by Edna Ferber
V
THE SELF-STARTER
There is nothing in the sound of the shrill little bell to warn usof the import of its message. More's the pity. It may be that borewhose telephone conversation begins: "Well, what do you knowto-day?" It may be your lawyer to say you've inherited a million.Hence the arrogance of the instrument. It knows its voice willnever wilfully go unanswered so long as the element of chance liesconcealed within it.
Mrs. Emma McChesney heard the call of her telephone across thehall. Seated in the office of her business partner, T.A. Buck, shewas fathoms deep in discussion of the T.A. Buck FeatherloomPetticoat Company's new spring line. The buzzer's insistentvoice brought her to her feet, even while she frowned at theinterruption.
"That'll be Baumgartner 'phoning about those silk swatches. Backin a minute," said Emma McChesney and hurried across the hall justin time to break the second call.
The perfunctory "Hello! Yes" was followed by a swift change ofcountenance, a surprised little cry, then,--in quite anothertone--"Oh, it's you, Jock! I wasn't expecting ... No, not toobusy to talk to you, you young chump! Go on." A moment of silence,while Mrs. McChesney's face smiled and glowed like a girl's as shelistened to the voice of her son. Then suddenly glow and smilefaded. She grew tense. Her head, that had been leaning socarelessly on the hand that held the receiver, came up with ajerk. "Jock McChesney!" she gasped, "you--why, you don't mean!--"
Now, Emma McChesney was not a woman given to jerky conversations,interspersed with exclamation points. Her poise and balance hadbecome a proverb in the business world. Yet her lips weretrembling now. Her eyes were very round and bright. Her face hadflushed, then grown white. Her voice shook a little. "Yes, ofcourse I am. Only, I'm so surprised. Yes, I'll be home early.Five-thirty at the latest."
She hung up the receiver with a little fumbling gesture. Her handdropped to her lap, then came up to her throat a moment, droppedagain. She sat staring straight ahead with eyes that saw onethousand miles away.
From his office across the hall T.A. Buck strolled in casually.
"Did Baumgartner say he'd--?" He stopped as Mrs. McChesney lookedup at him. A quick step forward--"What's the matter, Emma?"
"Jock--Jock--"
"Jock! What's happened to the boy?" Then, as she still stared athim, her face pitiful, his hand patted her shoulder. "Dear girl,tell me." He bent over her, all solicitude.
"Don't!" said Emma McChesney faintly, and shook off his hand."Your stenographer can see--What will the office think? Please--"
"Oh, darn the stenographer! What's this bad news of Jock?"
Emma McChesney sat up. She smiled a little nervously and passedher handkerchief across her lips. "I didn't say it was bad, did I?That is, not exactly bad, I suppose."
T.A. Buck ran a frenzied hand over his head. "My dear child,"with careful politeness, "will you please try to be sane? I findyou sitting at your desk, staring into space, your face white as aghost's, your whole appearance that of a person who has received adeath-blow. And then you say, 'Not exactly bad'!"
"It's this," explained Emma McChesney in a hollow tone: "The Berg,Shriner Advertising Company has appointed Jock manager of theirnew Western branch. They're opening offices in Chicago in March."Her lower lip quivered. She caught it sharply between her teeth.
For one surprised moment T.A. Buck stared in silence. Then a roarbroke from him. "Not exactly bad!" he boomed between laughs. "Notexactly b--Not ex_act_ly, eh?" Then he was off again.
Mrs. McChesney surveyed him in hurt and dignified silence.Then--"Well, really, T.A., don't mind me. What you find soexquisitely funny--"
"That's the funniest part of it! That you, of all people,shouldn't see the joke. Not exactly bad!" He wiped his eyes. "Why,do you mean to tell me that because your young cub of a son, by aheaven-sent stroke of good fortune, has landed a job that mentwice his age would give their eyeteeth to get, I find you sittingat the telephone looking as if he had run off with Annie the cook,or had had a leg cut off!"
"I suppose it is funny. Only, the joke's on me. That's why I can'tsee it. It means that I'm losing him."
"That's the first selfish word I've ever heard you utter."
"Oh, don't think I'm not happy at his success. Happy! Haven't Ihoped for it, and worked for it, and prayed for it! Haven't Isaved for it, and skimped for it! How do you think I could havestood those years on the road if I hadn't kept up courage with thethought that it was all for him? Don't I know how narrowly Jockescaped being the wrong kind! I'm his mother, but I'm not quiteblind. I know he had the making of a first-class cad. I've seenhim start off in the wrong direction a hundred times."
"If he has turned out a success, it's because you've steered himright. I've watched you make him over. And now, when his bigchance has come, you--"
"I don't expect you to understand," interrupted Emma McChesney alittle wearily. "I know it sounds crazy and unreasonable. There'sonly one sort of human being who could understand what I mean.That's a woman with a son." She laughed a little shamefacedly."I'm talking like the chorus of a minor-wail sob song, but it'sthe truth."
"If you feel like that, Emma, tell him to stay. The boy wouldn'tgo if he thought it would make you unhappy."
"Not go!" cried Emma McChesney sharply. "I'd like to see him dareto refuse it!"
"Well then, what in--" began Buck, bewildered.
"Don't try to understand it, T.A. It's no use. Don't try to pokeyour finger into the whirligig they call 'Woman's Sphere.' Itsmechanism is too complicated. It's the same quirk that makes womenpray for daughters and men for sons. It's the same kink that makeswomen read the marriage and death notices first in a newspaper.It's the same queer strain that causes a mother to lavish the mostlove on the weakest, wilfullest child. Perhaps I wouldn't haveloved Jock so much if there hadn't been that streak of yellow inhim, and if I hadn't had to work so hard to dilute it until nowit's only a faint cream color. There ought to be a special prayerfor women who are bringing up their sons alone."
Buck stirred a little uneasily. "I've never heard you talk likethis before."
"You probably never will again." She swung round to her desk.
T.A. Buck, strolling toward the door, still wore the puzzled look.
"I don't know what makes you take this so seriously. Of course,the boy will be a long way off. But then, you've been separatedfrom him before. What's the difference now?"
"T.A.," said Emma McChesney solemnly, "Jock will be drawing aman-size salary now. Something tells me I'll be a grandmother inanother two years. Girls aren't letting men like Jock run aroundloose. He'll be gobbled up. Just you wait."
"Oh, I don't know," drawled Buck mischievously. "You've just saidhe's a headstrong young cub. He strikes me as the kind who'draise the dickens if his three-minute egg happened to be fiveseconds overtime."
Emma McChesney swung around in her chair. "Look here, T.A. Asbusiness partners we've quarreled about everything from silksamples to traveling men, and as friends we've wrangled on everysubject from weather to war. I've allowed you to criticise my soultheories, and my new spring hat. But understand that I'm the onlyliving person who has the right to villify my son, JockMcChesney."
The telephone buzzed a punctuation to this period.
"Baumgartner?" inquired Buck humbly.
She listened a moment, then, over her shoulder,"Baumgartner,"--grimly, her hand covering the mouthpiece--"andif he thinks that he can work off a lot of last year's silkswatches on--Hello! Yes, Mrs. McChesney talking. Look here, Mr.Baumgartner--"
And for the time being Emma McChesney, mother, was relegated tothe background, while Emma McChesney, secretary of the T.A. BuckFeatherloom Petticoat Company, held the stage.
Having said that she would be home at five-thirty. Mrs. McChesneywas home at five-thirty, being that kind of a person. Jock camein at six, breathless, bright-eyed, eager, and late, being thatkind of a person.
He found his mother on the floor before the chiffonier in hisbedroom, surrounded by piles of pajamas, socks, shirts andc
ollars.
"He found his mother on the floor ... surrounded by piles of pajamas, socks, shirts and collars"]
He swooped down upon her from the doorway. "What do you think ofyour blue-eyed boy! Poor, eh?"
Emma McChesney looked up absently. "Jock, these medium-weights ofyours didn't wear at all, and you paid five dollars for them."
"Medium-weights! What in--"
"You've enough silk socks to last you the rest of your naturallife. Handkerchiefs, too. But you'll need pajamas."
Jock stooped, gathered up an armful of miscellaneous undergarmentsand tossed them into an open drawer. Then he shut the drawer witha bang, reached over, grasped his mother firmly under the arms andbrought her to her feet with a swing.
"We will now consider the question of summer underwear ended.Would it bore you too much to touch lightly on the subject of yourson's future?"
Emma McChesney, tall, straight, handsome, looked up at her son,taller, straighter, handsomer. Then she took him by the coatlapels and hugged him.
"You were so bursting with your own glory that I couldn't resistteasing you. Besides, I had to do something to keep my mindoff--off--"
"Why, Blonde dear, you're not--!"
"No, I'm not," gulped Emma McChesney. "Don't flatter yourself,young 'un. Tell me just how it happened. From the beginning." Sheperched at the side of the bed. Jock, hands in pockets, hair alittle rumpled, paced excitedly up and down before her as hetalked.
"There wasn't any beginning. That's the stunning part of it. Ijust landed right into the middle of it with both feet. I knewthey had been planning to start a big Western branch. But we allthought they'd pick some big man for it. There are plenty ofmedium-class dubs to be had. The kind that answers the ad:'Manager wanted, young man, preferably married, able to furnishA-1 reference.' They're as thick as advertising men in Detroit onMonday morning. But we knew that this Western branch was going tobe given an equal chance with the New York office. Those bigWestern advertisers like to give their money to Western firms ifthey can. So we figured that they'd pick a real top-notcher--evenHopper, or Hupp, maybe--and start out with a bang. So when the OldMan called me into his office this morning I was as unconscious asa babe. Well, you know Berg. He's as unexpected as a summer showerand twice as full of electricity.
"'Morning, McChesney!' he said. 'That a New York necktie you'rewearing?'
"'Strictly,' says I.
"'Ever try any Chicago ties?'
"'Not from choice. That time my suit case went astray--'
"'M-m-m-m, yes.' He drummed his fingers on the table top a coupleof times. Then--McChesney, what have you learned about advertisingin the last two and a half years?'
"I was wise enough as to Bartholomew Berg to know that he didn'tmean any cut-and-dried knowledge. He didn't mean rules of thegame. He meant tricks.
"'Well,' I said, 'I've learned to watch a man's eyes when I'mtalking business to him. If the pupils of his eyes dilate he'slistening to you, and thinking about what you're saying. When theycontract it means that he's only faking interest, even though he'slooking straight at you and wearing a rapt expression. Histhoughts are miles away.'
"'That so?' said Berg, and sort of grinned. 'What else?'
"'I've learned that one negative argument is worth six positiveones; that it never pays to knock your competitor; that it's wiseto fight shy of that joker known as "editorial cooeperation."'
"'That so?' said Berg. 'Anything else?'
"I made up my mind I could play the game as long as he could.
"'I've learned not to lose my temper when I'm in the middle of awhite-hot, impassioned business appeal and the office boy bouncesin to say to the boss: "Mrs. Jones is waiting. She says you weregoing to help her pick out wall paper this morning;" and Jonessays, "Tell her I'll be there in five minutes."'
"'Sure you've learned that?' said Berg.
"'Sure,' says I. 'And I've learned to let the other fellow thinkyour argument's his own. He likes it. I've learned that thesurest kind of copy is the slow, insidious kind, like theFeatherloom Petticoat Company's campaign. That was an idealcampaign because it didn't urge and insist that the public buyFeatherlooms. It just eased the idea to them. It started bysketching a history of the petticoat, beginning with Eve's figleaf and working up. Before they knew it they were interested.'
"'That so? That campaign was your mother's idea, McChesney.' Youknow, Mother, he thinks you're a wonder."
"So I am," agreed Emma McChesney calmly. "Go on."
"Well, I went on. I told him that I'd learned to stand so that thelight wouldn't shine in my client's eyes when I was talking tohim. I lost a big order once because the glare from the windowirritated the man I was talking to. I told Berg all the tricks I'dlearned, and some I hadn't thought of till that minute. Berg putin a word now and then. I thought he was sort of guying me, as hesometimes does--not unkindly, you know, but in that quiet way hehas. Finally I stopped for breath, or something, and he said:
"'Now let me talk a minute, McChesney. Anybody can teach you theessentials of the advertising business, if you've any advertisinginstinct in you. But it's what you pick up on the side, by yourown efforts and out of your own experience, that lifts you out ofthe scrub class. Now I don't think you're an ideal advertising manby any means, McChesney. You're shy on training and experience,and you've just begun to acquire that golden quality known asbalance. I could name a hundred men that are better all-aroundadvertising men than you will ever be. Those men have advertisingability that glows steadily and evenly, like a well-banked fire.But you've got the kind of ability that flares up, dies down,flares up. But every flare is a real blaze that lights things redwhile it lasts, and sends a new glow through the veins ofbusiness. You've got personality, and youth, and enthusiasm, and aprecious spark of the real thing known as advertising genius.There's no describing it. You know what I mean. Also, youknow enough about actual advertising not to run an ad for afive-thousand-dollar motor car in the "Police Gazette." All ofwhich leads up to this question: How would you like to buy yourneckties in Chicago, McChesney?'
"'Chicago!' I blurted.
"'We've taken a suite of offices in the new Lakeview Building onMichigan Avenue. Would you like your office done in mahogany oroak?'"
Jock came to a full stop before his mother. His cheeks werescarlet. Hers were pale. He was breathing quickly. She was veryquiet. His eyes glowed. So did hers, but the glow was dimmed by amist.
"Mahogany's richer, but make it oak, son. It doesn't showfinger-marks so." Then, quite suddenly, she stood up, shaking alittle, and buried her face in the boy's shoulder.
"Why--why, Mother! Don't! Don't, Blonde. We'll see each otherevery few weeks. I'll be coming to New York to see the sights,like the rest of the rubes, and I suppose the noise and lightswill confuse me so that I'll be glad to get back to the sylvanquiet of Chicago. And then you'll run out there, eh? We'll haveregular bats, Mrs. Mack. Dinner and the theater and supper! Yes?"
"Yes," said Emma McChesney, in muffled tones that totally lackedenthusiasm.
"Chicago's really only a suburb of New York, anyway, these days,and--"
Emma McChesney's head came up sharply. "Look here, son. If you'regoing to live in Chicago I advise you to cut that suburb talk, andsort of forget New York. Chicago's quite a village, for an inlandsettlement, even if it has only two or three million people, and alake as big as all outdoors. That kind of talk won't elect you tothe University Club, son."
So they talked, all through supper and during the evening. Rather,Jock talked and his mother listened, interrupting with only anoccasional remark when the bubble of the boy's elation seemed togrow too great.
Quite suddenly Jock was silent. After the almost incessant rush ofconversation quiet settled down strangely on the two seated therein the living-room with its soft-shaded lamps. Jock picked up amagazine, twirled its pages, put it down, strolled into his ownroom, and back again.
"Mother," he said suddenly, standing before her, "there was atime when you were afraid I
wasn't going to pan out, wasn'tthere?"
"Not exactly afraid, dear, just a little doubtful, perhaps."
Jock smiled a tolerant, forgiving smile. "You see, Mother, youdidn't understand, that's all. A woman doesn't. I was all right. Aman would have realized that. I don't mean, dear, that you haven'talways been wonderful, because you have. But it takes a man tounderstand a man. When you thought I was going bad on your hands Iwas just developing, that's all. Remember that time in Chicago,Mother?"
"Yes," answered Emma McChesney, "I remember."
"Now a man would have understood that that was only kidfoolishness. If a fellow's got the stuff in him it'll show up,sooner or later. If I hadn't had it in me I wouldn't be going toChicago as manager of the Berg, Shriner Western office, would I?"
"No, dear."
Jock looked at her. In an instant he was all contrition andtenderness. "You're tired. I've talked you to death, haven't I?Lordy, it's midnight! And I want to get down early to-morrow.Conference with Mr. Berg, and Hupp." He tried not to sound tooimportant.
Emma McChesney took his head between her two hands and kissed himonce on the lips, then, standing a-tiptoe, kissed his eyelids withinfinite gentleness as you kiss a baby's eyes. Then she broughthis cheek up against hers. And so they stood for a moment,silently.
Ten minutes later there came the sound of blithe whistling fromJock's room. Jock always whistled when he went to bed and when herose. Even these years of living in a New York apartment hadnot broken him of the habit. It was a cheerful, disconnectedwhistling, sometimes high and clear, sometimes under the breath,sometimes interspersed with song, and sometimes ceasing altogetherat critical moments, say, during shaving, or while bringing thefour-in-hand up tight and snug under the collar. It was one ofthose comfortable little noises that indicate a masculinepresence; one of those pleasant, reassuring, man-in-the-housenoises that every woman loves.
Emma McChesney, putting herself to bed in her room across thehall, found herself listening, brush poised, lips parted, asthough to the exquisite strains of celestial music. There came thethump of a shoe on the floor. An interval of quiet. Then anotherthump. Without having been conscious of it, Emma McChesney hadgrown to love the noises that accompanied Jock's retiring andrising. His dressing was always signalized by bangings andthumpings. His splashings in the tub were tremendous. His morningplunge could be heard all over the six-room apartment. Mrs.McChesney used to call gayly through the door:
"Mercy, Jock! You sound like a school of whales coming up forair."
"You'll think I'm a school of sharks when it comes to breakfast,"Jock would call back. "Tell Annie to make enough toast, Mum. She'sthe tightest thing with the toast I ever did--"
The rest would be lost in a final surging splash.
The noises in the room across the hall had subsided now. Shelistened more intently. No, a drawer banged. Another. Then:
"Hasn't my gray suit come back from the tailor's?"
"It was to be sponged, too, you know. He said he'd bring itWednesday. This is Tuesday."
"Oh!" Another bang. Then: '"Night, Mother!"
"Good night, dear." Creaking sounds, then a long, comfortable sighof complete relaxation.
Emma McChesney went on with her brushing. She brushed her hairwith the usual number of swift even strokes, from the top of theshining head to the waist. She braided her hair into two plaits,Gretchen fashion. Millions of scanty-locked women would have givenall they possessed to look as Emma McChesney looked standing therein kimono and gown. She nicked out the light. Then she, too,relaxed upon her pillow with a little sigh. Quiet fell on thelittle apartment. The street noises came up to her, now roaring,now growing faint. Emma McChesney lay there sleepless. She layflat, hands clasped across her breast, her braids spread out onthe pillow. In the darkness of the room the years rolled beforeher in panorama: her girlhood, her marriage, her unhappiness,Jock, the divorce, the struggle for work, those ten years on theroad. Those ten years on the road! How she had hated them--andloved them. The stuffy trains, the jarring sleepers, the barelittle hotel bedrooms, the bad food, the irregular hours, theloneliness, the hard work, the disappointments, the temptations.Yes but the fascination of it, the dear friends she had made, thegreat human lesson of it all! And all for Jock. That Jock mighthave good schools, good clothes, good books, good surroundings,happy times. Why, Jock had been the reason for it all! She hadswallowed insult because of Jock. She had borne the drudgerybecause of Jock. She had resisted temptation, smiled underhardship, worked, fought, saved, succeeded, all because of Jock.And now this pivot about which her whole life had revolved was tobe pulled up, wrenched away.
Over Emma McChesney, lying there in the dark, there swept one ofthose unreasoning night-fears. The fear of living. The fear oflife. A straining of the eyeballs in the dark. The pounding ofheart-beats.
She sat up in bed. Her hands went to her face. Her cheeks wereburning and her eyes smarted. She felt that she must see Jock. Atonce. Just to be near him. To touch him. To take him in her arms,with his head in the hollow of her breast, as she used to when hewas a baby. Why, he had been a baby only yesterday. And now he wasa man. Big enough to stand alone, to live alone, to do withouther.
Emma McChesney flung aside the covers and sprang out of bed. Shethrust her feet in slippers, groped for the kimono at the foot ofthe bed and tiptoed to the door. She listened. No sound from theother room. She stole across the hall, stopped, listened, gainedthe door. It was open an inch or more. Just to be near him, toknow that he lay there, sleeping! She pushed the door very, verygently. Then she stood in the doorway a moment, scarcelybreathing, her head thrust forward, her whole body tense withlistening. She could not hear him breathe! She caught her breathagain in that unreasoning fear and took a quick step forward.
"Stop or I'll shoot!" said a voice. Simultaneously the lightflashed on. Emma McChesney found herself blinking at a determinedyoung man who was steadily pointing a short, chubby, businesslikelooking steel affair in her direction. Then the hand that held thesteel dropped.
"What is this, anyway?" demanded Jock rather crossly. "A GeorgeCohan comedy?"
Emma McChesney leaned against the foot of the bed rather weakly.
"What did you think--"
"What would you think if you heard some one come sneaking alongthe hall, stopping, listening, sneaking to your door, and thenopening it, and listening again, and sneaking in? What would youthink it was? How did I know you were going around making socialcalls at two o'clock in the morning!"
Suddenly Emma McChesney began to laugh. She leaned over thefootboard and laughed hysterically, her head in her arms. Jockstared a moment in offended disapproval. Then the humor of itcaught him, and he buried his head in his pillow to stifleunseemly shrieks. His legs kicked spasmodically beneath thebedclothes.
As suddenly as she had begun to laugh Mrs. McChesney became verysober.
"Stop it, Jock! Tell me, why weren't you sleeping?"
"I don't know," replied Jock, as suddenly solemn. "I--sortof--began to think, and I couldn't sleep."
"What were you thinking of?"
Jock looked down at the bedclothes and traced a pattern with oneforefinger on the sheet. Then he looked up.
"Thinking of you."
"Oh!" said Emma McChesney, like a bashful schoolgirl. "Of--me!"
Jock sat up very straight and clasped his hands about his knees."I got to thinking of what I had said about having made good allalone. That's rot. It isn't so. I was striped with yellow like astick of lemon candy. If I've got this far, it's all because ofyou. I've been thinking all along that I was the original electricself-starter, when you've really had to get out and crank me everyfew miles."
Into Emma McChesney's face there came a wonderful look. It was thesort of look with which a newly-made angel might receive hercrown and harp. It was the look with which a war-hero sees themedal pinned on his breast. It was the look of one who has comeinto her Reward. Therefore:
"What nonsense!" said Emma McChesney. "If you hadn't had it i
nyou, it wouldn't have come out."
"It wasn't in me, in the first place," contested Jock stubbornly."You planted it."
From her stand at the foot of the bed she looked at him, her eyesglowing brighter and brighter with that wonderful look.
"Now see here,"--severely--"I want you to go to sleep. I don'tintend to stand here and dispute about your ethical innards atthis hour. I'm going to kiss you again."
"Oh, well, if you must," grinned Jock resignedly, and folded herin a bear-hug.
To Emma McChesney it seemed that the next three weeks leaped by,not by days, but in one great bound. And the day came when alittle, chattering, animated group clustered about the slim youngchap who was fumbling with his tickets, glancing at his watch,signaling a porter for his bags, talking, laughing, trying to hidethe pangs of departure under a cloak of gayety and badinage thatdeceived no one. Least of all did it deceive the two women whostood there. The eyes of the older woman never left his face. Theeyes of the younger one seldom were raised to his, but she saw hisevery expression. Once Emma McChesney's eyes shifted a little soas to include both the girl and the boy in her gaze. Grace Galt inher blue serge and smart blue hat was worth a separate glance.
Sam Hupp was there, T.A. Buck, Hopper, who was to be with him inChicago for the first few weeks, three or four of the younger menin the office, frankly envious and heartily congratulatory.
They followed him to his train, all laughter and animation.
"If this train doesn't go in two minutes," said Jock, "I'll getscared and chuck the whole business. Funny, but I'm not so keen ongoing as I was three weeks ago."
His eyes rested on the girl in the blue serge and the smart hat.Emma McChesney saw that. She saw that his eyes still rested thereas he stood on the observation platform when the train pulled out.The sight did not pain her as she thought it would. There wassuccess in every line of him as he stood there, hat in hand. Therewas assurance in every breath of him. His clothes, his skin, hisclear eyes, his slim body, all were as they should be. He hadmade a place in the world. He was to be a builder of ideas. Shethought of him, and of the girl in blue serge, and of theirchildren-to-be.
Her breast swelled exultingly. Her head came up.
This was her handiwork. She looked at it, and found that it wasgood.
"Let's strike for the afternoon and call it a holiday," suggestedBuck.
Emma McChesney turned. The train was gone. "T.A., you'll nevergrow up."
"Never want to. Come on, let's play hooky, Emma."
"Can't. I've a dozen letters to get out, and Miss Loeb wants toshow me that new knicker-bocker design of hers."
They drove back to the office almost in silence. Emma McChesneymade straight for her desk and began dictating letters with anenergy that bordered on fury. At five o'clock she was stillworking. At five-thirty T.A. Buck came in to find her stillsurrounded by papers, samples, models.
"What is this?" he demanded wrathfully, "an all-night session?"
Emma McChesney looked up from her desk. Her face was flushed, hereyes bright, but there was about her an indefinable air ofweariness.
"T.A., I'm afraid to go home. I'll rattle around in that emptyflat like a hickory nut in a barrel."
"We'll have dinner down-town and go to the theater."
"No use. I'll have to go home sometime."
"Now, Emma," remonstrated Buck, "you'll soon get used to it. Thinkof all the years you got along without him. You were happy,weren't you?"
"Happy because I had somebody to work for, somebody to plan for,somebody to worry about. When I think of what that flat will bewithout him--Why, just to wake up and know that you can say goodmorning to some one who cares! That's worth living for, isn't it?"
"Emma," said T.A. evenly, "do you realize that you are virtuallyhounding me into asking you to marry me?"
"T.A.!" gasped Emma McChesney.
"Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?"
"'Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?'"]
A little whimsical smile lay lightly on his lips.
"Timothy Buck, I'm over forty years old."
"Emma, in another minute I'm going to grow sentimental, andnothing can stop me."
She looked down at her hands. There fell a little silence. Buckstirred, leaned forward. She looked up from the little watch thatticked away at her wrist.
"The minute's up, T.A.," said Emma McChesney.
THE END