Roast Beef, Medium
by Edna Ferber
I. ROAST BEEF,
T. A. BUCK
IV. HIS MOTHER'S
V. PINK TIGHTS
IX. KNEE-DEEP IN
X. IN THE
ABSENCE OF THE
ROAST BEEF, MEDIUM
THE BUSINESS ADVENTURES OF EMMA McCHESNEY
Roast Beef, Medium, is not only a food. It is a philosophy.
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 a la, 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.
“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.”
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.
“Everything satisfactory?” inquires the insinuating Voice.
“Yes,” you say, and take a hasty sip of water. That paprika has
burned your tongue. “Yes. Check, please.”
You eye the score, appalled. “Look here! Aren't you over-charging!”
“Our regular price,” and you catch a sneer beneath the smugness of
the Voice. “It is what every one pays, sir.”
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!
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,
I. ROAST BEEF, MEDIUM
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 a la 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 en casserole, 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.
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.
No more metaphor. On with the story, which left Emma at her safe
and solitary supper.
She had the last number of the
Dry Goods Review 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.
“I just hate to tear you away from that love lyric; but if I might
trouble you for the vinegar—”
Emma groped for it back of her paper and shoved it across the table
without looking up. “—and the Worcester—”
One eye on the absorbing column, she passed the tall bottle. But at
its removal her prop was gone. The Dry Goods Review was too
weighty for the salt shaker alone.
“—and the salt. Thanks. Warm, isn't it?”
There was a double vertical frown between Emma McChesney's eyes as
she glanced up over the top of her Dry Goods Review. The frown
gave way to a half smile. The glance settled into a stare.
“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.”
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.
[Illustration: “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,” he
“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
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?”
“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.”
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.
“I'll get you some; sure,” wildly promised his handmaiden, and
“Brand new to the road, aren't you?” observed Emma McChesney,
“What makes you think—”
“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
The god-like young man leaned forward, forgetting to eat.
“You don't mean to tell me you're on the road!”
“Why not?” demanded Emma McChesney, briskly.
“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?”
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.”
“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!”
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.”
“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
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.
“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.”
“Great!” assented he. “Is there a park?
“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.”
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.
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.
“Fred-dee!” called the voice. “Maybelle! Come, now.”
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:
“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?”
“Well, five minutes,” agreed the voice. “But don't let me call you
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.
“Fred-dee!” came the voice of command again. “May-belle! This
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
A voice broke the silence, and sent her dream-thoughts scattering
to the winds.
“Honestly, kid,” said the voice, “I could be crazy about you, if
you'd let me.”
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
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.
[Illustration: “'That was a married kiss—a two-year-old married
kiss at least.'“]
“You nasty, good-for-nothing, handsome young devil, you!” she said.
“So you're married.”
He sat up with a jerk. “How did you—what makes you think so?”
“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.”
She moved over on the bench until she was close beside him. “Now,
listen to me, boy.” She leaned forward, impressively. “Are you
“Yes,” answered the handsome young devil, sullenly.
“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?”
“I don't believe it,” he flashed back. “You're not a day over
twenty- six—anyway, you don't look it. I—”
“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?”
“I'm dead sorry, on the square, I am—”
“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.”
“Say, look here—“ broke from the man beside her. But Emma
McChesney laid her cool fingers on his lips.
“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.”
“Bess goes to the matinee every Saturday,” he began, in feeble
“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
There came a little, inarticulate sound from the boy. But Emma's
quick ear caught it.
“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.”
“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—”
“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.”
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.
“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—”
“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
[Illustration: “'I won't ask you to forgive a hound like me'“]
II. REPRESENTING T. A. BUCK
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
“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.”
During those nine years on the road for the Featherloom Skirt
Company Emma McChesney had picked up a side line or two on human
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.
The sartorial triumph behind the desk, languidly read her signature
upside down, took a disinterested look at her, and yelled:
“Front! Show the lady up to nineteen.”
Emma McChesney took three steps in the direction of the stairway
toward which the boy was headed with her bags. Then she stopped.
“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?)
“You've made a mistake, haven't you?” she inquired.
Mistake?” repeated the clerk, removing his eyes from their loving
contemplation of his right thumb-nail. “Guess not.”
“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?”
The clerk stared at Emma McChesney, and Emma McChesney coolly
stared back at the clerk.
“Our aim,” began he, loftily, “is to make our guests as comfortable
as possible on all occasions. But the last lady drummer who—”
“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
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.
“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.”
“Wrong again,” answered Emma McChesney. “Never use it. Bad for the
complexion. Thanks just the same. Nice little hotel you've got here.”
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.
“Spring house-cleaning,” explained the bellboy, hurdling a pail.
Emma McChesney picked her way over a little heap of dust-cloths and
a ladder or so.
“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.
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
“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.
“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.”
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
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?
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
As she was leaving:
“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
“Not any, thanks,” Emma McChesney replied, a little wearily.
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.
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.
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
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:
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....
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.
“Oh, damn!” she remarked, wearily, and went over to the dresser.
Then she pulled down her shirtwaist all around and went down to
The dining-room was very warm, and there came a smell of lardy
things from the kitchen. Those supping were doing so languidly.
“I'm dying for something cool, and green, and fresh,” remarked Emma
to the girl who filled her glass with iced water; “something springish
“Well,” sing-songed she of the ruffled, starched skirt, “we have
ham'n-aigs, mutton chops, cold veal, cold roast—”
“Two, fried,” interrupted Emma hopelessly, “and a pot of
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.
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.
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
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
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.
He watched Emma McChesney as she sat up and dried her eyes. A
satisfied light dawned in his face.
“Thanks,” he said, and mopped his forehead and chin and neck with
the brown-edged handkerchief.
“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
The fat man clasped his thin, nervous hands in front of him and
“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?” 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.”
“Well, go on and do it,” said the fat man.
“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?”
“No,” answered the fat man, interestedly. “What?”
“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—”
The fat man banged one fist down on the piano keys with a crash.
“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?'”
“You're right,” sobbed Emma McChesney, her face glowing.
“By the way,” interrupted the fat man, “what's your line?”
“Petticoats. I'm out for T. A. Buck's Featherloom Skirts. What's
“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?”
“You! Are you—”
“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.”
Emma McChesney straightened her collar and jabot with a jerk, and
“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
“My customers swear by me. I make DeKalb to-morrow, and there's
Nussbaum, of the Paris Emporium, the biggest store there, who just—”
“I make DeKalb, too,” remarked Emma McChesney, the light of battle
in her eye.
“You mean,” gently insinuated the fat man, “that you were going to,
but that's all over now.”
“Huh?” said Emma.
“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,
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.”
“Won't you—er—come down and have a little something moist? Or we
could have it sent up here,” suggested the fat man.
“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.”
“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.”
“Let it go double,” replied Emma McChesney, and shook his hand.
“Guess I'll run down and get a smoke,” remarked he.
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.
Down in the lobby the fat man, cigar in mouth, was cautioning the
clerk, and emphasizing his remarks with one forefinger.
“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.”
As he turned away a telephone bell tinkled at the desk. The clerk
bent his stately head.
“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.”
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.
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.
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
She was two days ahead of her schedule, whereupon she wired her
“Meet me Chicago usual place Friday large time my treat. MOTHER.”
Then she had packed her bag, wired Mary Cutting that she would see
her Thursday, and had taken the first train out for Chicago.
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
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:
“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
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.”
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.
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.
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.”
A dragon sat before Mary Cutting's door and wrote names on slips.
But at sight of Emma McChesney she laid down her pencil.
“Well,” smiled the dragon, “you're a sight for sore eyes. There's
nobody in there with her. Just walk in and surprise her.”
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:
“Cut out the bank president stuff, Mary Cutting, and make a fuss
over me,” she commanded.
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.
“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
“Poor, poor child,” said Mary Cutting, “I don't seem to recall any
“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.”
Mary Cutting's pink cheeks dimpled like a girl's.
[Illustration: “'You'll never grow up, Emma McChesney'“]
“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.”
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.
“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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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?”
“I know a new place,” replied Mary Cutting. “German, but not
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.
“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?”
“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
“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.”
For the third time in that short half-hour a silence fell between
the two—a silence of perfect sympathy and understanding.
Five little strokes, tripping over each other in their haste, came
from the tiny clock on Mary Cutting's desk. It roused them both.
“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.”
[Illustration: “'Well, s'long, then, Shrimp. See you at eight'“]
“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.”
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
Mary Cutting and Emma McChesney approached them very quietly just
in time to hear the weasel say:
“Well, s' long then, Shrimp. See you at eight.”
And he swung around and faced them.
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.
She put her hand on the boy's arm.
“You're a day ahead of schedule, Jock,” she said evenly.
“So are you,” retorted Jock, sullenly, his hands jammed into his
“All the better for both of us, Kid. I was just going over to the
hotel to clean up, Jock. Come along, boy.”
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.”
A certain cold rigidity settled over Emma McChesney's face. She
eyed her son in silence until his miserable eyes, perforce, looked up
“I'm afraid you'll have to break your engagement,” she said.
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.”
“You attend to your chicken, Mary,” she said. “I'll see to my
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,
“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.”
“Any place in the world is the place for a lady, Jock,” said Emma
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.”
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.
“We'll wash up,” said Emma McChesney, when he returned, “and then
we'll have dinner here.”
“I don't want to eat here,” objected Jock McChesney. “Besides,
there's no reason why I can't keep my evening's engagements.”
“And after dinner,” went on his mother, as though she had not
heard, “we'll get acquainted, Kid.”
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.
[Illustration: “'I'm still in position to enforce that ordinance
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.
“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
Jock regarded the mercifully faded roses in the carpet. His lower
lip came forward again.
“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.”
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?”
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—”
“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.”
“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—”
“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.
“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—”
“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.”
“Mother, you know how wild I am about machines, and motors, and
engineering, and all that goes with it. Why I'd work—”
“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.”
“I'd like it!” exclaimed the boy, sitting up. “It will be regular
“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
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.”
“I think,” said the boy, looking up into his mother's face, “I
think that I'll spend it with you.”
The door slammed after him.
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.
There came a ring at the 'phone.
Emma McChesney crossed the room and picked up the receiver.
“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?”
There was no sound in the room but the hollow cackle of the voice
at the other end of the wire, many miles away.
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.'”
IV. HIS MOTHER'S SON
“Full?” repeated Emma McChesney (and if it weren't for the
compositor there'd be an exclamation point after that question mark).
“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.”
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.”
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
“It won't do you any good to get sore, Mrs. McChesney,” he began,
suavely. “Now a man would—”
“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.”
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.”
“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.”
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.”
“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
[Illustration: “'Son!' echoed the clerk, staring"]
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.”
“Son!” echoed the clerk, staring.
“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.”
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.
“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
“You don't say!” exclaimed Emma McChesney, and turned to the clerk.
“This is my son, Jock McChesney—Mr. Sims. Is this true?”
“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.”
He ruminated, tapping his teeth with a pen-holder, and eying the
pair before him with a maddening blankness of gaze. Finally:
“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—”
Emma McChesney stiffened into acute attention. “Meyers?” she
interrupted. “Do you mean Ed Meyers of the Strauss Sans-silk Skirt
“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?”
“When did he get in?”
“Oh, he just came in fifteen minutes ago on the Ashland division.
He's in at supper.” “Oh,” said Emma McChesney. The two letters
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?”
“Best I can do.”
“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.”
“Jock,” Emma McChesney reproved him, “Mr. Sims is doing us a great
favor. There isn't another hotel in town that would—”
“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—”
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.”
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.
“'Morning!” Emma McChesney called to him. She wore blue serge, and
a smart fall hat. The late autumn morning was not crisper and sunnier
“Good-morning, Mrs. McChesney,” returned Mr. Sims, sonorously.
“Have a good night's sleep? I hope the kitchen noises didn't wake
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
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
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.
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
“Good-morning, son!” said Emma McChesney. “Was it as bad as that?”
Jock McChesney's long fingers curled into a fist.
“Say,” he began, his tone venomous, “do you know what
“Say it!” commanded Emma McChesney. “I'm only your mother. If you
keep that in your system your breakfast will curdle in your stomach.”
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.
“Well,” said Emma McChesney, encouragingly, “go on.”
[Illustration: “'Well!' gulped Jock, 'those two double-bedded,
bloomin' blasted Bisons—'“]
“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
“That,” said Emma McChesney, “would be Ed Meyers, of the Strauss
Sans- silk Skirt Company.”
“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.”
Emma McChesney folded her paper and rose, smiling. “It is sort of
trying, I suppose, if you're not used to it.”
“Used to it!” shouted the outraged Jock. “Used to it! Do you mean
to tell me there's nothing unusual about—”
“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.”
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.”
“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
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
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!
“What's your line?” said Ed Meyers, suddenly turning toward Jock.
Prompted by some imp—“Skirts,” answered Jock. “Ladies'
petticoats.” (“As if men ever wore 'em!” he giggled inwardly.)
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
“Who're you out for?” he demanded next.
There was a look of Emma McChesney on Jock's face. “Why—er—the
Union Underskirt and Hosiery Company of Chicago. New concern.”
“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—”
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
“How do, Mrs. McChesney,” grinned Fat Ed Meyers. “You see I beat
you to it.”
“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.
“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
“Pretty, isn't she?” said Jock, appreciatively.
“Know who she is?”
“Well—I—she does look familiar but—”
“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
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.
“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?”
“I get you,” answered Jock.
“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?”
“You've said something,” agreed Jock.
“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
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,
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.
Then words came. They spluttered from his lips. They popped like
corn kernels in the heat of his wrath; they tripped over each other;
“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?”
With a whoop of pure joy Jock McChesney turned and fled.
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.”
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
“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.”
He nodded a contemptuous head in Jock's direction. “Carrying a
[Illustration: “'Come on out of here, and I'll lick the shine off
your shoes, you blue-eyed babe, you!'“]
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 me men have a genius for
“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.”
“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.”
V. PINK TIGHTS AND GINGHAMS
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.
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.
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,
“Great, ain't it?” said a voice in the darkness. (Nay, reader. A
Emma McChesney was of the non-screaming type. But something inside
of her suspended action for the fraction of a second. She peered into
“'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.
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.
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.
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.
“Gawd, ain't it hot!” she said, sociably.
“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?
“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.
“Oh, yes,” replied Emma McChesney, and decided it was time to go
“Lonesome, ain't it, without company? Goin' far?”
“I'm accustomed to it. I travel on business, not pleasure. I'm on
the road, representing T. A. Buck's Featherloom Petticoats!”
The once handsome violet eyes of the plump blonde widened with
surprise. Then they narrowed to critical slits.
“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.”
“Oh, I suppose any work that takes a woman out into the world—“
began Emma McChesney vaguely, her hand on the door-knob.
“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
In surprise Emma McChesney turned at the door for another look at
the hair, figure, complexion and kimono.
“Oh, you're an actress! Well, if you think mine is a hard life for
a woman, why—”
“Me!” said the green-gold blonde, and laughed not prettily. “I
ain't a woman. I'm a queen of burlesque.
“Burlesque? You mean one of those—“ Emma McChesney stopped, her
usually deft tongue floundering.
“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?”
“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.”
Into Emma McChesney's understanding heart there swept a wave of
pity. But she answered lightly: “Is that supposed to be funny?”
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.”
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.
“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.
“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.”
Emma McChesney's hand seemed to snatch itself away from the woman's
“You can't treat me with your life's history. I'm going in.”
“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!”
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.
[Illustration: “'You can't treat me with your life's history. I'm
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,
“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!”
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.
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
“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.”
She sank back into her corner. Her anger left her with the
suddenness characteristic of her type.
“Ain't this heat fierce?” she fretted, and closed her eyes.
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—
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.
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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?”
“No,” answered Emma McChesney hurriedly, and turned to go.
“Wait a minute,” said Blanche LeHaye, sharply, and rose. She
slouched over to where Emma McChesney stood and looked up at her
“Why!” gasped Emma McChesney, and involuntarily put out her hand,
“why—my dear—you've been crying! Is there—”
“No, there ain't. I can bawl, can't I, if I
am 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.
“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—”
Swiftly Emma McChesney crossed the room and closed the door. Then
she came back to where Blanche LeHaye stood.
“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.”
Blanche LeHaye's fingers were picking at the pin which fastened her
gown. She smiled, uncertainly.
“What's your game?” she inquired.
“I'll wait for you downstairs,” said Emma McChesney, pleasantly.
“Do you ever have any luck with caramel icing? Ethel's and mine always
“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.
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
At the door—“This is Miss Blanche LeHaye of the—er—Simon—”
“Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles,” put in Miss LeHaye. “Pleased to
“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.”
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
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.
“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.”
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.
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.”
[Illustration: “'Now, Lillian Russell and cold cream is one; and
new potatoes and brown crocks is another'“]
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.
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,
“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—”
“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.”
“But there must have been a time—“ insinuated Emma McChesney,
Blanche LeHaye grinned broadly at the two women who were watching
her so intently.
“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
She shut her eyes and lay back in the depths of the
leather-cushioned chair. The three sat in silence for a moment.
“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—”
“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
Blanche LeHaye stood up and, twisting her arm around at the back,
began to unbutton her gingham apron.
“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.”
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
“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.
[Illustration: '“Why, girls, I couldn't hold down a job in a candy
“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
don't 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.”
“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.”
Emma McChesney put out her hand. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I only
meant it for—”
“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.”
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.
“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.”
VI. SIMPLY SKIRTS
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
“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.”
“Oh, say—“ objected Ed Meyers.
“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.”
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—”
“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—”
Their heads came close together over the little, rose-shaded
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
“He's in Europe,” a stenographer informed him, “spaing, and
sprudeling, and badening. Want to see T. A. Junior?”
“T. A. Junior!” almost shouted Ed Meyers. “You don't mean to tell
me that fellow's taken hold—”
me. 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.”
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.
“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,
“What are you after?”
“Why, I just dropped in—“ began Ed Meyers lamely.
“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?”
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.”
“Well?” said young T. A., with the rising inflection.
“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.
“You mean you want Mrs. McChesney's territory?” he asked quietly.
“Well, yes, I do,” confessed Ed Meyers, without a blush.
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.
“Take the second elevator down,” he said. “The nearest one's out of
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.
“That'll be about all,” observed T. A. Junior, from his desk.
Ed Meyers started toward the door. Then he paused, turned, and came
back to his chair. His heavy jaw jutted out threateningly.
“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.”
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
Ed Meyers, still standing, clutched his derby tightly and began.
“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—”
Downstairs a trim, well-dressed, attractive woman stepped into the
elevator and smiled radiantly upon the elevator man, who had smiled
“Hello, Jake,” she said. “What's old in New York? I haven't been
here in three months. It's good to be back.”
“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 you
, Mrs. McChesney. I guess that'll help some.”
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
“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.
“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.”
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.
Ed Meyers' mouth twisted itself into a smile. He put out a
“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.”
“Quit Sans-silks?” inquired Mrs. McChesney briefly.
[Illustration: “'Honestly. I'd wear it myself!'“]
“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.”
“Sing that,” said Emma McChesney. “It might sound better,” and
marched into the office marked “Private.”
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.
“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.”
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.
“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
“Say?” repeated Emma McChesney quickly. “As a woman, or a buyer?”
T. A. Junior thought a minute. “As a woman.”
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.”
T. A. Junior flung himself back in his chair and threw back his
head and laughed at the ceiling.
Then, “How old is your son?” with disconcerting suddenness.
“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.
T. A. Junior searched her face with his glowing eyes.
“Does my father know that you have a young man son? Queer you never
“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.”
“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.
Emma McChesney stood up. Her breath came a little quickly. But when
she spoke, her voice was low and almost steady.
“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.”
[Illustration: “'I've lived petticoats, I've talked petticoats,
I've dreamed petticoats—why, I've even worn the darn things!'“]
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.
“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?”
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
“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?”
“Why—no—I—to tell the truth I was only—”
“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.”
“My dear Mrs. McChesney—”
“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.”
She turned abruptly and walked toward the door. T. A. Junior
overtook her in three long strides, and placed himself directly before
“My cue,” said Emma McChesney, with a weary brightness, “to say,
'Let me pass, sir!'”
“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—
“Oh, it's all right,” said Emma McChesney indifferently.
“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—”
“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!”
“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.”
[Illustration: “And found himself addressing the backs of the
letters on the door marked 'Private'“]
“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.
VII. UNDERNEATH THE HIGH-CUT VEST
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.
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:
“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—”
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.
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.
[Illustration: “'Shut up, you blamed fool! Can't you see the lady's
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.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“How sick?” she demanded, the thermometer read.
“Oh, it won't be so bad,” said the very young doctor, with a
professionally cheerful smile.
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
“Well—a—“ hesitated the doctor, and then took shelter behind a
bristling hedge of Latin phrases. Emma McChesney hurdled it at a leap.
“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.
“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 Dry Goods Review under the caption, 'Veteran Traveling Saleswoman
Succumbs at Glen Rock,' I'll haunt the editor.” She paused a moment.
“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?”
“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.”
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 was
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 Dry Goods
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:
“Did Jock come? Did they cut off my hair?”
“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.
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,
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.
“He says he'd like to see you, if you feel able,” said Miss Haney,
the nurse, when she came up from dinner.
Emma McChesney thought a minute. “Better tell him it's catching,”
“He knows it isn't,” returned Miss Haney. “But if you don't want
“Tell him to come up,” interrupted Emma McChesney, suddenly.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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—”
“Look out!” said Emma McChesney. “You're speaking in the past
tense. Please don't. It makes me nervous.”
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.
“Son here with you, I suppose,” he asked, cheerily, sure that he
was on safe ground at last.
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.
“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?”
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.
“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.”
“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.
Miss Haney, the nurse, was already preparing to go out. It was her
regular hour for exercise. Mrs. McChesney watched her go with a
“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?”
“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—”
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—
Miss Riordon, flushed, and panting a little, burst into the room
again, sample-case in hand.
“Lordy, that's heavy! It's a wonder I haven't killed myself before
now, wrestling with those blamed things.”
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.
“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.”
Miss Riordon laughed and shook out the folds of the topmost
garment. “Nightgown!” she said, and laughed again. “Take another
“Why, what—“ began Emma McChesney.
“Shrouds!” announced Miss Riordon complacently.
“Shrouds!” shrieked Mrs. McChesney, and her elbow gave way. She
fell back on the pillow.
“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—”
“Take them away!” screamed Emma McChesney hysterically. “Take them
away! Take them away!” And buried her face in her trembling white
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.
“Jock!” cried Emma McChesney; and then, “Oh, my son, my son, my
beautiful boy!” like a woman in a play.
Jock was holding her tight, and patting her shoulder, and pressing
his healthy, glowing cheek close to hers that was so gaunt and pale.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
[Illustration: “At his gaze that lady fled, sample-case banging at
“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—”
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.
“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.”
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
“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.”
“Why, what do you mean?” Alarm, dismay, astonishment were in her
“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.”
“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.”
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:
“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—”
“Jock McChesney,” said that young man's bewildered mother, “just
what did T. A. Buck, Junior, say to you anyway?”
“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
“Any particular line, or just planning to corner the business
market generally?” came a cool, not too amused voice from the bed.
“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 Mastodon Magazine. He's crazy about it, and says it's the
greatest game ever. I want to get into it now—not four years from
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.
“Just run into the hall a second, son,” she announced. “I'm going
to get up.”
“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.
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.
[Illustration: “In the exuberance of his young strength, be picked
“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.”
“But, mother, you don't understand just why—”
“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
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—”
“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.”
VIII. CATCHING UP WITH CHRISTMAS
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
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-
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
“Emma McChesney, you ought to have been a man. With that head on a
man's shoulders, you could put us out of business.”
“I could do it anyway,” Mrs. McChesney had retorted.
Old Buck had regarded her a moment over his tortoise-shell rimmed
glasses. Then, “I believe you could,” he had said, quietly and
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.
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
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.
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
“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.
“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
“Skirts? There is no such thing,” corrected Emma McChesney gently.”
Sausage-casing business, you mean.”
“Guess you're right, at that. By the way, how's that handsome
youngster of yours? He's not traveling with you this trip?”
There came a wonderful glow into Emma McChesney's tired face.
“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
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.
“Just open that window, will you?”
“Pretty cold,” remonstrated the bell-boy. “Beginning to snow, too.”
“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.”
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.
“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—”
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!
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
“Dearest Blonde,” it began.
(“The nerve of the young imp!”)
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
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.
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
[Illustration: “She read it again, dully, as though every selfish
word had not already stamped itself on her brain and heart"]
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
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.
A waiter proffered her a long card. “Dinner, Madame?”
“Oh!” She shook her head. “Sorry I've changed my mind. I—I shan't
want any dinner.”
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.
“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
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.
Down-stairs in the lobby—“How about my trunks?” she inquired of a
That blue-shirted individual rubbed a hard brown hand over his
“They ain't come.”
“Ain't come!”—surprise disregarded grammar.
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.”
“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.”
She approached the clerk once more. “Anything at the theaters?”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
The night air was grateful to her hot forehead as she walked from
the theater to the hotel.
“Trunks in?” to the porter.
“No sign of 'em, lady. They didn't come in on the ten. Think they'd
better wire back to Dayton.”
But the next morning Mrs. McChesney was in the depot baggage-room
when Dayton wired back:
“Trunks not here. Try Columbus, Nebraska.”
“Crash!” said Emma McChesney to the surprised baggage-master.
“There goes my Haviland vegetable-dish.”
“Were you selling china?” he inquired.
“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
“Give it,” said the baggage-master.” You'll feel better. And we're
used to it.”
She gave it. When she had finished:
“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—”
“I think perhaps you're right,” said Emma McChesney slowly. “It is
“Well, anyway, we'll do our best to trace it. Guess you're in for a
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
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
“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
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.
“Talking about me, Mr. Meyers? Sufficient grounds for libel, right
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.
“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.”
“Sorry I can't wait to hear what you've said of me. This is my
floor.” Mrs. McChesney was already leaving the elevator.
“Here! Wait a minute!” Fat Ed Meyers was out and standing beside
her, his movements unbelievably nimble. “Will you have dinner with us,
“Thanks. Not to-night.”
Meyers turned to the waiting elevator. “Fromkin, you go on up with
the boy; I'll talk to the lady a minute.”
A little displeased frown appeared on Emma McChesney's face.
“You'll have to excuse me, Mr. Meyers, I—”
“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.”
He lowered his voice mysteriously in the silence of the dim hotel
“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 a, 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.”
“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
“Well, you know how I feel about your business genius.”
“Yes, I know,” enigmatically.
Ed Meyers grinned. “Can't forget those two little business
misunderstandings we had, can you?”
“Business understandings,” corrected Emma McChesney.
“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.”
“And why,” inquired Emma McChesney, “don't you grab this matchless
business opportunity yourself?”
“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?”
Emma McChesney was regarding the plump, pink, eager face before her
with keen, level, searching eyes.
“Yes,” she said slowly, “I will.”
“Cafe? We'll have a bottle—”
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.”
[Illustration: “'Not that you look your age—not by ten years!'“]
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.
“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.”
“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?'”
“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?”
“Is that a argument to put to a lady?” remonstrated Abel Fromkin.
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
“No,” said Emma McChesney wearily.
“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?”
A little steely light hardened the blue of Mrs. McChesney's eyes.
“We'll leave the firm of T. A. Buck out of this discussion,
“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
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.”
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!”
“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
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.
Christmas isn't a season. It's a feeling. And I haven't got it.”
“Oh, come now, Mrs. McChesney!” objected Ed Meyers.
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.
“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
“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.”
“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.”
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—”
Through the writing-room sounded a high-pitched, monotonous voice
with a note of inquiry in it.
“Mrs. McChesney! Mr. Fraser! Mr. Ludwig! Please! Mrs. McChesney!
Mr. Fraser! Mr. Lud—”
“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.
“Not bad news?” The two men spoke simultaneously.
“I don't know,” said Emma McChesney. “What would you say?”
She handed the slip of paper to Fat Ed Meyers. He read it in
silence. Then once more, aloud:
“'Take first train back to New York. Spalding will finish your
“Why—say—“ began Meyers.
“Why—say—this—this looks as if you were fired!”
“Does, doesn't it?” She smiled.
“Then our little agreement goes?” The two men were on their feet,
eager, alert. “That means you'll take Fromkin's offer?”
“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.”
“But that telegram—”
“It's signed, 'T. A. Buck.' I'll take a chance.”
The two men stared after her, disappointment and bewilderment
chasing across each face.
“Well, I thought I knew women, but—“ began Ed Meyers fluently.
Passing the desk, Mrs. McChesney heard her name. She glanced toward
the clerk. He was just hanging up the telephone-receiver.
“Baggage-room says the depot just notified 'em your trunks were
traced to Columbia City. They're on their way here now.”
“Columbia City!” repeated Emma McChesney. “Do you know, I believe
I've learned to hate the name of the discoverer of this fair land.”
Up in her room she opened the crumpled telegram again, and regarded
it thoughtfully before she began to pack her bag.
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.
“Mr. Buck's waiting for you,” a stenographer told her.
Mrs. McChesney opened the door of the office marked “Private.”
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.
The two clasped hands—a firm, sincere, understanding grip.
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.”
“I shall consider it a privilege,” said Emma McChesney.
Mr. Beggs waved her toward a chair. She took it in silence. She
heard him in silence, his sonorous voice beating upon her brain.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
[Illustration: “'Christmas isn't a season...it's a feeling, and,
thank God, I've got it!'“]
“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.”
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.”
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:
Changed my darn fool mind. Me for home and mother.
Emma McChesney looked up, her face radiant.
“Christmas isn't a season, Mr. Buck. It's a feeling; and, thank
God, I've got it!”
IX. KNEE-DEEP IN KNICKERS
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.
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.
He turned to face Emma McChesney.
“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.”
Mrs. Emma McChesney, calm, cool, unruffled, scrutinized the
harassed man before her for a long minute.
“What rotten football material you would have made, wouldn't you?”
“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
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.
“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.”
“Pride! It isn't that.”
“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.”
“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?”
T. A. shrugged impotent shoulders. “Figures don't lie.” He plunged
into another fathom of gloom. “Another year like this and we're done
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.
“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.”
T. A. Buck seated himself as one who is weary, body and mind.
“Got another new one?”
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
“Look at 'em!” she commanded, disgust in her voice. “Look at 'em!”
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.
“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.”
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
“That's just it. They don't wear 'em. There you have the root of
the whole trouble.”
“Oh, nonsense!” disputed T. A. “They certainly wear something—some
sort of an—”
“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.”
“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.”
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
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.
“I thought,” he said listlessly, “that you and I had tried every
possible scheme to stimulate the skirt trade.”
“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
The lines about T. A. Buck's mouth relaxed into a grim smile.
“Remember that feature you got them to run in the
The one headed 'Are Skirts Growing Fuller, and Where?'”
“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.”
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.”
A little laugh rippled up to Emma McChesney's lips, only to die
away to a sigh. She shook her head in sorrowful remembrance.
“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
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!”
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, women are still wearing 'em tight, and going
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
“Why, look at that!” he exclaimed, and pointed with one eager
“Mercy!” screamed Emma McChesney. “What is it? Quick! A mouse?”
T. A. Buck shook his head, impatiently. “Mouse! Lord, no! Plaits!”
She looked down, bewildered.
“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—”
“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.”
Buck spread his palms with a little gesture of utter futility.
“I'm through. Out with your scheme. We're ready for it. It's our
last card, whatever it is.”
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.
“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.”
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,
“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.”
“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-
“We'll have lunch together, eh? And talk it over then sociably.”
Mrs. McChesney closed the glass door of the case with a bang.
“No, thanks. My office at 9:30.”
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—”
“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.”
“That's no reason,” grumbled T. A. “That's an excuse.”
“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.
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
“'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.”
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.
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.
“Good Lord! It looks as though you had stayed down here all night.”
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.
“Haven't you seen the morning paper?”
“Just a mere glance at 'em. Picked up Burrows on the way down, and
we got to talking. Why?”
“The Rasmussen-Welsh Skirt Company has failed. Liabilities three
hundred thousand. Assets one hundred thousand.”
“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.”
“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.”
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
“Are you as sure of this scheme of yours as you were yesterday?”
“Sure,” replied Emma McChesney, briskly. Sartin-sure.”
“Then fire away.”
Mrs. McChesney leaned forward, breathing a trifle fast. Her eyes
were fastened on her listener.
“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—”
T. A. Buck stared, open-mouthed, the paper on which he had been
scrawling fluttering unnoticed to the floor.
“Look here!” he interrupted. “Is this supposed to be humorous?”
“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—”
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—”
“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.”
“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
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.
“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—”
“Never!” shouted T. A. Buck, white and shaking. “Never! This firm
has always had a name for dignity, solidness, conservatism—”
“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.”
“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—”
“All unreasonable men say that,” smiled Emma McChesney.
“—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—”
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.
“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.”
She lifted out a dainty, shell-pink garment, and shook it out
before the half-interested, half-unwilling eyes of T. A. Buck.
“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.”
T. A. Buck eyed the garments with a grudging admiration.
“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—”
Emma McChesney stepped to the door of the tiny wash-room off her
office and threw it open.
“Miss La Noyes! We're ready for you.”
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.
“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
Miss La Noyes bowed slightly and rested one white hand at her side
in an attitude of nonchalant ease.
“Pleased, I'm shaw!” she said, in a clear, high voice.
And, “Charmed,” replied T. A. Buck, his years and breeding standing
him in good stead now.
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—”
“Do you mean to tell me,” burst from the long-pent T. A. Buck,
“that you wear 'em too?”
“Crazy about 'em. Miss La Noyes, will you just slip on your street
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.”
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.
“Wait a minute,” he murmured, almost pleadingly. “Let me ask a
couple of questions, will you?”
“Questions? A hundred. That proves you're interested.”
“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?”
Miss La Noyes' answer came trippingly and without hesitation. She
did not even have to feel of her back hair first.
“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.”
“Next!” urged Mrs. McChesney, pleasantly.
But T. A. Buck shook his head. “That's all. Only—”
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.”
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-
“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.”
[Illustration: “'No man will ever appreciate the fine points of
this little garment, but the women—!'“]
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.
“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.”
Emma McChesney's hair was slightly tousled. Her cheeks were
carmine. Her eyes glowed.
“Don't you see! Don't you get it! Can't you feel how the thing's
going to take hold?”
“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—”
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.”
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.”
“That's enough for the present,” answered Emma McChesney, briskly.
“Well, now, suppose we talk machinery and girls, and cutters for a
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.
“What's the trouble?” inquired T. A. Buck, squinting up at her
through a cloud of cigar smoke.
“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.
“'Morning! When do you start out?” she asked him.
“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—”
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.”
Spalding drew a sibilant breath. “I'll be there!” he grinned. “I'll
But he wasn't. At eight the next morning there burst upon Mrs.
McChesney a distraught T. A. Buck.
“Hear about Spalding?” he demanded.
“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
“Poor kid,” replied Emma McChesney. “Rough on him and his brand-new
“Poor kid! Yes. But how about his territory? How about our new
line? How about—”
“Oh, that's all right,” said Emma McChesney, cheerfully.
“I'd like to know how! We haven't a man equal to the territory.
He's our one best bet.”
“Oh, that's all right,” said Mrs. McChesney again, smoothly.
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,
“I'm going out with that line. I'm going to leave a trail of
pajamas and knickerbockers from Duluth to Canton.”
“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
“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
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.”
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.
[Illustration: “Emma McChesney... I believe in you now! Dad and I
both believe in you'“]
“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?”
She was out of the office before he had time to answer, leaving him
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
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.
“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.”
X. IN THE ABSENCE OF THE AGENT
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.
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.
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.
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.
[Illustration: “It had been a whirlwind day"]
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.
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.
“Hello!” said T. A. Buck. “Whither?” and laid a sheaf of
businesslike- looking papers on the top of Mrs. McChesney's well
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.
Then, “Playing hooky,” she said. “Go 'way.”
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.”
Emma McChesney adjusted her furs. “As secretary of said firm I rise
to state that you're not invited.”
T. A. Buck, hands in pockets, stood surveying the bright-eyed woman
before him. The pleasurable expression had returned to his face.
“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.”
Mrs. McChesney unconcernedly fastened the clasp of her smart
“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.”
A frown of annoyance appeared between T. A. Buck's remarkably fine
eyes. He came over to Mrs. McChesney and looked down at her.
“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
“Only bricklayers can take an hour for lunch,” retorted Emma
McChesney. “When you get to be a lady captain of finance you can't
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.
T. A. Buck drew a long breath as he looked at her.
“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—”
Emma McChesney glanced down at the shining skins of muff and scarf.
She stroked them gently and lovingly with her gloved hand.
“M-m-m-m! These semi-precious furs
satisfactory—until you see a woman in sealskin and sables. Then you
want to use 'em for a hall rug.”
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.
“Sables and sealskin,” repeated T. A. Buck, his voice vibrant. “If
it's those you want, you can—”
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.
“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.”
“Oh, that's your appointment!” Relief was evident in T. A. Buck's
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.”
They were walking down the corridor together.
“Take me along—please!” pleaded T. A. Buck, like a boy. “I know
all about flats, and gas-stoves, and meters, and plumbing, and
“You!” scoffed Emma McChesney, “with your five-story house and your
summer home in the mountains!”
“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,
“I think the car's downstairs. We'll run up in it. What's the
address? Seventies, I suppose?”
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.”
T. . Buck smiled with engaging agreeableness. “Subway it is,” he
said. “Your presence would turn even a Bronx train into a
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.
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.”
“Don't let 'em fool you,” answered Emma McChesney,
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.”
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.
“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—”
The glittering little jewel-box of an elevator was taking them
higher and higher. The agent stared hard at T. A. Buck.
Mrs. McChesney followed his gaze. “My business associate, Mr. T. A.
Buck,” she said grimly.
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.
“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.
“I knew it couldn't last,” he said.
“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.
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.
Emma McChesney surveyed him wide-eyed. The agent, unruffled,
continued to talk on his way to the telephone.
“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.
Emma McChesney looked troubled. She stood in the doorway, head on
one side, as one who conjures up a mental picture.
“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.”
“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.
Emma McChesney swept the infinitesimal room with a large gesture.
“Considering it as a kitchen, not as a locker, does it strike you
as being adequate?”
T. A. Buck, standing in the center of the room, touched all four
walls with his stick.
“I've heard,” he ventured, “that they're—ah—using 'em small this
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.”
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.
“As for a turkey,” wailed Emma McChesney, “one would have to go out
on the fire-escape to baste it.”
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—”
“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.”
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
“It's gone, isn't it?” she asked.
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.
“It's a poor piece of glass,” he announced at last.
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.
“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.”
“I'm sorry,” stammered T. A. Buck. “You asked my opinion and I—”
“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—”
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.
“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
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
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.”
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.
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.
“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—”
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:
“—and full-length mirrors, and wonderful folding table-shelf
gimcracks in the kitchen, and—”
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.
“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!”
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.
“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.”
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
“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—”
There was something almost fine in the lines of T. A. Buck's too
feminine mouth and chin; but not fine enough.
“Now, Emma,” he repeated, “will you marry me?”
Emma McChesney's eyes were a wonderful thing to see, so full of
pain were they, so wide with unshed tears.
“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!'”
[Illustration: “'Emma.' he said, 'will you marry me?'“]
T. A. Buck took the hand that covered her eyes and brought it
“Emma,” he said, “will you marry me?”
“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.”
“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
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.”
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
“Welcome—home!” she cried. “Sketch in the furniture to suit
“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?”
[Illustration: “'Welcome home!' she cried. 'Sketch in the furniture
to suit yourself'“]
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.
“Jock, what's happened?”
Jock whirled around like a cat. “Where? When? What?”
Emma McChesney pointed at him with one shaking finger. “You! You're
thin! You're—you're emaciated. Your shoulders, where are they? Your—
Jock looked down at himself. His glance was pride. “Clothes,” he
“Clothes?” faltered his mother.
“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.
“Do you mean to tell me that's your present form of locomotion?”
demanded his mother.
“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.”
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.
“Go on—laugh!” said Jock. “Say, Mother, is there a shower in the
bathroom, h'm?” And was off to investigate.
The laughter trailed away into nothingness. “Jock,” called his
mother, “do you want your bedroom done in plain or stripes?”
“Plain,” came from the regions beyond. “Got a lot of pennants and
T. A. Buck picked up his stick from the corner in which it stood.
“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.”
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.”
T. A. Buck had the courage to smile even at that. Emma McChesney
was watching him, her clear eyes troubled, anxious.
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.”
“Fine idea—fine!” agreed Emma McChesney; but her eyes still wore
the troubled look.
“Good-by,” said T. A. Buck abruptly.
“Good—“ and then she stopped. “I've a brand-new idea. Give you
something to worry about on your vacation.”
“I'm supplied,” answered T. A. Buck grimly.
“Nonsense! A real worry. A business worry. A surprise.”
Jock had joined them, and was towering over his mother, her hand in
T. A. Buck regarded them moodily. “After your pajama and
knickerbocker stunt I'm braced for anything.”
“Nothing theatrical this time,” she assured him. “Don't expect a
show such as you got when I touched off the last fuse.”
An eager, expectant look was replacing the gloom that bad clouded
his face. “Spring it.”
Emma McChesney waited a moment; then, “I think the time has come to
put in another line—a staple. It's—flannel nightgowns.”
“Flannel nightgowns!” Disgust shivered through Buck's voice. “
Flannel nightgowns! They quit wearing those when Broadway was a
“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.”
The moody look was quite absent from T. A. Buck's face now, and the
troubled look from Emma McChesney's eyes.
“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
“Think it over,” laughed Emma McChesney as he opened the door.
“We'll have it out, tooth and nail, when you get back.”
The door closed upon him. Emma McChesney and her son were left
alone in their new home to be.
“Turn out the light, son,” said Emma McChesney, “and come to the
window. There's a view! Worth the money, alone.”
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
“He's forty or over, isn't he?”
“Son, do you realize your charming mother's thirty-nine?”
“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.”
In the twilight Emma McChesney turned to stare at her son. “Just
where did you learn all that, young 'un? At college?”
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.
It caught those two home-hungry people. And it opened the lips of
one of them almost against his will.
“Mother,” said Jock haltingly, painfully, “I came mighty near
coming home—for good—this time.”
His mother turned and searched his face in the dim light.
“What was it, Jock?” she asked, quite without fuss.
The slim young figure in the jumping juvenile clothes stirred and
tried to speak, tried again, formed the two words: “A—girl.”
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.
“Why, Mother—that girl—“ There was an agony of bitterness and of
disillusioned youth in his voice.
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.
“That girl—“ she echoed encouragingly.
And, “That girl,” went on Jock, taking up the thread of his grief,
“why, Mother, that—girl—”