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diff --git a/6016-h/6016-h.htm b/6016-h/6016-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8e1c356 --- /dev/null +++ b/6016-h/6016-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6946 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Roast Beef, Medium, by Edna Ferber + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + .side { float: right; font-size: 75%; width: 25%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; margin-left: 0.8em; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Roast Beef, Medium, by Edna Ferber + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Roast Beef, Medium + +Author: Edna Ferber + + +Release Date: July, 2004 [EBook #6016] +This file was first posted on October 17, 2002 +Last Updated: March 15, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROAST BEEF, MEDIUM *** + + + + +Text file produced by Carel Lyn Miske, Charles Franks and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + ROAST BEEF, MEDIUM + </h1> + <h3> + THE BUSINESS ADVENTURES OF EMMA McCHESNEY + </h3> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Edna Ferber + </h2> + <h4> + Author of “Dawn O'Hara,” “Buttered Side Down,” Etc. <br /> <br /> With + twenty-seven illustrations by James Montgomery Flagg + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'And they call that thing a petticoat!'”} + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_FORE"> FOREWORD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_ILL"> ILLUSTRATIONS (not available in this edition) </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> I. — ROAST BEEF, MEDIUM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> II. — REPRESENTING T. A. BUCK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> III. — CHICKENS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> IV. — HIS MOTHER'S SON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> V. — PINK TIGHTS AND GINGHAMS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VI. — SIMPLY SKIRTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VII. — UNDERNEATH THE HIGH-CUT VEST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> VIII. — CATCHING UP WITH CHRISTMAS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> IX. — KNEE-DEEP IN KNICKERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> X. — IN THE ABSENCE OF THE AGENT </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_FORE" id="link2H_FORE"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOREWORD + </h2> + <p> + Roast Beef, Medium, is not only a food. It is a philosophy. + </p> + <p> + Seated at Life's Dining Table, with the Menu of Morals before you, your + eye wanders a bit over the entrees, the hors d'oeuvres, and the things <i>a + la</i>, though you know that Roast Beef, Medium, is safe, and sane, and + sure. It agrees with you. As you hesitate there sounds in your ear a soft + and insinuating Voice. + </p> + <p> + “You'll find the tongue in aspic very nice today,” purrs the Voice. “May I + recommend the chicken pie, country style? Perhaps you'd relish something + light and tempting. Eggs Benedictine. Very fine. Or some flaked crab meat, + perhaps. With a special Russian sauce.” + </p> + <p> + Roast Beef, Medium! How unimaginative it sounds. How prosaic, and dry! You + cast the thought of it aside with the contempt that it deserves, and you + assume a fine air of the epicure as you order. There are set before you + things encased in pastry; things in frilly paper trousers; things that + prick the tongue; sauces that pique the palate. There are strange + vegetable garnishings, cunningly cut. This is not only Food. These are + Viands. + </p> + <p> + “Everything satisfactory?” inquires the insinuating Voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” you say, and take a hasty sip of water. That paprika has burned + your tongue. “Yes. Check, please.” + </p> + <p> + You eye the score, appalled. “Look here! Aren't you over-charging!” + </p> + <p> + “Our regular price,” and you catch a sneer beneath the smugness of the + Voice. “It is what every one pays, sir.” + </p> + <p> + You reach deep, deep into your pocket, and you pay. And you rise and go, + full but not fed. And later as you take your fifth Moral Pepsin Tablet you + say Fool! and Fool! and Fool! + </p> + <p> + When next we dine we are not tempted by the Voice. We are wary of weird + sauces. We shun the cunning aspics. We look about at our neighbor's table. + He is eating of things French, and Russian and Hungarian. Of food + garnished, and garish and greasy. And with a little sigh of Content and + resignation we settle down to our Roast Beef, Medium. + </p> + <h3> + E. F. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_ILL" id="link2H_ILL"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <b>ILLUSTRATIONS (not available in this edition)</b> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br />“'And they call that thing a petticoat!'” <br /> <br />“'Peter + Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,' he announced, glibly” <br /> <br />“'That + was a married kiss—a two-year-old married kiss at least'” <br /> + <br />“'I won't ask you to forgive a hound like me'” <br /> <br />“'You'll + never grow up, Emma McChesney'” <br /> <br />“'Well, s'long then, Shrimp. + See you at eight'” <br /> <br />“'I'm still in a position to enforce that + ordinance against pouting'” <br /> <br />“'Son!' echoed the clerk, staring” + <br /> <br />“'Well!' gulped Jock, 'those two double-bedded, bloomin', + blasted <br />Bisons—'” <br /> <br />“'Come on out of here and I'll + lick the shine off your shoes, you <br />blue-eyed babe, you!'” <br /> <br />“'You + can't treat me with your life's history. I'm going in'” <br /> <br />“'Now, + Lillian Russell and cold cream is one; and new potatoes and brown <br />crocks + is another.'” <br /> <br />“'Why, girls, I couldn't hold down a job in a + candy factory'” <br /> <br />“'Honestly, I'd wear it myself!'” <br /> <br />“'I've + lived petticoats, I've talked petticoats, I've dreamed <br />petticoats—why, + I've even worn the darn things!'” <br /> <br />"And found himself addressing + the backs of the letters on the door <br />marked 'Private'.” <br /> <br />“'Shut + up, you blamed fool! Can't you see the lady's sick?'” <br /> <br />"At his + gaze that lady fled, sample-case banging at her knees” <br /> <br />"In the + exuberance of his young strength, he picked her up” <br /> <br />"She read + it again, dully, as though every selfish word had not already <br />stamped + itself on her brain and heart.” <br /> <br />“'Not that you look your age—not + by ten years!”' <br /> <br />“'Christmas isn't a season ... it's a feeling; + and, thank God, I've got <br />it!'” <br /> <br />"No man will ever + appreciate the fine points of this little garment, but <br />the women—” + <br /> <br />"Emma McChesney ... I believe in you now! Dad and I both + believe in <br />you.” <br /> <br />"It had been a whirlwind day.” <br /> + <br />“'Emma,' he said, 'will you marry me?'” <br /> <br />“'Welcome home!' + she cried. 'Sketch in the furniture to suit yourself.'” <br /> <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I. — ROAST BEEF, MEDIUM + </h2> + <p> + There is a journey compared to which the travels of Bunyan's hero were a + summer-evening's stroll. The Pilgrims by whom this forced march is taken + belong to a maligned fraternity, and are known as traveling men. + Sample-case in hand, trunk key in pocket, cigar in mouth, brown derby + atilt at an angle of ninety, each young and untried traveler starts on his + journey down that road which leads through morasses of chicken <i>a la</i> + Creole, over greasy mountains of queen fritters made doubly perilous by + slippery glaciers of rum sauce, into formidable jungles of breaded veal + chops threaded by sanguine and deadly streams of tomato gravy, past + sluggish mires of dreadful things <i>en casserole</i>, over hills of + corned-beef hash, across shaking quagmires of veal glace, plunging into + sloughs of slaw, until, haggard, weary, digestion shattered, complexion + gone, he reaches the safe haven of roast beef, medium. Once there, he + never again strays, although the pompadoured, white-aproned siren + sing-songs in his ear the praises of Irish stew, and pork with apple + sauce. + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney was eating her solitary supper at the Berger house at Three + Rivers, Michigan. She had arrived at the Roast Beef haven many years + before. She knew the digestive perils of a small town hotel dining-room as + a guide on the snow-covered mountain knows each treacherous pitfall and + chasm. Ten years on the road had taught her to recognize the deadly snare + that lurks in the seemingly calm bosom of minced chicken with cream sauce. + Not for her the impenetrable mysteries of a hamburger and onions. It had + been a struggle, brief but terrible, from which Emma McChesney had emerged + triumphant, her complexion and figure saved. + </p> + <p> + No more metaphor. On with the story, which left Emma at her safe and + solitary supper. + </p> + <p> + She had the last number of the <i>Dry Goods Review</i> propped up against + the vinegar cruet and the Worcestershire, and the salt shaker. Between + conscientious, but disinterested mouthfuls of medium roast beef, she was + reading the snappy ad set forth by her firm's bitterest competitors, the + Strauss Sans-silk Skirt Company. It was a good reading ad. Emma McChesney, + who had forgotten more about petticoats than the average skirt salesman + ever knew, presently allowed her luke-warm beef to grow cold and flabby as + she read. Somewhere in her subconscious mind she realized that the lanky + head waitress had placed some one opposite her at the table. Also, + subconsciously, she heard him order liver and bacon, with onions. She told + herself that as soon as she reached the bottom of the column she'd look up + to see who the fool was. She never arrived at the column's end. + </p> + <p> + “I just hate to tear you away from that love lyric; but if I might trouble + you for the vinegar—” + </p> + <p> + Emma groped for it back of her paper and shoved it across the table + without looking up, “—and the Worcester—” + </p> + <p> + One eye on the absorbing column, she passed the tall bottle. But at its + removal her prop was gone. The <i>Dry Goods Review</i> was too weighty for + the salt shaker alone. + </p> + <p> + “—and the salt. Thanks. Warm, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + There was a double vertical frown between Emma McChesney's eyes as she + glanced up over the top of her <i>Dry Goods Review</i>. The frown gave way + to a half smile. The glance settled into a stare. + </p> + <p> + “But then, anybody would have stared. He expected it,” she said, + afterwards, in telling about it. “I've seen matinee idols, and tailors' + supplies salesmen, and Julian Eltinge, but this boy had any male + professional beauty I ever saw, looking as handsome and dashing as a bowl + of cold oatmeal. And he knew it.” + </p> + <p> + Now, in the ten years that she had been out representing T. A. Buck's + Featherloom Petticoats Emma McChesney had found it necessary to make a + rule or two for herself. In the strict observance of one of these she had + become past mistress in the fine art of congealing the warm advances of + fresh and friendly salesmen of the opposite sex. But this case was + different, she told herself. The man across the table was little more than + a boy—an amazingly handsome, astonishingly impudent, cockily + confident boy, who was staring with insolent approval at Emma McChesney's + trim, shirt-waisted figure, and her fresh, attractive coloring, and her + well-cared-for hair beneath the smart summer hat. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,” he + announced, glibly.} + </p> + <p> + “It isn't in human nature to be as good-looking as you are,” spake Emma + McChesney, suddenly, being a person who never trifled with half-way + measures. “I'll bet you have bad teeth, or an impediment in your speech.” + </p> + <p> + The gorgeous young man smiled. His teeth were perfect. “Peter Piper picked + a peck of pickled peppers,” he announced, glibly. “Nothing missing there, + is there?” + </p> + <p> + “Must be your morals then,” retorted Emma McChesney. “My! My! And on the + road! Why, the trail of bleeding hearts that you must leave all the way + from Maine to California would probably make the Red Sea turn white with + envy.” + </p> + <p> + The Fresh Young Kid speared a piece of liver and looked soulfully up into + the adoring eyes of the waitress who was hovering over him. “Got any nice + hot biscuits to-night, girlie?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “I'll get you some; sure,” wildly promised his handmaiden, and disappeared + kitchenward. + </p> + <p> + “Brand new to the road, aren't you?” observed Emma McChesney, cruelly. + </p> + <p> + “What makes you think—” + </p> + <p> + “Liver and bacon, hot biscuits, Worcestershire,” elucidated she. “No + old-timer would commit suicide that way. After you've been out for two or + three years you'll stick to the Rock of Gibraltar—roast beef, + medium. Oh, I get wild now and then, and order eggs if the girl says she + knows the hen that layed 'em, but plain roast beef, unchloroformed, is the + one best bet. You can't go wrong if you stick to it.” + </p> + <p> + The god-like young man leaned forward, forgetting to eat. + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean to tell me you're on the road!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” demanded Emma McChesney, briskly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, fie, fie!” said the handsome youth, throwing her a languishing look. + “Any woman as pretty as you are, and with those eyes, and that hair, and + figure—Say, Little One, what are you going to do to-night?” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney sugared her tea, and stirred it, slowly. Then she looked + up. “To-night, you fresh young kid, you!” she said calmly, “I'm going to + dictate two letters, explaining why business was rotten last week, and why + it's going to pick up next week, and then I'm going to keep an engagement + with a nine-hour beauty sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't get sore at a fellow. You'd take pity on me if you knew how I have + to work to kill an evening in one of these little townpump burgs. Kill + 'em! It can't be done. They die harder than the heroine in a ten, twenty, + thirty. From supper to bedtime is twice as long as from breakfast to + supper. Honest!” + </p> + <p> + But Emma McChesney looked inexorable, as women do just before they relent. + Said she: “Oh, I don't know. By the time I get through trying to convince + a bunch of customers that T. A. Buck's Featherloom Petticoat has every + other skirt in the market looking like a piece of Fourth of July bunting + that's been left out in the rain, I'm about ready to turn down the spread + and leave a call for six-thirty.” + </p> + <p> + “Be a good fellow,” pleaded the unquenchable one. “Let's take in all the + nickel shows, and then see if we can't drown our sorrows in—er—” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney slipped a coin under her plate, crumpled her napkin, folded + her arms on the table, and regarded the boy across the way with what our + best talent calls a long, level look. It was so long and so level that + even the airiness of the buoyant youngster at whom it was directed began + to lessen perceptibly, long before Emma began to talk. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, young 'un, did any one ever refuse you anything? I thought not. + I should think that when you realize what you've got to learn it would + scare you to look ahead. I don't expect you to believe me when I tell you + I never talk to fresh guys like you, but it's true. I don't know why I'm + breaking my rule for you, unless it's because you're so unbelievably + good-looking that I'm anxious to know where the blemish is. The Lord don't + make 'em perfect, you know. I'm going to get out those letters, and then, + if it's just the same to you, we'll take a walk. These nickel shows are + getting on my nerves. It seems to me that if I have to look at one more + Western picture about a fool girl with her hair in a braid riding a show + horse in the wilds of Clapham Junction and being rescued from a band of + almost-Indians by the handsome, but despised Eastern tenderfoot, or if I + see one more of those historical pictures, with the women wearing costumes + that are a pass between early Egyptian and late State Street, I know I'll + get hysterics and have to be carried shrieking, up the aisle. Let's walk + down Main Street and look in the store windows, and up as far as the park + and back.” + </p> + <p> + “Great!” assented he. “Is there a park? + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” replied Emma McChesney, “but there is. And for your own + good I'm going to tell you a few things. There's more to this traveling + game than just knocking down on expenses, talking to every pretty woman + you meet, and learning to ask for fresh white-bread heels at the Palmer + House in Chicago. I'll meet you in the lobby at eight.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney talked steadily, and evenly, and generously, from eight + until eight-thirty. She talked from the great storehouse of practical + knowledge which she had accumulated in her ten years on the road. She told + the handsome young cub many things for which he should have been undyingly + thankful. But when they reached the park—the cool, dim, + moon-silvered park, its benches dotted with glimpses of white showing + close beside a blur of black, Emma McChesney stopped talking. Not only did + she stop talking, but she ceased to think of the boy seated beside her on + the bench. + </p> + <p> + In the band-stand, under the arc-light, in the center of the pretty little + square, some neighborhood children were playing a noisy game, with many + shrill cries, and much shouting and laughter. Suddenly, from one of the + houses across the way, a woman's voice was heard, even above the clamor of + the children. + </p> + <p> + “Fred-dee!” called the voice. “Maybelle! Come, now.” + </p> + <p> + And a boy's voice answered, as boys' voices have since Cain was a child + playing in the Garden of Eden, and as boys' voices will as long as boys + are: + </p> + <p> + “Aw, ma, I ain't a bit sleepy. We just begun a new game, an' I'm leader. + Can't we just stay out a couple of minutes more?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, five minutes,” agreed the voice. “But don't let me call you again.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney leaned back on the rustic bench and clasped her strong, + white hands behind her head, and stared straight ahead into the soft + darkness. And if it had been light you could have seen that the bitter + lines showing faintly about her mouth were outweighed by the sweet and + gracious light which was glowing in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Fred-dee!” came the voice of command again. “May-belle! This minute, + now!” + </p> + <p> + One by one the flying little figures under the arc-light melted away in + the direction of the commanding voice and home and bed. And Emma McChesney + forgot all about fresh young kids and featherloom petticoats and discounts + and bills of lading and sample-cases and grouchy buyers. After all, it had + been her protecting maternal instinct which had been aroused by the boy at + supper, although she had not known it then. She did not know it now, for + that matter. She was busy remembering just such evenings in her own life—summer + evenings, filled with the high, shrill laughter of children at play. She + too, had stood in the doorway, making a funnel of her hands, so that her + clear call through the twilight might be heard above the cries of the boys + and girls. She had known how loath the little feet had been to leave their + play, and how they had lagged up the porch stairs, and into the house. + Years, whose memory she had tried to keep behind her, now suddenly loomed + before her in the dim quiet of the little flower-scented park. + </p> + <p> + A voice broke the silence, and sent her dream-thoughts scattering to the + winds. + </p> + <p> + “Honestly, kid,” said the voice, “I could be crazy about you, if you'd let + me.” + </p> + <p> + The forgotten figure beside her woke into sudden life. A strong arm + encircled her shoulders. A strong hand seized her own, which were clasped + behind her head. Two warm, eager lips were pressed upon her lips, checking + the little cry of surprise and wrath that rose in her throat. + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney wrenched herself free with a violent jerk, and pushed him + from her. She did not storm. She did not even rise. She sat very quietly, + breathing fast. When she turned at last to look at the boy beside her it + seemed that her white profile cut the darkness. The man shrank a little, + and would have stammered something, but Emma McChesney checked him. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'That was a married kiss—a two-year-old married kiss + at least.'”} + </p> + <p> + “You nasty, good-for-nothing, handsome young devil, you!” she said. “So + you're married.” + </p> + <p> + He sat up with a jerk. “How did you—what makes you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “That was a married kiss—a two-year-old married kiss, at least. No + boy would get as excited as that about kissing an old stager like me. The + chances are you're out of practise. I knew that if it wasn't teeth or + impediment it must be morals. And it is.” + </p> + <p> + She moved over on the bench until she was close beside him. “Now, listen + to me, boy.” She leaned forward, impressively. “Are you listening?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered the handsome young devil, sullenly. + </p> + <p> + “What I've got to say to you isn't so much for your sake, as for your + wife's. I was married when I was eighteen, and stayed married eight years. + I've had my divorce ten years, and my boy is seventeen years old. Figure + it out. How old is Ann?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe it,” he flashed back. “You're not a day over twenty-six—anyway, + you don't look it. I—” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” drawled Emma. “That's because you've never seen me in negligee. + A woman's as old as she looks with her hair on the dresser and bed only a + few minutes away. Do you know why I was decent to you in the first place? + Because I was foolish enough to think that you reminded me of my own kid. + Every fond mama is gump enough to think that every Greek god she sees + looks like her own boy, even if her own happens to squint and have two + teeth missing—which mine hasn't, thank the Lord! He's the greatest + young—Well, now, look here, young 'un. I'm going to return good for + evil. Traveling men and geniuses should never marry. But as long as you've + done it, you might as well start right. If you move from this spot till I + get through with you, I'll yell police and murder. Are you ready?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm dead sorry, on the square, I am—” + </p> + <p> + “Ten minutes late,” interrupted Emma McChesney. “I'm dishing up a sermon, + hot, for one, and you've got to choke it down. Whenever I hear a traveling + man howling about his lonesome evenings, and what a dog's life it is, and + no way for a man to live, I always wonder what kind of a summer picnic he + thinks it is for his wife. She's really a widow seven months in the year, + without any of a widow's privileges. Did you ever stop to think what she's + doing evenings? No, you didn't. Well, I'll tell you. She's sitting home, + night after night, probably embroidering monograms on your shirt sleeves + by way of diversion. And on Saturday night, which is the night when every + married woman has the inalienable right to be taken out by her husband, + she can listen to the woman in the flat upstairs getting ready to go to + the theater. The fact that there's a ceiling between 'em doesn't prevent + her from knowing just where they're going, and why he has worked himself + into a rage over his white lawn tie, and whether they're taking a taxi or + the car and who they're going to meet afterward at supper. Just by + listening to them coming downstairs she can tell how much Mrs. Third + Flat's silk stockings cost, and if she's wearing her new La Valliere or + not. Women have that instinct, you know. Or maybe you don't. There's so + much you've missed.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, look here—” broke from the man beside her. But Emma McChesney + laid her cool fingers on his lips. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing from the side-lines, please,” she said. “After they've gone she + can go to bed, or she can sit up, pretending to read, but really wondering + if that squeaky sound coming from the direction of the kitchen is a loose + screw in the storm door, or if it's some one trying to break into the + flat. And she'd rather sit there, scared green, than go back through that + long hall to find out. And when Tillie comes home with her young man at + eleven o'clock, though she promised not to stay out later than ten, she + rushes back to the kitchen and falls on her neck, she's so happy to see + her. Oh, it's a gay life. You talk about the heroism of the early Pilgrim + mothers! I'd like to know what they had on the average traveling man's + wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Bess goes to the matinee every Saturday,” he began, in feeble defense. + </p> + <p> + “Matinee!” scoffed Emma McChesney. “Do you think any woman goes to matinee + by preference? Nobody goes but girls of sixteen, and confirmed old maids + without brothers, and traveling men's wives. Matinee! Say, would you ever + hesitate to choose between an all-day train and a sleeper? It's the same + idea. What a woman calls going to the theater is something very different. + It means taking a nap in the afternoon, so her eyes will be bright at + night, and then starting at about five o'clock to dress, and lay her + husband's clean things out on the bed. She loves it. She even enjoys + getting his bath towels ready, and putting his shaving things where he can + lay his hands on 'em, and telling the girl to have dinner ready promptly + at six-thirty. It means getting out her good dress that hangs in the + closet with a cretonne bag covering it, and her black satin coat, and her + hat with the paradise aigrettes that she bought with what she saved out of + the housekeeping money. It means her best silk stockings, and her diamond + sunburst that he's going to have made over into a La Valliere just as soon + as business is better. She loves it all, and her cheeks get pinker and + pinker, so that she really doesn't need the little dash of rouge that she + puts on 'because everybody does it, don't you know?' She gets ready, all + but her dress, and then she puts on a kimono and slips out to the kitchen + to make the gravy for the chicken because the girl never can get it as + smooth as he likes it. That's part of what she calls going to the theater, + and having a husband. And if there are children—” + </p> + <p> + There came a little, inarticulate sound from the boy. But Emma's quick ear + caught it. + </p> + <p> + “No? Well, then, we'll call that one black mark less for you. But if there + are children—and for her sake I hope there will be—she's + father and mother to them. She brings them up, single-handed, while he's + on the road. And the worst she can do is to say to them, 'Just wait until + your father gets home. He'll hear of this.' But shucks! When he comes home + he can't whip the kids for what they did seven weeks before, and that + they've forgotten all about, and for what he never saw, and can't imagine. + Besides, he wants his comfort when he gets home. He says he wants a little + rest and peace, and he's darned if he's going to run around evenings. Not + much, he isn't! But he doesn't object to her making a special effort to + cook all those little things that he's been longing for on the road. Oh, + there'll be a seat in Heaven for every traveling man's wife—though + at that, I'll bet most of 'em will find themselves stuck behind a post.” + </p> + <p> + “You're all right!” exclaimed Emma McChesney's listener, suddenly. “How a + woman like you can waste her time on the road is more than I can see. And—I + want to thank you. I'm not such a fool—” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't let you finish a sentence so far and I'm not going to yet. Wait + a minute. There's one more paragraph to this sermon. You remember what I + told you about old stagers, and the roast beef diet? Well, that applies + right through life. It's all very well to trifle with the little + side-dishes at first, but there comes a time when you've got to quit + fooling with the minced chicken, and the imitation lamb chops of this + world, and settle down to plain, everyday, roast beef, medium. That other + stuff may tickle your palate for a while, but sooner or later it will turn + on you, and ruin your moral digestion. You stick to roast beef, medium. It + may sound prosaic, and unimaginative and dry, but you'll find that it + wears in the long run. You can take me over to the hotel now. I've lost an + hour's sleep, but I don't consider it wasted. And you'll oblige me by + putting the stopper on any conversation that may occur to you between here + and the hotel. I've talked until I'm so low on words that I'll probably + have to sell featherlooms in sign language to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + They walked to the very doors of the Berger House in silence. But at the + foot of the stairs that led to the parlor floor he stopped, and looked + into Emma McChesney's face. His own was rather white and tense. + </p> + <p> + “Look here,” he said. “I've got to thank you. That sounds idiotic, but I + guess you know what I mean. And I won't ask you to forgive a hound like + me. I haven't been so ashamed of myself since I was a kid. Why, if you + knew Bess—if you knew—” + </p> + <p> + “I guess I know Bess, all right. I used to be a Bess, myself. Just because + I'm a traveling man it doesn't follow that I've forgotten the Bess + feeling. As far as that goes, I don't mind telling you that I've got + neuralgia from sitting in that park with my feet in the damp grass. I can + feel it in my back teeth, and by eleven o'clock it will be camping over my + left eye, with its little brothers doing a war dance up the side of my + face. And, boy, I'd give last week's commissions if there was some one to + whom I had the right to say: 'Henry, will you get up and get me a + hot-water bag for my neuralgia? It's something awful. And just open the + left-hand lower drawer of the chiffonier and get out one of those gauze + vests and then get me a safety pin from the tray on my dresser. I'm going + to pin it around my head.'” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'I won't ask you to forgive a hound like me'”} + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. — REPRESENTING T. A. BUCK + </h2> + <p> + Emma McChesney, Mrs. (I place it in the background because she generally + did) swung off the 2:15, crossed the depot platform, and dived into the + hotel 'bus. She had to climb over the feet of a fat man in brown and a + lean man in black, to do it. Long practise had made her perfect in the + art. She knew that the fat man and the thin man were hogging the end seats + so that they could be the first to register and get a choice of rooms when + the 'bus reached the hotel. The vehicle smelled of straw, and mold, and + stables, and dampness, and tobacco, as 'buses have from old Jonas + Chuzzlewit's time to this. Nine years on the road had accustomed Emma + McChesney's nostrils to 'bus smells. She gazed stolidly out of the window, + crossed one leg over the other, remembered that her snug suit-skirt wasn't + built for that attitude, uncrossed them again, and caught the delighted + and understanding eye of the fat traveling man, who was a symphony in + brown—brown suit, brown oxfords, brown scarf, brown bat, + brown-bordered handkerchief just peeping over the edge of his pocket. He + looked like a colossal chocolate fudge. + </p> + <p> + “Red-faced, grinning, and a naughty wink—I'll bet he sells coffins + and undertakers' supplies,” mused Emma McChesney. “And the other one—the + tall, lank, funereal affair in black—I suppose his line would be + sheet music, or maybe phonographs. Or perhaps he's a lyceum bureau reader, + scheduled to give an evening of humorous readings for the Young Men's + Sunday Evening Club course at the First M. E. Church.” + </p> + <p> + During those nine years on the road for the Featherloom Skirt Company Emma + McChesney had picked up a side line or two on human nature. + </p> + <p> + She was not surprised to see the fat man in brown and the thin man in + black leap out of the 'bus and into the hotel before she had had time to + straighten her hat after the wheels had bumped up against the curbing. By + the time she reached the desk the two were disappearing in the wake of a + bell-boy. + </p> + <p> + The sartorial triumph behind the desk, languidly read her signature upside + down, took a disinterested look at her, and yelled: + </p> + <p> + “Front! Show the lady up to nineteen.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney took three steps in the direction of the stairway toward + which the boy was headed with her bags. Then she stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute, boy,” she said, pleasantly enough; and walked back to the + desk. She eyed the clerk, a half-smile on her lips, one arm, in its neat + tailored sleeve, resting on the marble, while her right forefinger, trimly + gloved, tapped an imperative little tattoo. (Perhaps you think that last + descriptive sentence is as unnecessary as it is garbled. But don't you get + a little picture of her—trim, taut, tailored, mannish-booted, + flat-heeled, linen-collared, sailor-hatted?) + </p> + <p> + “You've made a mistake, haven't you?” she inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Mistake?” repeated the clerk, removing his eyes from their loving + contemplation of his right thumb-nail. “Guess not.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, think it over,” drawled Emma McChesney. “I've never seen nineteen, + but I can describe it with both eyes shut, and one hand tied behind me. + It's an inside room, isn't it, over the kitchen, and just next to the + water butt where the maids come to draw water for the scrubbing at 5 A.M.? + And the boiler room gets in its best bumps for nineteen, and the patent + ventilators work just next door, and there's a pet rat that makes his + headquarters in the wall between eighteen and nineteen, and the + housekeeper whose room is across the hail is afflicted with a bronchial + cough, nights. I'm wise to the brand of welcome that you fellows hand out + to us women on the road. This is new territory for me—my first trip + West. Think it over. Don't—er—say, sixty-five strike you as + being nearer my size?” + </p> + <p> + The clerk stared at Emma McChesney, and Emma McChesney coolly stared back + at the clerk. + </p> + <p> + “Our aim,” began he, loftily, “is to make our guests as comfortable as + possible on all occasions. But the last lady drummer who—” + </p> + <p> + “That's all right,” interrupted Emma McChesney, “but I'm not the kind that + steals the towels, and I don't carry an electric iron with me, either. + Also I don't get chummy with the housekeeper and the dining-room girls + half an hour after I move in. Most women drummers are living up to their + reputations, but some of us are living 'em down. I'm for revision + downward. You haven't got my number, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + A slow gleam of unwilling admiration illumined the clerk's chill eye. He + turned and extracted another key with its jangling metal tag, from one of + the many pigeonholes behind him. + </p> + <p> + “You win,” he said. He leaned over the desk and lowered his voice + discreetly. “Say, girlie, go on into the cafe and have a drink on me.” + </p> + <p> + “Wrong again,” answered Emma McChesney. “Never use it. Bad for the + complexion. Thanks just the same. Nice little hotel you've got here.” + </p> + <p> + In the corridor leading to sixty-five there was a great litter of pails, + and mops, and brooms, and damp rags, and one heard the sigh of a vacuum + cleaner. + </p> + <p> + “Spring house-cleaning,” explained the bellboy, hurdling a pail. + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney picked her way over a little heap of dust-cloths and a + ladder or so. + </p> + <p> + “House-cleaning,” she repeated dreamily; “spring house-cleaning.” And + there came a troubled, yearning light into her eyes. It lingered there + after the boy had unlocked and thrown open the door of sixty-five, + pocketed his dime, and departed. + </p> + <p> + Sixty-five was—well, you know what sixty-five generally is in a + small Middle-Western town. Iron bed—tan wall-paper—pine table—pine + dresser—pine chair—red carpet—stuffy smell—fly + buzzing at window—sun beating in from the west. Emma McChesney saw + it all in one accustomed glance. + </p> + <p> + “Lordy, I hate to think what nineteen must be,” she told herself, and + unclasped her bag. Out came the first aid to the travel-stained—a + jar of cold cream. It was followed by powder, chamois, brush, comb, + tooth-brush. Emma McChesney dug four fingers into the cold cream jar, + slapped the stuff on her face, rubbed it in a bit, wiped it off with a dry + towel, straightened her hat, dusted the chamois over her face, glanced at + her watch and hurriedly whisked downstairs. + </p> + <p> + “After all,” she mused, “that thin guy might not be out for a music house. + Maybe his line is skirts, too. You never can tell. Anyway, I'll beat him + to it.” + </p> + <p> + Saturday afternoon and spring-time in a small town! Do you know it? Main + Street—on the right side—all a-bustle; farmers' wagons drawn + up at the curbing; farmers' wives in the inevitable rusty black with dowdy + hats furbished up with a red muslin rose in honor of spring; grand opening + at the new five-and-ten-cent store, with women streaming in and streaming + out again, each with a souvenir pink carnation pinned to her coat; every + one carrying bundles and yellow paper bags that might contain bananas or + hats or grass seed; the thirty-two automobiles that the town boasts all + dashing up and down the street, driven by hatless youths in careful + college clothes; a crowd of at least eleven waiting at Jenson's drug-store + corner for the next interurban car. + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney found herself strolling when she should have been hustling + in the direction of the Novelty Cloak and Suit Store. She was aware of a + vague, strangely restless feeling in the region of her heart—or was + it her liver?—or her lungs? + </p> + <p> + Reluctantly she turned in at the entrance of the Novelty Cloak and Suit + Store and asked for the buyer. (Here we might introduce one of those + side-splitting little business deal scenes. But there can be paid no finer + compliment to Emma McChesney's saleswomanship than to state that she + landed her man on a busy Saturday afternoon, with a store full of + customers and the head woman clerk dead against her from the start.) + </p> + <p> + As she was leaving: + </p> + <p> + “Generally it's the other way around,” smiled the boss, regarding Emma's + trim comeliness, “but seeing you're a lady, why, it'll be on me.” He + reached for his hat. “Let's go and have—ah—a little + something.” + </p> + <p> + “Not any, thanks,” Emma McChesney replied, a little wearily. + </p> + <p> + On her way back to the hotel she frankly loitered. Just to look at her + made you certain that she was not of our town. Now, that doesn't imply + that the women of our town do not dress well, because they do. But there + was something about her—a flirt of chiffon at the throat, or her hat + quill stuck in a certain way, or the stitching on her gloves, or the vamp + of her shoe—that was of a style which had not reached us yet. + </p> + <p> + As Emma McChesney loitered, looking in at the shop windows and watching + the women hurrying by, intent on the purchase of their Sunday dinners, + that vaguely restless feeling seized her again. There were rows of plump + fowls in the butcher-shop windows, and juicy roasts. The cunning hand of + the butcher had enhanced the redness of the meat by trimmings of curly + parsley. Salad things and new vegetables glowed behind the grocers' + plate-glass. There were the tender green of lettuces, the coral of + tomatoes, the brown-green of stout asparagus stalks, bins of spring peas + and beans, and carrots, and bunches of greens for soup. There came over + the businesslike soul of Emma McChesney a wild longing to go in and select + a ten-pound roast, taking care that there should be just the right + proportion of creamy fat and red meat. She wanted to go in and poke her + fingers in the ribs of a broiler. She wanted to order wildly of sweet + potatoes and vegetables, and soup bones, and apples for pies. She ached to + turn back her sleeves and don a blue-and-white checked apron and roll out + noodles. + </p> + <p> + She still was fighting that wild impulse as she walked back to the hotel, + went up to her stuffy room, and, without removing hat or coat, seated + herself on the edge of the bed and stared long and hard at the tan + wall-paper. + </p> + <p> + There is this peculiarity about tan wall-paper. If you stare at it long + enough you begin to see things. Emma McChesney, who pulled down something + over thirty-two hundred a year selling Featherloom Petticoats, saw this: + </p> + <p> + A kitchen, very bright and clean, with a cluttered kind of cleanliness + that bespeaks many housewifely tasks under way. There were mixing bowls, + and saucepans, and a kettle or so, and from the oven there came the sounds + of sputtering and hissing. About the room there hung the divinely + delectable scent of freshly baked cookies. Emma McChesney saw herself in + an all-enveloping checked gingham apron, her sleeves rolled up, her hair + somewhat wild, and one lock powdered with white where she had pushed it + back with a floury hand. Her cheeks were surprisingly pink, and her eyes + were very bright, and she was scraping a baking board and rolling-pin, and + trimming the edges of pie tins, and turning with a whirl to open the oven + door, stooping to dip up spoonfuls of gravy only to pour the rich brown + liquid over the meat again. There were things on top of the stove that + required sticking into with a fork, and other things that demanded tasting + and stirring with a spoon. A neighbor came in to borrow a cup of molasses, + and Emma urged upon her one of her freshly baked cookies. And there was a + ring at the front-door bell, and she had to rush away to do battle with a + persistent book agent.... + </p> + <p> + The buzzing fly alighted on Emma McChesney's left eyebrow. She swatted it + with a hand that was not quite quick enough, spoiled the picture, and + slowly rose from her perch at the bedside. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, damn!” she remarked, wearily, and went over to the dresser. Then she + pulled down her shirtwaist all around and went down to supper. + </p> + <p> + The dining-room was very warm, and there came a smell of lardy things from + the kitchen. Those supping were doing so languidly. + </p> + <p> + “I'm dying for something cool, and green, and fresh,” remarked Emma to the + girl who filled her glass with iced water; “something springish and + tempting.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” sing-songed she of the ruffled, starched skirt, “we have + ham'n-aigs, mutton chops, cold veal, cold roast—” + </p> + <p> + “Two, fried,” interrupted Emma hopelessly, “and a pot of tea—black.” + </p> + <p> + Supper over she passed through the lobby on her way upstairs. The place + was filled with men. They were lolling in the big leather chairs at the + window, or standing about, smoking and talking. There was a rattle of dice + from the cigar counter, and a burst of laughter from the men gathered + about it. It all looked very bright, and cheery, and sociable. Emma + McChesney, turning to ascend the stairs to her room, felt that she, too, + would like to sit in one of the big leather chairs in the window and talk + to some one. + </p> + <p> + Some one was playing the piano in the parlor. The doors were open. Emma + McChesney glanced in. Then she stopped. It was not the appearance of the + room that held her. You may have heard of the wilds of an African jungle—the + trackless wastes of the desert—the solitude of the forest—the + limitless stretch of the storm-tossed ocean; they are cozy and snug when + compared to the utter and soul-searing dreariness of a small town hotel + parlor. You know what it is—red carpet, red plush and brocade + furniture, full-length walnut mirror, battered piano on which reposes a + sheet of music given away with the Sunday supplement of a city paper. + </p> + <p> + A man was seated at the piano, playing. He was not playing the Sunday + supplement sheet music. His brown hat was pushed back on his head and + there was a fat cigar in his pursy mouth, and as he played he squinted up + through the smoke. He was playing Mendelssohn's Spring Song. Not as you + have heard it played by sweet young things; not as you have heard it + rendered by the Apollo String Quartette. Under his fingers it was a + fragrant, trembling, laughing, sobbing, exquisite thing. He was playing it + in a way to make you stare straight ahead and swallow hard. + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney leaned her head against the door. The man at the piano did + not turn. So she tip-toed in, found a chair in a corner, and noiselessly + slipped into it. She sat very still, listening, and the + past-that-might-have-been, and the future-that-was-to-be, stretched behind + and before her, as is strangely often the case when we are listening to + music. She stared ahead with eyes that were very wide open and bright. + Something in the attitude of the man sitting hunched there over the piano + keys, and something in the beauty and pathos of the music brought a hot + haze of tears to her eyes. She leaned her head against the back of the + chair, and shut her eyes and wept quietly and heart-brokenly. The tears + slid down her cheeks, and dropped on her smart tailored waist and her + Irish lace jabot, and she didn't care a bit. + </p> + <p> + The last lovely note died away. The fat man's hands dropped limply to his + sides. Emma McChesney stared at them, fascinated. They were quite + marvelous hands; not at all the sort of hands one would expect to see + attached to the wrists of a fat man. They were slim, nervous, sensitive + hands, pink-tipped, tapering, blue-veined, delicate. As Emma McChesney + stared at them the man turned slowly on the revolving stool. His plump, + pink face was dolorous, sagging, wan-eyed. + </p> + <p> + He watched Emma McChesney as she sat up and dried her eyes. A satisfied + light dawned in his face. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” he said, and mopped his forehead and chin and neck with the + brown-edged handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + “You—you can't be Paderewski. He's thin. But if he plays any better + than that, then I don't want to hear him. You've upset me for the rest of + the week. You've started me thinking about things—about things that—that-” + </p> + <p> + The fat man clasped his thin, nervous hands in front of him and leaned + forward. + </p> + <p> + “About things that you're trying to forget. It starts me that way, too. + That's why sometimes I don't touch the keys for weeks. Say, what do you + think of a man who can play like that, and who is out on the road for a + living just because he knows it's a sure thing? Music! That's my gift. And + I've buried it. Why? Because the public won't take a fat man seriously. + When he sits down at the piano they begin to howl for Italian rag. Why, + I'd rather play the piano in a five-cent moving picture house than do what + I'm doing now. But the old man wanted his son to be a business man, not a + crazy, piano-playing galoot. That's the way he put it. And I was darn fool + enough to think he was right. Why can't people stand up and do the things + they're out to do! Not one person in a thousand does. Why, take you—I + don't know you from Eve, but just from the way you shed the briny I know + you're busy regretting.” + </p> + <p> + “Regretting?” repeated Emma McChesney, in a wail. “Do you know what I am? + I'm a lady drummer. And do you know what I want to do this minute? I want + to clean house. I want to wind a towel around my head, and pin up my + skirt, and slosh around with a pail of hot, soapy water. I want to pound a + couple of mattresses in the back yard, and eat a cold dinner off the + kitchen table. That's what I want to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, go on and do it,” said the fat man. + </p> + <p> + “Do it? I haven't any house to clean. I got my divorce ten years ago, and + I've been on the road ever since. I don't know why I stick. I'm pulling + down a good, fat salary and commissions, but it's no life for a woman, and + I know it, but I'm not big enough to quit. It's different with a man on + the road. He can spend his evenings taking in two or three nickel shows, + or he can stand on the drug-store corner and watch the pretty girls go by, + or he can have a game of billiards, or maybe cards. Or he can have a nice, + quiet time just going up to his room, and smoking a cigar and writing to + his wife or his girl. D'you know what I do?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered the fat man, interestedly. “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Evenings I go up to my room and sew or read. Sew! Every hook and eye and + button on my clothes is moored so tight that even the hand laundry can't + tear 'em off. You couldn't pry those fastenings away with dynamite. When I + find a hole in my stockings I'm tickled to death, because it's something + to mend. And read? Everything from the Rules of the House tacked up on the + door to spelling out the French short story in the back of the Swell Set + Magazine. It's getting on my nerves. Do you know what I do Sunday + mornings? No, you don't. Well, I go to church, that's what I do. And I get + green with envy watching the other women there getting nervous about 11:45 + or so, when the minister is still in knee-deep, and I know they're + wondering if Lizzie has basted the chicken often enough, and if she has + put the celery in cold water, and the ice-cream is packed in burlap in the + cellar, and if she has forgotten to mix in a tablespoon of flour to make + it smooth. You can tell by the look on their faces that there's company + for dinner. And you know that after dinner they'll sit around, and the men + will smoke, and the women folks will go upstairs, and she'll show the + other woman her new scalloped, monogrammed, hand-embroidered guest towels, + and the waist that her cousin Ethel brought from Paris. And maybe they'll + slip off their skirts and lie down on the spare-room bed for a ten + minutes' nap. And you can hear the hired girl rattling the dishes in the + kitchen, and talking to her lady friend who is helping her wipe up so they + can get out early. You can hear the two of them laughing above the clatter + of the dishes—” + </p> + <p> + The fat man banged one fist down on the piano keys with a crash. + </p> + <p> + “I'm through,” he said. “I quit to-night. I've got my own life to live. + Here, will you shake on it? I'll quit if you will. You're a born + housekeeper. You don't belong on the road any more than I do. It's now or + never. And it's going to be now with me. When I strike the pearly gates + I'm not going to have Saint Peter say to me, 'Ed, old kid, what have you + done with your talents?'” + </p> + <p> + “You're right,” sobbed Emma McChesney, her face glowing. + </p> + <p> + “By the way,” interrupted the fat man, “what's your line?” + </p> + <p> + “Petticoats. I'm out for T. A. Buck's Featherloom Skirts. What's yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Suffering cats!” shouted the fat man. “D' you mean to tell me that you're + the fellow who sold that bill to Blum, of the Novelty Cloak and Suit + concern, and spoiled a sale for me?” + </p> + <p> + “You! Are you—” + </p> + <p> + “You bet I am. I sell the best little skirt in the world. Strauss's + Sans-silk Petticoat, warranted not to crack, rip, or fall into holes. + Greatest little skirt in the country.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney straightened her collar and jabot with a jerk, and sat up. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, now, don't give me that bunk. You've got a good little seller, all + right, but that guaranty don't hold water any more than the petticoat + contains silk. I know that stuff. It looms up big in the window displays, + but it's got a filler of glucose, or starch or mucilage or something, and + two days after you wear it it's as limp as a cheesecloth rag. It's showy, + but you take a line like mine, for instance, why—” + </p> + <p> + “My customers swear by me. I make DeKalb to-morrow, and there's Nussbaum, + of the Paris Emporium, the biggest store there, who just—” + </p> + <p> + “I make DeKalb, too,” remarked Emma McChesney, the light of battle in her + eye. + </p> + <p> + “You mean,” gently insinuated the fat man, “that you were going to, but + that's all over now.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh?” said Emma. + </p> + <p> + “Our agreement, you know,” the fat man reminded her, sweetly. “You aren't + going back on that. The cottage and the Sunday dinner for you, remember.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” agreed Emma listlessly. “I think I'll go up and get some + sleep now. Didn't get much last night on the road.” + </p> + <p> + “Won't you—er—come down and have a little something moist? Or + we could have it sent up here,” suggested the fat man. + </p> + <p> + “You're the third man that's asked me that to-day,” snapped Emma + McChesney, somewhat crossly. “Say, what do I look like, anyway? I guess + I'll have to pin a white ribbon on my coat lapel.” + </p> + <p> + “No offense,” put in the fat man, with haste. “I just thought it would + bind our bargain. I hope you'll be happy, and contented, and all that, you + know.” + </p> + <p> + “Let it go double,” replied Emma McChesney, and shook his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Guess I'll run down and get a smoke,” remarked he. + </p> + <p> + He ran down the stairs in a manner wonderfully airy for one so stout. Emma + watched him until he disappeared around a bend in the stairs. Then she + walked hastily in the direction of sixty-five. + </p> + <p> + Down in the lobby the fat man, cigar in mouth, was cautioning the clerk, + and emphasizing his remarks with one forefinger. + </p> + <p> + “I want to leave a call for six thirty,” he was saying. “Not a minute + later. I've got to get out of here on that 7:35 for DeKalb. Got a Sunday + customer there.” + </p> + <p> + As he turned away a telephone bell tinkled at the desk. The clerk bent his + stately head. + </p> + <p> + “Clerk. Yes, ma'am. No, ma'am, there's no train out of here to-night for + DeKalb. To-morrow morning. Seven thirty-five A.M. I sure will. At + six-thirty? Surest thing you know.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III. — CHICKENS + </h2> + <p> + For the benefit of the bewildered reader it should be said that there are + two distinct species of chickens. There is the chicken which you find in + the barnyard, in the incubator, or on a hat. And there is the type + indigenous to State Street, Chicago. Each is known by its feathers. The + barnyard variety may puzzle the amateur fancier, but there is no mistaking + the State Street chicken. It is known by its soiled, high, white canvas + boots; by its tight, short black skirt; by its slug pearl earrings; by its + bewildering coiffure. By every line of its slim young body, by every curve + of its cheek and throat you know it is adorably, pitifully young. By its + carmined lip, its near-smart hat, its babbling of “him,” and by the + knowledge which looks boldly out of its eyes you know it is tragically + old. + </p> + <p> + Seated in the Pullman car, with a friendly newspaper protecting her bright + hair from the doubtful gray-white of the chair cover, Emma McChesney, + traveling saleswoman for T. A. Buck's Featherloom Petticoats, was watching + the telegraph poles chase each other back to Duluth, Minnesota, and + thinking fondly of Mary Cutting, who is the mother-confessor and comforter + of the State Street chicken. + </p> + <p> + Now, Duluth, Minnesota, is trying to be a city. In watching its struggles + a hunger for a taste of the real city had come upon Emma McChesney. She + had been out with her late Fall line from May until September. Every + Middle-Western town of five thousand inhabitants or over had received its + share of Emma McChesney's attention and petticoats. It had been a + mystifyingly good season in a bad business year. Even old T. A. himself + was almost satisfied. Commissions piled up with gratifying regularity for + Emma McChesney. Then, quite suddenly, the lonely evenings, the lack of + woman companionship, and the longing for a sight of her seventeen-year-old + son had got on Emma McChesney's nerves. + </p> + <p> + She was two days ahead of her schedule, whereupon she wired her son, thus: + </p> + <p> + <i>“Dear Kid:</i> + </p> + <p> + “Meet me Chicago usual place Friday large time my treat. MOTHER.” + </p> + <p> + Then she had packed her bag, wired Mary Cutting that she would see her + Thursday, and had taken the first train out for Chicago. + </p> + <p> + You might have found the car close, stuffy, and uninteresting. Ten years + on the road had taught Emma McChesney to extract a maximum of enjoyment + out of a minimum of material. Emma McChesney's favorite occupation was + selling T. A. Buck's Featherloom Petticoats, and her favorite pastime was + studying men and women. The two things went well together. + </p> + <p> + When the train stopped for a minute or two you could hear a faint rattle + and click from the direction of the smoking compartment where three + jewelry salesmen from Providence, Rhode Island, were indulging in their + beloved, but dangerous diversion of dice throwing. Just across the aisle + was a woman, with her daughter, Chicago-bound to buy a trousseau. They + were typical, wealthy small-town women smartly garbed in a fashion not + more than twenty minutes late. In the quieter moments of the trip Emma + McChesney could hear the mother's high-pitched, East End Ladies' Reading + Club voice saying: + </p> + <p> + “I'd have the velvet suit made fussy, with a real fancy waist to for + afternoons. You can go anywhere in a handsome velvet three-piece suit.” + </p> + <p> + The girl had smiled, dreamily, and gazed out of the car window. “I + wonder,” she said, “if there'll be a letter from George. He said he would + sit right down and write.” + </p> + <p> + In the safe seclusion of her high-backed chair Emma McChesney smiled + approvingly. Seventeen years ago, when her son had been born, and ten + years ago, when she had got her divorce, Emma McChesney had thanked her + God that her boy had not been a girl. Sometimes, now, she was not so sure + about it. It must be fascinating work—selecting velvet suits, made + “fussy,” for a daughter's trousseau. + </p> + <p> + Just how fully those five months of small-town existence had got on her + nerves Emma McChesney did not realize until the train snorted into the + shed and she sniffed the mingled smell of smoke and stockyards and found + it sweet in her nostrils. An unholy joy seized her. She entered the + Biggest Store and made for the millinery department, yielding to an + uncontrollable desire to buy a hat. It was a pert, trim, smart little hat. + It made her thirty-six years seem less possible than ever, and her + seventeen-year-old son an absurdity. + </p> + <p> + It was four-thirty when she took the elevator up to Mary Cutting's office + on the tenth floor. She knew she would find Mary Cutting there—Mary + Cutting, friend, counselor, adviser to every young girl in the great store + and to all Chicago's silly, helpless “chickens.” + </p> + <p> + A dragon sat before Mary Cutting's door and wrote names on slips. But at + sight of Emma McChesney she laid down her pencil. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” smiled the dragon, “you're a sight for sore eyes. There's nobody + in there with her. Just walk in and surprise her.” + </p> + <p> + At a rosewood desk in a tiny cozy office sat a pink-cheeked, white-haired + woman. You associated her in your mind with black velvet and real lace. + She did not look up as Emma McChesney entered. Emma McChesney waited for + one small moment. Then: + </p> + <p> + “Cut out the bank president stuff, Mary Cutting, and make a fuss over me,” + she commanded. + </p> + <p> + The pink-cheeked, white-haired woman looked up. You saw that her eyes were + wonderfully young. She made three marks on a piece of paper, pushed a + call-button at her desk, rose, and hugged Emma McChesney thoroughly and + satisfactorily, then held her off a moment and demanded to know where she + had bought her hat. + </p> + <p> + “Got it ten minutes ago, in the millinery department downstairs. Had to. + If I'd have come into New York after five months' exile like this I'd + probably have bought a brocade and fur-edged evening wrap, to relieve this + feeling of wild joy. For five months I've spent my evenings in my hotel + room, or watching the Maude Byrnes Stock Company playing “Lena Rivers,” + with the ingenue coming out between the acts in a calico apron and a pink + sunbonnet and doing a thing they bill as vaudeville. I'm dying to see a + real show—a smart one that hasn't run two hundred nights on Broadway—one + with pretty girls, and pink tights, and a lot of moonrises, and sunsets + and things, and a prima donna in a dress so stunning that all the women in + the audience are busy copying it so they can describe it to their + home-dressmaker next day.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor, poor child,” said Mary Cutting, “I don't seem to recall any such + show.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it will look that way to me, anyway,” said Emma McChesney. “I've + wired Jock to meet me to-morrow, and I'm going to give the child a really + sizzling little vacation. But to-night you and I will have an old-girl + frolic. We'll have dinner together somewhere downtown, and then we'll go + to the theater, and after that I'm coming out to that blessed flat of + yours and sleep between real sheets. We'll have some sandwiches and beer + and other things out of the ice-box, and then we'll have a bathroom bee. + We'll let down our back hair, and slap cold cream around, and tell our + hearts' secrets and use up all the hot water. Lordy! It will be a luxury + to have a bath in a tub that doesn't make you feel as though you wanted to + scrub it out with lye and carbolic. Come on, Mary Cutting.” + </p> + <p> + Mary Cutting's pink cheeks dimpled like a girl's. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'You'll never grow up, Emma McChesney'”} + </p> + <p> + “You'll never grow up, Emma McChesney—at least, I hope you never + will. Sit there in the corner and be a good child, and I'll be ready for + you in ten minutes.” + </p> + <p> + Peace settled down on the tiny office. Emma McChesney, there in her + corner, surveyed the little room with entire approval. It breathed of + things restful, wholesome, comforting. There was a bowl of sweet peas on + the desk; there was an Indian sweet grass basket filled with autumn leaves + in the corner; there was an air of orderliness and good taste; and there + was the pink-cheeked, white-haired woman at the desk. + </p> + <p> + “There!” said Mary Cutting, at last. She removed her glasses, snapped them + up on a little spring-chain near her shoulder, sat back, and smiled upon + Emma McChesney. + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney smiled back at her. Theirs was not a talking friendship. It + was a thing of depth and understanding, like the friendship between two + men. + </p> + <p> + They sat looking into each other's eyes, and down beyond, where the soul + holds forth. And because what each saw there was beautiful and sightly + they were seized with a shyness such as two men feel when they love each + other, and so they awkwardly endeavored to cover up their shyness with + words. + </p> + <p> + “You could stand a facial and a decent scalp massage, Emma,” observed Mary + Cutting in a tone pregnant with love and devotion. “Your hair looks a + little dry. Those small-town manicures don't know how to give a real + treatment.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll have it to-morrow morning, before the Kid gets in at eleven. As the + Lily Russell of the traveling profession I can't afford to let my beauty + wane. That complexion of yours makes me mad, Mary. It goes through a + course of hard water and Chicago dirt and comes up looking like a rose + leaf with the morning dew on it. Where'll we have supper?” + </p> + <p> + “I know a new place,” replied Mary Cutting. “German, but not greasy.” + </p> + <p> + She was sorting, marking, and pigeonholing various papers and envelopes. + When her desk was quite tidy she shut and locked it, and came over to Emma + McChesney. + </p> + <p> + “Something nice happened to me to-day,” she said, softly. “Something that + made me realize how worth while life is. You know we have five thousand + women working here—almost double that during the holidays. A lot of + them are under twenty and, Emma, a working girl, under twenty, in a city + like this—Well, a brand new girl was looking for me today. She + didn't know the way to my office, and she didn't know my name. So she + stopped one of the older clerks, blushed a little, and said, 'Can you tell + me the way to the office of the Comfort Lady?' That's worth working for, + isn't it, Emma McChesney?” + </p> + <p> + “It's worth living for,” answered Emma McChesney, gravely. “It—it's + worth dying for. To think that those girls come to you with their little + sacred things, their troubles, and misfortunes, and unhappinesses and—” + </p> + <p> + “And their disgraces—sometimes,” Mary Cutting finished for her. “Oh, + Emma McChesney, sometimes I wonder why there isn't a national school for + the education of mothers. I marvel at their ignorance more and more every + day. Remember, Emma, when we were kids our mothers used to send us flying + to the grocery on baking day? All the way from our house to Hine's grocery + I'd have to keep on saying, over and over: 'Sugar, butter, molasses; + sugar, butter, molasses; sugar, butter, molasses.' If I stopped for a + minute I'd forget the whole thing. It isn't so different now. Sometimes at + night, going home in the car after a day so bad that the whole world seems + rotten, I make myself say, over and over, as I used to repeat my 'Sugar, + butter, and molasses.' 'It's a glorious, good old world; it's a glorious, + good old world; it's a glorious, good old world.' And I daren't stop for a + minute for fear of forgetting my lesson.” + </p> + <p> + For the third time in that short half-hour a silence fell between the two—a + silence of perfect sympathy and understanding. + </p> + <p> + Five little strokes, tripping over each other in their haste, came from + the tiny clock on Mary Cutting's desk. It roused them both. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, old girl,” said Mary Cutting. “I've a chore or two still to do + before my day is finished. Come along, if you like. There's a new girl at + the perfumes who wears too many braids, and puffs, and curls, and in the + basement misses' ready-to-wear there's another who likes to break store + rules about short-sleeved, lace-yoked lingerie waists. And one of the + floor managers tells me that a young chap of that callow, + semi-objectionable, high-school fraternity, flat-heeled shoe type has been + persistently hanging around the desk of the pretty little bundle inspector + at the veilings. We're trying to clear the store of that type. They call + girls of that description chickens. I wonder why some one hasn't found a + name for the masculine chicken.” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'Well, s'long, then, Shrimp. See you at eight'”} + </p> + <p> + “I'll give 'em one,” said Emma McChesney as they swung down a broad, + bright aisle of the store. “Call 'em weasels. That covers their style, + occupation, and character.” + </p> + <p> + They swung around the corner to the veilings, and there they saw the very + pretty, very blond, very young “chicken” deep in conversation with her + weasel. The weasel's trousers were very tight and English, and his hat was + properly woolly and Alpine and dented very much on one side and his heels + were fashionably flat, and his hair was slickly pompadour. + </p> + <p> + Mary Cutting and Emma McChesney approached them very quietly just in time + to hear the weasel say: + </p> + <p> + “Well, s' long then, Shrimp. See you at eight.” + </p> + <p> + And he swung around and faced them. + </p> + <p> + That sick horror of uncertainty which had clutched at Emma McChesney when + first she saw the weasel's back held her with awful certainty now. But ten + years on the road had taught her self-control, among other things. So she + looked steadily and calmly into her son's scarlet face. Jock's father had + been a liar. + </p> + <p> + She put her hand on the boy's arm. + </p> + <p> + “You're a day ahead of schedule, Jock,” she said evenly. + </p> + <p> + “So are you,” retorted Jock, sullenly, his hands jammed into his pockets. + </p> + <p> + “All the better for both of us, Kid. I was just going over to the hotel to + clean up, Jock. Come along, boy.” + </p> + <p> + The boy's jaw set. His eyes sought any haven but that of Emma McChesney's + eyes. “I can't,” he said, his voice very low. “I've an engagement to take + dinner with a bunch of the fellows. We're going down to the Inn. Sorry.” + </p> + <p> + A certain cold rigidity settled over Emma McChesney's face. She eyed her + son in silence until his miserable eyes, perforce, looked up into hers. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid you'll have to break your engagement,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She turned to face Mary Cutting's regretful, understanding gaze. Her + eyebrows lifted slightly. Her head inclined ever so little in the + direction of the half-scared, half-defiant “chicken.” + </p> + <p> + “You attend to your chicken, Mary,” she said. “I'll see to my weasel.” + </p> + <p> + So Emma McChesney and her son Jock, looking remarkably like brother and + sister, walked down the broad store aisles and out into the street. There + was little conversation between them. When the pillared entrance of the + hotel came into sight Jock broke the silence, sullenly: + </p> + <p> + “Why do you stop at that old barracks? It's a rotten place for a woman. No + one stops there but clothing salesmen and boobs who still think it's + Chicago's leading hotel. No place for a lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Any place in the world is the place for a lady, Jock,” said Emma + McChesney quietly. + </p> + <p> + Automatically she started toward the clerk's desk. Then she remembered, + and stopped. “I'll wait here,” she said. “Get the key for five-eighteen, + will you please? And tell the clerk that I'll want the room adjoining + beginning to-night, instead of to-morrow, as I first intended. Tell him + you're Mrs. McChesney's son.” + </p> + <p> + He turned away. Emma McChesney brought her handkerchief up to her mouth + and held it there a moment, and the skin showed white over the knuckles of + her hand. In that moment every one of her thirty-six years were on the + table, face up. + </p> + <p> + “We'll wash up,” said Emma McChesney, when he returned, “and then we'll + have dinner here.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to eat here,” objected Jock McChesney. “Besides, there's no + reason why I can't keep my evening's engagements.” + </p> + <p> + “And after dinner,” went on his mother, as though she had not heard, + “we'll get acquainted, Kid.” + </p> + <p> + It was a cheerless, rather tragic meal, though Emma McChesney saw it + through from soup to finger-bowls. When it was over she led the way down + the old-fashioned, red-carpeted corridors to her room. It was the sort of + room to get on its occupant's nerves at any time, with its red plush + arm-chairs, its black walnut bed, and its walnut center table inlaid with + an apoplectic slab of purplish marble. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'I'm still in position to enforce that ordinance against + pouting'”} + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney took off her hat before the dim old mirror, and stood + there, fluffing out her hair here, patting it there. Jock had thrown his + hat and coat on the bed. He stood now, leaning against the footboard, his + legs crossed, his chin on his breast, his whole attitude breathing sullen + defiance. + </p> + <p> + “Jock,” said his mother, still patting her hair, “perhaps you don't know + it, but you're pouting just as you used to when you wore pinafores. I + always hated pouting children. I'd rather hear them howl. I used to spank + you for it. I have prided myself on being a modern mother, but I want to + mention, in passing, that I'm still in a position to enforce that + ordinance against pouting.” She turned around abruptly. “Jock, tell me, + how did you happen to come here a day ahead of me, and how do you happen + to be so chummy with that pretty, weak-faced little thing at the veiling + counter, and how, in the name of all that's unbelievable, have you managed + to become a grown-up in the last few months?” + </p> + <p> + Jock regarded the mercifully faded roses in the carpet. His lower lip came + forward again. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, a fellow can't always be tied to his mother's apron strings. I like + to have a little fling myself. I know a lot of fellows here. They are frat + brothers. And anyway, I needed some new clothes.” + </p> + <p> + For one long moment Emma McChesney stared, in silence. Then: “Of course,” + she began, slowly, “I knew you were seventeen years old. I've even bragged + about it. I've done more than that—I've gloried in it. But somehow, + whenever I thought of you in my heart—and that was a great deal of + the time it was as though you still were a little tyke in knee-pants, with + your cap on the back of your head, and a chunk of apple bulging your + cheek. Jock, I've been earning close to six thousand a year since I put in + that side line of garters. Just how much spending money have I been + providing you with?” + </p> + <p> + Jock twirled a coat button uncomfortably “Well, quite a lot. But a + fellow's got to have money to keep up appearances. A lot of the fellows in + my crowd have more than I. There are clothes, and tobacco, and then + flowers and cabs for the skirts—girls, I mean, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Kid,” impressively, “I want you to sit down over there in that plush + chair—the red one, with the lumps in the back. I want you to be + uncomfortable. From where I am sitting I can see that in you there is the + making of a first-class cad. That's no pleasant thing for a mother to + realize. Now don't interrupt me. I'm going to be chairman, speaker, + program, and ways-and-means committee of this meeting. Jock, I got my + divorce from your father ten years ago. Now, I'm not going to say anything + about him. Just this one thing. You're not going to follow in his + footsteps, Kid. Not if I have to take you to pieces like a nickel watch + and put you all together again. You're Emma McChesney's son, and ten years + from now I intend to be able to brag about it, or I'll want to know the + reason why—and it'll have to be a blamed good reason.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to know what I've done!” blurted the boy. “Just because I + happened to come here a few hours before you expected me, and just because + you saw me talking to a girl! Why—” + </p> + <p> + “It isn't what you've done. It's what those things stand for. I've been at + fault. But I'm willing to admit it. Your mother is a working woman, Jock. + You don't like that idea, do you? But you don't mind spending the money + that the working woman provides you with, do you? I'm earning a man's + salary. But Jock, you oughtn't to be willing to live on it. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want me to do?” demanded Jock. “I'm not out of high school + yet. Other fellows whose fathers aren't earning as much—” + </p> + <p> + “Fathers,” interrupted Emma McChesney. “There you are. Jock, I don't have + to make the distinction for you. You're sufficiently my son to know it, in + your heart. I had planned to give you a college education, if you showed + yourself deserving. I don't believe in sending a boy in your position to + college unless he shows some special leaning toward a profession.” + </p> + <p> + “Mother, you know how wild I am about machines, and motors, and + engineering, and all that goes with it. Why I'd work—” + </p> + <p> + “You'll have to, Jock. That's the only thing that will make a man of you. + I've started you wrong, but it isn't too late yet. It's all very well for + boys with rich fathers to run to clothes, and city jaunts, and 'chickens,' + and cabs and flowers. Your mother is working tooth and nail to earn her + six thousand, and when you realize just what it means for a woman to + battle against men in a man's game, you'll stop being a spender, and + become an earner—because you'll want to. I'll tell you what I'm + going to do, Kid. I'm going to take you on the road with me for two weeks. + You'll learn so many things that at the end of that time the sides of your + head will be bulging.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd like it!” exclaimed the boy, sitting up. “It will be regular fun.” + </p> + <p> + “No, it won't,” said Emma McChesney; “not after the first three or four + days. But it will be worth more to you than a foreign tour and a private + tutor.” + </p> + <p> + She came over to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “Your room's just + next to mine,” she said. “You and I are going to sleep on this. To-morrow + we'll have a real day of it, as I promised. If you want to spend it with + the fellows, say so. I'm not going to spoil this little lark that I + promised you.” + </p> + <p> + “I think,” said the boy, looking up into his mother's face, “I think that + I'll spend it with you.” + </p> + <p> + The door slammed after him. + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney remained standing there, in the center of the room. She + raised her arms and passed a hand over her forehead and across her hair + until it rested on the glossy knot at the back of her head. It was the + weary little gesture of a weary, heart-sick woman. + </p> + <p> + There came a ring at the 'phone. + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney crossed the room and picked up the receiver. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Mary Cutting,” she said, without waiting for the voice at the + other end. “What? Oh, I just knew. No, it's all right. I've had some + high-class little theatricals of my own, right here, with me in the roles + of leading lady, ingenue, villainess, star, and heavy mother. I've got + Mrs. Fiske looking like a First Reader Room kid that's forgotten her + Friday piece. What's that?” + </p> + <p> + There was no sound in the room but the hollow cackle of the voice at the + other end of the wire, many miles away. + </p> + <p> + Then: “Oh, that's all right, Mary Cutting. I owe you a great big debt of + gratitude, bless your pink cheeks and white hair! And, Mary,” she lowered + her voice and glanced in the direction of the room next door, “I don't + know how a hard, dry sob would go through the 'phone, so I won't try to + get it over. But, Mary, it's been 'sugar, butter, and molasses' for me for + the last ten minutes, and I'm dead scared to stop for fear I'll forget it. + I guess it's 'sugar, butter, and molasses' for me for the rest of the + night, Mary Cutting; just as hard and fast as I can say it, 'sugar, + butter, molasses.'” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV. — HIS MOTHER'S SON + </h2> + <p> + “Full?” repeated Emma McChesney (and if it weren't for the compositor + there'd be an exclamation point after that question mark). + </p> + <p> + “Sorry, Mrs. McChesney,” said the clerk, and he actually looked it, “but + there's absolutely nothing stirring. We're full up. The Benevolent + Brotherhood of Bisons is holding its regular annual state convention here. + We're putting up cots in the hall.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney's keen blue eyes glanced up from their inspection of the + little bunch of mail which had just been handed her. “Well, pick out a + hall with a southern exposure and set up a cot or so for me,” she said, + agreeably; “because I've come to stay. After selling Featherloom + Petticoats on the road for ten years I don't see myself trailing up and + down this town looking for a place to lay my head. I've learned this one + large, immovable truth, and that is, that a hotel clerk is a hotel clerk. + It makes no difference whether he is stuck back of a marble pillar and + hidden by a gold vase full of thirty-six-inch American Beauty roses at the + Knickerbocker, or setting the late fall fashions for men in Galesburg, + Illinois.” + </p> + <p> + By one small degree was the perfect poise of the peerless personage behind + the register jarred. But by only one. He was a hotel night clerk. + </p> + <p> + “It won't do you any good to get sore, Mrs. McChesney,” he began, suavely. + “Now a man would—” + </p> + <p> + “But I'm not a man,” interrupted Emma McChesney. “I'm only doing a man's + work and earning a man's salary and demanding to be treated with as much + consideration as you'd show a man.” + </p> + <p> + The personage busied himself mightily with a pen, and a blotter, and + sundry papers, as is the manner of personages when annoyed. “I'd like to + accommodate you; I'd like to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Cheer up,” said Emma McChesney, “you're going to. I don't mind a little + discomfort. Though I want to mention in passing that if there are any lady + Bisons present you needn't bank on doubling me up with them. I've had one + experience of that kind. It was in Albia, Iowa. I'd sleep in the kitchen + range before I'd go through another.” + </p> + <p> + Up went the erstwhile falling poise. “You're badly mistaken, madam. I'm a + member of this order myself, and a finer lot of fellows it has never been + my pleasure to know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” drawled Emma McChesney. “Do you know, the thing that gets + me is the inconsistency of it. Along come a lot of boobs who never use a + hotel the year around except to loaf in the lobby, and wear out the + leather chairs, and use up the matches and toothpicks and get the baseball + returns, and immediately you turn away a traveling man who uses a + three-dollar-a-day room, with a sample room downstairs for his stuff, who + tips every porter and bell-boy in the place, asks for no favors, and who, + if you give him a half-way decent cup of coffee for breakfast, will fall + in love with the place and boom it all over the country. Half of your + Benevolent Bisons are here on the European plan, with a view to + patronizing the free-lunch counters or being asked to take dinner at the + home of some local Bison whose wife has been cooking up on pies, and + chicken salad and veal roast for the last week.” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'Son!' echoed the clerk, staring"} + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney leaned over the desk a little, and lowered her voice to the + tone of confidence. “Now, I'm not in the habit of making a nuisance of + myself like this. I don't get so chatty as a rule, and I know that I could + jump over to Monmouth and get first-class accommodations there. But just + this once I've a good reason for wanting to make you and myself a little + miserable. Y'see, my son is traveling with me this trip.” + </p> + <p> + “Son!” echoed the clerk, staring. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks. That's what they all do. After a while I'll begin to believe that + there must be something hauntingly beautiful and girlish about me or every + one wouldn't petrify when I announce that I've a six-foot son attached to + my apron-strings. He looks twenty-one, but he's seventeen. He thinks the + world's rotten because he can't grow one of those fuzzy little mustaches + that the men are cultivating to match their hats. He's down at the depot + now, straightening out our baggage. Now I want to say this before he gets + here. He's been out with me just four days. Those four days have been a + revelation, an eye-opener, and a series of rude jolts. He used to think + that his mother's job consisted of traveling in Pullmans, eating delicate + viands turned out by the hotel chefs, and strewing Featherloom Petticoats + along the path. I gave him plenty of money, and he got into the habit of + looking lightly upon anything more trifling than a five-dollar bill. He's + changing his mind by great leaps. I'm prepared to spend the night in the + coal cellar if you'll just fix him up—not too comfortably. It'll be + a great lesson for him. There he is now. Just coming in. Fuzzy coat and + hat and English stick. Hist! As they say on the stage.” + </p> + <p> + The boy crossed the crowded lobby. There was a little worried, annoyed + frown between his eyes. He laid a protecting hand on his mother's arm. + Emma McChesney was conscious of a little thrill of pride as she realized + that he did not have to look up to meet her gaze. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Mother, they tell me there's some sort of a convention here, + and the town's packed. That's what all those banners and things were for. + I hope they've got something decent for us here. I came up with a man who + said he didn't think there was a hole left to sleep in.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't say!” exclaimed Emma McChesney, and turned to the clerk. “This + is my son, Jock McChesney—Mr. Sims. Is this true?” + </p> + <p> + “Glad to know you, sir,” said Mr. Sims. “Why, yes, I'm afraid we are + pretty well filled up, but seeing it's you maybe we can do something for + you.” + </p> + <p> + He ruminated, tapping his teeth with a pen-holder, and eying the pair + before him with a maddening blankness of gaze. Finally: + </p> + <p> + “I'll do my best, but you can't expect much. I guess I can squeeze another + cot into eighty-seven for the young man. There's—let's see now—who's + in eighty-seven? Well, there's two Bisons in the double bed, and one in + the single, and Fat Ed Meyers in the cot and—” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney stiffened into acute attention. “Meyers?” she interrupted. + “Do you mean Ed Meyers of the Strauss Sans-silk Skirt Company?” + </p> + <p> + “That's so. You two are in the same line, aren't you? He's a great little + piano player, Ed is. Ever hear him play?” + </p> + <p> + “When did he get in?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he just came in fifteen minutes ago on the Ashland division. He's in + at supper.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Emma McChesney. The two letters breathed relief. + </p> + <p> + But relief had no place in the voice, or on the countenance of Jock + McChesney. He bristled with belligerence. “This cattle-car style of + sleeping don't make a hit. I haven't had a decent night's rest for three + nights. I never could sleep on a sleeper. Can't you fix us up better than + that?” + </p> + <p> + “Best I can do.” + </p> + <p> + “But where's mother going? I see you advertise three 'large and commodious + steam-heated sample rooms in connection.' I suppose mother's due to sleep + on one of the tables there.” + </p> + <p> + “Jock,” Emma McChesney reproved him, “Mr. Sims is doing us a great favor. + There isn't another hotel in town that would—” + </p> + <p> + “You're right, there isn't,” agreed Mr. Sims. “I guess the young man is + new to this traveling game. As I said, I'd like to accommodate you, but—Let's + see now. Tell you what I'll do. If I can get the housekeeper to go over + and sleep in the maids' quarters just for to-night, you can use her room. + There you are! Of course, it's over the kitchen, and there may be some + little noise early in the morning—” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney raised a protesting hand. “Don't mention it. Just lead me + thither. I'm so tired I could sleep in an excursion special that was + switching at Pittsburgh. Jock, me child, we're in luck. That's twice in + the same place. The first time was when we were inspired to eat our supper + on the diner instead of waiting until we reached here to take the + leftovers from the Bisons' grazing. I hope that housekeeper hasn't a + picture of her departed husband dangling, life-size, on the wall at the + foot of the bed. But they always have. Good-night, son. Don't let the + Bisons bite you. I'll be up at seven.” + </p> + <p> + But it was just 6:30 A.M. when Emma McChesney turned the little bend in + the stairway that led to the office. The scrub-woman was still in + possession. The cigar-counter girl had not yet made her appearance. There + was about the place a general air of the night before. All but the night + clerk. He was as spruce and trim, and alert and smooth-shaven as only a + night clerk can be after a night's vigil. + </p> + <p> + “'Morning!” Emma McChesney called to him. She wore blue serge, and a smart + fall hat. The late autumn morning was not crisper and sunnier than she. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, Mrs. McChesney,” returned Mr. Sims, sonorously. “Have a + good night's sleep? I hope the kitchen noises didn't wake you.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney paused with her hand on the door. “Kitchen? Oh, no. I could + sleep through a vaudeville china-juggling act. But—-what an + extraordinarily unpleasant-looking man that housekeeper's husband must + have been.” + </p> + <p> + That November morning boasted all those qualities which November-morning + writers are so prone to bestow upon the month. But the words wine, and + sparkle, and sting, and glow, and snap do not seem to cover it. Emma + McChesney stood on the bottom step, looking up and down Main Street and + breathing in great draughts of that unadjectivable air. Her complexion + stood the test of the merciless, astringent morning and came up + triumphantly and healthily firm and pink and smooth. The town was still + asleep. She started to walk briskly down the bare and ugly Main Street of + the little town. In her big, generous heart, and her keen, alert mind, + there were many sensations and myriad thoughts, but varied and diverse as + they were they all led back to the boy up there in the stuffy, + over-crowded hotel room—the boy who was learning his lesson. + </p> + <p> + Half an hour later she reentered the hotel, her cheeks glowing. Jock was + not yet down. So she ordered and ate her wise and cautious breakfast of + fruit and cereal and toast and coffee, skimming over her morning paper as + she ate. At 7:30 she was back in the lobby, newspaper in hand. The Bisons + were already astir. She seated herself in a deep chair in a quiet corner, + her eyes glancing up over the top of her paper toward the stairway. At + eight o'clock Jock McChesney came down. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing of jauntiness about him. His eyelids were red. His face + had the doughy look of one whose sleep has been brief and feverish. As he + came toward his mother you noticed a stain on his coat, and a sunburst of + wrinkles across one leg of his modish brown trousers. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, son!” said Emma McChesney. “Was it as bad as that?” + </p> + <p> + Jock McChesney's long fingers curled into a fist. + </p> + <p> + “Say,” he began, his tone venomous, “do you know what those—those—those—” + </p> + <p> + “Say it!” commanded Emma McChesney. “I'm only your mother. If you keep + that in your system your breakfast will curdle in your stomach.” + </p> + <p> + Jock McChesney said it. I know no phrase better fitted to describe his + tone than that old favorite of the erotic novelties. It was vibrant with + passion. It breathed bitterness. It sizzled with savagery. It—Oh, + alliteration is useless. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Emma McChesney, encouragingly, “go on.” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'Well!' gulped Jock, 'those two double-bedded, bloomin' + blasted Bisons—'"} + </p> + <p> + “Well!” gulped Jock McChesney, and glared; “those two double-bedded, + bloomin', blasted Bisons came in at twelve, and the single one about + fifteen minutes later. They didn't surprise me. There was a herd of about + ninety-three of 'em in the hall, all saying good-night to each other, and + planning where they'd meet in the morning, and the time, and place and + probable weather conditions. For that matter, there were droves of 'em + pounding up and down the halls all night. I never saw such restless + cattle. If you'll tell me what makes more noise in the middle of the night + than the metal disk of a hotel key banging and clanging up against a door, + I'd like to know what it is. My three Bisons were all dolled up with fool + ribbons and badges and striped paper canes. When they switched on the + light I gave a crack imitation of a tired working man trying to get a + little sleep. I breathed regularly and heavily, with an occasional moaning + snore. But if those two hippopotamus Bisons had been alone on their native + plains they couldn't have cared less. They bellowed, and pawed the earth, + and threw their shoes around, and yawned, and stretched and discussed + their plans for the next day, and reviewed all their doings of that day. + Then one of them said something about turning in, and I was so happy I + forgot to snore. Just then another key clanged at the door, in walked a + fat man in a brown suit and a brown derby, and stuff was off.” + </p> + <p> + “That,” said Emma McChesney, “would be Ed Meyers, of the Strauss Sans-silk + Skirt Company.” + </p> + <p> + “None other than our hero.” Jock's tone had an added acidity. “It took + those four about two minutes to get acquainted. In three minutes they had + told their real names, and it turned out that Meyers belonged to an + organization that was a second cousin of the Bisons. In five minutes they + had got together a deck and a pile of chips and were shirt-sleeving it + around a game of pinochle. I would doze off to the slap of cards, and the + click of chips, and wake up when the bell-boy came in with another round, + which he did every six minutes. When I got up this morning I found that + Fat Ed Meyers had been sitting on the chair over which I trustingly had + draped my trousers. This sunburst of wrinkles is where he mostly sat. This + spot on my coat is where a Bison drank his beer.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney folded her paper and rose, smiling. “It is sort of trying, + I suppose, if you're not used to it.” + </p> + <p> + “Used to it!” shouted the outraged Jock. “Used to it! Do you mean to tell + me there's nothing unusual about—” + </p> + <p> + “Not a thing. Oh, of course you don't strike a bunch of Bisons every day. + But it happens a good many times. The world is full of Ancient Orders and + they're everlastingly getting together and drawing up resolutions and + electing officers. Don't you think you'd better go in to breakfast before + the Bisons begin to forage? I've had mine.” + </p> + <p> + The gloom which had overspread Jock McChesney's face lifted a little. The + hungry boy in him was uppermost. “That's so. I'm going to have some wheat + cakes, and steak, and eggs, and coffee, and fruit, and toast, and rolls.” + </p> + <p> + “Why slight the fish?” inquired his mother. Then, as he turned toward the + dining-room, “I've two letters to get out. Then I'm going down the street + to see a customer. I'll be up at the Sulzberg-Stein department store at + nine sharp. There's no use trying to see old Sulzberg before ten, but I'll + be there, anyway, and so will Ed Meyers, or I'm no skirt salesman. I want + you to meet me there. It will do you good to watch how the overripe orders + just drop, ker-plunk, into my lap.” + </p> + <p> + Maybe you know Sulzberg & Stein's big store? No? That's because you've + always lived in the city. Old Sulzberg sends his buyers to the New York + market twice a year, and they need two floor managers on the main floor + now. The money those people spend for red and green decorations at + Christmas time, and apple-blossoms and pink crepe paper shades in the + spring, must be something awful. Young Stein goes to Chicago to have his + clothes made, and old Sulzberg likes to keep the traveling men waiting in + the little ante-room outside his private office. + </p> + <p> + Jock McChesney finished his huge breakfast, strolled over to Sulzberg + & Stein's, and inquired his way to the office only to find that his + mother was not yet there. There were three men in the little waiting-room. + One of them was Fat Ed Meyers. His huge bulk overflowed the spindle-legged + chair on which he sat. His brown derby was in his hands. His eyes were on + the closed door at the other side of the room. So were the eyes of the + other two travelers. Jock took a vacant seat next to Fat Ed Meyers so that + he might, in his mind's eye, pick out a particularly choice spot upon + which his hard young fist might land—if only he had the chance. + Breaking up a man's sleep like that, the great big overgrown mutt! + </p> + <p> + “What's your line?” said Ed Meyers, suddenly turning toward Jock. + </p> + <p> + Prompted by some imp—“Skirts,” answered Jock. “Ladies' petticoats.” + (“As if men ever wore 'em!” he giggled inwardly.) + </p> + <p> + Ed Meyers shifted around in his chair so that he might better stare at + this new foe in the field. His little red mouth was open ludicrously. + </p> + <p> + “Who're you out for?” he demanded next. + </p> + <p> + There was a look of Emma McChesney on Jock's face. “Why—er—the + Union Underskirt and Hosiery Company of Chicago. New concern.” + </p> + <p> + “Must be,” ruminated Ed Meyers. “I never heard of 'em, and I know 'em all. + You're starting in young, ain't you, kid! Well, it'll never hurt you. + You'll learn something new every day. Now me, I—” + </p> + <p> + In breezed Emma McChesney. Her quick glance rested immediately upon Meyers + and the boy. And in that moment some instinct prompted Jock McChesney to + shake his head, ever so slightly, and assume a blankness of expression. + And Emma McChesney, with that shrewdness which had made her one of the + best salesmen on the road, saw, and miraculously understood. + </p> + <p> + “How do, Mrs. McChesney,” grinned Fat Ed Meyers. “You see I beat you to + it.” + </p> + <p> + “So I see,” smiled Emma, cheerfully. “I was delayed. Just sold a nice + little bill to Watkins down the Street.” She seated herself across the + way, and kept her eyes on that closed door. + </p> + <p> + “Say, kid,” Meyers began, in the husky whisper of the fat man, “I'm going + to put you wise to something, seeing you're new to this game. See that + lady over there?” He nodded discreetly in Emma McChesney's direction. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty, isn't she?” said Jock, appreciatively. + </p> + <p> + “Know who she is?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—I—she does look familiar but—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come now, quit your bluffing. If you'd ever met that dame you'd + remember it. Her name's McChesney—Emma McChesney, and she sells T. + A. Buck's Featherloom Petticoats. I'll give her her dues; she's the best + little salesman on the road. I'll bet that girl could sell a ruffled, + accordion-plaited underskirt to a fat woman who was trying to reduce. + She's got the darndest way with her. And at that she's straight, too.” + </p> + <p> + If Ed Meyers had not been gazing so intently into his hat, trying at the + same time to look cherubically benign he might have seen a quick and + painful scarlet sweep the face of the boy, coupled with a certain tense + look of the muscles around the jaw. + </p> + <p> + “Well, now, look here,” he went on, still in a whisper. “We're both skirt + men, you and me. Everything's fair in this game. Maybe you don't know it, + but when there's a bunch of the boys waiting around to see the head of the + store like this, and there happens to be a lady traveler in the crowd, + why, it's considered kind of a professional courtesy to let the lady have + the first look-in. See? It ain't so often that three people in the same + line get together like this. She knows it, and she's sitting on the edge + of her chair, waiting to bolt when that door opens, even if she does act + like she was hanging on the words of that lady clerk there. The minute it + does open a crack she'll jump up and give me a fleeting, grateful smile, + and sail in and cop a fat order away from the old man and his skirt buyer. + I'm wise. Say, he may be an oyster, but he knows a pretty woman when he + sees one. By the time she's through with him he'll have enough petticoats + on hand to last him from now until Turkey goes suffrage. Get me?” + </p> + <p> + “I get you,” answered Jock. + </p> + <p> + “I say, this is business, and good manners be hanged. When a woman breaks + into a man's game like this, let her take her chances like a man. Ain't + that straight?” + </p> + <p> + “You've said something,” agreed Jock. + </p> + <p> + “Now, look here, kid. When that door opens I get up. See? And shoot + straight for the old man's office. See? Like a duck. See? Say, I may be + fat, kid, but I'm what they call light on my feet, and when I see an order + getting away from me I can be so fleet that I have Diana looking like old + Weston doing a stretch of muddy country road in a coast to coast hike. + See? Now you help me out on this and I'll see that you don't suffer for + it. I'll stick in a good word for you, believe me. You take the word of an + old stager like me and you won't go far—” + </p> + <p> + The door opened. Simultaneously three figures sprang into action. Jock had + the seat nearest the door. With marvelous clumsiness he managed to place + himself in Ed Meyers' path, then reddened, began an apology, stepped on + both of Ed's feet, jabbed his elbow into his stomach, and dropped his hat. + A second later the door of old Sulzberg's private office closed upon Emma + McChesney's smart, erect, confident figure. + </p> + <p> + Now, Ed Meyers' hands were peculiar hands for a fat man. They were + tapering, slender, delicate, blue-veined, temperamental hands. At this + moment, despite his purpling face, and his staring eyes, they were the + most noticeable thing about him. His fingers clawed the empty air, + quivering, vibrant, as though poised to clutch at Jock's throat. + </p> + <p> + Then words came. They spluttered from his lips. They popped like corn + kernels in the heat of his wrath; they tripped over each other; they + exploded. + </p> + <p> + “You darned kid, you!” he began, with fascinating fluency. “You + thousand-legged, double-jointed, ox-footed truck horse. Come on out of + here and I'll lick the shine off your shoes, you blue-eyed babe, you! What + did you get up for, huh? What did you think this was going to be—a + flag drill?” + </p> + <p> + With a whoop of pure joy Jock McChesney turned and fled. + </p> + <p> + They dined together at one o'clock, Emma McChesney and her son Jock. + Suddenly Jock stopped eating. His eyes were on the door. “There's that + fathead now,” he said, excitedly. “The nerve of him! He's coming over + here.” + </p> + <p> + Ed Meyers was waddling toward them with the quick light step of the fat + man. His pink, full-jowled face was glowing. His eyes were bright as a + boy's. He stopped at their table and paused for one dramatic moment. + </p> + <p> + “So, me beauty, you two were in cahoots, huh? That's the second low-down + deal you've handed me. I haven't forgotten that trick you turned with + Nussbaum at DeKalb. Never mind, little girl. I'll get back at you yet.” + </p> + <p> + He nodded a contemptuous head in Jock's direction. “Carrying a packer?” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'Come on out of here, and I'll lick the shine off your + shoes, you blue-eyed babe, you!'”} + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney wiped her fingers daintily on her napkin, crushed it on the + table, and leaned back in her chair. “Men,” she observed, wonderingly, + “are the cussedest creatures. This chap occupied the same room with you + last night and you don't even know his name. Funny! If two strange women + had found themselves occupying the same room for a night they wouldn't + have got to the kimono and back hair stage before they would not only have + known each other's name, but they'd have tried on each other's hats, + swapped corset cover patterns, found mutual friends living in Dayton, + Ohio, taught each other a new Irish crochet stitch, showed their family + photographs, told how their married sister's little girl nearly died with + swollen glands, and divided off the mirror into two sections to paste + their newly washed handkerchiefs on. Don't tell <i>me</i> men have a + genius for friendship.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, who is he?” insisted Ed Meyers. “He told me everything but his name + this morning. I wish I had throttled him with a bunch of Bisons' badges + last night.” + </p> + <p> + “His name,” smiled Emma McChesney, “is Jock McChesney. He's my one and + only son, and he's put through his first little business deal this morning + just to show his mother that he can be a help to his folks if he wants to. + Now, Ed Meyers, if you're going to have apoplexy don't you go and have it + around this table. My boy is only on his second piece of pie, and I won't + have his appetite spoiled.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V. — PINK TIGHTS AND GINGHAMS + </h2> + <p> + Some one—probably one of those Frenchmen whose life job it was to + make epigrams—-once said that there are but two kinds of women: good + women, and bad women. Ever since then problem playwrights have been + putting that fiction into the mouths of wronged husbands and building + their “big scene” around it. But don't you believe it. There are four + kinds: good women, bad women, good bad women, and bad good women. And the + worst of these is the last. This should be a story of all four kinds, and + when it is finished I defy you to discover which is which. + </p> + <p> + When the red stuff in the thermometer waxes ambitious, so that fat men + stand, bulging-eyed, before it and beginning with the ninety mark count up + with a horrible satisfaction—ninety-one—ninety-two—ninety-three—NINETY + FOUR! by gosh! and the cinders are filtering into your berth, and even the + porter is wandering restlessly up and down the aisle like a black soul in + purgatory and a white duck coat, then the thing to do is to don those + mercifully few garments which the laxity of sleeping-car etiquette + permits, slip out between the green curtains and fare forth in search of + draughts, liquid and atmospheric. + </p> + <p> + At midnight Emma McChesney, inured as she was to sleepers and all their + horrors, found her lower eight unbearable. With the bravery of desperation + she groped about for her cinder-strewn belongings, donned slippers and + kimono, waited until the tortured porter's footsteps had squeaked their + way to the far end of the car, then sped up the dim aisle toward the back + platform. She wrenched open the door, felt the rush of air, drew in a + long, grateful, smoke-steam-dust laden lungful of it, felt the breath of + it on spine and chest, sneezed, realized that she would be the victim of a + summer cold next day, and, knowing, cared not. + </p> + <p> + “Great, ain't it?” said a voice in the darkness. (Nay, reader. A woman's + voice.) + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney was of the non-screaming type. But something inside of her + suspended action for the fraction of a second. She peered into the + darkness. + </p> + <p> + “'J' get scared?” inquired the voice. Its owner lurched forward from the + corner in which she had been crouching, into the half-light cast by the + vestibule night-globe. + </p> + <p> + Even as men judge one another by a Masonic emblem, an Elk pin, or the band + of a cigar, so do women in sleeping-cars weigh each other according to the + rules of the Ancient Order of the Kimono. Seven seconds after Emma + McChesney first beheld the negligee that stood revealed in the dim light + she had its wearer neatly weighed, marked, listed, docketed and placed. + </p> + <p> + It was the kind of kimono that is associated with straw-colored hair, and + French-heeled shoes, and over-fed dogs at the end of a leash. The Japanese + are wrongly accused of having perpetrated it. In pattern it showed bright + green flowers-that-never-were sprawling on a purple background. A diamond + bar fastened it not too near the throat. + </p> + <p> + It was one of Emma McChesney's boasts that she was the only living woman + who could get off a sleeper at Bay City, Michigan, at 5 A.M., without + looking like a Swedish immigrant just dumped at Ellis Island. Traveling + had become a science with her, as witness her serviceable dark-blue silk + kimono, and her hair in a schoolgirl braid down her back. The blonde woman + cast upon Emma McChesney an admiring eye. + </p> + <p> + “Gawd, ain't it hot!” she said, sociably. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” mused Emma McChesney, “if that porter could be hypnotized into + making some lemonade—a pitcherful, with a lot of ice in it, and the + cold sweat breaking out all over the glass? + </p> + <p> + “Lemonade!” echoed the other, wonder and amusement in her tone. “Are they + still usin' it?” She leaned against the door, swaying with the motion of + the car, and hugging her plump, bare arms. “Travelin' alone?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,” replied Emma McChesney, and decided it was time to go in. + </p> + <p> + “Lonesome, ain't it, without company? Goin' far?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm accustomed to it. I travel on business, not pleasure. I'm on the + road, representing T. A. Buck's Featherloom Petticoats!” + </p> + <p> + The once handsome violet eyes of the plump blonde widened with surprise. + Then they narrowed to critical slits. + </p> + <p> + “On the road! Sellin' goods! And I thought you was only a kid. It's the + way your hair's fixed, I suppose. Say, that must be a hard life for a + woman—buttin' into a man's game like that.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I suppose any work that takes a woman out into the world—” + began Emma McChesney vaguely, her hand on the door-knob. + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” agreed the other. “I ought to know. The hotels and time-tables + alone are enough to kill. Who do you suppose makes up train schedules? + They don't seem to think no respectable train ought to leave anywhere + before eleven-fifty A.M., or arrive after six A.M. We played Ottumwa, + Iowa, last night, and here we are jumpin' to Illinois.” + </p> + <p> + In surprise Emma McChesney turned at the door for another look at the + hair, figure, complexion and kimono. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you're an actress! Well, if you think mine is a hard life for a + woman, why—” + </p> + <p> + “Me!” said the green-gold blonde, and laughed not prettily. “I ain't a + woman. I'm a queen of burlesque. + </p> + <p> + “Burlesque? You mean one of those—” Emma McChesney stopped, her + usually deft tongue floundering. + </p> + <p> + “One of those 'men only' troupes? You guessed it. I'm Blanche LeHaye, of + the Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles. We get into North Bend at six to-morrow + morning, and we play there to-morrow night, Sunday.” She took a step + forward so that her haggard face and artificially tinted hair were very + near Emma McChesney. “Know what I was thinkin' just one second before you + come out here?” + </p> + <p> + “No; what?” + </p> + <p> + “I was thinkin' what a cinch it would be to just push aside that canvas + thing there by the steps and try what the newspaper accounts call 'jumping + into the night.' Say, if I'd had on my other lawnjerie I'll bet I'd have + done it.” + </p> + <p> + Into Emma McChesney's understanding heart there swept a wave of pity. But + she answered lightly: “Is that supposed to be funny?” + </p> + <p> + The plump blonde yawned. “It depends on your funny bone. Mine's got + blunted. I'm the lady that the Irish comedy guy slaps in the face with a + bunch of lettuce. Say, there's something about you that makes a person get + gabby and tell things. You'd make a swell clairvoyant.” + </p> + <p> + Beneath the comedy of the bleached hair, and the flaccid face, and the + bizarre wrapper; behind the coarseness and vulgarity and ignorance, Emma + McChesney's keen mental eye saw something decent and clean and beautiful. + And something pitiable, and something tragic. + </p> + <p> + “I guess you'd better come in and get some sleep,” said Emma McChesney; + and somehow found her hand resting on the woman's shoulder. So they stood, + on the swaying, jolting platform. Blanche LeHaye, of the Sam Levin + Crackerjack Belles, looked down, askance, at the hand on her shoulder, as + at some strange and interesting object. + </p> + <p> + “Ten years ago,” she said, “that would have started me telling the story + of my life, with all the tremolo stops on, and the orchestra in tears. Now + it only makes me mad.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney's hand seemed to snatch itself away from the woman's + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “You can't treat me with your life's history. I'm going in.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute. Don't go away sore, kid. On the square, I guess I liked + the feel of your hand on my arm, like that. Say, I've done the same thing + myself to a strange dog that looked up at me, pitiful. You know, the way + you reach down, and pat 'm on the head, and say, 'Nice doggie, nice + doggie, old fellow,' even if it is a street cur, with a chawed ear, and no + tail. They growl and show their teeth, but they like it. A woman—Lordy! + there comes the brakeman. Let's beat it. Ain't we the nervy old hens!” + </p> + <p> + The female of the species as she is found in sleeping-car dressing-rooms + had taught Emma McChesney to rise betimes that she might avoid contact + with certain frowsy, shapeless beings armed with bottles of milky liquids, + and boxes of rosy pastes, and pencils that made arched and inky lines; + beings redolent of bitter almond, and violet toilette water; beings in + doubtful corsets and green silk petticoats perfect as to accordion-plaited + flounce, but showing slits and tatters farther up; beings jealously + guarding their ten inches of mirror space and consenting to move for no + one; ladies who had come all the way from Texas and who insisted on + telling about it, despite a mouthful of hairpins; doubtful sisters who + called one dearie and required to be hooked up; distracted mothers with + three small children who wiped their hands on your shirt-waist. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'You can't treat me with your life's history. I'm going + in'”} + </p> + <p> + So it was that Emma McChesney, hatted and veiled by 5:45, saw the curtains + of the berth opposite rent asunder to disclose the rumpled, shapeless + figure of Miss Blanche LeHaye. The queen of burlesque bore in her arms a + conglomerate mass of shoes, corset, purple skirt, bag and green-plumed + hat. She paused to stare at Emma McChesney's trim, cool preparedness. + </p> + <p> + “You must have started to dress as soon's you come in last night. I never + slep' a wink till just about half a hour ago. I bet I ain't got more than + eleven minutes to dress in. Ain't this a scorcher!” + </p> + <p> + When the train stopped at North Bend, Emma McChesney, on her way out, + collided with a vision in a pongee duster, rose-colored chiffon veil, + chamois gloves, and plumed hat. Miss Blanche LeHaye had made the most of + her eleven minutes. Her baggage attended to, Emma McChesney climbed into a + hotel 'bus. It bore no other passengers. From her corner in the vehicle + she could see the queen of burlesque standing in the center of the depot + platform, surrounded by her company. It was a tawdry, miserable, almost + tragic group, the men undersized, be-diamonded, their skulls oddly shaped, + their clothes a satire on the fashions for men, their chins unshaven, + their loose lips curved contentedly over cigarettes; the women dreadfully + unreal with the pitiless light of the early morning sun glaring down on + their bedizened faces, their spotted, garish clothes, their run-down + heels, their vivid veils, their matted hair. They were quarreling among + themselves, and a flame of hate for the moment lighted up those dull, + stupid, vicious faces. Blanche LeHaye appeared to be the center about + which the strife waged, for suddenly she flung through the shrill group + and walked swiftly over to the 'bus and climbed into it heavily. One of + the women turned, her face lived beneath the paint, to scream a great oath + after her. The 'bus driver climbed into his seat and took up the reins. + After a moment's indecision the little group on the platform turned and + trailed off down the street, the women sagging under the weight of their + bags, the men, for the most part, hurrying on ahead. When the 'bus lurched + past them the woman who had screamed the oath after Blanche LeHaye laughed + shrilly and made a face, like a naughty child, whereupon the others + laughed in falsetto chorus. + </p> + <p> + A touch of real color showed in Blanche LeHaye's flabby cheek. “I'll + show'm she snarled. That hussy of a Zella Dacre thinkin' she can get my + part away from me the last week or so, the lyin' sneak. I'll show'm a + leadin' lady's a leadin' lady. Let 'em go to their hash hotels. I'm goin' + to the real inn in this town just to let 'em know that I got my dignity to + keep up, and that I don't have to mix in with scum like that. You see that + there? She pointed at something in the street. Emma McChesney turned to + look. The cheap lithographs of the Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles Company + glared at one from the bill-boards. + </p> + <p> + “That's our paper,” explained Blanche LeHaye. “That's me, in the center of + the bunch, with the pink reins in my hands, drivin' that four-in-hand of + johnnies. Hot stuff! Just let Dacre try to get it away from me, that's + all. I'll show'm.” + </p> + <p> + She sank back into her corner. Her anger left her with the suddenness + characteristic of her type. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't this heat fierce?” she fretted, and closed her eyes. + </p> + <p> + Now, Emma McChesney was a broad-minded woman. The scars that she had + received in her ten years' battle with business reminded her to be tender + at sight of the wounds of others. But now, as she studied the woman + huddled there in the corner, she was conscious of a shuddering disgust of + her—of the soiled blouse, of the cheap finery, of the sunken places + around the jaw-bone, of the swollen places beneath the eyes, of the thin, + carmined lips, of the— + </p> + <p> + Blanche LeHaye opened her eyes suddenly and caught the look on Emma + McChesney's face. Caught it, and comprehended it. Her eyes narrowed, and + she laughed shortly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I dunno,” drawled Blanche LeHaye. “I wouldn't go's far's that, kid. + Say, when I was your age I didn't plan to be no bum burlesquer neither. I + was going to be an actress, with a farm on Long Island, like the rest of + 'em. Every real actress has got a farm on Long Island, if it's only there + in the mind of the press agent. It's a kind of a religion with 'em. I was + goin' to build a house on mine that was goin' to be a cross between a + California bungalow and the Horticultural Building at the World's Fair. + Say, I ain't the worst, kid. There's others outside of my smear, + understand, that I wouldn't change places with.” + </p> + <p> + A dozen apologies surged to Emma McChesney's lips just as the driver drew + up at the curbing outside the hotel and jumped down to open the door. She + found herself hoping that the hotel clerk would not class her with her + companion. + </p> + <p> + At eleven o'clock that morning Emma McChesney unlocked her door and walked + down the red-carpeted hotel corridor. She had had two hours of restful + sleep. She had bathed, and breakfasted, and donned clean clothes. She had + brushed the cinders out of her hair, and manicured. She felt as alert, and + cool and refreshed as she looked, which speaks well for her comfort. + </p> + <p> + Halfway down the hail a bedroom door stood open. Emma McChesney glanced + in. What she saw made her stop. The next moment she would have hurried on, + but the figure within called out to her. + </p> + <p> + Miss Blanche LeHaye had got into her kimono again. She was slumped in a + dejected heap in a chair before the window. There was a tray, with a + bottle and some glasses on the table by her side. + </p> + <p> + “Gawd, ain't it hot!” she whined miserably. “Come on in a minute. I left + the door open to catch the breeze, but there ain't any. You look like a + peach just off the ice. Got a gent friend in town?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered Emma McChesney hurriedly, and turned to go. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute,” said Blanche LeHaye, sharply, and rose. She slouched over + to where Emma McChesney stood and looked up at her sullenly. + </p> + <p> + “Why!” gasped Emma McChesney, and involuntarily put out her hand, “why—my + dear—you've been crying! Is there—” + </p> + <p> + “No, there ain't. I can bawl, can't I, if I <i>am</i> a bum burlesquer?” + She put down the squat little glass she had in her hand and stared + resentfully at Emma McChesney's cool, fragrant freshness. + </p> + <p> + “Say,” she demanded suddenly, “whatja mean by lookin' at me the way you + did this morning, h'm? Whatja mean? You got a nerve turnin' up your nose + at me, you have. I'll just bet you ain't no better than you might be, + neither. What the—” + </p> + <p> + Swiftly Emma McChesney crossed the room and closed the door. Then she came + back to where Blanche LeHaye stood. + </p> + <p> + “Now listen to me,” she said. “You shed that purple kimono of yours and + hustle into some clothes and come along with me. I mean it. Whenever I'm + anywhere near this town I make a jump and Sunday here. I've a friend here + named Morrissey—Ethel Morrissey—and she's the biggest-hearted, + most understanding friend that a woman ever had. She's skirt and suit + buyer at Barker & Fisk's here. I have a standing invitation to spend + Sunday at her house. She knows I'm coming. I help get dinner if I feel + like it, and wash my hair if I want to, and sit out in the back yard, and + fool with the dog, and act like a human being for one day. After you've + been on the road for ten years a real Sunday dinner in a real home has got + Sherry's flossiest efforts looking like a picnic collation with ants in + the pie. You're coming with me, more for my sake than for yours, because + the thought of you sitting here, like this, would sour the day for me.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche LeHaye's fingers were picking at the pin which fastened her gown. + She smiled, uncertainly. + </p> + <p> + “What's your game?” she inquired. + </p> + <p> + “I'll wait for you downstairs,” said Emma McChesney, pleasantly. “Do you + ever have any luck with caramel icing? Ethel's and mine always curdles.” + </p> + <p> + “Do I?” yelled the queen of burlesque. “I invented it.” And she was down + on her knees, her fingers fumbling with the lock of her suitcase. + </p> + <p> + Only an Ethel Morrissey, inured to the weird workings of humanity by years + of shrewd skirt and suit buying, could have stood the test of having a + Blanche LeHaye thrust upon her, an unexpected guest, and with the woman + across the street sitting on her front porch taking it all in. + </p> + <p> + At the door—“This is Miss Blanche LeHaye of the—er—Simon—” + </p> + <p> + “Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles,” put in Miss LeHaye. “Pleased to meet you.” + </p> + <p> + “Come in,” said Miss Ethel Morrissey without batting an eye. “I just + 'phoned the hotel. Thought you'd gone back on me, Emma. I'm baking a + caramel cake. Don't slam the door. This your first visit here, Miss + LeHaye? Excuse me for not shaking hands. I'm all flour. Lay your things in + there. Ma's spending the day with Aunt Gus at Forest City and I'm the + whole works around here. It's got skirts and suits beat a mile. Hot, ain't + it? Say, suppose you girls slip off your waists and I'll give you each an + all-over apron that's loose and let's the breeze slide around.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche LeHaye, the garrulous, was strangely silent. When she stepped + about it was in the manner of one who is fearful of wakening a sleeper. + When she caught the eyes of either of the other women her own glance + dropped. + </p> + <p> + When Ethel Morrissey came in with the blue-and-white gingham aprons + Blanche LeHaye hesitated a long minute before picking hers up. Then she + held it by both sleeves and looked at it long, and curiously. When she + looked up again she found the eyes of the other two upon her. She slipped + the apron over her head with a nervous little laugh. + </p> + <p> + “I've been a pair of pink tights so long,” she said, “that I guess I've + almost forgotten how to be a woman. But once I get this on I'll bet I can + come back.” + </p> + <p> + She proved it from the moment that she measured out the first cupful of + brown sugar for the caramel icing. She shed her rings, and pinned her hair + back from her forehead, and tucked up her sleeves, and as Emma McChesney + watched her a resolve grew in her mind. + </p> + <p> + The cake disposed of—“Give me some potatoes to peel, will you?” said + Blanche LeHaye, suddenly. “Give 'em to me in a brown crock, with a chip + out of the side. There's certain things always goes hand-in-hand in your + mind. You can't think of one without the other. Now, Lillian Russell and + cold cream is one; and new potatoes and brown crocks is another.” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'Now, Lillian Russell and cold cream is one; and new + potatoes and brown crocks is another'”} + </p> + <p> + She peeled potatoes, sitting hunched up on the kitchen chair with her high + heels caught back of the top rung. She chopped spinach until her face was + scarlet, and her hair hung in limp strands at the back of her neck. She + skinned tomatoes. She scoured pans. She wiped up the white oilcloth + table-top with a capable and soapy hand. The heat and bustle of the little + kitchen seemed to work some miraculous change in her. Her eyes brightened. + Her lips smiled. Once, Emma McChesney and Ethel Morrissey exchanged covert + looks when they heard her crooning one of those tuneless chants that women + hum when they wring out dishcloths in soapy water. + </p> + <p> + After dinner, in the cool of the sitting-room, with the shades drawn, and + their skirts tucked halfway to their knees, things looked propitious for + that first stroke in the plan which had worked itself out in Emma + McChesney's alert mind. She caught Blanche LeHaye's eye, and smiled. + </p> + <p> + “This beats burlesquing, doesn't it?” she said. She leaned forward a bit + in her chair. “Tell me, Miss LeHaye, haven't you ever thought of quitting + that—the stage—and turning to something—something—” + </p> + <p> + “Something decent?” Blanche LeHaye finished for her. “I used to. I've got + over that. Now all I ask is to get a laugh when I kick the comedian's hat + off with my toe.” + </p> + <p> + “But there must have been a time—” insinuated Emma McChesney, + gently. + </p> + <p> + Blanche LeHaye grinned broadly at the two women who were watching her so + intently. + </p> + <p> + “I think I ought to tell you,” she began, “that I never was a minister's + daughter, and I don't remember ever havin' been deserted by my sweetheart + when I was young and trusting. If I was to draw a picture of my life it + would look like one of those charts that the weather bureau gets out—one + of those high and low barometer things, all uphill and downhill like a + chain of mountains in a kid's geography.” + </p> + <p> + She shut her eyes and lay back in the depths of the leather-cushioned + chair. The three sat in silence for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Look here,” said Emma McChesney, suddenly, rising and coming over to the + woman in the big chair, “that's not the life for a woman like you. I can + get you a place in our office—not much, perhaps, but something + decent—something to start with. If you—” + </p> + <p> + “For that matter,” put in Ethel Morrissey, quickly, “I could get you + something right here in our store. I've been there long enough to have + some say-so, and if I recommend you they'd start you in the basement at + first, and then, if you made good, they advance you right along.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche LeHaye stood up and, twisting her arm around at the back, began to + unbutton her gingham apron. + </p> + <p> + “I guess you think I'm a bad one, don't you? Well, maybe I am. But I'm not + the worst. I've got a brother. He lives out West, and he's rich, and + married, and respectable. You know the way a man can climb out of the mud, + while a woman just can't wade out of it? Well, that's the way it was with + us. His wife's a regular society bug. She wouldn't admit that there was + any such truck as me, unless, maybe, the Municipal Protective League, or + something, of her town, got to waging a war against burlesque shows. I + hadn't seen Len—that's my brother—-in years and years. Then + one night in Omaha, I glimmed him sitting down in the B. H. row. His face + just seemed to rise up at me out of the audience. He recognized me, too. + Say, men are all alike. What they see in a dingy, half-fed, ignorant bunch + like us, I don't know. But the minute a man goes to Cleveland, or + Pittsburgh, or somewhere on business he'll hunt up a burlesque show, and + what's more, he'll enjoy it. Funny. Well, Len waited for me after the + show, and we had a talk. He told me his troubles, and I told him some of + mine, and when we got through I wouldn't have swapped with him. His wife's + a wonder. She's climbed to the top of the ladder in her town. And she's + pretty, and young-looking, and a regular swell. Len says their home is one + of the kind where the rubberneck auto stops while the spieler tells the + crowd who lives there, and how he made his money. But they haven't any + kids, Len told me. He's crazy about 'em. But his wife don't want any. I + wish you could have seen Len's face when he was talking about it.” + </p> + <p> + She dropped the gingham apron in a circle at her feet, and stepped out of + it. She walked over to where her own clothes lay in a gaudy heap. + </p> + <p> + “Exit the gingham. But it's been great.” She paused before slipping her + skirt over her head. The silence of the other two women seemed to anger + her a little. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: '“Why, girls, I couldn't hold down a job in a candy + factory'”} + </p> + <p> + “I guess you think I'm a bad one, clear through, don't you? Well, I ain't. + I don't hurt anybody but myself. Len's wife—that's what I call bad.” + </p> + <p> + “But I <i>don't</i> think you're bad clear through,” tried Emma McChesney. + “I don't. That's why I made that proposition to you. That's why I want you + to get away from all this, and start over again.” + </p> + <p> + “Me?” laughed Blanche LeHaye. “Me! In a office! With ledgers, and sale + bills, and accounts, and all that stuff! Why, girls, I couldn't hold down + a job in a candy factory. I ain't got any intelligence. I never had. You + don't find women with brains in a burlesque troupe. If they had 'em they + wouldn't be there. Why, we're the dumbest, most ignorant bunch there is. + Most of us are just hired girls, dressed up. That's why you find the + Woman's Uplift Union having such a blamed hard time savin' souls. The + souls they try to save know just enough to be wise to the fact that they + couldn't hold down a five-per-week job. Don't you feel sorry for me. I'm + doing the only thing I'm good for.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney put out her hand. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I only meant it + for—” + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course,” agreed Blanche LeHaye, heartily. “And you, too.” She + turned so that her broad, good-natured smile included Ethel Morrissey. + “I've had a whale of a time. My fingers are all stained up with new + potatoes, and my nails is full of strawberry juice, and I hope it won't + come off for a week. And I want to thank you both. I'd like to stay, but + I'm going to hump over to the theater. That Dacre's got the nerve to swipe + the star's dressing-room if I don't get my trunks in first.” + </p> + <p> + They walked with her to the front porch, making talk as they went. + Resentment and discomfiture and a sort of admiration all played across the + faces of the two women, whose kindness had met with rebuff. At the foot of + the steps Blanche LeHaye, prima donna of the Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles + turned. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, say,” she called. “I almost forgot. I want to tell you that if you + wait until your caramel is off the stove, and then add your butter, when + the stuff's hot, but not boilin', it won't lump so. H'm? Don't mention + it.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI. — SIMPLY SKIRTS + </h2> + <p> + They may differ on the subjects of cigars, samples, hotels, ball teams and + pinochle hands, but two things there are upon which they stand united. + Every member of that fraternity which is condemned to a hotel bedroom, or + a sleeper berth by night, and chained to a sample case by day agrees in + this, first: That it isn't what it used to be. Second: If only they could + find an opening for a nice, paying gents' furnishing business in a live + little town that wasn't swamped with that kind of thing already they'd buy + it and settle down like a white man, by George! and quit this peddling. + The missus hates it anyhow; and the kids know the iceman better than they + do their own dad. + </p> + <p> + On the morning that Mrs. Emma McChesney (representing T. A. Buck, + Featherloom Petticoats) finished her talk with Miss Hattie Stitch, head of + Kiser & Bloch's skirt and suit department, she found herself in a rare + mood. She hated her job; she loathed her yellow sample cases; she longed + to call Miss Stitch a green-eyed cat; and she wished that she had chosen + some easy and pleasant way of earning a living, like doing plain and fancy + washing and ironing. Emma McChesney had been selling Featherloom + Petticoats on the road for almost ten years, and she was famed throughout + her territory for her sane sunniness, and her love of her work. Which + speaks badly for Miss Hattie Stitch. + </p> + <p> + Miss Hattie Stitch hated Emma McChesney with all the hate that a + flat-chested, thin-haired woman has for one who can wear a large + thirty-six without one inch of alteration, and a hat that turns sharply + away from the face. For forty-six weeks in the year Miss Stitch existed in + Kiser & Bloch's store at River Falls. For six weeks, two in spring, + two in fall, and two in mid-winter, Hattie lived in New York, with a + capital L. She went there to select the season's newest models (slightly + modified for River Falls), but incidentally she took a regular trousseau + with her. + </p> + <p> + All day long Hattie picked skirt and suit models with unerring good taste + and business judgment. At night she was a creature transformed. Every + house of which Hattie bought did its duty like a soldier and a gentleman. + Nightly Hattie powdered her neck and arms, performed sacred rites over her + hair and nails, donned a gown so complicated that a hotel maid had to hook + her up the back, and was ready for her evening's escort at eight. There + wasn't a hat in a grill room from one end of the Crooked Cow-path to the + other that was more wildly barbaric than Hattie's, even in these sane and + simple days when the bird of paradise has become the national bird. The + buyer of suits for a thriving department store in a hustling little + Middle-Western town isn't to be neglected. Whenever a show came to River + Falls Hattie would look bored, pass a weary hand over her glossy coiffure + and say: “Oh, yes. Clever little show. Saw it two winters ago in New York. + This won't be the original company, of course.” The year that Hattie came + back wearing a set of skunk everyone thought it was lynx until Hattie drew + attention to what she called the “brown tone” in it. After that Old Lady + Heinz got her old skunk furs out of the moth balls and tobacco and + newspapers that had preserved them, and her daughter cut them up into + bands for the bottom of her skirt, and the cuffs of her coat. When Kiser + & Bloch had their fall and spring openings the town came ostensibly to + see the new styles, but really to gaze at Hattie in a new confection, + undulating up and down the department, talking with a heavy Eastern accent + about this or that being “smart” or “good this year,” or having “a world + of style,” and sort of trailing her toes after her to give a clinging, + Grecian line, like pictures of Ethel Barrymore when she was thin. The year + that Hattie confided to some one that she was wearing only scant bloomers + beneath her slinky silk the floor was mobbed, and they had to call in + reserves from the basement ladies-and-misses-ready-to-wear. + </p> + <p> + Miss Stitch came to New York in March. On the evening of her arrival she + dined with Fat Ed Meyers, of the Strauss Sans-silk Skirt Company. He + informed her that she looked like a kid, and that that was some classy + little gown, and it wasn't every woman who could wear that kind of thing + and get away with it. It took a certain style. Hattie smiled, and hummed + off-key to the tune the orchestra was playing, and Ed told her it was a + shame she didn't do something with that voice. + </p> + <p> + “I have something to tell you,” said Hattie. “Just before I left I had a + talk with old Kiser. Or rather, he had a talk with me. You know I have + pretty much my own way in my department. Pity if I couldn't have. I made + it. Well, Kiser wanted to know why I didn't buy Featherlooms. I said we + had no call for 'em, and he came back with figures to prove we're losing a + good many hundreds a year by not carrying them. He said the Strauss + Sans-silk skirt isn't what it used to be. And he's right.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, say—” objected Ed Meyers. + </p> + <p> + “It's true,” insisted Hattie. “But I couldn't tell him that I didn't buy + Featherlooms because McChesney made me tired. Besides, she never + entertains me when I'm in New York. Not that I'd go to the theater in the + evening with a woman, because I wouldn't, but—Say, listen. Why don't + you make a play for her job? As long as I've got to put in a heavy line of + Featherlooms you may as well get the benefit of it. You could double your + commissions. I'll bet that woman makes her I-don't know-how-many thousands + a year.” + </p> + <p> + Ed Meyers' naturally ruddy complexion took on a richer tone, and he + dropped his fork hastily. As he gazed at Miss Stitch his glance was not + more than half flattering. “How you women do love each other, don't you! + You don't. I don't mind telling you my firm's cutting down its road force, + and none of us knows who's going to be beheaded next. But—well—a + guy wouldn't want to take a job away from a woman—especially a + square little trick like McChesney. Of course she's played me a couple of + low-down deals and I promised to get back at her, but that's business. But—” + </p> + <p> + “So's this,” interrupted Miss Hattie Stitch. “And I don't know that she is + so square. Let me tell you that I heard she's no better than she might be. + I have it on good authority that three weeks ago, at the River House, in + our town—” + </p> + <p> + Their heads came close together over the little, rose-shaded restaurant + table. + </p> + <p> + At eleven o'clock next morning Fat Ed Meyers walked into the office of the + T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company and asked to see old T. A. + </p> + <p> + “He's in Europe,” a stenographer informed him, “spaing, and sprudeling, + and badening. Want to see T. A. Junior?” + </p> + <p> + “T. A. Junior!” almost shouted Ed Meyers. “You don't mean to tell me <i>that</i> + fellow's taken hold—” + </p> + <p> + “Believe <i>me</i>. That's why Featherlooms are soaring and Sans-silks are + sinking. Nobody would have believed it. T. A. Junior's got a live wire + looking like a stick of licorice. When they thought old T. A. was going to + die, young T. A. seemed to straighten out all of a sudden and take hold. + It's about time. He must be almost forty, but he don't show it. I don't + know, he ain't so good-looking, but he's got swell eyes.” + </p> + <p> + Ed Meyers turned the knob of the door marked “Private,” and entered, + smiling. Ed Meyers had a smile so cherubic that involuntarily you armed + yourself against it. + </p> + <p> + “Hel-lo Buck!” he called jovially. “I hear that at last you're taking an + interest in skirts—other than on the hoof.” And he offered young T. + A. a large, dark cigar with a fussy-looking band encircling its middle. + Young T. A. looked at it disinterestedly, and spake, saying: + </p> + <p> + “What are you after?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I just dropped in—” began Ed Meyers lamely. + </p> + <p> + “The dropping,” observed T. A. Junior, “is bad around here this morning. I + have one little formula for all visitors to-day, regardless of whether + they're book agents or skirt salesmen. That is, what can I do for you?” + </p> + <p> + Ed Meyers tucked his cigar neatly into the extreme right corner of his + mouth, pushed his brown derby far back on his head, rested his strangely + lean hands on his plump knees, and fixed T. A. Junior with a shrewd blue + eye. “That suits me fine,” he agreed. “I never was one to beat around the + bush. Look here. I know skirts from the draw-string to the ruffle. It's a + woman's garment, but a man's line. There's fifty reasons why a woman can't + handle it like a man. For one thing the packing cases weigh twenty-five + pounds each, and she's as dependent on a packer and a porter as a baby is + on its mother. Another is that if a man has to get up to make a train at 4 + A.M. he don't require twenty-five minutes to fasten down three sets of + garters, and braid his hair, and hook his waist up the back, and miss his + train. And he don't have neuralgic headaches. Then, the head of a skirt + department in a store is a woman, ten times out of ten. And lemme tell + you,” he leaned forward earnestly, “a woman don't like to buy of a woman. + Don't ask me why. I'm too modest. But it's the truth.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said young T. A., with the rising inflection. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” finished Ed Meyers, “I like your stuff. I think it's great. It's a + seller, with the right man to push it. I'd like to handle it. And I'll + guarantee I could double the returns from your Middle-Western territory.” + T. A. Junior had strangely translucent eyes. Their luminous quality had an + odd effect upon any one on whom he happened to turn them. He had been + scrawling meaningless curlycues on a piece of paper as Ed Meyers talked. + Now he put down the pencil, turned, and looked Ed Meyers fairly in the + eye. + </p> + <p> + “You mean you want Mrs. McChesney's territory?” he asked quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, yes, I do,” confessed Ed Meyers, without a blush. + </p> + <p> + Young T. A. swung back to his desk, tore from the pad before him the piece + of paper on which he had been scrawling, crushed it, and tossed it into + the wastebasket with an air of finality. + </p> + <p> + “Take the second elevator down,” he said. “The nearest one's out of + order.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment Ed Meyers stared, his fat face purpling. “Oh, very well,” he + said, rising. “I just made you a business proposition, that's all. I + thought I was talking to a business man. Now, old T. A.—” + </p> + <p> + “That'll be about all,” observed T. A. Junior, from his desk. + </p> + <p> + Ed Meyers started toward the door. Then he paused, turned, and came back + to his chair. His heavy jaw jutted out threateningly. + </p> + <p> + “No, it ain't all, either. I didn't want to mention it, and if you'd + treated me like a gentleman, I wouldn't have. But I want to say to you + that McChesney's giving this firm a black eye. Morals don't figure with a + man on the road, but when a woman breaks into this game, she's got to be + on the level.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Junior rose. The blonde stenographer who had made the admiring + remark anent his eyes would have appreciated those features now. They + glowed luminously into Ed Meyers' pale blue ones until that gentleman + dropped his eyelids in confusion. He seemed at a disadvantage in every + way, as T. A. Junior's lean, graceful height towered over the fat man's + bulk. “I don't know Mrs. McChesney,” said T. A. Junior. “I haven't even + seen her in six years. My interest in the business is very recent. I do + know that my father swears she's the best salesman he has on the road. + Before you go any further I want to tell you that you'll have to prove + what you just implied, so definitely, and conclusively, and convincingly + that when you finish you'll have an ordinary engineering blue-print + looking like a Turner landscape. Begin.” + </p> + <p> + Ed Meyers, still standing, clutched his derby tightly and began. + </p> + <p> + “She's a looker, Emma is. And smooth! As the top of your desk. But she's + getting careless. Now a decent, hard-working, straight girl like Miss + Hattie Stitch, of Kiser & Bloch's, River Falls, won't buy of her. + You'll find you don't sell that firm. And they buy big, too. Why, last + summer I had it from the clerk of the hotel in that town that she ran + around all day with a woman named LeHaye—Blanche LeHaye, of an + aggregation of bum burlesquers called the Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles. + And say, for a whole month there, she had a tough young kid traveling with + her that she called her son. Oh, she's queering your line, all right. The + days are past when it used to be a signal for a loud, merry laugh if you + mentioned you were selling goods on the road. It's a fine art, and a + science these days, and the name of T. A. Buck has always stood for—” + </p> + <p> + Downstairs a trim, well-dressed, attractive woman stepped into the + elevator and smiled radiantly upon the elevator man, who had smiled first. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Jake,” she said. “What's old in New York? I haven't been here in + three months. It's good to be back.” + </p> + <p> + “Seems grand t' see you, Mis' McChesney,” returned Jake. “Well, nothin' + much stirrin'. Whatcha think of the Grand Central? I understand they're + going to have a contrivance so you can stand on a mat in the waiting-room + and wish yourself down to the track an' train that you're leavin' on. The + G'ints have picked a bunch of shines this season. T. A. Junior's got a new + sixty-power auto. Genevieve—that yella-headed steno—was + married last month to Henry, the shipping clerk. My wife presented me with + twin girls Monday. Well, thank <i>you</i>, Mrs. McChesney. I guess that'll + help some.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney swung down the hall and into the big, bright office. She + paused at the head bookkeeper's desk. The head bookkeeper was a woman. Old + Man Buck had learned something about the faithfulness of women employees. + The head bookkeeper looked up and said some convincing things. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” said Emma, in return. “It's mighty good to be here. Is it true + that skirts are going to be full in the back? How's business? T. A. in?” + </p> + <p> + “Young T. A. is. But I think he's busy just now. You know T. A. Senior + isn't back yet. He had a tight squeeze, I guess. Everybody's talking about + the way young T. A. took hold. You know he spent years running around + Europe, and he made a specialty of first nights, and first editions, and + French cars when he did show up here. But now! He's changed the + advertising, and designing, and cutting departments around here until + there's as much difference between this place now and the place it was + three months ago as there is between a hoop-skirt and a hobble. He + designed one skirt—Here, Miss Kelly! Just go in and get one of those + embroidery flounce models for Mrs. McChesney. How's that? Honestly, I'd + wear it myself.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney held the garment in her two hands and looked it over + critically. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. She looked up to reply when + the door of T. A. Buck's private office opened, and Ed Meyers walked + briskly out. Emma McChesney put down the skirt and crossed the office so + that she and he met just in front of the little gate that formed an + entrance along the railing. + </p> + <p> + Ed Meyers' mouth twisted itself into a smile. He put out a welcoming hand. + </p> + <p> + “Why, hello, stranger! When did you drive in? How's every little thing? + I'm darned if you don't grow prettier and younger every day of your sweet + life.” + </p> + <p> + “Quit Sans-silks?” inquired Mrs. McChesney briefly. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'Honestly. I'd wear it myself!'”} + </p> + <p> + “Why—no. But I was just telling young T. A. in there that if I could + only find a nice, paying little gents' furnishing business in a live + little town that wasn't swamped with that kind of thing already I'd buy + it, by George! I'm tired of this peddling.” + </p> + <p> + “Sing that,” said Emma McChesney. “It might sound better,” and marched + into the office marked “Private.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Junior's good-looking back and semi-bald head were toward her as she + entered. She noted, approvingly, woman-fashion, that his neck would never + lap over the edge of his collar in the back. Then Young T. A. turned + about. He gazed at Emma McChesney, his eyebrows raised inquiringly. Emma + McChesney's honest blue eyes, with no translucent nonsense about them, + gazed straight back at T. A. Junior. + </p> + <p> + “I'm Mrs. McChesney. I got in half an hour ago. It's been a good little + trip, considering business, and politics, and all that. I'm sorry to hear + your father's still ill. He and I always talked over things after my long + trip.” + </p> + <p> + Young T. A.'s expert eye did not miss a single point, from the tip of Mrs. + McChesney's smart spring hat to the toes of her well-shod feet, with full + stops for the fit of her tailored suit, the freshness of her gloves, the + clearness of her healthy pink skin, the wave of her soft, bright hair. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do, Mrs. McChesney,” said Young T. A. emphatically. “Please + sit down. It's a good idea—this talking over your trip. There are + several little things—now Kiser & Bloch, of River Falls, for + instance. We ought to be selling them. The head of their skirt and suit + department is named Stitch, isn't she? Now, what would you say of Miss + Stitch?” + </p> + <p> + “Say?” repeated Emma McChesney quickly. “As a woman, or a buyer?” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Junior thought a minute. “As a woman.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McChesney thoughtfully regarded the tips of her neatly gloved hands. + Then she looked up. “The kindest and gentlest thing I can say about her is + that if she'd let her hair grow out gray maybe her face wouldn't look so + hard.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Junior flung himself back in his chair and threw back his head and + laughed at the ceiling. + </p> + <p> + Then, “How old is your son?” with disconcerting suddenness. + </p> + <p> + “Jock's scandalously near eighteen.” In her quick mind Emma McChesney was + piecing odds and ends together, and shaping the whole to fit Fat Ed + Meyers. A little righteous anger was rising within her. + </p> + <p> + T. A. Junior searched her face with his glowing eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Does my father know that you have a young man son? Queer you never + mentioned it. + </p> + <p> + “Queer? Maybe. Also, I don't remember ever having mentioned what church my + folks belonged to, or where I was born, or whether I like my steak rare or + medium, or what my maiden name was, or the size of my shoes, or whether I + take my coffee with or without. That's because I don't believe in dragging + private and family affairs into the business relation. I think I ought to + tell you that on the way in I met Ed Meyers, of the Strauss Sans-silk + Skirt Company, coming out. So anything you say won't surprise me.” + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn't be surprised,” asked T. A. Junior smoothly, “if I were to + say that I'm considering giving a man your territory?” Emma McChesney's + eyes—those eyes that had seen so much of the world and its ways, and + that still could return your gaze so clearly and honestly—widened + until they looked so much like those of a hurt child, or a dumb animal + that has received a death wound, that young T. A. dropped his gaze in + confusion. + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney stood up. Her breath came a little quickly. But when she + spoke, her voice was low and almost steady. + </p> + <p> + “If you expect me to beg you for my job, you're mistaken. T. A. Buck's + Featherloom Petticoats have been my existence for almost ten years. I've + sold Featherlooms six days in the week, and seven when I had a Sunday + customer. They've not only been my business and my means of earning a + livelihood, they've been my religion, my diversion, my life, my pet + pastime. I've lived petticoats, I've talked petticoats, I've sold + petticoats, I've dreamed petticoats—why, I've even worn the darned + things! And that's more than any man will ever do for you.” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'I've lived petticoats, I've talked petticoats, I've + dreamed petticoats—why, I've even worn the darn things!'”} + </p> + <p> + Young T. A. rose. He laughed a little laugh of sheer admiration. + Admiration shone, too, in those eyes of his which so many women found + irresistible. He took a step forward and laid one well-shaped hand on Emma + McChesney's arm. She did not shrink, so he let his hand slip down the neat + blue serge sleeve until it reached her snugly gloved hand. + </p> + <p> + “You're all right!” he said. His voice was very low, and there was a new + note in it. “Listen, girlie. I've just bought a new sixty-power machine. + Have dinner with me to-night, will you? And we'll take a run out in the + country somewhere. It's warm, even for March. I'll bring along a fur coat + for you. H'm?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McChesney stood thoughtfully regarding the hand that covered her own. + The blue of her eyes and the pink of her cheeks were a marvel to behold. + </p> + <p> + “It's a shame,” she began slowly, “that you're not twenty-five years + younger, so that your father could give you the licking you deserve when + he comes home. I shouldn't be surprised if he'd do it anyway. The Lord + preserve me from these quiet, deep devils with temperamental hands and + luminous eyes. Give me one of the bull-necked, red-faced, hoarse-voiced, + fresh kind every time. You know what they're going to say, at least, and + you're prepared for them. If I were to tell you how the hand you're + holding is tingling to box your ears you'd marvel that any human being + could have that much repression and live. I've heard of this kind of + thing, but I didn't know it happened often off the stage and outside of + novels. Let's get down to cases. If I let you make love to me, I keep my + job. Is that it?” + </p> + <p> + “Why—no—I—to tell the truth I was only—” + </p> + <p> + “Don't embarrass yourself. I just want to tell you that before I'd accept + your auto ride I'd open a little fancy art goods and needlework store in + Menominee, Michigan, and get out the newest things in Hardanger work and + Egyptian embroidery. And that's my notion of zero in occupation. Besides, + no plain, everyday workingwoman could enjoy herself in your car because + her conscience wouldn't let her. She'd be thinking all the time how she + was depriving some poor, hard-working chorus girl of her legitimate + pastime, and that would spoil everything. The elevator man told me that + you had a new motor car, but the news didn't interest me half as much as + that of his having new twin girls. Anything with five thousand dollars can + have a sixty-power machine, but only an elevator man on eight dollars a + week can afford the luxury of twins.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Mrs. McChesney—” + </p> + <p> + “Don't,” said Emma McChesney sharply. “I couldn't stand much more. I joke, + you know, when other women cry. It isn't so wearing.” + </p> + <p> + She turned abruptly and walked toward the door. T. A. Junior overtook her + in three long strides, and placed himself directly before her. + </p> + <p> + “My cue,” said Emma McChesney, with a weary brightness, “to say, 'Let me + pass, sir!'” + </p> + <p> + “Please don't,” pleaded T. A. Junior. “I'll remember this the rest of my + life. I thought I was a statue of modern business methods, but after + to-day I'm going to ask the office boy to help me run this thing. If I + could only think of some special way to apologize to you—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's all right,” said Emma McChesney indifferently. + </p> + <p> + “But it isn't! It isn't! You don't understand. That human jellyfish of a + Meyers said some things, and I thought I'd be clever and prove them. I + can't ask your pardon. There aren't words enough in the language. Why, + you're the finest little woman—you're—you'd restore the faith + of a cynic who had chronic indigestion. I wish I—Say, let me relieve + you of a couple of those small towns that you hate to make, and give you + Cleveland and Cincinnati. And let me—Why say, Mrs. McChesney! + Please! Don't! This isn't the time to—” + </p> + <p> + “I can't help it,” sobbed Emma McChesney, her two hands before her face. + “I'll stop in a minute. There; I'm stopping now. For Heaven's sake, stop + patting me on the head!” + </p> + <p> + “Please don't be so decent to me,” entreated T. A. Junior, his fine eyes + more luminous than ever. “If only you'd try to get back at me I wouldn't + feel so cut up about it.” Emma McChesney looked up at him, a smile shining + radiantly through the tears. “Very well. I'll do it. Just before I came in + they showed me that new embroidery flounced model you just designed. Maybe + you don't know it, but women wear only one limp petticoat nowadays. And + buttoned shoes. The eyelets in that embroidery are just big enough to + catch on the top button of a woman's shoe, and tear, and trip her. I ought + to have let you make up a couple of million of them, and then watch them + come back on your hands. I was going to tell you, anyway, for T. A. + Senior's sake. Now I'm doing it for your own.” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “And found himself addressing the backs of the letters on + the door marked 'Private'”} + </p> + <p> + “For—” began T. A. Junior excitedly. And found himself addressing + the backs of the letters on the door marked “Private,” as it slammed after + the trim, erect figure in blue. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII. — UNDERNEATH THE HIGH-CUT VEST + </h2> + <p> + We all carry with us into the one-night-stand country called Sleepland, a + practical working nightmare that we use again and again, no matter how + varied the theme or setting of our dream-drama. Your surgeon, tossing + uneasily on his bed, sees himself cutting to remove an appendix, only to + discover that that unpopular portion of his patient's anatomy already bobs + in alcoholic glee in a bottle on the top shelf of the laboratory of a more + alert professional brother. Your civil engineer constructs imaginary + bridges which slump and fall as quickly as they are completed. Your stage + favorite, in the throes of a post-lobster nightmare, has a horrid vision + of herself “resting” in January. But when he who sells goods on the road + groans and tosses in the clutches of a dreadful dream, it is, strangely + enough, never of canceled orders, maniacal train schedules, lumpy + mattresses, or vilely cooked food. These everyday things he accepts with a + philosopher's cheerfulness. No—his nightmare is always a vision of + himself, sick on the road, at a country hotel in the middle of a Spring + season. + </p> + <p> + On the third day that she looked with more than ordinary indifference upon + hotel and dining-car food Mrs. Emma McChesney, representing the T. A. Buck + Featherloom Petticoat Company, wondered if, perhaps, she did not need a + bottle of bitter tonic. On the fifth day she noticed that there were + chills chasing up and down her spine, and back and forth from legs to + shoulder-blades when other people were wiping their chins and foreheads + with bedraggled-looking handkerchiefs, and demanding to know how long this + heat was going to last, anyway. On the sixth day she lost all interest in + T. A. Buck's Featherloom Petticoats. And then she knew that something was + seriously wrong. On the seventh day, when the blonde and nasal waitress + approached her in the dining-room of the little hotel at Glen Rock, + Minnesota, Emma McChesney's mind somehow failed to grasp the meaning of + the all too obvious string of questions which were put to her—questions + ending in the inevitable “Tea, coffee 'r milk?” At that juncture Emma + McChesney had looked up into the girl's face in a puzzled, uncomprehending + way, had passed one hand dazedly over her hot forehead, and replied, with + great earnestness: + </p> + <p> + “Yours of the twelfth at hand and contents noted ... the greatest little + skirt on the market ... he's going to be a son to be proud of, God bless + him ... Want to leave a call for seven sharp—” + </p> + <p> + The lank waitress's face took on an added blankness. One of the two + traveling men at the same table started to laugh, but the other put out + his hand quickly, rose, and said, “Shut up, you blamed fool! Can't you see + the lady's sick?” And started in the direction of her chair. + </p> + <p> + Even then there came into Emma McChesney's ordinarily well-ordered, alert + mind the uncomfortable thought that she was talking nonsense. She made a + last effort to order her brain into its usual sane clearness, failed, and + saw the coarse white table-cloth rising swiftly and slantingly to meet her + head. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'Shut up, you blamed fool! Can't you see the lady's + sick?'”} + </p> + <p> + It speaks well for Emma McChesney's balance that when she found herself in + bed, two strange women, and one strange man, and an all-too-familiar + bell-boy in the room, she did not say, “Where am I? What happened?” + Instead she told herself that the amazingly and unbelievably handsome + young man bending over her with a stethoscope was a doctor; that the + plump, bleached blonde in the white shirtwaist was the hotel housekeeper; + that the lank ditto was a waitress; and that the expression on the face of + each was that of apprehension, tinged with a pleasurable excitement. So + she sat up, dislodging the stethoscope, and ignoring the purpose of the + thermometer which had reposed under her tongue. + </p> + <p> + “Look here!” she said, addressing the doctor in a high, queer voice. “I + can't be sick, young man. Haven't time. Not just now. Put it off until + August and I'll be as sick as you like. Why, man, this is the middle of + June, and I'm due in Minneapolis now.” + </p> + <p> + “Lie down, please,” said the handsome young doctor, “and don't dare remove + this thermometer again until I tell you to. This can't be put off until + August. You're sick right now.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McChesney shut her lips over the little glass tube, and watched the + young doctor's impassive face (it takes them no time to learn that trick) + and, woman-wise, jumped to her own conclusion. + </p> + <p> + “How sick?” she demanded, the thermometer read. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it won't be so bad,” said the very young doctor, with a + professionally cheerful smile. + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney sat up in bed with a jerk. “You mean—sick! Not ill, + or grippy, or run down, but sick! Trained-nurse sick! Hospital sick! + Doctor-twice-a-day sick! Table-by-the-bedside-with-bottles-on-it sick!” + </p> + <p> + “Well—a—” hesitated the doctor, and then took shelter behind a + bristling hedge of Latin phrases. Emma McChesney hurdled it at a leap. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind,” she said. “I know.” She looked at the faces of those four + strangers. Sympathy—real, human sympathy—was uppermost in + each. She smiled a faint and friendly little smile at the group. And at + that the housekeeper began tucking in the covers at the foot of the bed, + and the lank waitress walked to the window and pulled down the shade, and + the bell-boy muttered something about ice-water. The doctor patted her + wrist lightly and reassuringly. + </p> + <p> + “You're all awfully good,” said Emma McChesney, her eyes glowing with + something other than fever. “I've something to say. It's just this. If I'm + going to be sick I'd prefer to be sick right here, unless it's something + catching. No hospital. Don't ask me why. I don't know. We people on the + road are all alike. Wire T. A. Buck, Junior, of the Featherloom Petticoat + Company, New York. You'll find plenty of clean nightgowns in the left-hand + tray of my trunk, covered with white tissue paper. Get a nurse that + doesn't sniffle, or talk about the palace she nursed in last, where they + treated her like a queen and waited on her hand and foot. For goodness' + sake, put my switch where nothing will happen to it, and if I die and they + run my picture in the <i>Dry Goods Review</i> under the caption, 'Veteran + Traveling Saleswoman Succumbs at Glen Rock,' I'll haunt the editor.” She + paused a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Everything will be all right,” said the housekeeper, soothingly. “You'll + think you're right at home, it'll be so comfortable. Was there anything + else, now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Emma McChesney. “The most important of all. My son, Jock + McChesney, is fishing up in the Canadian woods. A telegram may not reach + him for three weeks. They're shifting about from camp to camp. Try to get + him, but don't scare him too much. You'll find the address under J. in my + address book in my handbag. Poor kid. Perhaps it's just as well he doesn't + know.” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps it was. At any rate it was true that had the tribe of McChesney + been as the leaves of the trees, and had it held a family reunion in Emma + McChesney's little hotel bedroom, it would have mattered not at all to + her. For she <i>was</i> sick—doctor-three-times-a-day-trained-nurse-bottles-by-the-bedside + sick, her head, with its bright hair rumpled and dry with the fever, + tossing from side to side on the lumpy hotel pillow, or lying terribly + silent and inert against the gray-white of the bed linen. She never quite + knew how narrowly she escaped that picture in the <i>Dry Goods Review</i>. + </p> + <p> + Then one day the fever began to recede, slowly, whence fevers come, and + the indefinable air of suspense and repression that lingers about a + sick-room at such a crisis began to lift imperceptibly. There came a time + when Emma McChesney asked in a weak but sane voice: + </p> + <p> + “Did Jock come? Did they cut off my hair?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet, dear,” the nurse had answered to the first, “but we'll hear in a + day or so, I'm sure.” And, “Your lovely hair! Well, not if I know it!” to + the second. + </p> + <p> + The spirit of small-town kindliness took Emma McChesney in its arms. The + dingy little hotel room glowed with flowers. The story of the sick woman + fighting there alone in the terrors of delirium had gone up and down about + the town. Housewives with a fine contempt for hotel soups sent broths of + chicken and beef. The local members of the U. C. T. sent roses enough to + tax every vase and wash-pitcher that the hotel could muster, and asked + their wives to call at the hotel and see what they could do. The wives + came, obediently, but with suspicion and distrust in their eyes, and + remained to pat Emma McChesney's arm, ask to read aloud to her, and to + indulge generally in that process known as “cheering her up.” Every + traveling man who stopped at the little hotel on his way to Minneapolis + added to the heaped-up offerings at Emma McChesney's shrine. Books and + magazines assumed the proportions of a library. One could see the hand of + T. A. Buck, Junior, in the cases of mineral water, quarts of wine, cunning + cordials and tiny bottles of liqueur that stood in convivial rows on the + closet shelf and floor. There came letters, too, and telegrams with such + phrases as “let nothing be left undone” and “spare no expense” under T. A. + Buck, Junior's, signature. + </p> + <p> + So Emma McChesney climbed the long, weary hill of illness and pain, + reached the top, panting and almost spent, rested there, and began the + easy descent on the other side that led to recovery and strength. But + something was lacking. That sunny optimism that had been Emma McChesney's + most valuable asset was absent. The blue eyes had lost their brave + laughter. A despondent droop lingered in the corners of the mouth that had + been such a rare mixture of firmness and tenderness. Even the advent of + Fat Ed Meyers, her keenest competitor, and representative of the Strauss + Sans-silk Company, failed to awaken in her the proper spirit of + antagonism. Fat Ed Meyers sent a bunch of violets that devastated the + violet beds at the local greenhouse. Emma McChesney regarded them + listlessly when the nurse lifted them out of their tissue wrappings. But + the name on the card brought a tiny smile to her lips. + </p> + <p> + “He says he'd like to see you, if you feel able,” said Miss Haney, the + nurse, when she came up from dinner. + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney thought a minute. “Better tell him it's catching,” she + said. + </p> + <p> + “He knows it isn't,” returned Miss Haney. “But if you don't want him, why—” + </p> + <p> + “Tell him to come up,” interrupted Emma McChesney, suddenly. + </p> + <p> + A faint gleam of the old humor lighted up her face when Fat Ed Meyers + painfully tip-toed in, brown derby in hand, his red face properly doleful, + brown shoes squeaking. His figure loomed mountainous in a light-brown + summer suit. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't you ashamed of yourself?” he began, heavily humorous. “Couldn't you + find anything better to do in the middle of the season? Say, on the + square, girlie, I'm dead sorry. Hard luck, by gosh! Young T. A. himself + went out with a line in your territory, didn't he? I didn't think that guy + had it in him, darned if I did.” + </p> + <p> + “It was sweet of you to send all those violets, Mr. Meyers. I hope you're + not disappointed that they couldn't have been worked in the form of a + pillow, with 'At Rest' done in white curlycues.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. McChesney!” Ed Meyers' round face expressed righteous reproof, pain, + and surprise. “You and I may have had a word, now and then, and I will say + that you dealt me a couple of low-down tricks on the road, but that's all + in the game. I never held it up against you. Say, nobody ever admired you + or appreciated you more than I did—” + </p> + <p> + “Look out!” said Emma McChesney. “You're speaking in the past tense. + Please don't. It makes me nervous.” + </p> + <p> + Ed Meyers laughed, uncomfortably, and glanced yearningly toward the door. + He seemed at a loss to account for something he failed to find in the + manner and conversation of Mrs. McChesney. + </p> + <p> + “Son here with you, I suppose,” he asked, cheerily, sure that he was on + safe ground at last. + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney closed her eyes. The little room became very still. In a + panic Ed Meyers looked helplessly from the white face, with its hollow + cheeks and closed eyelids to the nurse who sat at the window. That + discreet damsel put her finger swiftly to her lips, and shook her head. Ed + Meyers rose, hastily, his face a shade redder than usual. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I guess I gotta be running along. I'm tickled to death to find you + looking so fat and sassy. I got an idea you were just stalling for a rest, + that's all. Say, Mrs. McChesney, there's a swell little dame in the house + named Riordon. She's on the road, too. I don't know what her line is, but + she's a friendly kid, with a bunch of talk. A woman always likes to have + another woman fussin' around when she's sick. I told her about you, and + how I'd bet you'd be crazy to get a chance to talk shop and Featherlooms + again. I guess you ain't lost your interest in Featherlooms, eh, what?” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney's face indicated not the faintest knowledge of Featherloom + Petticoats. Ed Meyers stared, aghast. And as he stared there came a little + knock at the door—a series of staccato raps, with feminine knuckles + back of them. The nurse went to the door, disapproval on her face. At the + turning of the knob there bounced into the room a vision in an Alice-blue + suit, plumes to match, pearl earrings, elaborate coiffure of reddish-gold + and a complexion that showed an unbelievable trust in the credulity of + mankind. + </p> + <p> + “How-do, dearie!” exclaimed the vision. “You poor kid, you! I heard you + was sick, and I says, 'I'm going up to cheer her up if I have to miss my + train out to do it.' Say, I was laid up two years ago in Idaho Falls, + Idaho, and believe me, I'll never forget it. I don't know how sick I was, + but I don't even want to remember how lonesome I was. I just clung to the + chamber-maid like she was my own sister. If your nurse wants to go out for + an airing I'll sit with you. Glad to.” + </p> + <p> + “That's a grand little idea,” agreed Ed Meyers. “I told 'em you'd brighten + things up. Well, I'll be going. You'll be as good as new in a week, Mrs. + McChesney, don't you worry. So long.” And he closed the door after himself + with apparent relief. + </p> + <p> + Miss Haney, the nurse, was already preparing to go out. It was her regular + hour for exercise. Mrs. McChesney watched her go with a sinking heart. + </p> + <p> + “Now!” said Miss Riordon, comfortably, “we girls can have a real, + old-fashioned talk. A nurse isn't human. The one I had in Idaho Falls was + strictly prophylactic, and antiseptic, and she certainly could give the + swell alcohol rubs, but you can't get chummy with a human disinfectant. + Your line's skirts, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Land, I've heard an awful lot about you. The boys on the road certainly + speak something grand of you. I'm really jealous. Say, I'd love to show + you some of my samples for this season. They're just great. I'll just run + down the hall to my room—” + </p> + <p> + She was gone. Emma McChesney shut her eyes, wearily. Her nerves were + twitching. Her thoughts were far, far away from samples and sample cases. + So he had turned out to be his worthless father's son after all! He must + have got some news of her by now. And he ignored it. He was content to + amuse himself up there in the Canadian woods, while his mother— + </p> + <p> + Miss Riordon, flushed, and panting a little, burst into the room again, + sample-case in hand. + </p> + <p> + “Lordy, that's heavy! It's a wonder I haven't killed myself before now, + wrestling with those blamed things.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McChesney sat up on one elbow as Miss Riordon tugged at the + sample-case cover. Then she leaned forward, interested in spite of herself + at sight of the pile of sheer, white, exquisitely embroidered and lacy + garments that lay disclosed as the cover fell back. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, lingerie! That's an ideal line for a woman. Let's see the yoke in + that first nightgown. It's a really wonderful design.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Riordon laughed and shook out the folds of the topmost garment. + “Nightgown!” she said, and laughed again. “Take another look.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what—” began Emma McChesney. + </p> + <p> + “Shrouds!” announced Miss Riordon complacently. + </p> + <p> + “Shrouds!” shrieked Mrs. McChesney, and her elbow gave way. She fell back + on the pillow. + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful, ain't they?” Miss Riordon twirled the white garment in her + hand. “They're the very newest thing. You'll notice they're made up + slightly hobble, with a French back, and high waist-line in the front. + Last season kimono sleeves was all the go, but they're not used this + season. This one—” + </p> + <p> + “Take them away!” screamed Emma McChesney hysterically. “Take them away! + Take them away!” And buried her face in her trembling white hands. + </p> + <p> + Miss Riordon stared. Then she slammed the cover of the case, rose, and + started toward the door. But before she reached it, and while the sick + woman's sobs were still sounding hysterically the door flew open to admit + a tall, slim, miraculously well-dressed young man. The next instant Emma + McChesney's lace nightgown was crushed against the top of a correctly + high-cut vest, and her tears coursed, unmolested, down the folds of an + exquisitely shaded lavender silk necktie. + </p> + <p> + “Jock!” cried Emma McChesney; and then, “Oh, my son, my son, my beautiful + boy!” like a woman in a play. + </p> + <p> + Jock was holding her tight, and patting her shoulder, and pressing his + healthy, glowing cheek close to hers that was so gaunt and pale. + </p> + <p> + “I got seven wires, all at the same time. They'd been chasing me for days, + up there in the woods. I thought I'd never get here.” + </p> + <p> + And at that a wonderful thing happened to Emma McChesney. She lifted her + face, and showed dimples where lines had been, smiles where tears had + coursed, a glow where there had been a grayish pallor. She leaned back a + bit to survey this son of hers. + </p> + <p> + “Ugh! how black you are!” It was the old Emma McChesney that spoke. “You + young devil, you're actually growing a mustache! There's something hard in + your left-hand vest pocket. If it's your fountain pen you'd better rescue + it, because I'm going to hug you again.” + </p> + <p> + But Jock McChesney was not smiling. He glanced around the stuffy little + hotel room. It looked stuffier and drearier than ever in contrast with his + radiant youth, his glowing freshness, his outdoor tan, his immaculate + attire. He looked at the astonished Miss Riordon. At his gaze that lady + muttered something, and fled, sample-case banging at her knees. At the + look in his eyes his mother hastened, woman-wise, to reassure him. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “At his gaze that lady fled, sample-case banging at her + knees"} + </p> + <p> + “It wasn't so bad, Jock. Now that you're here, it's all right. Jock, I + didn't realize just what you meant to me until you didn't come. I didn't + realize—” + </p> + <p> + Jock sat down at the edge of the bed, and slid one arm under his mother's + head. There was a grim line about his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “And I've been fishing,” he said. “I've been sprawling under a tree in + front of a darned fool stream and wondering whether to fry 'em for lunch + now, or to put my hat over my eyes and fall asleep.” + </p> + <p> + His mother reached up and patted his shoulder. But the line around Jock's + jaw did not soften. He turned his head to gaze down at his mother. + </p> + <p> + “Two of those telegrams, and one letter, were from T. A. Buck, Junior,” he + said. “He met me at Detroit. I never thought I'd stand from a total + stranger what I stood from that man.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what do you mean?” Alarm, dismay, astonishment were in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “He said things. And he meant 'em. He showed me, in a perfectly well-bred, + cleancut, and most convincing way just what a miserable, selfish, + low-down, worthless young hound I am.” + </p> + <p> + “He—dared!—” + </p> + <p> + “You bet he dared. And then some. And I hadn't an argument to come back + with. I don't know just where he got all his information from, but it was + straight.” + </p> + <p> + He got up, strode to the window, and came back to the bed. Both hands + thrust deep in his pockets, he announced his life plans, thus: + </p> + <p> + “I'm eighteen years old. And I look twenty-three, and act twenty-five—when + I'm with twenty-five-year-olds. I've been as much help and comfort to you + as a pet alligator. You've always said that I was to go to college, and + I've sort of trained myself to believe I was. Well, I'm not. I want to get + into business, with a capital B. And I want to jump in now. This minute. + I've started out to be a first-class slob, with you keeping me in pocket + money, and clothes, and the Lord knows what all. Why, I—” + </p> + <p> + “Jock McChesney,” said that young man's bewildered mother, “just what did + T. A. Buck, Junior, say to you anyway?” + </p> + <p> + “Plenty. Enough to make me see things. I used to think that I wanted to + get into one of the professions. Professions! You talk about the romance + of a civil engineer's life! Why, to be a successful business man these + days you've got to be a buccaneer, and a diplomat, and a detective, and a + clairvoyant, and an expert mathematician, and a wizard. Business—just + plain everyday business—is the gamiest, chanciest, most thrilling + line there is to-day, and I'm for it. Let the other guy hang out his + shingle and wait for 'em. I'm going out and get mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Any particular line, or just planning to corner the business market + generally?” came a cool, not too amused voice from the bed. + </p> + <p> + “Advertising,” replied Jock crisply. “Magazine advertising, to start with. + I met a fellow up in the woods—named O'Rourke. He was a star + football man at Yale. He's bucking the advertising line now for the <i>Mastodon + Magazine</i>. He's crazy about it, and says it's the greatest game ever. I + want to get into it now—not four years from now.” + </p> + <p> + He stopped abruptly. Emma McChesney regarded him, eyes glowing. Then she + gave a happy little laugh, reached for her kimono at the foot of the bed, + and prepared to kick off the bedclothes. + </p> + <p> + “Just run into the hall a second, son,” she announced. “I'm going to get + up.” + </p> + <p> + “Up! No, you're not!” shouted Jock, making a rush at her. Then, in the + exuberance of his splendid young strength, he picked her up, swathed + snugly in a roll of sheeting and light blanket, carried her to the big + chair by the window, and seated himself, with his surprised and laughing + mother in his arms. + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. McChesney was serious again in a moment. She lay with her head + against her boy's breast for a while. Then she spoke what was in her sane, + far-seeing mind. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “In the exuberance of his young strength, he picked her + up"} + </p> + <p> + “Jock, if I've ever wished you were a girl, I take it all back now. I'd + rather have heard what you just said than any piece of unbelievable good + fortune in the world. God bless you for it, dear. But, Jock, you're going + to college. No—wait a minute. You'll have a chance to prove the + things you just said by getting through in three years instead of the + usual four. If you're in earnest you can do it. I want my boy to start + into this business war equipped with every means of defense. You called it + a game. It's more than that—it's a battle. Compared to the + successful business man of to-day the Revolutionary Minute Men were as + keen and alert as the Seven Sleepers. I know that there are more + non-college men driving street-cars than there are college men. But that + doesn't influence me. You could get a job now. Not much of a position, + perhaps, but something self-respecting and fairly well-paying. It would + teach you many things. You might get a knowledge of human nature that no + college could give you. But there's something—poise—self-confidence—assurance—that + nothing but college can give you. You will find yourself in those three + years. After you finish college you'll have difficulty in fitting into + your proper niche, perhaps, and you'll want to curse the day on which you + heeded my advice. It'll look as though you had simply wasted those three + precious years. But in five or six years after, when your character has + jelled, and you've hit your pace, you'll bless me for it. As for a + knowledge of humanity, and of business tricks—well, your mother is + fairly familiar with the busy marts of trade. If you want to learn folks + you can spend your summers selling Featherlooms with me.” + </p> + <p> + “But, mother, you don't understand just why—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear 'un, I do. After all, remember you're only eighteen. You'll + probably spend part of your time rushing around at class proms with a red + ribbon in your coat lapel to show you're on the floor committee. And + you'll be girl-fussing, too. But you'd be attracted to girls, in or out of + college, and I'd rather, just now, that it would be some pretty, + nice-thinking college girl in a white sweater and a blue serge skirt, + whose worst thought was wondering if you could be cajoled into taking her + to the Freshman-Sophomore basketball game, than some red-lipped, + black-jet-earringed siren gazing at you across the table in some basement + cafe. And, goodness knows, Jock, you wear your clothes so beautifully that + even the haberdashers' salesmen eye you with respect. I've seen 'em. + That's one course you needn't take at college.” + </p> + <p> + Jock sat silent, his face grave with thought. “But when I'm earning money—real + money—it's off the road for you,” he said, at last. “I don't want + this to sound like a scene from East Lynne, but, mother—” + </p> + <p> + “Um-m-m-m—ye-ee-es,” assented Emma McChesney, with no alarming + enthusiasm. “Jock dear, carry me back to bed again, will you? And then + open the closet door and pull out that big sample-case to the side of my + bed. The newest Fall Featherlooms are in it, and somehow, I've just a + whimsy notion that I'd like to look 'em over.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII. — CATCHING UP WITH CHRISTMAS + </h2> + <p> + Temptation himself is not much of a spieler. Raucous-voiced, red-faced, + greasy, he stands outside his gaudy tent, dilating on the wonders within. + One or two, perhaps, straggle in. But the crowd, made wary by bitter + experience of the sham and cheap fraud behind the tawdry canvas flap, + stops a moment, laughs, and passes on. Then Temptation, in a panic, seeing + his audience drifting away, summons from inside the tent his bespangled + and bewitching partner, Mlle. Psychological Moment, the Hypnotic Charmer. + She leaps to the platform, bows, pirouettes. The crowd surges toward the + ticket-window, nickel in hand. + </p> + <p> + Six months of bad luck had dogged the footsteps of Mrs. Emma McChesney, + traveling saleswoman for the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, New + York. It had started with a six-weeks' illness endured in the discomfort + of a stuffy little hotel bedroom at Glen Rock, Minnesota. By August she + was back in New York, attending to out-of-town buyers. + </p> + <p> + Those friendly Middle-Western persona showed dismay at her pale, + hollow-eyed appearance. They spoke to her of teaspoonfuls of olive-oil + taken thrice a day, of mountain air, of cold baths, and, above all, of the + advisability of leaving the road and taking an inside position. At that + Emma McChesney always showed signs of unmistakable irritation. + </p> + <p> + In September her son, Jock McChesney, just turned eighteen, went blithely + off to college, disguised as a millionaire's son in a blue Norfolk, silk + hose, flat-heeled shoes, correctly mounted walrus bag, and next-week's + style in fall hats. As the train glided out of the great shed Emma + McChesney had waved her handkerchief, smiling like fury and seeing nothing + but an indistinct blur as the observation platform slipped around the + curve. She had not felt that same clutching, desolate sense of loss since + the time, thirteen years before, when she had cut off his curls and + watched him march sturdily off to kindergarten. + </p> + <p> + In October it was plain that spring skirts, instead of being full as + predicted, were as scant and plaitless as ever. That spelled gloom for the + petticoat business. It was necessary to sell three of the present absurd + style to make the profit that had come from the sale of one skirt five + years before. + </p> + <p> + The last week in November, tragedy stalked upon the scene in the death at + Marienbad of old T. A. Buck, Mrs. McChesney's stanch friend and beloved + employer. Emma McChesney had wept for him as one weeps at the loss of a + father. + </p> + <p> + They had understood each other, those two, from the time that Emma + McChesney, divorced, penniless, refusing support from the man she had + married eight years before, had found work in the office of the T. A. Buck + Featherloom Petticoat Company. + </p> + <p> + Old Buck had watched her rise from stenographer to head stenographer, from + head stenographer to inside saleswoman, from that to a minor road + territory, and finally to the position of traveling representative through + the coveted Middle-Western territory. + </p> + <p> + Old T. A. Buck, gruff, grim, direct, far-seeing, kindly, shrewd—he + had known Emma McChesney for what she was worth. Once, when she had been + disclosing to him a clever business scheme which might be turned into good + advertising material, old Buck had slapped his knee with one broad, thick + palm and had said: + </p> + <p> + “Emma McChesney, you ought to have been a man. With that head on a man's + shoulders, you could put us out of business.” + </p> + <p> + “I could do it anyway,” Mrs. McChesney had retorted. + </p> + <p> + Old Buck had regarded her a moment over his tortoise-shell rimmed glasses. + Then, “I believe you could,” he had said, quietly and thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + That brings her up to December. To some few millions of people + D-e-c-e-m-b-e-r spells Christmas. But to Emma McChesney it spelled the + dreaded spring trip. It spelled trains stalled in snowdrifts, baggage + delayed, cold hotel bedrooms, harassed, irritable buyers. + </p> + <p> + It was just six o'clock on the evening of December ninth when Mrs. Emma + McChesney swung off the train at Columbus, Ohio, five hours late. As she + walked down the broad platform her eyes unconsciously searched the loaded + trucks for her own trunks. She'd have recognized them in the hold of a + Nile steamer—those grim, travel-scarred sample-trunks. They had a + human look to her. She had a way of examining them after each trip, as a + fond mother examines her child for stray scratches and bruises when she + puts it to bed for the night. She knew each nook and corner of the great + trunks as another woman knows her linen-closet or her preserve-shelves. + </p> + <p> + Columbus, Ohio, was a Featherloom town. Emma McChesney had a fondness for + it, with its half rustic, half metropolitan air. Sometimes she likened it + to a country girl in a velvet gown, and sometimes to a city girl in white + muslin and blue sash. Singer & French always had a Featherloom window + twice a year. + </p> + <p> + The hotel lobby wore a strangely deserted look. December is a slack month + for actors and traveling men. Mrs. McChesney registered automatically, + received her mail, exchanged greetings with the affable clerk. + </p> + <p> + “Send my trunks up to my sample-room as soon as they get in. Three of 'em—two + sample-trunks and my personal trunk. And I want to see a porter about + putting up some extra tables. You see, I'm two days late now. I expect two + buyers to-morrow morning. + </p> + <p> + “Send 'em right up, Mrs. McChesney,” the clerk assured her. “Jo'll attend + to those tables. Too bad about old Buck. How's the skirt business?” + </p> + <p> + “Skirts? There is no such thing,” corrected Emma McChesney gently. + </p> + <p> + “Sausage-casing business, you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Guess you're right, at that. By the way, how's that handsome youngster of + yours? He's not traveling with you this trip?” + </p> + <p> + There came a wonderful glow into Emma McChesney's tired face. + </p> + <p> + “Jock's at college. Coming home for the holidays. We're going to have a + dizzy week in New York. I'm wild to see if those three months of college + have done anything to him, bless his heart! Oh, kind sir, forgive a + mother's fond ravings! Where'd that youngster go with my bag?” + </p> + <p> + Up at last in the stuffy, unfriendly, steam-smelling hotel bedroom Emma + McChesney prepared to make herself comfortable. A cocky bell-boy switched + on the lights, adjusted a shade, straightened a curtain. Mrs. McChesney + reached for her pocket-book. + </p> + <p> + “Just open that window, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “Pretty cold,” remonstrated the bell-boy. “Beginning to snow, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Can't help it. I'll shut it in a minute. The last man that had this room + left a dead cigar around somewhere. Send up a waiter, please. I'm going to + treat myself to dinner in my room.” + </p> + <p> + The boy gone, she unfastened her collar, loosened a shoe that had pressed + a bit too tightly over the instep, took a kimono and toilette articles out + of her bag. + </p> + <p> + “I'll run through my mail,” she told herself. “Then I'll get into + something loose, see to my trunks, have dinner, and turn in early. Wish + Jock were here. We'd have a steak, and some French fried, and a salad, and + I'd let the kid make the dressing, even if he does always get in too much + vinegar—” + </p> + <p> + She was glancing through her mail. Two from the firm—one from Mary + Cutting—one from the Sure-White Laundry at Dayton (hope they found + that corset-cover)—one from—why, from Jock! From Jock! And + he'd written only two days before. Well! + </p> + <p> + Sitting there on the edge of the bed she regarded the dear scrawl + lovingly, savoring it, as is the way of a woman. Then she took a hairpin + from the knot of bright hair (also as is the way of woman) and slit the + envelope with a quick, sure rip. M-m-m—it wasn't much as to length. + Just a scrawled page. Emma McChesney's eye plunged into it hungrily, a + smile of anticipation dimpling her lips, lighting up her face. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Dearest Blonde</i>,” it began. + </p> + <p> + (“The nerve of the young imp!”) + </p> + <p> + He hoped the letter would reach her in time. Knew how this weather mussed + up her schedule. He wanted her honest opinion about something—straight, + now! One of the frat fellows was giving a Christmas house-party. Awful + swells, by the way. He was lucky even to be asked. He'd never remembered a + real Christmas—in a home, you know, with a tree, and skating, and + regular high jinks, and a dinner that left you feeling like a stuffed + gooseberry. Old Wells says his grandmother wears lace caps with lavender + ribbons. Can you beat it! Of course he felt like a hog, even thinking of + wanting to stay away from her at Christmas. Still, Christmas in a New York + hotel—! But the fellows had nagged him to write. Said they'd do it + if he didn't. Of course he hated to think of her spending Christmas alone—felt + like a bloody villain— + </p> + <p> + Little by little the smile that had wreathed her lips faded and was gone. + The lips still were parted, but by one of those miracles with which the + face expresses what is within the heart their expression had changed from + pleasure to bitter pain. + </p> + <p> + She sat there, at the edge of the bed, staring dully until the black + scrawls danced on the white page. With the letter before her she raised + her hand slowly and wiped away a hot, blinding mist of tears with her open + palm. Then she read it again, dully, as though every selfish word of it + had not already stamped itself on her brain and heart. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “She read it again, dully, as though every selfish word had + not already stamped itself on her brain and heart"} + </p> + <p> + After the second reading she still sat there, her eyes staring down at her + lap. Once she brushed an imaginary fleck of lint from the lap of her blue + serge skirt—brushed, and brushed and brushed, with a mechanical, + pathetic little gesture that showed how completely absent her mind was + from the room in which she sat. Then her hand fell idle, and she became + very still, a crumpled, tragic, hopeless look rounding the shoulders that + were wont to hold themselves so erect and confident. + </p> + <p> + A tentative knock at the door. The figure on the bed did not stir. Another + knock, louder this time. Emma McChesney sat up with a start. She shivered + as she became conscious of the icy December air pouring into the little + room. She rose, walked to the window, closed it with a bang, and opened + the door in time to intercept the third knock. + </p> + <p> + A waiter proffered her a long card. “Dinner, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” She shook her head. “Sorry I've changed my mind. I—I shan't + want any dinner.” + </p> + <p> + She shut the door again and stood with her back against it, eying the bed. + In her mind's eye she had already thrown herself upon it, buried her face + in the nest of pillows, and given vent to the flood of tears that was + beating at her throat. She took a quick step toward the bed, stopped, + turned abruptly, and walked toward the mirror. + </p> + <p> + “Emma McChesney,” she said aloud to the woman in the glass, “buck up, old + girl! Bad luck comes in bunches of threes. It's like breaking the first + cup in a new Haviland set. You can always count on smashing two more. This + is your third. So pick up the pieces and throw 'em in the ash-can.” + </p> + <p> + Then she fastened her collar, buttoned her shoe, pulled down her + shirtwaist all around, smeared her face with cold cream, wiped it with a + towel, smoothed her hair, donned her hat. The next instant the little room + was dark, and Emma McChesney was marching down the long, red-carpeted + hallway to the elevator, her head high, her face set. + </p> + <p> + Down-stairs in the lobby—“How about my trunks?” she inquired of a + porter. + </p> + <p> + That blue-shirted individual rubbed a hard brown hand over his cheek + worriedly. + </p> + <p> + “They ain't come.” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't come!”—surprise disregarded grammar. + </p> + <p> + “Nope. No signs of 'em. I'll tell you what: I think prob'ly they was + overlooked in the rush, the train being late from Dayton when you started. + Likely they'll be in on the ten-thirteen. I'll send 'em up the minute they + get in.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would. I've got to get my stuff out early. I can't keep + customers waiting for me. Late, as it is.” + </p> + <p> + She approached the clerk once more. “Anything at the theaters?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, nothing much, Mrs. McChesney. Christmas coming on kind of puts a + crimp in the show business. Nice little bill on at the Majestic, if you + like vaudeville.” + </p> + <p> + “Crazy about it. Always get so excited watching to see if the next act is + going to be as rotten as the last one. It always is.” + </p> + <p> + From eight-fifteen until ten-thirty Mrs. McChesney sat absolutely + expressionless while a shrill blonde lady and a nasal dark gentleman went + through what the program ironically called a “comedy sketch,” followed by + a chummy person who came out in evening dress to sing a sentimental ditty, + shed the evening dress to reappear in an ankle-length fluffy pink affair; + shucked the fluffy pink affair for a child's pinafore, sash, and bare + knees; discarded the kiddie frock, disclosing a bathing-suit; left the + bathing-suit behind the wings in favor of satin knee-breeches and tight + jacket—and very discreetly stopped there, probably for no reason + except to give way to the next act, consisting of two miraculously thin + young men in lavender dress suits and white silk hats, who sang and + clogged in unison, like two things hung on a single wire. + </p> + <p> + The night air was grateful to her hot forehead as she walked from the + theater to the hotel. + </p> + <p> + “Trunks in?” to the porter. + </p> + <p> + “No sign of 'em, lady. They didn't come in on the ten. Think they'd better + wire back to Dayton.” + </p> + <p> + But the next morning Mrs. McChesney was in the depot baggage-room when + Dayton wired back: + </p> + <p> + <i>“Trunks not here. Try Columbus, Nebraska.”</i> + </p> + <p> + “Crash!” said Emma McChesney to the surprised baggage-master. “There goes + my Haviland vegetable-dish.” + </p> + <p> + “Were you selling china?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “No, I wasn't,” replied Emma McChesney viciously. “And if you don't let me + stand here and give my frank, unbiased opinion of this road, its + president, board of directors, stockholders, baggage-men, Pullman porters, + and other things thereto appertaining, I'll probably have hysterics.” + </p> + <p> + “Give it,” said the baggage-master. “You'll feel better. And we're used to + it.” + </p> + <p> + She gave it. When she had finished: + </p> + <p> + “Did you say you was selling goods on the road? Say, that's a hell of a + job for a woman! Excuse me, lady. I didn't mean—” + </p> + <p> + “I think perhaps you're right,” said Emma McChesney slowly. “It is just + that.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, anyway, we'll do our best to trace it. Guess you're in for a wait.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney waited. She made the rounds of her customers, and waited. + She wired her firm, and waited. She wrote Jock to run along and enjoy + himself, and waited. She cut and fitted a shirt-waist, took her hat apart + and retrimmed it, made the rounds of her impatient customers again, + threatened to sue the road, visited the baggage-room daily—and + waited. + </p> + <p> + Four weary, nerve-racking days passed. It was late afternoon of the fourth + day when Mrs. McChesney entered the elevator to go to her room. She had + come from another fruitless visit to the baggage-room. She sank into a + leather-cushioned seat in a corner of the lift. Two men entered briskly, + followed by a bellboy. Mrs. McChesney did not look up. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll be dinged!” boomed a throaty voice. “Mrs. McChesney, by the + Great Horn Spoon! H'are you? Talking about you this minute to my friend + here.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney, with the knowledge of her lost sample-trunks striking her + afresh, looked up and smiled bravely into the plump pink face of Fat Ed + Meyers, traveling representative for her firm's bitterest rival, the + Strauss Sans-silk Skirt Company. + </p> + <p> + “Talking about me, Mr. Meyers? Sufficient grounds for libel, right there.” + </p> + <p> + The little sallow, dark man just at Meyers' elbow was gazing at her + unguardedly. She felt that he had appraised her from hat to heels. Ed + Meyers placed a plump hand on the little man's shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Abe, you tell the lady what I was saying. This is Mr. Abel Fromkin, maker + of the Fromkin Form-Fit Skirt. Abe, this is the wonderful Mrs. McChesney.” + </p> + <p> + “Sorry I can't wait to hear what you've said of me. This is my floor.” + Mrs. McChesney was already leaving the elevator. + </p> + <p> + “Here! Wait a minute!” Fat Ed Meyers was out and standing beside her, his + movements unbelievably nimble. “Will you have dinner with us, Mrs. + McChesney?” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks. Not to-night.” + </p> + <p> + Meyers turned to the waiting elevator. “Fromkin, you go on up with the + boy; I'll talk to the lady a minute.” + </p> + <p> + A little displeased frown appeared on Emma McChesney's face. + </p> + <p> + “You'll have to excuse me, Mr. Meyers, I—” + </p> + <p> + “Heigh-ho for that haughty stuff, Mrs. McChesney,” grinned Ed Meyers. + “Don't turn up your nose at that little Kike friend of mine till you've + heard what I have to say. Now just let me talk a minute. Fromkin's heard + all about you. He's got a proposition to make. And it isn't one to sniff + at.” + </p> + <p> + He lowered his voice mysteriously in the silence of the dim hotel + corridor. + </p> + <p> + “Fromkin started in a little one-room hole-in-the-wall over on the East + Side. Lived on a herring and a hunk of rye bread. Wife used to help him + sew. That was seven years ago. In three years, or less, she'll have the + regulation uniform—full length seal coat, bunch of paradise, + five-drop diamond La Valliere set in platinum, electric brougham. Abe has + got a business head, take it from me. But he's wise enough to know that + business isn't the rough-and-tumble game it used to be. He realizes that + he'll do for the workrooms, but not for the front shop. He knows that if + he wants to keep on growing he's got to have what they call a steerer. + Somebody smooth, and polished, and politic, and what the highbrows call + suave. Do you pronounce that with a long <i>a</i>, or two dots over? + Anyway, you get me. You're all those things and considerable few besides. + He's wise to the fact that a business man's got to have poise these days, + and balance. And when it comes to poise and balance, Mrs. McChesney, you + make a Fairbanks scale look like a raft at sea.” + </p> + <p> + “While I don't want to seem to hurry you,” drawled Mrs. McChesney, “might + I suggest that you shorten the overture and begin on the first act?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you know how I feel about your business genius.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” enigmatically. + </p> + <p> + Ed Meyers grinned. “Can't forget those two little business + misunderstandings we had, can you?” + </p> + <p> + “Business understandings,” corrected Emma McChesney. + </p> + <p> + “Call 'em anything your little heart dictates, but listen. Fromkin knows + all about you. Knows you've got a million friends in the trade, that you + know skirts from the belt to the hem. I don't know just what his + proposition is, but I'll bet he'll give you half interest in the livest, + come-upest little skirt factory in the country, just for a few thousands + capital, maybe, and your business head at the executive end. Now just let + that sink in before you speak.” + </p> + <p> + “And why,” inquired Emma McChesney, “don't you grab this matchless + business opportunity yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “Because, fair lady, Fromkin wouldn't let me get in with a crowbar. He'll + never be able to pronounce his t's right, and when he's dressed up he + looks like a 'bus-boy at Mouquin's, but he can see a bluff farther than I + can throw one—and that's somewhere beyond the horizon, as you'll + admit. Talk it over with us after dinner then?” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney was regarding the plump, pink, eager face before her with + keen, level, searching eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said slowly, “I will.” + </p> + <p> + “Cafe? We'll have a bottle—” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Er—parlor?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McChesney smiled. “I won't ask you to make yourself that miserable. + You can't smoke in the parlor. We'll find a quiet corner in the + writing-room, where you men can light up. I don't want to take advantage + of you.” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'Not that you look your age—not by ten years!'”} + </p> + <p> + Down in the writing-room at eight they formed a strange little group. Ed + Meyers, flushed and eager, his pink face glowing like a peony, talking, + arguing, smoking, reasoning, coaxing, with the spur of a fat commission to + urge him on; Abel Fromkin, with his peculiarly pallid skin made paler in + contrast to the purplish-black line where the razor had passed, showing no + hint of excitement except in the restless little black eyes and in the + work-scarred hands that rolled cigarette after cigarette, each glowing for + one brief instant, only to die down to a blackened ash the next; Emma + McChesney, half fascinated, half distrustful, listening in spite of + herself, and trying to still a small inner voice—a voice that had + never advised her ill. + </p> + <p> + “You know the ups and downs to this game,” Ed Meyers was saying. “When I + met you there in the elevator you looked like you'd lost your last + customer. You get pretty disgusted with it all, at times, like the rest of + us.” + </p> + <p> + “At that minute,” replied Emma McChesney, “I was so disgusted that if some + one had called me up on the 'phone and said, 'Hullo, Mrs. McChesney! Will + you marry me?' I'd have said: 'Yes. Who is this?'” + </p> + <p> + “There! That's just it. I don't want to be impolite, or anything like + that, Mrs. McChesney, but you're no kid. Not that you look your age—not + by ten years! But I happen to know you're teetering somewhere between + thirty-six and the next top. Ain't that right?” + </p> + <p> + “Is that a argument to put to a lady?” remonstrated Abel Fromkin. + </p> + <p> + Fat Ed Meyers waved the interruption away with a gesture of his strangely + slim hands. “This ain't an argument. It's facts. Another ten years on the + road, and where'll you be? In the discard. A man of forty-six can keep + step with the youngsters, even if it does make him puff a bit. But a woman + of forty-six—the road isn't the place for her. She's tired. Tired in + the morning; tired at night. She wants her kimono and her afternoon + snooze. You've seen some of those old girls on the road. They've come down + step by step until you spot 'em, bleached hair, crow's-feet around the + eyes, mussy shirt-waist, yellow and red complexion, demonstrating green + and lavender gelatine messes in the grocery of some department store. I + don't say that a brainy corker of a saleswoman like you would come down + like that. But you've got to consider sickness and a lot of other things. + Those six weeks last summer with the fever at Glen Rock put a crimp in + you, didn't it? You've never been yourself since then. Haven't had a + decent chance to rest up.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Emma McChesney wearily. + </p> + <p> + “Furthermore, now that old T. A.'s cashed in, how do you know what young + Buck's going to do? He don't know shucks about the skirt business. They've + got to take in a third party to keep it a close corporation. It was all + between old Buck, Buck junior, and old lady Buck. How can you tell whether + the new member will want a woman on the road, or not?” + </p> + <p> + A little steely light hardened the blue of Mrs. McChesney's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “We'll leave the firm of T. A. Buck out of this discussion, please.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very well!” Ed Meyers was unabashed. “Let's talk about Fromkin. He + don't object, do you, Abe? It's just like this. He needs your smart head. + You need his money. It'll mean a sure thing for you—a share in a + growing and substantial business. When you get your road men trained it'll + mean that you won't need to go out on the road yourself, except for a + little missionary trip now and then, maybe. No more infernal early trains, + no more bum hotel grub, no more stuffy, hot hotel rooms, no more haughty + lady buyers—gosh, I wish I had the chance!” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney sat very still. Two scarlet spots glowed in her cheeks. “No + one appreciates your gift of oratory more than I do, Mr. Meyers. Your flow + of language, coupled with your peculiar persuasive powers, make a + combination a statue couldn't resist. But I think it would sort of rest me + if Mr. Fromkin were to say a word, seeing that it's really his funeral.” + </p> + <p> + Abel Fromkin started nervously, and put his dead cigarette to his lips. “I + ain't much of a talker,” he said, almost sheepishly. “Meyers, he's got it + down fine. I tell you what. I'll be in New York the twenty-first. We can + go over the books and papers and the whole business. And I like you should + know my wife. And I got a little girl—Would you believe it, that + child ain't more as a year old, and says Papa and Mama like a actress!” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” put in Ed Meyers, disregarding the more intimate family details. + “You two get together and fix things up in shape; then you can sign up and + have it off your mind so you can enjoy the festive Christmas season.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney had been gazing out of the window to where the street-lamps + were reflected in the ice-covered pavements. Now she spoke, still staring + out upon the wintry street. + </p> + <p> + “Christmas isn't a season. It's a feeling. And I haven't got it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come now, Mrs. McChesney!” objected Ed Meyers. + </p> + <p> + With a sudden, quick movement Emma McChesney turned from the window to the + little dark man who was watching her so intently. She faced him squarely, + as though utterly disregarding Ed Meyers' flattery and banter and + cajolery. The little man before her seemed to recognize the earnestness of + the moment. He leaned forward a bit attentively. + </p> + <p> + “If what has been said is true,” she began, “this ought to be a good thing + for me. If I go into it, I'll go in heart, soul, brain, and pocket-book. I + do know the skirt business from thread to tape and back again. I've + managed to save a few thousand dollars. Only a woman could understand how + I've done it. I've scrimped on little things. I've denied myself + necessities. I've worn silk blouses instead of linen ones to save + laundry-bills and taken a street-car or 'bus to save a quarter or fifty + cents. I've always tried to look well dressed and immaculate—” + </p> + <p> + “You!” exclaimed Ed Meyers. “Why, say, you're what I call a swell dresser. + Nothing flashy, understand, or loud, but the quiet, good stuff that spells + ready money.” + </p> + <p> + “M-m-m—yes. But it wasn't always so ready. Anyway, I always managed + somehow. The boy's at college. Sometimes I wonder—well, that's + another story. I've saved, and contrived, and planned ahead for a rainy + day. There have been two or three times when I thought it had come. + Sprinkled pretty heavily, once or twice. But I've just turned up my + coat-collar, tucked my hat under my skirt, and scooted for a tree. And + each time it has turned out to be just a summer shower, with the sun + coming out bright and warm.” + </p> + <p> + Her frank, clear, honest, blue eyes were plumbing the depths of the black + ones. “Those few thousand dollars that you hold so lightly will mean + everything to me. They've been my cyclone-cellar. If—” + </p> + <p> + Through the writing-room sounded a high-pitched, monotonous voice with a + note of inquiry in it. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. McChesney! Mr. Fraser! Mr. Ludwig! Please! Mrs. McChesney! Mr. + Fraser! Mr. Lud—” + </p> + <p> + “Here, boy!” Mrs. McChesney took the little yellow envelope from the + salver that the boy held out to her. Her quick glance rested on the + written words. She rose, her face colorless. + </p> + <p> + “Not bad news?” The two men spoke simultaneously. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” said Emma McChesney. “What would you say?” + </p> + <p> + She handed the slip of paper to Fat Ed Meyers. He read it in silence. Then + once more, aloud: + </p> + <p> + “'Take first train back to New York. Spalding will finish your trip.'” + </p> + <p> + “Why—say—” began Meyers. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Why—say—this—this looks as if you were fired!” + </p> + <p> + “Does, doesn't it?” She smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Then our little agreement goes?” The two men were on their feet, eager, + alert. “That means you'll take Fromkin's offer?” + </p> + <p> + “It means that our little agreement is off. I'm sorry to disappoint you. I + want to thank you both for your trouble. I must have been crazy to listen + to you for a minute. I wouldn't have if I'd been myself.” + </p> + <p> + “But that telegram—” + </p> + <p> + “It's signed, 'T. A. Buck.' I'll take a chance.” + </p> + <p> + The two men stared after her, disappointment and bewilderment chasing + across each face. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I thought I knew women, but—” began Ed Meyers fluently. + </p> + <p> + Passing the desk, Mrs. McChesney heard her name. She glanced toward the + clerk. He was just hanging up the telephone-receiver. + </p> + <p> + “Baggage-room says the depot just notified 'em your trunks were traced to + Columbia City. They're on their way here now.” + </p> + <p> + “Columbia City!” repeated Emma McChesney. “Do you know, I believe I've + learned to hate the name of the discoverer of this fair land.” + </p> + <p> + Up in her room she opened the crumpled telegram again, and regarded it + thoughtfully before she began to pack her bag. + </p> + <p> + The thoughtful look was still there when she entered the big bright office + of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. And with it was another + expression that resembled contrition. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Buck's waiting for you,” a stenographer told her. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McChesney opened the door of the office marked “Private.” + </p> + <p> + Two men rose. One she recognized as the firm's lawyer. The other, who came + swiftly toward her, was T. A. Buck—no longer junior. There was a new + look about him—a look of responsibility, of efficiency, of + clear-headed knowledge. + </p> + <p> + The two clasped hands—a firm, sincere, understanding grip. + </p> + <p> + Buck spoke first. “It's good to see you. We were talking of you as you + came in. You know Mr. Beggs, of course. He has some things to tell you—and + so have I. His will be business things, mine will be personal. I got there + before father passed away—thank God! But he couldn't speak. He'd + anticipated that with his clear-headedness, and he'd written what he + wanted to say. A great deal of it was about you. I want you to read that + letter later.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall consider it a privilege,” said Emma McChesney. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Beggs waved her toward a chair. She took it in silence. She heard him + in silence, his sonorous voice beating upon her brain. + </p> + <p> + “There are a great many papers and much business detail, but that will be + attended to later,” began Beggs ponderously. “You are to be congratulated + on the position of esteem and trust which you held in the mind of your + late employer. By the terms of his will—I'll put it briefly, for the + moment—you are offered the secretaryship of the firm of T. A. Buck, + Incorporated. Also you are bequeathed thirty shares in the firm. Of + course, the company will have to be reorganized. The late Mr. Buck had + great trust in your capabilities.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney rose to her feet, her breath coming quickly. She turned to + T. A. Buck. “I want you to know—I want you to know—that just + before your telegram came I was half tempted to leave the firm. To—” + </p> + <p> + “Can't blame you,” smiled T. A. Buck. “You've had a rotten six months of + it, beginning with that illness and ending with those infernal trunks. The + road's no place for a woman.” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'Christmas isn't a season...it's a feeling, and, thank + God, I've got it!'”} + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense!” flashed Emma McChesney. “I've loved it. I've gloried in it. + And I've earned my living by it. Giving it up—don't now think me + ungrateful—won't be so easy, I can tell you.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck nodded understandingly. “I know. Father knew too. And I don't + want you to let his going from us make any difference in this holiday + season. I want you to enjoy it and be happy.” + </p> + <p> + A shade crossed Emma McChesney's face. It was there when the door opened + and a boy entered with a telegram. He handed it to Mrs. McChesney. It held + ten crisp words: + </p> + <p> + <i>Changed my darn fool mind. Me for home and mother.</i> + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney looked up, her face radiant. + </p> + <p> + “Christmas isn't a season, Mr. Buck. It's a feeling; and, thank God, I've + got it!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IX. — KNEE-DEEP IN KNICKERS + </h2> + <p> + When the column of figures under the heading known as “Profits,” and the + column of figures under the heading known as “Loss” are so unevenly + balanced that the wrong side of the ledger sags, then to the listening + stockholders there comes the painful thought that at the next regular + meeting it is perilously possible that the reading may come under the + heads of Assets and Liabilities. + </p> + <p> + There had been a meeting in the offices of the T. A. Buck Featherloom + Petticoat Company, New York. The quarterly report had had a startlingly + lop-sided sound. After it was over Mrs. Emma McChesney, secretary of the + company, followed T. A. Buck, its president, into the big, bright + show-room. T. A. Buck's hands were thrust deep into his pockets. His teeth + worried a cigar, savagely. Care, that clawing, mouthing hag, perched on + his brow, tore at his heart. + </p> + <p> + He turned to face Emma McChesney. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, bitterly, “it hasn't taken us long, has it? Father's been + dead a little over a year. In that time we've just about run this great + concern, the pride of his life, into the ground.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Emma McChesney, calm, cool, unruffled, scrutinized the harassed man + before her for a long minute. + </p> + <p> + “What rotten football material you would have made, wouldn't you?” she + observed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know,” answered T. A. Buck, through his teeth. “I can stand + as stiff a scrimmage as the next one. But this isn't a game. You take + things too lightly. You're a woman. I don't think you know what this + means.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney's lips opened as do those of one whose tongue's end holds a + quick and stinging retort. Then they closed again. She walked over to the + big window that faced the street. When she had stood there a moment, + silent, she swung around and came back to where T. A. Buck stood, still + wrapped in gloom. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe I don't take myself seriously. I'd have been dead ten years ago if + I had. But I do take my job seriously. Don't forget that for a minute. You + talk the way a man always talks when his pride is hurt.” + </p> + <p> + “Pride! It isn't that.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, it is. I didn't sell T. A. Buck's Featherloom Petticoats on the + road for almost ten years without learning a little something about men + and business. When your father died, and I learned that he had shown his + appreciation of my work and loyalty by making me secretary of this great + company, I didn't think of it as a legacy—a stroke of good fortune.” + </p> + <p> + “No?” + </p> + <p> + “No. To me it was a sacred trust—something to be guarded, nursed, + cherished. And now you say we've run this concern into the ground. Do you + honestly think that?” + </p> + <p> + T. A. shrugged impotent shoulders. “Figures don't lie.” He plunged into + another fathom of gloom. “Another year like this and we're done for.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney came over and put one firm hand on T. A. Buck's drooping + shoulder. It was a strange little act for a woman—the sort of thing + a man does when he would hearten another man. + </p> + <p> + “Wake up!” she said, lightly. “Wake up, and listen to the birdies sing. + There isn't going to be another year like this. Not if the planning, and + scheming, and brain-racking that I've been doing for the last two or three + months mean anything.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck seated himself as one who is weary, body and mind. + </p> + <p> + “Got another new one?” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney regarded him a moment thoughtfully. Then she stepped to the + tall show-case, pushed back the sliding glass door, and pointed to the + rows of brilliant-hued petticoats that hung close-packed within. + </p> + <p> + “Look at 'em!” she commanded, disgust in her voice. “Look at 'em!” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck raised heavy, lack-luster eyes and looked. What he saw did not + seem to interest him. Emma McChesney drew from the rack a skirt of king's + blue satin messaline and held it at arm's length. + </p> + <p> + “And they call that thing a petticoat! Why, fifteen years ago the material + in this skirt wouldn't have made even a fair-sized sleeve.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck regarded the petticoat moodily. “I don't see how they get + around in the darned things. I honestly don't see how they wear 'em.” + </p> + <p> + “That's just it. They don't wear 'em. There you have the root of the whole + trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nonsense!” disputed T. A. “They certainly wear something—some + sort of an—” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you they don't. Here. Listen. Three years ago our taffeta skirts + ran from thirty-six to thirty-eight yards to the dozen. We paid from + ninety cents to one dollar five a yard. Now our skirts run from + twenty-five to twenty-eight yards to the dozen. The silk costs us from + fifty to sixty cents a yard. Silk skirts used to be a luxury. Now they're + not even a necessity.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what's the answer? I've been pondering some petticoat problems + myself. I know we've got to sell three skirts to-day to make the profit + that we used to make on one three years ago.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney had the brave-heartedness to laugh. “This skirt business + reminds me of a game we used to play when I was a kid. We called it Going + to Jerusalem, I think. Anyway, I know each child sat in a chair except the + one who was It. At a signal everybody had to get up and change chairs. + There was a wild scramble, in which the one who was It took part. When the + burly-burly was over some child was always chairless, of course. He had to + be It. That's the skirt business to-day. There aren't enough chairs to go + round, and in the scramble somebody's got to be left out. And let me tell + you, here and now, that the firm of T. A. Buck, Featherloom Petticoats, is + not going to be It.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. rose as wearily as he had sat down. Even the most optimistic of + watchers could have discerned no gleam of enthusiasm on his face. + </p> + <p> + “I thought,” he said listlessly, “that you and I had tried every possible + scheme to stimulate the skirt trade.” + </p> + <p> + “Every possible one, yes,” agreed Mrs. McChesney, sweetly. “And now it's + time to try the impossible. The possibilities haven't worked. My land! I + could write a book on the Decline and Fall of the Petticoat, beginning + with the billowy white muslin variety, and working up to the present + slinky messaline affair. When I think of those dear dead days of the + glorious—er—past, when the hired girl used to complain and + threaten to leave because every woman in the family had at least three + ruffled, embroidery-flounced white muslin petticoats on the line on + Mondays—” + </p> + <p> + The lines about T. A. Buck's mouth relaxed into a grim smile. + </p> + <p> + “Remember that feature you got them to run in the <i>Sunday Sphere?</i> + The one headed 'Are Skirts Growing Fuller, and Where?'” + </p> + <p> + “Do I remember it!” wailed Emma McChesney. “And can I ever forget the + money we put into that fringed model we called the Carmencita! We made it + up so it could retail for a dollar ninety-five, and I could have sworn + that the women would maim each other to get to it. But it didn't go. They + won't even wear fringe around their ankles.” + </p> + <p> + T. A.'s grim smile stretched into a reminiscent grin. “But nothing in our + whole hopeless campaign could touch your Municipal Purity League agitation + for the abolition of the form-hugging skirt. You talked public morals + until you had A. Comstock and Lucy Page Gaston looking like Parisian + Apaches.” + </p> + <p> + A little laugh rippled up to Emma McChesney's lips, only to die away to a + sigh. She shook her head in sorrowful remembrance. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But what good did it do? The newspapers and magazines did take it + up, but what happened? The dressmakers and tailors, who are charging more + than ever for their work, and putting in half as much material, got + together and knocked my plans into a cocked hat. In answer to those + snap-shots showing what took place every time a woman climbed a car step, + they came back with pictures of the styles of '61, proving that the + street-car effect is nothing to what happened to a belle of '61 if she + chanced to sit down or get up too suddenly in the hoop-skirt days.” + </p> + <p> + They were both laughing now, like a couple of children. “And, oh, say!” + gasped Emma, “remember Moe Selig, of the Fine-Form Skirt Company, trying + to get the doctors to state that hobble skirts were making women + knock-kneed! Oh, mercy!” + </p> + <p> + But their laugh ended in a little rueful silence. It was no laughing + matter, this situation. T. A. Buck shrugged his shoulders, and began a + restless pacing up and down. “Yep. There you are. Meanwhile—” + </p> + <p> + “Meanwhile, women are still wearing 'em tight, and going petticoatless.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly T. A. stopped short in his pacing and fastened his surprised and + interested gaze on the skirt of the trim and correct little business frock + that sat so well upon Emma McChesney's pretty figure. + </p> + <p> + “Why, look at that!” he exclaimed, and pointed with one eager finger. + </p> + <p> + “Mercy!” screamed Emma McChesney. “What is it? Quick! A mouse?” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck shook his head, impatiently. “Mouse! Lord, no! Plaits!” + </p> + <p> + “Plaits!” + </p> + <p> + She looked down, bewildered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. In your skirt. Three plaits at the front-left, and three in the + back. That's new, isn't it? If outer skirts are being made fuller, then it + follows—” + </p> + <p> + “It ought to follow,” interrupted Emma McChesney, “but it doesn't. It lags + way behind. These plaits are stitched down. See? That's the fiendishness + of it. And the petticoat underneath—if there is one—must be + just as smooth, and unwrinkled, and scant as ever. Don't let 'em fool + you.” + </p> + <p> + Buck spread his palms with a little gesture of utter futility. + </p> + <p> + “I'm through. Out with your scheme. We're ready for it. It's our last + card, whatever it is.” + </p> + <p> + There was visible on Emma McChesney's face that little tightening of the + muscles, that narrowing of the eyelids which betokens intense earnestness; + the gathering of all the forces before taking a momentous step. Then, as + quickly, her face cleared. She shook her head with a little air of sudden + decision. + </p> + <p> + “Not now. Just because it's our last card I want to be sure that I'm + playing it well. I'll be ready for you to-morrow morning in my office. + Come prepared for the jolt of your young life.” + </p> + <p> + For the first time since the beginning of the conversation a glow of new + courage and hope lighted up T. A. Buck's good-looking features. His fine + eyes rested admiringly upon Emma McChesney standing there by the great + show-case. She seemed to radiate energy, alertness, confidence. + </p> + <p> + “When you begin to talk like that,” he said, “I always feel as though I + could take hold in a way to make those famous jobs that Hercules tackled + look like little Willie's chores after school.” + </p> + <p> + “Fine!” beamed Emma McChesney. “Just store that up, will you? And don't + let it filter out at your finger-tips when I begin to talk to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll have lunch together, eh? And talk it over then sociably.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McChesney closed the glass door of the case with a bang. + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks. My office at 9:30.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck followed her to the door. “But why not lunch? You never will + take lunch with me. Ever so much more comfortable to talk things over that + way—” + </p> + <p> + “When I talk business,” said Emma McChesney, pausing at the threshold, “I + want to be surrounded by a business atmosphere. I want the scene all set—one + practical desk, two practical chairs, one telephone, one letter-basket, + one self-filling fountain-pen, et cetera. And when I lunch I want to + lunch, with nothing weightier on my mind than the question as to whether + I'll have chicken livers saute or creamed sweetbreads with mushrooms.” + </p> + <p> + “That's no reason,” grumbled T. A. “That's an excuse.” + </p> + <p> + “It will have to do, though,” replied Mrs. McChesney abruptly, and passed + out as he held the door open for her. He was still standing in the doorway + after her trim, erect figure had disappeared into the little office across + the hail. + </p> + <p> + The little scarlet leather clock on Emma McChesney's desk pointed to 9:29 + A.M. when there entered her office an immaculately garbed, miraculously + shaven, healthily rosy youngish-middle-aged man who looked ten years + younger than the harassed, frowning T. A. Buck with whom she had almost + quarreled the evening before. Mrs. McChesney was busily dictating to a + sleek little stenographer. The sleek little stenographer glanced up at T. + A. Buck's entrance. The glance, being a feminine one, embraced all of T. + A.'s good points and approved them from the tips of his modish boots to + the crown of his slightly bald head, and including the creamy-white flower + that reposed in his buttonhole. + </p> + <p> + “'Morning!” said Emma McChesney, looking up briefly. “Be with you in a + minute.... and in reply would say we regret that you have had trouble with + No. 339. It is impossible to avoid pulling at the seams in the lower-grade + silk skirts when they are made up in the present scant style. Our Mr. + Spalding warned you of this at the time of your purchase. We will not + under any circumstances consent to receive the goods if they are sent back + on our hands. Yours sincerely. That'll be all, Miss Casey.” + </p> + <p> + She swung around to face her visitor as the door closed. If T. A. Buck + looked ten years younger than he had the afternoon before, Emma McChesney + undoubtedly looked five years older. There were little, worried, sagging + lines about her eyes and mouth. + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck's eyes had followed the sheaf of signed correspondence, and the + well-filled pad of more recent dictation which the sleek little + stenographer had carried away with her. + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord! It looks as though you had stayed down here all night.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney smiled a little wearily. “Not quite that. But I was here + this morning in time to greet the night watchman. Wanted to get my mail + out of the way.” Her eyes searched T. A. Buck's serene face. Then she + leaned forward, earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “Haven't you seen the morning paper?” + </p> + <p> + “Just a mere glance at 'em. Picked up Burrows on the way down, and we got + to talking. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “The Rasmussen-Welsh Skirt Company has failed. Liabilities three hundred + thousand. Assets one hundred thousand.” + </p> + <p> + “Failed! Good God!” All the rosy color, all the brisk morning freshness + had vanished from his face. “Failed! Why, girl, I thought that concern was + as solid as Gibraltar.” He passed a worried hand over his head. “That + knocks the wind out of my sails.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't let it. Just say that it fills them with a new breeze. I'm all the + more sure that the time is ripe for my plan.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck took from a vest pocket a scrap of paper and a fountain pen, + slid down in his chair, crossed his legs, and began to scrawl meaningless + twists and curlycues, as was his wont when worried or deeply interested. + </p> + <p> + “Are you as sure of this scheme of yours as you were yesterday?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” replied Emma McChesney, briskly. “Sartin-sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Then fire away.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McChesney leaned forward, breathing a trifle fast. Her eyes were + fastened on her listener. + </p> + <p> + “Here's the plan. We'll make Featherloom Petticoats because there still + are some women who have kept their senses. But we'll make them as a side + line. The thing that has got to keep us afloat until full skirts come in + again will be a full and complete line of women's satin messaline + knickerbockers made up to match any suit or gown, and a full line of + pajamas for women and girls. Get the idea? Scant, smart, trim little + taupe-gray messaline knickers for a taupe gray suit, blue messaline for + blue suits, brown messaline for brown—” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck stared, open-mouthed, the paper on which he had been scrawling + fluttering unnoticed to the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Look here!” he interrupted. “Is this supposed to be humorous?” + </p> + <p> + “And,” went on Emma McChesney, calmly, “in our full and complete, not to + say nifty line of women's pajamas—pink pajamas, blue pajamas, violet + pajamas, yellow pajamas, white silk—” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck stood up. “I want to say,” he began, “that if you are jesting, + I think this is a mighty poor time to joke. And if you are serious I can + only deduce from it that this year of business worry and responsibility + has been too much for you. I'm sure that if you were—” + </p> + <p> + “That's all right,” interrupted Emma McChesney. “Don't apologize. I + purposely broke it to you this way, when I might have approached it + gently. You've done just what I knew you'd do, so it's all right. After + you've thought it over, and sort of got chummy with the idea, you'll be + just as keen on it as I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Never!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, you will. It's the knickerbocker end of it that scares you. + Nothing new or startling about pajamas, except that more and more women + are wearing 'em, and that no girl would dream of going away to school + without her six sets of pajamas. Why, a girl in a regulation nightie at + one of their midnight spreads would be ostracized. Of course I've thought + up a couple of new kinks in 'em—new ways of cutting and all that, + and there's one model—a washable crepe, for traveling, that doesn't + need to be pressed—but I'll talk about that later.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck was trying to put in a word of objection, but she would have + none of it. But at Emma McChesney's next words his indignation would brook + no barriers. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” she went on, “the feature of the knickerbockers will be this: + They've got to be ready for the boys' spring trip, and in all the larger + cities, especially in the hustling Middle-Western towns, and along the + coast, too, I'm planning to have the knickerbockers introduced at private + and exclusive exhibitions, and worn by—get this, please—worn + by living models. One big store in each town, see? Half a dozen + good-looking girls—” + </p> + <p> + “Never!” shouted T. A. Buck, white and shaking. “Never! This firm has + always had a name for dignity, solidness, conservatism—” + </p> + <p> + “Then it's just about time it lost that reputation. It's all very well to + hang on to your dignity when you're on solid ground, but when you feel + things slipping from under you the thing to do is to grab on to anything + that'll keep you on your feet for a while at least. I tell you the women + will go wild over this knickerbocker idea. They've been waiting for it.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a wild-cat scheme,” disputed Buck hotly. “It's a drowning man's + straw, and just about as helpful. I'm a reasonable man—” + </p> + <p> + “All unreasonable men say that,” smiled Emma McChesney. + </p> + <p> + “—I'm a reasonable man, I say. And heaven knows I have the interest + of this firm at heart. But this is going too far. If we're going to smash + we'll go decently, and with our name untarnished. Pajamas are bad enough. + But when it comes to the firm of T. A. Buck being represented by—by—living + model hussies stalking about in satin tights like chorus girls, why—” + </p> + <p> + In Emma McChesney's alert, electric mind there leapt about a dozen plans + for winning this man over. For win him she would, in the end. It was + merely a question of method. She chose the simplest. There was a set look + about her jaw. Her eyes flashed. Two spots of carmine glowed in her + cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “I expected just this,” she said. “And I prepared for it.” She crossed + swiftly to her desk, opened a drawer, and took out a flat package. “I + expected opposition. That's why I had these samples made up to show you. I + designed them myself, and tore up fifty patterns before I struck one that + suited me. Here are the pajamas.” + </p> + <p> + She lifted out a dainty, shell-pink garment, and shook it out before the + half-interested, half-unwilling eyes of T. A. Buck. + </p> + <p> + “This is the jacket. Buttons on the left; see? Instead of the right, as it + would in a man's garment. Semi-sailor collar, with knotted soft silk + scarf. Oh, it's just a little kink, but they'll love it. They're actually + becoming. I've tried 'em. Notice the frogs and cord. Pretty neat, yes? + Slight flare at the hips. Makes 'em set and hang right. Perfectly + straight, like a man's coat.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck eyed the garments with a grudging admiration. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that part of it don't sound so unreasonable, although I don't believe + there is much of a demand for that kind of thing. But the other—-the—the + knickerbocker things—that's not even practical. It will make an ugly + garment, and the women who would fall for a fad like that wouldn't be of + the sort to wear an ugly piece of lingerie. It isn't to be thought of + seriously—” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney stepped to the door of the tiny wash-room off her office + and threw it open. + </p> + <p> + “Miss La Noyes! We're ready for you.” + </p> + <p> + And there emerged from the inner room a trim, lithe, almost boyishly slim + figure attired in a bewitchingly skittish-looking garment consisting of + knickerbockers and snug brassiere of king's blue satin messaline. Dainty + black silk stockings and tiny buckled slippers set off the whole effect. + </p> + <p> + “Miss La Noyes,” said Emma McChesney, almost solemnly, “this is Mr. T. A. + Buck, president of the firm. Miss La Noyes, of the 'Gay Social Whirl' + company.” + </p> + <p> + Miss La Noyes bowed slightly and rested one white hand at her side in an + attitude of nonchalant ease. + </p> + <p> + “Pleased, I'm shaw!” she said, in a clear, high voice. + </p> + <p> + And, “Charmed,” replied T. A. Buck, his years and breeding standing him in + good stead now. + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney laid a kindly hand on the girl's shoulder. “Turn slowly, + please. Observe the absence of unnecessary fulness about the hips, or at + the knees. No wrinkles to show there. No man will ever appreciate the fine + points of this little garment, but the women!—To the left, Miss La + Noyes. You'll see it fastens snug and trim with a tiny clasp just below + the knees. This garment has the added attraction of being fastened to the + upper garment, a tight satin brassiere. The single, unattached garment is + just as satisfactory, however. Women are wearing plush this year. Not only + for the street, but for evening dresses. I rather think they'll fancy a + snappy little pair of yellow satin knickers under a gown of the new orange + plush. Or a taupe pair, under a gray street suit. Or a natty little pair + of black satin, finished and piped in white satin, to be worn with a black + and white shopping costume. Why, I haven't worn a petticoat since I—” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to tell me,” burst from the long-pent T. A. Buck, “that you + wear 'em too?” + </p> + <p> + “Crazy about 'em. Miss La Noyes, will you just slip on your street skirt, + please?” + </p> + <p> + She waited in silence until the demure Miss La Noyes reappeared. A narrow, + straight-hanging, wrinkleless cloth skirt covered the much discussed + under-garment. “Turn slowly, please. Thanks. You see, Mr. Buck? Not a + wrinkle. No bunchiness. No lumps. No crawling up about the knees. Nothing + but ease, and comfort, and trim good looks.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck passed his hand over his head in a dazed, helpless gesture. + There was something pathetic in his utter bewilderment and helplessness in + contrast with Emma McChesney's breezy self-confidence, and the show-girl's + cool poise and unconcern. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute,” he murmured, almost pleadingly. “Let me ask a couple of + questions, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “Questions? A hundred. That proves you're interested.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, let me ask this young lady the first one. Miss—er—La + Noyes, do you honestly and truly like this garment? Would you buy one if + you saw it in a shop window?” + </p> + <p> + Miss La Noyes' answer came trippingly and without hesitation. She did not + even have to feel of her back hair first. + </p> + <p> + “Say, I'd go without my lunch for a week to get it. Mrs. McChesney says I + can have this pair. I can't wait till our prima donna sees 'em. She'll + hate me till she's got a dozen like 'em.” + </p> + <p> + “Next!” urged Mrs. McChesney, pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + But T. A. Buck shook his head. “That's all. Only—” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney patted Miss La Noyes lightly on the shoulder, and smiled + dazzlingly upon her. “Run along, little girl. You've done beautifully. And + many thanks.” + </p> + <p> + Miss La Noyes, appearing in another moment dressed for the street, stopped + at the door to bestow a frankly admiring smile upon the abstracted + president of the company, and a grateful one upon its pink-cheeked + secretary. + </p> + <p> + “Hope you'll come and see our show some evening. You won't know me at + first, because I wear a blond wig in the first scene. Third from the left, + front row.” And to Mrs. McChesney: “I cer'nly did hate to get up so early + this morning, but after you're up it ain't so fierce. And it cer'nly was + easy money. Thanks.” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'No man will ever appreciate the fine points of this + little garment, but the women—!'”} + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney glanced quickly at T. A., saw that he was pliant enough for + the molding process, and deftly began to shape, and bend, and smooth and + pat. + </p> + <p> + “Let's sit down, and unravel the kinks in our nerves. Now, if you do favor + this new plan—oh, I mean after you've given it consideration, and + all that! Yes, indeed. But if you do, I think it would be good policy to + start the game in—say—Cleveland. The Kaufman-Oster Company of + Cleveland have a big, snappy, up-to-the-minute store. We'll get them to + send out announcement cards. Something neat and flattering-looking. See? + Little stage all framed up. Scene set to show a bedroom or boudoir. Then, + thin girls, plump girls, short girls, high girls. They'll go through all + the paces. We won't only show the knickerbockers: we demonstrate how the + ordinary petticoat bunches and crawls up under the heavy plush and velvet + top skirt. We'll show 'em in street clothes, evening clothes, afternoon + frocks. Each one in a different shade of satin knicker. And silk stockings + and cunning little slippers to match. The store will stand for that. It's + a big ad for them, too.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney's hair was slightly tousled. Her cheeks were carmine. Her + eyes glowed. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you see! Don't you get it! Can't you feel how the thing's going to + take hold?” + </p> + <p> + “By Gad!” burst from T. A. Buck, “I'm darned if I don't believe you're + right—almost—But are you sure that you believe—” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney brought one little white fist down into the palm of the + other hand. “Sure? Why, I'm so sure that when I shut my eyes I can see T. + A. Senior sitting over there in that chair, tapping the side of his nose + with the edge of his tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses, and nodding his head, + with his features all screwed up like a blessed old gargoyle, the way he + always did when something tickled him. That's how sure I am.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck stood up abruptly. He shrugged his shoulders. His face looked + strangely white and drawn. “I'll leave it to you. I'll do my share of the + work. But I'm not more than half convinced, remember.” + </p> + <p> + “That's enough for the present,” answered Emma McChesney, briskly. “Well, + now, suppose we talk machinery and girls, and cutters for a while.” + </p> + <p> + Two months later found T. A. Buck and his sales-manager, both + shirt-sleeved, both smoking nervously, as they marked, ticketed, folded, + arranged. They were getting out the travelers' spring lines. Entered Mrs. + McChesney, and stood eying them, worriedly. It was her dozenth visit to + the stock-room that morning. A strange restlessness seemed to trouble her. + She wandered from office to show-room, from show-room to factory. + </p> + <p> + “What's the trouble?” inquired T. A. Buck, squinting up at her through a + cloud of cigar smoke. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing,” answered Mrs. McChesney, and stood fingering the piles of + glistening satin garments, a queer, faraway look in her eyes. Then she + turned and walked listlessly toward the door. There she encountered + Spalding—Billy Spalding, of the coveted Middle-Western territory, + Billy Spalding, the long-headed, quick-thinking; Spalding, the persuasive, + Spalding the mixer, Spalding on whom depended the fate of the T. A. Buck + Featherloom Knickerbocker and Pajama. + </p> + <p> + “'Morning! When do you start out?” she asked him. + </p> + <p> + “In the morning. Gad, that's some line, what? I'm itching to spread it. + You're certainly a wonder-child, Mrs. McChesney. Why, the boys—” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney sighed, somberly. “That line does sort of—well, tug + at your heart-strings, doesn't it?” She smiled, almost wistfully. “Say, + Billy, when you reach the Eagle House at Waterloo, tell Annie, the + head-waitress to rustle you a couple of Mrs. Traudt's dill pickles. Tell + her Mrs. McChesney asked you to. Mrs. Traudt, the proprietor's wife, doles + 'em out to her favorites. They're crisp, you know, and firm, and juicy, + and cold, and briny.” + </p> + <p> + Spalding drew a sibilant breath. “I'll be there!” he grinned. “I'll be + there!” + </p> + <p> + But he wasn't. At eight the next morning there burst upon Mrs. McChesney a + distraught T. A. Buck. + </p> + <p> + “Hear about Spalding?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Spalding? No.” + </p> + <p> + “His wife 'phoned from St. Luke's. Taken with an appendicitis attack at + midnight. They operated at five this morning. One of those + had-it-been-twenty-four-hours-later-etc. operations. That settles us.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor kid,” replied Emma McChesney. “Rough on him and his brand-new wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor kid! Yes. But how about his territory? How about our new line? How + about—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's all right,” said Emma McChesney, cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to know how! We haven't a man equal to the territory. He's our + one best bet.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's all right,” said Mrs. McChesney again, smoothly. + </p> + <p> + A little impatient exclamation broke from T. A. Buck. At that Emma + McChesney smiled. Her new listlessness and abstraction seemed to drop from + her. She braced her shoulders, and smiled her old sunny, heartening smile. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going out with that line. I'm going to leave a trail of pajamas and + knickerbockers from Duluth to Canton.” + </p> + <p> + “You! No, you won't!” A dull, painful red had swept into T. A. Buck's + face. It was answered by a flood of scarlet in Mrs. McChesney's + countenance. + </p> + <p> + “I don't get you,” she said. “I'm afraid you don't realize what this trip + means. It's going to be a fight. They'll have to be coaxed and bullied and + cajoled, and reasoned with. It's going to be a 'show-me' trip.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck took a quick step forward. “That's just why. I won't have you + fighting with buyers, taking their insults, kowtowing to them, salving + them. It—it isn't woman's work.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney was sorting the contents of her desk with quick, nervous + fingers. “I'll get the Twentieth Century,” she said, over her shoulder. + “Don't argue, please. If it's no work for a woman then I suppose it + follows that I'm unwomanly. For ten years I traveled this country selling + T. A. Buck's Featherloom Petticoats. My first trip on the road I was in + the twenties—and pretty, too. I'm a woman of thirty-seven now. I'll + never forget that first trip—the heartbreaks, the insults I endured, + the disappointments, the humiliation, until they understood that I meant + business—strictly business. I'm tired of hearing you men say that + this and that and the other isn't woman's work. Any work is woman's work + that a woman can do well. I've given the ten best years of my life to this + firm. Next to my boy at school it's the biggest thing in my life. + Sometimes it swamps even him. Don't come to me with that sort of talk.” + She was locking drawers, searching pigeon-holes, skimming files. “This is + my busy day.” She arose, and shut her desk with a bang, locked it, and + turned a flushed and beaming face toward T. A. Buck, as he stood frowning + before her. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “Emma McChesney... I believe in you now! Dad and I both + believe in you'”} + </p> + <p> + “Your father believed in me—from the ground up. We understood each + other, he and I. You've learned a lot in the last year and a half, T. A. + Junior-that-was, but there's one thing you haven't mastered. When will you + learn to believe in Emma McChesney?” + </p> + <p> + She was out of the office before he had time to answer, leaving him + standing there. + </p> + <p> + In the dusk of a late winter evening just three weeks later, a man paused + at the door of the unlighted office marked “Mrs. McChesney.” He looked + about a moment, as though dreading detection. Then he opened the door, + stepped into the dim quiet of the little room, and closed the door gently + after him. Everything in the tiny room was quiet, neat, orderly. It seemed + to possess something of the character of its absent owner. The intruder + stood there a moment, uncertainly, looking about him. + </p> + <p> + Then he took a step forward and laid one hand on the back of the empty + chair before the closed desk. He shut his eyes and it seemed that he felt + her firm, cool, reassuring grip on his fingers as they clutched the wooden + chair. The impression was so strong that he kept his eyes shut, and they + were still closed when his voice broke the silence of the dim, quiet + little room. + </p> + <p> + “Emma McChesney,” he was saying aloud, “Emma McChesney, you great big, + fine, brave, wonderful woman, you! I believe in you now! Dad and I both + believe in you.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X. — IN THE ABSENCE OF THE AGENT + </h2> + <p> + This is a love-story. But it is a love-story with a logical ending. Which + means that in the last paragraph no one has any one else in his arms. + Since logic and love have long been at loggerheads, the story may end + badly. Still, what love passages there are shall be left intact. There + shall be no trickery. There shall be no running breathless, flushed, + eager-eyed, to the very gateway of Love's garden, only to bump one's nose + against that baffling, impregnable, stone-wall phrase of “let us draw a + veil, dear reader.” This is the story of the love of a man for a woman, a + mother for her son, and a boy for a girl. And there shall be no veil. + </p> + <p> + Since 8 A.M., when she had unlocked her office door, Mrs. Emma McChesney + had been working in bunches of six. Thus, from twelve to one she had + dictated six letters, looked up memoranda, passed on samples of petticoat + silk, fired the office-boy, wired Spalding out in Nebraska, and eaten her + lunch. Emma McChesney was engaged in that nerve-racking process known as + getting things out of the way. When Emma McChesney aimed to get things out + of the way she did not use a shovel; she used a road-drag. + </p> + <p> + Now, at three-thirty, she shut the last desk-drawer with a bang, locked + it, pushed back the desk-phone, discovered under it the inevitable mislaid + memorandum, scanned it hastily, tossed the scrap of paper into the + brimming waste-basket, and, yawning, raised her arms high above her head. + The yawn ended, her arms relaxed, came down heavily, and landed her hands + in her lap with a thud. It had been a whirlwind day. At that moment most + of the lines in Emma McChesney's face slanted downward. + </p> + <p> + But only for that moment. The next found her smiling. Up went the corners + of her mouth! Out popped her dimples! The laugh-lines appeared at the + corners of her eyes. She was still dimpling like an anticipatory child + when she had got her wraps from the tiny closet, and was standing before + the mirror, adjusting her hat. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “It had been a whirlwind day"} + </p> + <p> + The hat was one of those tiny, pert, head-hugging trifles that only a very + pretty woman can wear. A merciless little hat, that gives no quarter to a + blotched skin, a too large nose, colorless eyes. Emma McChesney stood + before the mirror, the cruel little hat perched atop her hair, ready to + give it the final and critical bash which should bring it down about her + ears where it belonged. But even now, perched grotesquely atop her head as + it was, you could see that she was going to get away with it. + </p> + <p> + It was at this critical moment that the office door opened, and there + entered T. A. Buck, president of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat and + Lingerie Company. He entered smiling, leisurely, serene-eyed, as one who + anticipates something pleasurable. At sight of Emma McChesney standing, + hatted before the mirror, the pleasurable look became less confident. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” said T. A. Buck. “Whither?” and laid a sheaf of + businesslike-looking papers on the top of Mrs. McChesney's well cleared + desk. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McChesney, without turning, performed the cramming process + successfully, so that her hat left only a sub-halo of fluffy bright hair + peeping out from the brim. + </p> + <p> + Then, “Playing hooky,” she said. “Go 'way.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck picked up the sheaf of papers and stowed them into an inside + coat-pocket. “As president of this large and growing concern,” he said, “I + want to announce that I'm going along.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney adjusted her furs. “As secretary of said firm I rise to + state that you're not invited.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck, hands in pockets, stood surveying the bright-eyed woman before + him. The pleasurable expression had returned to his face. + </p> + <p> + “If the secretary of the above-mentioned company has the cheek to play + hooky at 3:30 P.M. in the middle of November, I fancy the president can + demand to know where she's going, and then go too.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McChesney unconcernedly fastened the clasp of her smart English + glove. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't you take two hours for lunch? Had mine off the top of my desk. Ham + sandwich and a glass of milk. Dictated six letters between bites and + swallows.” + </p> + <p> + A frown of annoyance appeared between T. A. Buck's remarkably fine eyes. + He came over to Mrs. McChesney and looked down at her. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, you'll kill yourself. It's all very well to be interested in + one's business, but I draw the line at ruining my digestion for it. Why in + Sam Hill don't you take a decent hour at least?” + </p> + <p> + “Only bricklayers can take an hour for lunch,” retorted Emma McChesney. + “When you get to be a lady captain of finance you can't afford it.” + </p> + <p> + She crossed to her desk and placed her fingers on the electric switch. The + desk-light cast a warm golden glow on the smart little figure in the trim + tailored suit, the pert hat, the shining furs. She was rosy-cheeked and + bright-eyed as a schoolgirl. There was about her that vigor, and glow, and + alert assurance which bespeaks congenial work, sound sleep, healthy + digestion, and a sane mind. She was as tingling, and bracing, and alive, + and antiseptic as the crisp, snappy November air outdoors. + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck drew a long breath as he looked at her. + </p> + <p> + “Those are devastating clothes,” he remarked. “D'you know, until now I + always had an idea that furs weren't becoming to women. Make most of 'em + look stuffy. But you—” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney glanced down at the shining skins of muff and scarf. She + stroked them gently and lovingly with her gloved hand. + </p> + <p> + “M-m-m-m! These semi-precious furs <i>are</i> rather satisfactory—until + you see a woman in sealskin and sables. Then you want to use 'em for a + hall rug.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck stepped within the radius of the yellow light, so that its glow + lighted up his already luminous eyes—eyes that had a trick of + translucence under excitement. + </p> + <p> + “Sables and sealskin,” repeated T. A. Buck, his voice vibrant. “If it's + those you want, you can—” + </p> + <p> + Snap! went the electric switch under Emma McChesney's fingers. It was as + decisive as a blow in the face. She walked to the door. The little room + was dim. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sending my boy through college with my sealskin-and-sable fund,” she + said crisply; “and I'm to meet him at 4:30.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's your appointment!” Relief was evident in T. A. Buck's tone. + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney shook a despairing head. “For impudent and unquenchable + inquisitiveness commend me to a man! Here! If you must know, though I + intended it as a surprise when it was finished and furnished—I'm + going to rent a flat, a regular six-room, plenty-of-closets flat, after + ten years of miserable hotel existence. Jock's running over for two days + to approve it. I ought to have waited until the holidays, so he wouldn't + miss classes; but I couldn't bear to. I've spent ten Thanksgivings, and + ten Christmases, and ten New Years in hotels. Hell has no terrors for me.” + </p> + <p> + They were walking down the corridor together. + </p> + <p> + “Take me along—please!” pleaded T. A. Buck, like a boy. “I know all + about flats, and gas-stoves, and meters, and plumbing, and everything!” + </p> + <p> + “You!” scoffed Emma McChesney, “with your five-story house and your summer + home in the mountains!” + </p> + <p> + “Mother won't hear of giving up the house. I hate it myself. Bathrooms in + those darned old barracks are so cold that a hot tub is an icy plunge + before you get to it.” They had reached the elevator. A stubborn look + appeared about T. A. Buck's jaw. “I'm going!” he announced, and scudded + down the hail to his office door. Emma McChesney pressed the + elevator-button. Before the ascending car showed a glow of light in the + shaft T. A. Buck appeared with hat, gloves, stick. + </p> + <p> + “I think the car's downstairs. We'll run up in it. What's the address? + Seventies, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney stepped out of the elevator and turned. “Car! Not I! If + you're bound to come with me you'll take the subway. They're asking enough + for that apartment as it is. I don't intend to drive up in a + five-thousand-dollar motor and have the agent tack on an extra twenty + dollars a month.” + </p> + <p> + T. . Buck smiled with engaging agreeableness. “Subway it is,” he said. + “Your presence would turn even a Bronx train into a rose-garden.” + </p> + <p> + Twelve minutes later the new apartment building, with its cream-tile and + red-brick Louis Somethingth facade, and its tan brick and plaster + Michael-Dougherty-contractor back, loomed before them, soaring even above + its lofty neighbors. On the door-step stood a maple-colored giant in a + splendor of scarlet, and gold braid, and glittering buttons. The great + entrance door was opened for them by a half-portion duplicate of the giant + outside. In the foyer was splendor to grace a palace hall. There were + great carved chairs. There was a massive oaken table. There were rugs, + there were hangings, there were dim-shaded lamps casting a soft glow upon + tapestry and velours. + </p> + <p> + Awaiting the pleasure of the agent, T. A. Buck, leaning upon his stick, + looked about him appreciatively. “Makes the Knickerbocker lobby look like + the waiting-room in an orphan asylum.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't let 'em fool you,” answered Emma McChesney, <i>sotto voce,</i> just + before the agent popped out of his office. “It's all included in the rent. + Dinky enough up-stairs. If ever I have guests that I want to impress I'll + entertain 'em in the hall.” + </p> + <p> + There approached them the agent, smiling, urbane, pleasing as to manner—but + not too pleasing; urbanity mixed, so to speak, with the leaven of caution. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes! Mrs.—er—McChesney, wasn't it? I can't tell you how + many parties have been teasing me for that apartment since you looked at + it. I've had to—well—make myself positively unpleasant in + order to hold it for you. You said you wished your son to—” + </p> + <p> + The glittering little jewel-box of an elevator was taking them higher and + higher. The agent stared hard at T. A. Buck. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McChesney followed his gaze. “My business associate, Mr. T. A. Buck,” + she said grimly. + </p> + <p> + The agent discarded caution; he was all urbanity. Their floor attained, he + unlocked the apartment door and threw it open with a gesture which was a + miraculous mixture of royalty and generosity. + </p> + <p> + “He knows you!” hissed Emma McChesney, entering with T. A. “Another ten on + the rent.” The agent pulled up a shade, switched on a light, straightened + an electric globe. T. A. Buck looked about at the bare white walls, at the + bare polished floor, at the severe fireplace. + </p> + <p> + “I knew it couldn't last,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “If it did,” replied Emma McChesney good-naturedly, “I couldn't afford to + live here,” and disappeared into the kitchen followed by the agent, who + babbled ever and anon of views, of Hudsons, of express-trains, of parks, + as is the way of agents from Fiftieth Street to One Hundred and + 'Umpty-ninth. + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck, feet spread wide, hands behind him, was left standing in the + center of the empty living-room. He was leaning on his stick and gazing + fixedly upward at the ornate chandelier. It was a handsome fixture, and + boasted some of the most advanced ideas in modern lighting equipment. Yet + it scarcely seemed to warrant the passionate scrutiny which T. A. Buck was + bestowing upon it. So rapt was his gaze that when the telephone-bell + shrilled unexpectedly in the hallway he started so that his stick slipped + on the polished floor, and as Emma McChesney and the still voluble agent + emerged from the kitchen the dignified head of the firm of T. A. Buck and + Company presented an animated picture, one leg in the air, arms waving + wildly, expression at once amazed and hurt. + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney surveyed him wide-eyed. The agent, unruffled, continued to + talk on his way to the telephone. + </p> + <p> + “It only looks small to you,” he was saying. “Fact is, most people think + it's too large. They object to a big kitchen. Too much work.” He gave his + attention to the telephone. + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney looked troubled. She stood in the doorway, head on one + side, as one who conjures up a mental picture. + </p> + <p> + “Come here,” she commanded suddenly, addressing the startled T. A. “You + nagged until I had to take you along. Here's a chance to justify your + coming. I want your opinion on the kitchen.” + </p> + <p> + “Kitchens,” announced T. A. Buck of the English clothes and the gardenia, + “are my specialty,” and entered the domain of the gas-range and the sink. + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney swept the infinitesimal room with a large gesture. + </p> + <p> + “Considering it as a kitchen, not as a locker, does it strike you as being + adequate?” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck, standing in the center of the room, touched all four walls + with his stick. + </p> + <p> + “I've heard,” he ventured, “that they're—ah—using 'em small + this year.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney's eyes took on a certain wistful expression. “Maybe. But + whenever I've dreamed of a home, which was whenever I got lonesome on the + road, which was every evening for ten years, I'd start to plan a kitchen. + A kitchen where you could put up preserves, and a keg of dill pickles, and + get a full-sized dinner without getting things more than just comfortably + cluttered.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck reflected. He flapped his arms as one who feels pressed for + room. “With two people occupying the room, as at present, the presence of + one dill pickle would sort of crowd things, not to speak of a keg of 'em, + and the full-sized dinner, and the—er—preserves. Still—” + </p> + <p> + “As for a turkey,” wailed Emma McChesney, “one would have to go out on the + fire-escape to baste it.” + </p> + <p> + The swinging door opened to admit the agent. “Would you excuse me? A party + down-stairs—lease—be back in no time. Just look about—any + questions—glad to answer later—” + </p> + <p> + “Quite all right,” Mrs. McChesney assured him. Her expression was one of + relief as the hall door closed behind him. “Good! There's a spot in the + mirror over the mantel. I've been dying to find out if it was a flaw in + the glass or only a smudge.” + </p> + <p> + She made for the living-room. T. A. Buck followed thoughtfully. + Thoughtfully and interestedly he watched her as she stood on tiptoe, + breathed stormily upon the mirror's surface, and rubbed the moist place + with her handkerchief. She stood back a pace, eyes narrowed critically. + </p> + <p> + “It's gone, isn't it?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck advanced to where she stood and cocked his head too, + judicially, and in the opposite direction to which Emma McChesney's head + was cocked. So that the two heads were very close together. + </p> + <p> + “It's a poor piece of glass,” he announced at last. + </p> + <p> + A simple enough remark. Perhaps it was made with an object in view, but + certainly it was not meant to bring forth the storm of protest that came + from Emma McChesney's lips. She turned on him, lips quivering, eyes + wrathful. + </p> + <p> + “You shouldn't have come!” she cried. “You're as much out of place in a + six-room flat as a truffle would be in a boiled New England dinner. Do you + think I don't see its shortcomings? Every normal woman, no matter what + sort of bungalow, palace, ranch-house, cave, cottage, or tenement she may + be living in, has in her mind's eye a picture of the sort of apartment + she'd live in if she could afford it. I've had mine mapped out from the + wall-paper in the front hall to the laundry-tubs in the basement, and it + doesn't even bear a family resemblance to this.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry,” stammered T. A. Buck. “You asked my opinion and I—” + </p> + <p> + “Opinion! If every one had so little tact as to give their true opinion + when it was asked this would be a miserable world. I asked you because I + wanted you to lie. I expected it of you. I needed bolstering up. I realize + that the rent I'm paying and the flat I'm getting form a geometrical + problem where X equals the unknown quantity and only the agent knows the + answer. But it's going to be a home for Jock and me. It's going to be a + place where he can bring his friends; where he can have his books, and his + 'baccy, and his college junk. It will be the first real home that + youngster has known in all his miserable boarding-house, hotel, boys' + school, and college existence. Sometimes when I think of what he's missed, + of the loneliness and the neglect when I was on the road, of the + barrenness of his boyhood, I—” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck started forward as one who had made up his mind about something + long considered. Then he gulped, retreated, paced excitedly to the door + and back again. On the return trip he found smiling and repentant Emma + McChesney regarding him. + </p> + <p> + “Now aren't you sorry you insisted on coming along? Letting yourself in + for a ragging like that? I think I'm a wee bit taut in the nerves at the + prospect of seeing Jock—and planning things with him—I—” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck paused in his pacing. “Don't!” he said. “I had it coming to me. + I did it deliberately. I wanted to know how you really felt about it.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney stared at him curiously. “Well, now you know. But I haven't + told you half. In all those years while I was selling T. A. Buck's + Featherloom Petticoats on the road, and eating hotel food that tasted the + same, whether it was roast beef or ice-cream, I was planning this little + place. I've even made up my mind to the scandalous price I'm willing to + pay a maid who'll cook real dinners for us and serve them as I've always + vowed Jock's dinners should be served when I could afford something more + than a shifting hotel home.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck was regarding the head of his if walking-stick with a gaze as + intent as that which he previously had bestowed upon the chandelier. For + that matter it was a handsome enough stick—a choice thing in + malacca. But it was scarcely more deserving than the chandelier had been. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McChesney had wandered into the dining-room. She peered out of + windows. She poked into butler's pantry. She inspected wall-lights. And + still T. A. Buck stared at his stick. + </p> + <p> + “It's really robbery,” came Emma McChesney's voice from the next room. + “Only a New York agent could have the nerve to do it. I've a friend who + lives in Chicago—Mary Cutting. You've heard me speak of her. Has a + flat on the north side there, just next door to the lake. The rent is + ridiculous; and—would you believe it?—the flat is equipped + with bookcases, and gorgeous mantel shelves, and buffet, and bathroom + fixtures, and china-closets, and hall-tree—” + </p> + <p> + Her voice trailed into nothingness as she disappeared into the kitchen. + When she emerged again she was still enumerating the charms of the + absurdly low-priced Chicago flat, thus: + </p> + <p> + “—and full-length mirrors, and wonderful folding table-shelf + gimcracks in the kitchen, and—” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck did not look up. But, “Oh, Chicago!” he might have been heard + to murmur, as only a New-Yorker can breathe those two words. + </p> + <p> + “Don't 'Oh, Chicago!' like that,” mimicked Emma McChesney. “I've lain + awake nights dreaming of a home I once saw there, with the lake in the + back yard, and a couple of miles of veranda, and a darling + vegetable-garden, and the whole place simply honeycombed with bathrooms, + and sleeping-porches, and sun-parlors, and linen-closets, and—gracious, + I wonder what's keeping Jock!” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck wrenched his eyes from his stick. All previous remarks + descriptive of his eyes under excitement paled at the glow which lighted + them now. They glowed straight into Emma McChesney's eyes and held them, + startled. + </p> + <p> + “Emma,” said T. A. Buck quite calmly, “will you marry me? I want to give + you all those things, beginning with the lake in the back yard and ending + with the linen-closets and the sun-parlor.” + </p> + <p> + And Emma McChesney, standing there in the middle of the dining-room floor, + stared long at T. A. Buck, standing there in the center of the living-room + floor. And if any human face, in the space of seventeen seconds, could be + capable of expressing relief, and regret, and alarm, and dismay, and + tenderness, and wonder, and a great womanly sympathy, Emma McChesney's + countenance might be said to have expressed all those emotions—and + more. The last two were uppermost as she slowly came toward him. + </p> + <p> + “T. A.,” she said, and her voice had in it a marvelous quality, “I'm + thirty-nine years old. You know I was married when I was eighteen and got + my divorce after eight years. Those eight years would have left any woman + who had endured them with one of two determinations: to take up life again + and bring it out into the sunshine until it was sound, and sweet, and + clean, and whole once more, or to hide the hurt and brood over it, and + cover it with bitterness, and hate until it destroyed by its very + foulness. I had Jock, and I chose the sun, thank God! I said then that + marriage was a thing tried and abandoned forever, for me. And now—” + </p> + <p> + There was something almost fine in the lines of T. A. Buck's too feminine + mouth and chin; but not fine enough. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Emma,” he repeated, “will you marry me?” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney's eyes were a wonderful thing to see, so full of pain were + they, so wide with unshed tears. + </p> + <p> + “As long as—he—lived,” she went on, “the thought of marriage + was repulsive to me. Then, that day seven months ago out in Iowa, when I + picked up that paper and saw it staring out at me in print that seemed to + waver and dance”—she covered her eyes with her hand for a moment—“'McChesney—Stuart + McChesney, March 7, aged forty-seven years. Funeral to-day from Howland + Brothers' chapel. Aberdeen and Edinburgh papers please copy!'” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'Emma.' he said, 'will you marry me?'”} + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck took the hand that covered her eyes and brought it gently down. + </p> + <p> + “Emma,” he said, “will you marry me?” + </p> + <p> + “T. A., I don't love you. Wait! Don't say it! I'm thirty-nine, but I'm + brave and foolish enough to say that all these years of work, and + disappointment, and struggle, and bitter experience haven't convinced me + that love does not exist. People have said about me, seeing me in + business, that I'm not a marrying woman. There is no such thing as that. + Every woman is a marrying woman, and sometimes the light-heartedest, and + the scoffingest, and the most self-sufficient of us are, beneath it all, + the marryingest. Perhaps I'm making a mistake. Perhaps ten years from now + I'll be ready to call myself a fool for having let slip what the wise ones + would call a 'chance.' But I don't think so, T. A.” + </p> + <p> + “You know me too well,” argued T. A. Buck rather miserably. “But at least + you know the worst of me as well as the best. You'd be taking no risks.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney walked to the window. There was a little silence. Then she + finished it with one clean stroke. “We've been good business chums, you + and I. I hope we always shall be. I can imagine nothing more beautiful on + this earth for a woman than being married to a man she cares for and who + cares for her. But, T. A., you're not the man.” + </p> + <p> + And then there were quick steps in the corridor, a hand at the door-knob, + a slim, tall figure in the doorway. Emma McChesney seemed to waft across + the rooms and into the embrace of the slim, tall figure. + </p> + <p> + “Welcome—home!” she cried. “Sketch in the furniture to suit + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “This is going to be great—great!” announced Jock. “What do you know + about the Oriental potentate down-stairs! I guess Otis Skinner has nothing + on him when it comes—Why, hello, Mr. Buck!” He was peering into the + next room. “Why don't you folks light up? I thought you were another agent + person. Met that one down in the hail. Said he'd be right up. What's the + matter with him anyway? He smiles like a waxworks. When the elevator took + me up he was still smiling from the foyer, and I could see his grin after + the rest of him was lost to sight. Regular Cheshire. What's this? + Droring-room?” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “'Welcome home!' she cried. 'Sketch in the furniture to + suit yourself'”} + </p> + <p> + He rattled on like a pleased boy. He strode over to shake hands with Buck. + Emma McChesney, cheeks glowing, eyed him adoringly. Then she gave a little + suppressed cry. + </p> + <p> + “Jock, what's happened?” + </p> + <p> + Jock whirled around like a cat. “Where? When? What?” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney pointed at him with one shaking finger. “You! You're thin! + You're—you're emaciated. Your shoulders, where are they? Your—your + legs—” + </p> + <p> + Jock looked down at himself. His glance was pride. “Clothes,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Clothes?” faltered his mother. + </p> + <p> + “You're losing your punch, Mother? You used to be up on men's rigging. All + the boys look like their own shadows these days. English cut. No padding. + No heels. Incurve at the waist. Watch me walk.” He flapped across the + room, chest concave, shoulders rounded, arms hanging limp, feet wide + apart, chin thrust forward. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to tell me that's your present form of locomotion?” demanded + his mother. + </p> + <p> + “I hope so. Been practising it for weeks. They call it the juvenile jump, + and all our best leading men have it. I trailed Douglas Fairbanks for days + before I really got it.” + </p> + <p> + And the tension between T. A. Buck and Emma McChesney snapped with a jerk, + and they both laughed, and laughed again, at Jock's air of offended + dignity. They laughed until the rancor in the heart of the man and the + hurt and pity in the heart of the woman melted into a bond of lasting + understanding. + </p> + <p> + “Go on—laugh!” said Jock. “Say, Mother, is there a shower in the + bathroom, h'm?” And was off to investigate. + </p> + <p> + The laughter trailed away into nothingness. “Jock,” called his mother, “do + you want your bedroom done in plain or stripes?” + </p> + <p> + “Plain,” came from the regions beyond. “Got a lot of pennants and + everything.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck picked up his stick from the corner in which it stood. + </p> + <p> + “I'll run along,” he said. “You two will want to talk things over + together.” He raised his voice to reach the boy in the other room. “I'm + off, Jock.” + </p> + <p> + Jock's protest sounded down the hall. “Don't leave me alone with her. + She'll blarney me into consenting to blue-and-pink rosebud paper in my + bedroom.” + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck had the courage to smile even at that. Emma McChesney was + watching him, her clear eyes troubled, anxious. + </p> + <p> + At the door Buck turned, came back a step or two. “I—I think, if you + don't mind, I'll play hooky this time and run over to Atlantic City for a + couple of days. You'll find things slowing up, now that the holidays are + so near.” + </p> + <p> + “Fine idea—fine!” agreed Emma McChesney; but her eyes still wore the + troubled look. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by,” said T. A. Buck abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “Good—” and then she stopped. “I've a brand-new idea. Give you + something to worry about on your vacation.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm supplied,” answered T. A. Buck grimly. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense! A real worry. A business worry. A surprise.” + </p> + <p> + Jock had joined them, and was towering over his mother, her hand in his. + </p> + <p> + T. A. Buck regarded them moodily. “After your pajama and knickerbocker + stunt I'm braced for anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing theatrical this time,” she assured him. “Don't expect a show such + as you got when I touched off the last fuse.” + </p> + <p> + An eager, expectant look was replacing the gloom that bad clouded his + face. “Spring it.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney waited a moment; then, “I think the time has come to put in + another line—a staple. It's—flannel nightgowns.” + </p> + <p> + “Flannel nightgowns!” Disgust shivered through Buck's voice. “<i>Flannel + nightgowns!</i> They quit wearing those when Broadway was a cow-path.” + </p> + <p> + “Did, eh?” retorted Emma McChesney. “That's the New-Yorker speaking. Just + because the French near-actresses at the Winter Garden wear silk lace and + sea-foam nighties in their imported boudoir skits, and just because they + display only those frilly, beribboned handmade affairs in the Fifth Avenue + shop-windows, don't you ever think that they're a national vice. Let me + tell you,” she went on as T. A. Buck's demeanor grew more bristlingly + antagonistic, “there are thousands and thousands of women up in Minnesota, + and Wisconsin, and Michigan, and Oregon, and Alaska, and Nebraska, and + Dakota who are thankful to retire every night protected by one long, + thick, serviceable flannel nightie, and one practical hot-water bag. Up in + those countries retiring isn't a social rite: it's a feat of hardihood. + I'm keen for a line of plain, full, roomy old-fashioned flannel nightgowns + of the improved T. A. Buck Featherloom products variety. They'll be + wearing 'em long after knickerbockers have been cut up for patchwork.” + </p> + <p> + The moody look was quite absent from T. A. Buck's face now, and the + troubled look from Emma McChesney's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” Buck said grudgingly, “if you were to advise making up a line of + the latest models in deep-sea divers' uniforms, I suppose I'd give in. But + flannel nightgowns! In the twentieth century—flannel night—” + </p> + <p> + “Think it over,” laughed Emma McChesney as he opened the door. “We'll have + it out, tooth and nail, when you get back.” + </p> + <p> + The door closed upon him. Emma McChesney and her son were left alone in + their new home to be. + </p> + <p> + “Turn out the light, son,” said Emma McChesney, “and come to the window. + There's a view! Worth the money, alone.” + </p> + <p> + Jock switched off the light. “D' you know, Blonde, I shouldn't wonder if + old T. A.'s sweetish on you,” he said as he came over to the window. + </p> + <p> + “Old!” + </p> + <p> + “He's forty or over, isn't he?” + </p> + <p> + “Son, do you realize your charming mother's thirty-nine?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you! That's different. You look a kid. You're young in all the spots + where other women of thirty-nine look old. Around the eyes, and under the + chin, and your hands, and the corners of your mouth.” + </p> + <p> + In the twilight Emma McChesney turned to stare at her son. “Just where did + you learn all that, young 'un? At college?” + </p> + <p> + And, “Some view, isn't it, Mother?” parried Jock. The two stood there, + side by side, looking out across the great city that glittered and swam in + the soft haze of the late November afternoon. There are lovelier sights + than New York seen at night, from a window eyrie with a mauve haze + softening all, as a beautiful but experienced woman is softened by an + artfully draped scarf of chiffon. There are cities of roses, cities of + mountains, cities of palm-trees and sparkling lakes; but no sight, be it + of mountains, or roses, or lakes, or waving palm-trees, is more likely to + cause that vague something which catches you in the throat. + </p> + <p> + It caught those two home-hungry people. And it opened the lips of one of + them almost against his will. + </p> + <p> + “Mother,” said Jock haltingly, painfully, “I came mighty near coming home—for + good—this time.” + </p> + <p> + His mother turned and searched his face in the dim light. + </p> + <p> + “What was it, Jock?” she asked, quite without fuss. + </p> + <p> + The slim young figure in the jumping juvenile clothes stirred and tried to + speak, tried again, formed the two words: “A—girl.” + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney waited a second, until the icy, cruel, relentless hand that + clutched her very heart should have relaxed ever so little. Then, “Tell + me, sonny boy,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Mother—that girl—” There was an agony of bitterness and + of disillusioned youth in his voice. + </p> + <p> + Emma McChesney came very close, so that her head, in the pert little + close-fitting hat, rested on the boy's shoulder. She linked her arm + through his, snug and warm. + </p> + <p> + “That girl—” she echoed encouragingly. + </p> + <p> + And, “That girl,” went on Jock, taking up the thread of his grief, “why, + Mother, that—girl—” + </p> + <h3> + THE END + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Roast Beef, Medium, by Edna Ferber + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROAST BEEF, MEDIUM *** + +***** This file should be named 6016-h.htm or 6016-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/1/6016/ + + +Text file produced by Carel Lyn Miske, Charles Franks and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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