Average Jones HTML version
II. Red Dot
From his inner sanctum, Average Jones stared obliquely out upon the whirl of Fifth
Avenue, warming itself under a late March sun.
In the outer offices a line of anxious applicants was being disposed of by his trained
assistants. To the advertising expert's offices had come that day but three cases difficult
enough to be referred to the Ad-Visor himself. Two were rather intricate financial lures
which Average Jones was able to dispose of by a mere "Don't." The third was a
Spiritualist announcement behind which lurked a shrewd plot to entrap a senile
millionaire into a marriage with the medium. These having been settled, the expert was
free to muse upon a paragraph which had appeared in all the important New York
morning papers of the day before.
REWARD-$1,000 reward for information
as to slayer of Brindle Bulldog "Rags"
killed in office of Malcolm Dorr, Stengel
Building, Union Square, March 29.
"That's too much money for a dog," decided Average Jones. "Particularly one that hasn't
any bench record. I'll just have a glance into the thing."
Slipping on his coat he walked briskly down the avenue, and crossing over to Union
Square, entered the gloomy old building which is the sole survival of the days when the
Stengel estate foresaw the upward trend of business toward Fourteenth Street.
Stepping from the elevator at the seventh floor, he paused underneath this sign:
ANALYTICAL AND CONSULTING CHEMIST
Hours 10 to 4
Entering, Average Jones found a fat young man, with mild blue eyes, sitting at a desk.
"Mr. Dorr?" he asked.
"Yes," replied the fat young man nervously, "but if you are a reporter, I must--"
"I am not," interrupted the other. "I am an expert on advertising, and I want that one
thousand dollars reward."
The chemist pushed his chair back and rubbed his forehead.
"You mean you have--have found out something?"
"Not yet. But I intend to."