Volume IX Part 25 (1/2)

”Blest if I don't believe we could actually fake the thing through if we should try,” said Jimaboy. ”There are plenty of people in this world who would take it seriously.”

”I don't doubt it,” was Isobel's reply. ”People are so ready to be gold-bricked--especially by mail. But it's twelve o'clock! Shall I light the stove for luncheon?--or can we stand Giuseppe's?”

Jimaboy consulted the purse.

”I guess we can afford stuffed macaroni, this one time more,” he rejoined. ”Let's go now, while we can get one of the side tables and be exclusive.”

They had barely turned the corner in the corridor when Lantermann's door opened and the cartoonist sallied out, also luncheon-stirred. He was a big German, with fierce military mustaches and a droop in his left eye that had earned him the nickname of ”Bismarck” on the _Times_ force. He tapped at the Jimaboy door in pa.s.sing, growling to himself in broken English.

”I like not dis light housegeeping for dese babies mit der wood. Dey starf von day und eat nottings der next. I choost take dem oud once und gif dem sauerkraut und wiener.”

When there was no answer to his rap he pushed the door open and entered, being altogether on a brotherly footing with his fellow-lodgers. The pen-drawings with their pendant squibs were lying on Jimaboy's desk; and when Lantermann comprehended he sat down in Jimaboy's chair and dwelt upon them.

”_Himmel!_” he gurgled; ”dot's some of de liddle voman's fooling. Goot, _sehr_ goot! I mus' show dot to Hasbrouck.” And when he went out, the copy for the two advertis.e.m.e.nts was in his pocket.

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 sc.r.a.ping 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 polis.h.i.+ng.

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 advertis.e.m.e.nts_!”

”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.

”Heavens!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Jimaboy; and then his first thought was the jealous author's. ”Isn't it the luckiest thing ever that the spirit didn't move me to sign those things?”

”You might as well have signed them,” said Isobel. ”You've given our street and number.”

”My kingdom!” groaned Jimaboy. ”Here--you lock the door behind me, while I go hunt Hasbrouck. It's a duel with siege guns at ten paces, or a suit for damages with him.”

He was back again in something under the hour, and his face was haggard.

”We are lost!” he announced tragically. ”There is nothing for it now but to run.”

”How ever did it happen?” queried Isobel.

”Oh, just as simply and easily as rolling off a log--as such things always happen. Lantermann saw the things on the desk, and your sketches caught him. He took 'em down to show to Hasbrouck, and Hasbrouck, meaning to do us a good turn, marked the skits up for the 'Wit and Humor' page. The intelligent make-up foreman did the rest: says of course he took 'em for ads. and run 'em as ads.”

”But what does Mr. Hasbrouck say?”

”He gave me the horse laugh; said he would see to it that the advertising department didn't send me a bill. When I began to pull off my coat he took it all back and said he was all kinds of sorry and would have the mistake explained in to-morrow's paper. But you know how that goes. Out of the hundred and fifty thousand people who will read those miserable squibs to-day, not five thousand will see the explanation to-morrow. Oh, we've got to run, I tell you; skip, fly, vanish into thin air!”