Roast Beef, Medium: The Business Adventures of Emma McChesney

by Edna Ferber

  IV

  HIS MOTHER'S SON

  "Full?" repeated Emma McChesney (and if it weren't for the compositorthere'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 BenevolentBrotherhood of Bisons is holding its regular annual state conventionhere. We're putting up cots in the hall."

  Emma McChesney's keen blue eyes glanced up from their inspection of thelittle bunch of mail which had just been handed her. "Well, pick out ahall with a southern exposure and set up a cot or so for me," shesaid, agreeably; "because I've come to stay. After selling FeatherloomPetticoats on the road for ten years I don't see myself trailing up anddown this town looking for a place to lay my head. I've learned thisone large, immovable truth, and that is, that a hotel clerk is a hotelclerk. It makes no difference whether he is stuck back of a marblepillar and hidden by a gold vase full of thirty-six-inch American Beautyroses at the Knickerbocker, or setting the late fall fashions for men inGalesburg, Illinois."

  By one small degree was the perfect poise of the peerless personagebehind the register jarred. But by only one. He was a hotel night clerk.

  "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'swork and earning a man's salary and demanding to be treated with as muchconsideration as you'd show a man."

  The personage busied himself mightily with a pen, and a blotter, andsundry papers, as is the manner of personages when annoyed. "I'd like toaccommodate you; I'd like to do it."

  "Cheer up," said Emma McChesney, "you're going to. I don't mind a littlediscomfort. Though I want to mention in passing that if there are anylady Bisons present you needn't bank on doubling me up with them. I'vehad one experience of that kind. It was in Albia, Iowa. I'd sleep in thekitchen range before I'd go through another."

  Up went the erstwhile falling poise. "You're badly mistaken, madam. I'ma member of this order myself, and a finer lot of fellows it has neverbeen my pleasure to know."

  "Yes, I know," drawled Emma McChesney. "Do you know, the thing that getsme is the inconsistency of it. Along come a lot of boobs who never usea hotel the year around except to loaf in the lobby, and wear outthe leather chairs, and use up the matches and toothpicks and get thebaseball returns, and immediately you turn away a traveling man who usesa 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, andwho, if you give him a half-way decent cup of coffee for breakfast, willfall in love with the place and boom it all over the country. Half ofyour Benevolent Bisons are here on the European plan, with a view topatronizing the free-lunch counters or being asked to take dinner atthe home of some local Bison whose wife has been cooking up on pies, andchicken salad and veal roast for the last week."

  "'Son!' echoed the clerk, staring"]

  Emma McChesney leaned over the desk a little, and lowered her voice tothe tone of confidence. "Now, I'm not in the habit of making a nuisanceof myself like this. I don't get so chatty as a rule, and I know thatI 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 myselfa 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 believethat there must be something hauntingly beautiful and girlish about meor every one wouldn't petrify when I announce that I've a six-foot sonattached 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 fuzzylittle mustaches that the men are cultivating to match their hats. He'sdown at the depot now, straightening out our baggage. Now I want to saythis before he gets here. He's been out with me just four days. Thosefour days have been a revelation, an eye-opener, and a series of rudejolts. He used to think that his mother's job consisted of travelingin Pullmans, eating delicate viands turned out by the hotel chefs, andstrewing Featherloom Petticoats along the path. I gave him plenty ofmoney, and he got into the habit of looking lightly upon anything moretrifling 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 fixhim up--not too comfortably. It'll be a great lesson for him. There heis now. Just coming in. Fuzzy coat and hat and English stick. Hist! Asthey say on the stage."

  The boy crossed the crowded lobby. There was a little worried, annoyedfrown 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 realizedthat 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 werefor. I hope they've got something decent for us here. I came up with aman who said he didn't think there was a hole left to sleep in."

  "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 arepretty well filled up, but seeing it's you maybe we can do something foryou."

  He ruminated, tapping his teeth with a pen-holder, and eying the pairbefore him with a maddening blankness of gaze. Finally:

  "I'll do my best, but you can't expect much. I guess I can squeezeanother cot into eighty-seven for the young man. There's--let's seenow--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?" sheinterrupted. "Do you mean Ed Meyers of the Strauss Sans-silk SkirtCompany?"

  "That's so. You two are in the same line, aren't you? He's a greatlittle 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'sin at supper."

  "Oh," said Emma McChesney. The two letters breathed relief.

  But relief had no place in the voice, or on the countenance of JockMcChesney. He bristled with belligerence. "This cattle-car style ofsleeping don't make a hit. I haven't had a decent night's rest for threenights. I never could sleep on a sleeper. Can't you fix us up betterthan that?"

  "Best I can do."

  "But where's mother going? I see you advertise three 'large andcommodious steam-heated sample rooms in connection.' I suppose mother'sdue to sleep on one of the tables there."

  "Jock," Emma McChesney reproved him, "Mr. Sims is doing us a greatfavor. There isn't another hotel in town that would--"

  "You're right, there isn't," agreed Mr. Sims. "I guess the young manis 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 housekeeperto go over and sleep in the maids' quarters just for to-night, you canuse her room. There you are! Of course, it's over the kitchen, and theremay be some little noise early in the morning--"

  Emma McChesney raised a protesting hand. "Don't mention it. Just leadme thither. I'm so tired I could sleep in an excursion special that wasswitching at Pittsburgh. Jock, me child, we're in luck. That's twicein the same place. The first time was when we were inspired to eat oursupper on the diner instead of waiting until we reached here to takethe leftovers from the Bisons' grazing. I hope that housekeeper hasn't apicture of her departed husband dangling, life-size, on the wall at thefoot of the bed. But they always have. Good-night, son. Don't let theBisons bite you. I'll be up at seven."

  But it was just 6:30 A.M. when Emma McChesney turned the little bendin the stairway that led to the office. The scrub-woman was still inpossession. The cigar-counter girl had not yet made her appearance.There was about the place a general air of the night before. All but thenight clerk. He was as spruce and trim, and alert and smooth-shaven asonly a
night clerk can be after a night's vigil.

  "'Morning!" Emma McChesney called to him. She wore blue serge, and asmart fall hat. The late autumn morning was not crisper and sunnier thanshe.

  "Good-morning, Mrs. McChesney," returned Mr. Sims, sonorously. "Have agood night's sleep? I hope the kitchen noises didn't wake you."

  Emma McChesney paused with her hand on the door. "Kitchen? Oh, no.I could sleep through a vaudeville china-juggling act. But---what anextraordinarily unpleasant-looking man that housekeeper's husband musthave been."

  That November morning boasted all those qualities which November-morningwriters are so prone to bestow upon the month. But the words wine, andsparkle, and sting, and glow, and snap do not seem to cover it. EmmaMcChesney stood on the bottom step, looking up and down Main Street andbreathing in great draughts of that unadjectivable air. Her complexionstood the test of the merciless, astringent morning and came uptriumphantly and healthily firm and pink and smooth. The town was stillasleep. She started to walk briskly down the bare and ugly Main Streetof the little town. In her big, generous heart, and her keen, alertmind, there were many sensations and myriad thoughts, but varied anddiverse as they were they all led back to the boy up there in thestuffy, over-crowded hotel room--the boy who was learning his lesson.

  Half an hour later she reentered the hotel, her cheeks glowing. Jock wasnot yet down. So she ordered and ate her wise and cautious breakfast offruit and cereal and toast and coffee, skimming over her morning paperas she ate. At 7:30 she was back in the lobby, newspaper in hand. TheBisons were already astir. She seated herself in a deep chair in aquiet corner, her eyes glancing up over the top of her paper toward thestairway. At eight o'clock Jock McChesney came down.

  There was nothing of jauntiness about him. His eyelids were red. Hisface 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 asunburst of wrinkles across one leg of his modish brown trousers.

  "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 whatthose--those--those--"

  "Say it!" commanded Emma McChesney. "I'm only your mother. If you keepthat in your system your breakfast will curdle in your stomach."

  Jock McChesney said it. I know no phrase better fitted to describe histone than that old favorite of the erotic novelties. It was vibrantwith passion. It breathed bitterness. It sizzled with savagery. It--Oh,alliteration is useless.

  "Well," said Emma McChesney, encouragingly, "go on."

  "'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 aboutfifteen minutes later. They didn't surprise me. There was a herd ofabout ninety-three of 'em in the hall, all saying good-night to eachother, and planning where they'd meet in the morning, and the time,and place and probable weather conditions. For that matter, there weredroves of 'em pounding up and down the halls all night. I never saw suchrestless cattle. If you'll tell me what makes more noise in the middleof the night than the metal disk of a hotel key banging and clanging upagainst a door, I'd like to know what it is. My three Bisons were alldolled up with fool ribbons and badges and striped paper canes. Whenthey switched on the light I gave a crack imitation of a tired workingman trying to get a little sleep. I breathed regularly and heavily, withan occasional moaning snore. But if those two hippopotamus Bisons hadbeen alone on their native plains they couldn't have cared less. Theybellowed, and pawed the earth, and threw their shoes around, and yawned,and stretched and discussed their plans for the next day, and reviewedall their doings of that day. Then one of them said something aboutturning in, and I was so happy I forgot to snore. Just then another keyclanged at the door, in walked a fat man in a brown suit and a brownderby, and stuff was off."

  "That," said Emma McChesney, "would be Ed Meyers, of the StraussSans-silk Skirt Company."

  "None other than our hero." Jock's tone had an added acidity. "It tookthose four about two minutes to get acquainted. In three minutes theyhad told their real names, and it turned out that Meyers belonged toan organization that was a second cousin of the Bisons. In five minutesthey had got together a deck and a pile of chips and were shirt-sleevingit around a game of pinochle. I would doze off to the slap of cards, andthe click of chips, and wake up when the bell-boy came in with anotherround, which he did every six minutes. When I got up this morning Ifound that Fat Ed Meyers had been sitting on the chair over which Itrustingly had draped my trousers. This sunburst of wrinkles is where hemostly sat. This spot on my coat is where a Bison drank his beer."

  Emma McChesney folded her paper and rose, smiling. "It is sort oftrying, I suppose, if you're not used to it."

  "Used to it!" shouted the outraged Jock. "Used to it! Do you mean totell me there's nothing unusual about--"

  "Not a thing. Oh, of course you don't strike a bunch of Bisons everyday. But it happens a good many times. The world is full of AncientOrders and they're everlastingly getting together and drawing upresolutions and electing officers. Don't you think you'd better go in tobreakfast 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 somewheat cakes, and steak, and eggs, and coffee, and fruit, and toast, androlls."

  "Why slight the fish?" inquired his mother. Then, as he turned towardthe dining-room, "I've two letters to get out. Then I'm going down thestreet to see a customer. I'll be up at the Sulzberg-Stein departmentstore at nine sharp. There's no use trying to see old Sulzberg beforeten, but I'll be there, anyway, and so will Ed Meyers, or I'm no skirtsalesman. I want you to meet me there. It will do you good to watch howthe overripe orders just drop, ker-plunk, into my lap."

  Maybe you know Sulzberg & Stein's big store? No? That's because you'vealways lived in the city. Old Sulzberg sends his buyers to the New Yorkmarket twice a year, and they need two floor managers on the main floornow. The money those people spend for red and green decorations atChristmas time, and apple-blossoms and pink crepe paper shades in thespring, must be something awful. Young Stein goes to Chicago to have hisclothes made, and old Sulzberg likes to keep the traveling men waitingin the little ante-room outside his private office.

  Jock McChesney finished his huge breakfast, strolled over to Sulzberg &Stein's, and inquired his way to the office only to find that his motherwas not yet there. There were three men in the little waiting-room. Oneof them was Fat Ed Meyers. His huge bulk overflowed the spindle-leggedchair on which he sat. His brown derby was in his hands. His eyes wereon the closed door at the other side of the room. So were the eyes ofthe other two travelers. Jock took a vacant seat next to Fat Ed Meyersso that he might, in his mind's eye, pick out a particularly choice spotupon 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 atthis new foe in the field. His little red mouth was open ludicrously.

  "Who're you out for?" he demanded next.

  There was a look of Emma McChesney on Jock's face. "Why--er--the UnionUnderskirt and Hosiery Company of Chicago. New concern."

  "Must be," ruminated Ed Meyers. "I never heard of 'em, and I know 'emall. You're starting in young, ain't you, kid! Well, it'll never hurtyou. You'll learn something new every day. Now me, I--"

  In breezed Emma McChesney. Her quick glance rested immediately uponMeyers and the boy. And in that moment some instinct prompted JockMcChesney to shake his head, ever so slightly, and assume a
blankness ofexpression. And Emma McChesney, with that shrewdness which had made herone of the best salesmen on the road, saw, and miraculously understood.

  "How do, Mrs. McChesney," grinned Fat Ed Meyers. "You see I beat you toit."

  "So I see," smiled Emma, cheerfully. "I was delayed. Just sold a nicelittle bill to Watkins down the Street." She seated herself across theway, and kept her eyes on that closed door.

  "Say, kid," Meyers began, in the husky whisper of the fat man, "I'mgoing to put you wise to something, seeing you're new to this game.See that lady over there?" He nodded discreetly in Emma McChesney'sdirection.

  "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'dremember 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 bestlittle salesman on the road. I'll bet that girl could sell a ruffled,accordion-plaited underskirt to a fat woman who was trying to reduce.She's got the darndest way with her. And at that she's straight, too."

  If Ed Meyers had not been gazing so intently into his hat, trying atthe same time to look cherubically benign he might have seen a quick andpainful scarlet sweep the face of the boy, coupled with a certain tenselook of the muscles around the jaw.

  "Well, now, look here," he went on, still in a whisper. "We're bothskirt men, you and me. Everything's fair in this game. Maybe you don'tknow it, but when there's a bunch of the boys waiting around to see thehead of the store like this, and there happens to be a lady traveler inthe crowd, why, it's considered kind of a professional courtesy tolet the lady have the first look-in. See? It ain't so often that threepeople in the same line get together like this. She knows it, and she'ssitting 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 ladyclerk there. The minute it does open a crack she'll jump up and give mea fleeting, grateful smile, and sail in and cop a fat order away fromthe old man and his skirt buyer. I'm wise. Say, he may be an oyster, buthe knows a pretty woman when he sees one. By the time she's throughwith him he'll have enough petticoats on hand to last him from now untilTurkey goes suffrage. Get me?"

  "I get you," answered Jock.

  "I say, this is business, and good manners be hanged. When a womanbreaks 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 shootstraight for the old man's office. See? Like a duck. See? Say, I maybe fat, kid, but I'm what they call light on my feet, and when I see anorder getting away from me I can be so fleet that I have Diana lookinglike old Weston doing a stretch of muddy country road in a coast tocoast hike. See? Now you help me out on this and I'll see that you don'tsuffer for it. I'll stick in a good word for you, believe me. You takethe word of an old stager like me and you won't go far--"

  The door opened. Simultaneously three figures sprang into action. Jockhad the seat nearest the door. With marvelous clumsiness he managedto place himself in Ed Meyers' path, then reddened, began an apology,stepped on both of Ed's feet, jabbed his elbow into his stomach, anddropped his hat. A second later the door of old Sulzberg's privateoffice closed upon Emma McChesney's smart, erect, confident figure.

  Now, Ed Meyers' hands were peculiar hands for a fat man. They weretapering, slender, delicate, blue-veined, temperamental hands. At thismoment, despite his purpling face, and his staring eyes, they werethe 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 cornkernels in the heat of his wrath; they tripped over each other; theyexploded.

  "You darned kid, you!" he began, with fascinating fluency. "Youthousand-legged, double-jointed, ox-footed truck horse. Come on out ofhere 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--aflag 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 thatfathead now," he said, excitedly. "The nerve of him! He's coming overhere."

  Ed Meyers was waddling toward them with the quick light step of the fatman. His pink, full-jowled face was glowing. His eyes were bright as aboy's. He stopped at their table and paused for one dramatic moment.

  "So, me beauty, you two were in cahoots, huh? That's the second low-downdeal you've handed me. I haven't forgotten that trick you turned withNussbaum at DeKalb. Never mind, little girl. I'll get back at you yet."

  He nodded a contemptuous head in Jock's direction. "Carrying a packer?"

  "'Come on out of here, and I'll lick the shine off yourshoes, you blue-eyed babe, you!'"]

  Emma McChesney wiped her fingers daintily on her napkin, crushed iton the table, and leaned back in her chair. "Men," she observed,wonderingly, "are the cussedest creatures. This chap occupied the sameroom with you last night and you don't even know his name. Funny! If twostrange women had found themselves occupying the same room for a nightthey wouldn't have got to the kimono and back hair stage before theywould not only have known each other's name, but they'd have tried oneach other's hats, swapped corset cover patterns, found mutual friendsliving in Dayton, Ohio, taught each other a new Irish crochet stitch,showed their family photographs, told how their married sister's littlegirl nearly died with swollen glands, and divided off the mirror intotwo sections to paste their newly washed handkerchiefs on. Don't tell_me_ men have a genius for friendship."

  "Well, who is he?" insisted Ed Meyers. "He told me everything but hisname 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 oneand only son, and he's put through his first little business deal thismorning just to show his mother that he can be a help to his folks if hewants to. Now, Ed Meyers, if you're going to have apoplexy don't yougo and have it around this table. My boy is only on his second piece ofpie, and I won't have his appetite spoiled."