreed that you're the man for your end of this thing, and we've agreed that with the right man to run it, the advertising campaign can be carried on to advantage. Now, how about the man who's to be advertised. Are there any reasons why I won't go down with the public? If there are, now's the time to tell me about them, instead of later. Go ahead, now; pick me to pieces; I give you leave."

Doyle shook his head in decided negative. "You needn't worry a minute over that," he answered positively, "you've got every card in the pack. All we've got to do is to play 'em right. First, you see, you're from the swell end of town, and that helps to start with. Some people it might discourage. You know some folk that get their ideas mostly from books really believe that the rank and file want one of their own kind to lead 'em. That's the worst rot going. The common people get jealous when they see one of their own getting ahead too fast. 'That fellow,' they say, 'he's no good. Why, he used to live on the same street as me.' And a poor man's got nothing against a rich man that treats him half way decent. He envies him, of course, but he doesn't hate him; and a man like you, if he goes at it right, can get the kind of following he wants quicker and better than the man that's been raised right up among the gang. I know that for a fact.

"And, then, Mr. Gordon, you've got the coin, too. Of course that isn't everything, by any means. Lots of men are so unpopular that all the coin in the world can't help 'em any, but there's some people that have got to be reached with the long green, and that can't be reached any other way on earth. You've got to show 'em before they'll be with you.

"Finally, you're a business man, and you know every dollar's made up of a hundred cents, and that's going to save you from getting soaked a lot. No, Mr. Gordon, there's nothing to stop you that I can see; nothing in the world."

Gordon checked on the fingers of his left hand with the index finger of his right. "Let's see, then," he reflected slowly, "one's all right, and two's all right, and three's all right; so far, so good. And now we come to the part where I'll confess my ideas are altogether vague, and where I've got to rely on your judgment and experience. And that's on the practical details of this advertising scheme. With a free hand, what would you do?"

There was no hesitation about Doyle. At once he attacked his subject with the relish of an epicure about to enjoy a feast. "Well," he said, "of course, to begin with, there's no way of reaching the general public like the newspapers. It's a fact that most people, even intelligent, well informed people, most of all, people in upper society, don't begin to have the faintest idea of the influence of the one-cent dailies; and I tell you, Mr. Gordon, there are tens of thousands of people in this country who take every word they read in one of those papers for gospel truth; more than likely it's the sum total of all they ever do read. So first of all we want to get control of a paper, and then we can print what we please. Some people might tell you that a weekly or a monthly magazine would answer your purpose better, but it isn't so. That would do well enough for a second string, so to speak; you'd reach a little different class of readers that way, and that would help; but what we really want first of all is to own or control a good one-cent daily that gets right to the people, and that gradually gets you before the people in as many different ways as possible. Then finally one story or another gets the eye of the men on the other papers, and finally you're good copy—for a while, at least, until something comes along to eclipse you—from one end of the country to the other. That's the way we'll work that."

Gordon nodded. "That sounds all right," he said approvingly, "but I suppose it's got to be done with a lot of tact. With some people there can't be such a thing as publicity without criticism."

Doyle leaned quickly forward across the table. "I know exactly what you mean," he exclaimed, "and I know exactly the kind of people you mean, too. You mean the conservative, ultra respectable men you meet here every day at the Federal, for instance; the class that thinks if your name appears in print anywhere outside the society column, it's deucedly bad form, you know, most extraordinary sort of thing, my dear chap, on my word."

He mimicked successfully, and Gordon laughed. "Yes, you've hit it," he answered, "but these same men are powers in the city, and I should hate to lose their regard, as I suppose I undoubtedly should by any such campaign as we propose."

Doyle nodded. "You certainly would," he replied; "but, Mr. Gordon, it's a choice you've got to make. It's simply inevitable. To paraphrase Lincoln, you can suit part of the people all of the time, and you can suit all of the people part of the time, but you can't suit all of the people all of the time. It's absolutely impossible; and the choice to make is to see where you'll really get the true following. Jefferson made the choice, and I suppose he wasn't really exactly popular in good Federalist society, but when he wanted a thing, he only had to go to the people for it, and he got it. He knew where the country's real strength lay, and you can't do better than copy him. It's the so-called common people you want to have back of you, and it's the common people's battle you want to fight, and the common people's ideas of what's right and proper that you want to study over. That's what you've got to make up your mind to."

Gordon looked thoughtful. "So you really think," he said, "that I can afford to lose standing south of the park, and still hope to gain through the city at large."

"The city at large!" cried Doyle, his voice rising in his excitement. "Why, Mr. Gordon, I don't think you've caught the idea of this yet. With the way we're going to take hold of this thing, the things that you've done, the things that you'll be doing, the things that you'll be going to do, we'll sweep the country from one end to the other. This little crowd south of the park you stand so much in awe of aren't even a pin prick on the map, and that's the solemn truth. For one enemy you'll make among them, through the country, from east to west, from north to south, you'll make a hundred, no, a thousand friends."

Gordon laughed at the younger man's enthusiasm.

"That sounds fine," he assented good-humoredly, "but when we come right down to the details, just how are we going to make all these friends? What are some of these wonderful things we're going to do?"

Doyle did not give ground for an instant. His eyes, indeed, gleamed more eagerly than ever, with the ardor of a man fairly started on a favorite theme.

"Details," he cried; "don't you worry about them. I'll give them to you in a minute, but they aren't the things to worry over. Here's the big thing; the one we've got to hang up on the wall, and look at a hundred times a day. What are we going to do, what are we going to say, to make the average man the country through, believe in us? That's the puzzle. We've got to be good enough judges of human nature and things in general to tell that, and the rest's easy. I've just told you my idea; the one big thing is, 'Honesty is the best policy;' you've got either to be honest, or to have the people think you're honest, and you've got to show at least a fair measure of ability, and after that, you needn't be so careful. You can do lots of things; you can be too radical for a lot of people; you can be too conservative for a lot more; but, whether they agree with you or not, so long as they think you're honest and fairly capable, why, good men, and especially good leaders, are scarce, and they'll stick. You'll find that's so, every time."

Gordon nodded. "Well," he admitted, "I must say I think you're pretty nearly right. Let's assume that you are, anyway, and then you can go ahead and take up some of these details I want to know about. That's where, as I just said, my ideas are vague."

Doyle grinned cheerfully. "I'll clear 'em up for you," he observed, with confidence. "That part's easy compared with the rest. First off, you've got to have six or eight speeches on different topics. A man, to be in the public eye, has got to be a mighty versatile proposition these days. We go crazy over so many different things we've really got to be a nation of cranks, pretty near, and every crank has to be got at on his specialty, if it's a possible thing. You want a good up-to-date talk on financial questions, and work things to get a chance to spring it at Board of Trade dinners, and that sort of thing; you've been an athlete,—work up a talk on athletics, and you'll find that'll go great almost anywhere; your base-ball crank's a power in the land to-day; he has to be catered to, and written for, and everything else. And then you'll have to mix a little in the political game, too. Not too much, at first, anyway; but still politics is the big thing, after all, and you've got to have a good safe speech ready on the issues of the day; you never can tell,—a speech, a sentence from a speech, even, may make a man famous overnight. Versatility; broad-minded interest in everything; and always ready to see that the rights of the people are looked out for; pretty good, what?"

Gordon smiled. "Do I get time for anything else except speechmaking?" he asked dryly.

Doyle laughed. "Of course you do," he cried. "The speechmaking part is only a necessary sort of evil. It's got to be done, for advertising, but it's the easiest thing in the world, if we're not careful, to overdo. It's a great thing to have your name in big head-lines about once in so often; shows people you're alive, and makes a lot of 'em jealous, too; but the minute you get the reputation of being willing to shoot off your face anywhere on any old subject at any time, then people begin to laugh at you. So we'll be careful on that end of it, for, after all, the things a man does count a hundred to one over the things he says he's going to do. And that's where I think we'll score."

Gordon gazed at him. "Young man," he said solemnly, "I begin to have a suspicion that by engaging you I'm going to take my life in my hands. They told me you were a hustler, an enthusiast, and a man of resource, and I begin to believe they understated the case, at that."

Doyle, engrossed in his subject, scarcely seemed to heed Gordon's words. "Look," he continued, "these things we've got to have you do. Here's the idea about them. We want to pull things off just the way they make a dramatic climax on the stage. You know the old gags; the hero says he wrote the letters, and shields the wicked brother; the rich and beautiful heroine leaves her happy home to fly with the poor but honest workingman; and the gallery has a mild species of fit. Of course the fellow that writes the play has the advantage over us; he can arrange things to suit himself, and we can't. But we can work up some pretty neat little grandstand plays, just the same. Like this. When Moriarty was going to run for district-attorney the second time, he paid a poor boy's fine practically out of his own pocket, and let the boy go home to mother. It was just around Christmas time, and that soft and mushy act, which he probably had no business to perform anyway, they claim was worth two or three thousand votes, at the very least. Take another one. You remember Lamson, that tried a good deal the sort of thing you want to do a few years back, and finally failed because he was partly crazy and partly crooked, too. Here's a thing he pulled off, that I heard of from an eye witness. He came driving down to the station at his summer home one fine morning to take the train for the city. There was an old wagon, belonging to a junk peddler that lived in the town, standing near the station, and harnessed to it the weariest, thinnest, most discouraged looking old white horse you ever saw. Lamson eyed the horse a minute; then he got his groom down off his own trap. 'William,' he said, 'unharness that horse at once.' The groom started to do it, and the peddler was going to interfere, when some one in the crowd—probably tipped off, I suppose—grabbed his arm and stopped him. By the time the horse was out of the shafts there was quite a little crowd collected; then Lamson turns to the peddler. 'My man,' he says, 'that horse is going to be taken up to my farm, and turned out to pasture for the rest of his natural life. My groom, in just half an hour, will come back here with a good, strong, bay horse of mine, and you're to harness him up and keep him as a present from me. But if I hear of your not keeping him in the very best of condition, if he isn't fed and watered and cared for in every way just as I've treated him, then, my man, you'll stand a fine chance of going to jail,' and with that, he swung on to the train, while the crowd cheered.

"Well, sir, in some mysterious way that got into the papers and was copied from one end of the country to the other. It had just enough of the dramatic about it to catch people right. The poor old horse going out to the green fields, the man being taught an object lesson. Lamson being so good and generous and kind—it helped him to float a big issue of wildcat mining stock that netted him a couple of millions, and ruined a dozen men outright when it collapsed. So that's the sort of thing we've got to pull off from time to time; you'll be very reticent about it all, when it's called to your attention; you'll be very much displeased that it's got into the papers; you'll have to beg the reporters to excuse you for being unwilling to discuss the matter at all, and it'll be the devil of a good boost for you and any schemes you may be at work on. And you can't deny it, Mr. Gordon, can you?"

Gordon, without at once replying, gazed quizzically at the younger man. "Doyle," he said at last, "I can't for the life of me make up my mind whether if I follow you I'm going to find I'm on the road to fame, or whether I'm only going to succeed in making a most outrageous fool of myself. But on the whole—" he paused deliberately and flicked the ash from his cigar—"on the whole, I believe in you, my boy, and I'm willing to take the chance."

Doyle leaned forward across the table. "Good," he cried, "you won't regret it, Mr. Gordon. With what I know about you, with what I know about myself, with what I know about the general public, the thing's a cinch. You'll be the best advertised man that's walked the earth since the day it was made."