There was a ripple of applausive comment.
“What’s in it?” inquired Lauder, the factory superintendent.
“Millions in it, my boy,” cried the other jubilantly. “We’ll be manufacturing by New Year’s.”
“That’s the point. What’ll we be manufacturing?”
“By crikey! That reminds me. Haven’t settled that yet. Might as well do it right now,” said the presiding genius of the place with Olympian decision. “Dr. De Vito, what’s the newest wrinkle in brain-food?”
“Brain-food?” hesitated the little physician. “Something new?”
“Yes, yes!” cried the charlatan impatiently. “What’s the fad now? It used to be phosphorus.”
“Ye-es. Phosphorus, maybe. Maybe some kind of hypophosphite, eh?”
“Sounds all right. Could you get up a preparation of it that looks tasty and tastes good?”
“Fine! I’ll send you down the advertising copy, so you’ll have that to go by. And now, gentlemen, we’re the Cerebread factory from now on. Keep all your help; we’ll need ’em. Go on with Certina till we’re sold out; but no more advertising on it. And, all of you, from now on, think, dream, and live Cerebread. Meeting’s adjourned.”
The staff filed out, chattering excitedly. “He’ll put it over.”—“You can’t beat the Chief.”—“Is’n’t he a wonder!”—“Cerebread; it’s a great name to advertise.”—“No come-back to it, either. Nobody can kick on a food.”—“It’s a sure-enough classy proposition, with those swell European names to it!”—“Wish he’d let us in on the stock.”
Success was in the air. It centered in and beamed from the happy eyes of the reformed enthusiast, as, crossing over the room with hands extended to Esme and Hal, he cried in a burst of generous emotion:
“It was you two that converted me.”