Roast Beef, Medium: The Business Adventures of Emma McChesney

by Edna Ferber

  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 wonderswithin. One or two, perhaps, straggle in. But the crowd, made wary bybitter experience of the sham and cheap fraud behind the tawdry canvasflap, stops a moment, laughs, and passes on. Then Temptation, in apanic, seeing his audience drifting away, summons from inside the tenthis bespangled and bewitching partner, Mlle. Psychological Moment, theHypnotic Charmer. She leaps to the platform, bows, pirouettes. The crowdsurges toward the ticket-window, nickel in hand.

  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 thediscomfort of a stuffy little hotel bedroom at Glen Rock, Minnesota. ByAugust she was back in New York, attending to out-of-town buyers.

  Those friendly Middle-Western persona showed dismay at her pale,hollow-eyed appearance. They spoke to her of teaspoonfuls of olive-oiltaken thrice a day, of mountain air, of cold baths, and, above all, ofthe advisability of leaving the road and taking an inside position. Atthat Emma McChesney always showed signs of unmistakable irritation.

  In September her son, Jock McChesney, just turned eighteen, wentblithely off to college, disguised as a millionaire's son in a blueNorfolk, silk hose, flat-heeled shoes, correctly mounted walrus bag,and next-week's style in fall hats. As the train glided out of the greatshed Emma McChesney had waved her handkerchief, smiling like furyand seeing nothing but an indistinct blur as the observation platformslipped around the curve. She had not felt that same clutching, desolatesense of loss since the time, thirteen years before, when she had cutoff his curls and watched him march sturdily off to kindergarten.

  In October it was plain that spring skirts, instead of being full aspredicted, were as scant and plaitless as ever. That spelled gloom forthe petticoat business. It was necessary to sell three of the presentabsurd style to make the profit that had come from the sale of one skirtfive years before.

  The last week in November, tragedy stalked upon the scene in the deathat Marienbad of old T. A. Buck, Mrs. McChesney's stanch friend andbeloved employer. Emma McChesney had wept for him as one weeps at theloss of a father.

  They had understood each other, those two, from the time that EmmaMcChesney, divorced, penniless, refusing support from the man she hadmarried 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 roadterritory, and finally to the position of traveling representativethrough the coveted Middle-Western territory.

  Old T. A. Buck, gruff, grim, direct, far-seeing, kindly, shrewd--he hadknown Emma McChesney for what she was worth. Once, when she had beendisclosing to him a clever business scheme which might be turned intogood 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'sshoulders, 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 rimmedglasses. Then, "I believe you could," he had said, quietly andthoughtfully.

  That brings her up to December. To some few millions of peopleD-e-c-e-m-b-e-r spells Christmas. But to Emma McChesney it spelled thedreaded spring trip. It spelled trains stalled in snowdrifts, baggagedelayed, cold hotel bedrooms, harassed, irritable buyers.

  It was just six o'clock on the evening of December ninth when Mrs. EmmaMcChesney swung off the train at Columbus, Ohio, five hours late. Asshe walked down the broad platform her eyes unconsciously searched theloaded trucks for her own trunks. She'd have recognized them in the holdof a Nile steamer--those grim, travel-scarred sample-trunks. They had ahuman look to her. She had a way of examining them after each trip, as afond mother examines her child for stray scratches and bruises when sheputs it to bed for the night. She knew each nook and corner of the greattrunks as another woman knows her linen-closet or her preserve-shelves.

  Columbus, Ohio, was a Featherloom town. Emma McChesney had a fondnessfor it, with its half rustic, half metropolitan air. Sometimes shelikened it to a country girl in a velvet gown, and sometimes to acity girl in white muslin and blue sash. Singer & French always had aFeatherloom window twice a year.

  The hotel lobby wore a strangely deserted look. December is aslack month for actors and traveling men. Mrs. McChesney registeredautomatically, received her mail, exchanged greetings with the affableclerk.

  "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 porterabout putting up some extra tables. You see, I'm two days late now. Iexpect two buyers to-morrow morning.

  "Send 'em right up, Mrs. McChesney," the clerk assured her. "Jo'llattend to those tables. Too bad about old Buck. How's the skirtbusiness?"

  "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 youngsterof 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 adizzy week in New York. I'm wild to see if those three months of collegehave done anything to him, bless his heart! Oh, kind sir, forgive amother's fond ravings! Where'd that youngster go with my bag?"

  Up at last in the stuffy, unfriendly, steam-smelling hotel bedroomEmma McChesney prepared to make herself comfortable. A cocky bell-boyswitched 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 thisroom left a dead cigar around somewhere. Send up a waiter, please. I'mgoing to treat myself to dinner in my room."

  The boy gone, she unfastened her collar, loosened a shoe that hadpressed a bit too tightly over the instep, took a kimono and toilettearticles out of her bag.

  "I'll run through my mail," she told herself. "Then I'll get intosomething loose, see to my trunks, have dinner, and turn in early. WishJock 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 toomuch vinegar--"

  She was glancing through her mail. Two from the firm--one from MaryCutting--one from the Sure-White Laundry at Dayton (hope they found thatcorset-cover)--one from--why, from Jock! From Jock! And he'd writtenonly two days before. Well!

  Sitting there on the edge of the bed she regarded the dear scrawllovingly, savoring it, as is the way of a woman. Then she took a hairpinfrom the knot of bright hair (also as is the way of woman) and slit theenvelope 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, asmile of anticipation dimpling her lips, lighting up her face.

  "_Dearest Blonde_," it began.

  ("The nerve of the young imp!")

  He hoped the letter would reach her in time. Knew how thisweather mussed up her schedule. He wanted her honest opinion aboutsomething--straight, now! One of the frat fellows was giving a Christmashouse-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 atree, and skating, and regular high jinks, and a dinner that left youfeeling like a stuffed gooseberry. Old Wells says his grandmother wearslace caps with lavender ribbons. Can you beat it! Of course he feltlike 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 himto write. Said they'd do it if he
didn't. Of course he hated to think ofher spending Christmas alone--felt like a bloody villain--

  Little by little the smile that had wreathed her lips faded and wasgone. The lips still were parted, but by one of those miracles withwhich the face expresses what is within the heart their expression hadchanged from pleasure to bitter pain.

  She sat there, at the edge of the bed, staring dully until the blackscrawls danced on the white page. With the letter before her she raisedher hand slowly and wiped away a hot, blinding mist of tears with heropen palm. Then she read it again, dully, as though every selfish wordof it had not already stamped itself on her brain and heart.

  "She read it again, dully, as though every selfish wordhad not already stamped itself on her brain and heart"]

  After the second reading she still sat there, her eyes staring down ather lap. Once she brushed an imaginary fleck of lint from the lap of herblue serge skirt--brushed, and brushed and brushed, with a mechanical,pathetic little gesture that showed how completely absent her mind wasfrom the room in which she sat. Then her hand fell idle, and she becamevery still, a crumpled, tragic, hopeless look rounding the shouldersthat were wont to hold themselves so erect and confident.

  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. Sheshivered as she became conscious of the icy December air pouring intothe 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 wantany dinner."

  She shut the door again and stood with her back against it, eying thebed. In her mind's eye she had already thrown herself upon it, buriedher face in the nest of pillows, and given vent to the flood of tearsthat 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 thefirst cup in a new Haviland set. You can always count on smashing twomore. This is your third. So pick up the pieces and throw 'em in theash-can."

  Then she fastened her collar, buttoned her shoe, pulled down hershirtwaist all around, smeared her face with cold cream, wiped it witha towel, smoothed her hair, donned her hat. The next instant thelittle 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 aporter.

  That blue-shirted individual rubbed a hard brown hand over his cheekworriedly.

  "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 wasoverlooked in the rush, the train being late from Dayton when youstarted. Likely they'll be in on the ten-thirteen. I'll send 'em up theminute they get in."

  "I wish you would. I've got to get my stuff out early. I can't keepcustomers 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 acrimp in the show business. Nice little bill on at the Majestic, if youlike vaudeville."

  "Crazy about it. Always get so excited watching to see if the next actis going to be as rotten as the last one. It always is."

  From eight-fifteen until ten-thirty Mrs. McChesney sat absolutelyexpressionless while a shrill blonde lady and a nasal dark gentlemanwent through what the program ironically called a "comedy sketch,"followed by a chummy person who came out in evening dress to sing asentimental ditty, shed the evening dress to reappear in an ankle-lengthfluffy pink affair; shucked the fluffy pink affair for a child'spinafore, sash, and bare knees; discarded the kiddie frock, disclosinga bathing-suit; left the bathing-suit behind the wings in favor ofsatin knee-breeches and tight jacket--and very discreetly stopped there,probably for no reason except to give way to the next act, consisting oftwo miraculously thin young men in lavender dress suits and white silkhats, who sang and clogged in unison, like two things hung on a singlewire.

  The night air was grateful to her hot forehead as she walked from thetheater to the hotel.

  "Trunks in?" to the porter.

  "No sign of 'em, lady. They didn't come in on the ten. Think they'dbetter wire back to Dayton."

  But the next morning Mrs. McChesney was in the depot baggage-room whenDayton wired back:

  _"Trunks not here. Try Columbus, Nebraska."_

  "Crash!" said Emma McChesney to the surprised baggage-master. "Theregoes my Haviland vegetable-dish."

  "Were you selling china?" he inquired.

  "No, I wasn't," replied Emma McChesney viciously. "And if you don'tlet me stand here and give my frank, unbiased opinion of this road,its president, board of directors, stockholders, baggage-men, Pullmanporters, and other things thereto appertaining, I'll probably havehysterics."

  "Give it," said the baggage-master. "You'll feel better. And we're usedto it."

  She gave it. When she had finished:

  "Did you say you was selling goods on the road? Say, that's a hell of ajob for a woman! Excuse me, lady. I didn't mean--"

  "I think perhaps you're right," said Emma McChesney slowly. "It is justthat."

  "Well, anyway, we'll do our best to trace it. Guess you're in for await."

  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 enjoyhimself, and waited. She cut and fitted a shirt-waist, took her hatapart and retrimmed it, made the rounds of her impatient customersagain, threatened to sue the road, visited the baggage-room daily--andwaited.

  Four weary, nerve-racking days passed. It was late afternoon of thefourth day when Mrs. McChesney entered the elevator to go to her room.She had come from another fruitless visit to the baggage-room. She sankinto a leather-cushioned seat in a corner of the lift. Two men enteredbriskly, followed by a bellboy. Mrs. McChesney did not look up.

  "Well, I'll be dinged!" boomed a throaty voice. "Mrs. McChesney, by theGreat Horn Spoon! H'are you? Talking about you this minute to my friendhere."

  Emma McChesney, with the knowledge of her lost sample-trunks strikingher afresh, looked up and smiled bravely into the plump pink face of FatEd Meyers, traveling representative for her firm's bitterest rival, theStrauss Sans-silk Skirt Company.

  "Talking about me, Mr. Meyers? Sufficient grounds for libel, rightthere."

  The little sallow, dark man just at Meyers' elbow was gazing at herunguardedly. She felt that he had appraised her from hat to heels. EdMeyers 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, Mrs.McChesney?"

  "Thanks. Not to-night."

  Meyers turned to the waiting elevator. "Fromkin, you go on up with theboy; 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'veheard what I have to say. Now just let me talk a minute. Fromkin's heardall about you. He's got a proposition to make. And it isn't one to sniffat."

  He lowered his voice mysteriously in the silence of the dim hotelcorridor.

  "Fromkin started in a little one-room hole-in-the-wall over on the EastSide. Lived on a herring and a hunk of
rye bread. Wife used to help himsew. That was seven years ago. In three years, or less, she'll have theregulation uniform--full length seal coat, bunch of paradise, five-dropdiamond La Valliere set in platinum, electric brougham. Abe has gota business head, take it from me. But he's wise enough to know thatbusiness isn't the rough-and-tumble game it used to be. He realizes thathe'll do for the workrooms, but not for the front shop. He knows that ifhe 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 callsuave. 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'swise 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, youmake 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 firstact?"

  "Well, you know how I feel about your business genius."

  "Yes, I know," enigmatically.

  Ed Meyers grinned. "Can't forget those two little businessmisunderstandings we had, can you?"

  "Business understandings," corrected Emma McChesney.

  "Call 'em anything your little heart dictates, but listen. Fromkin knowsall about you. Knows you've got a million friends in the trade, thatyou know skirts from the belt to the hem. I don't know just what hisproposition 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 thousandscapital, maybe, and your business head at the executive end. Now justlet that sink in before you speak."

  "And why," inquired Emma McChesney, "don't you grab this matchlessbusiness 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 dressedup he looks like a 'bus-boy at Mouquin's, but he can see a bluff fartherthan I can throw one--and that's somewhere beyond the horizon, as you'lladmit. Talk it over with us after dinner then?"

  Emma McChesney was regarding the plump, pink, eager face before her withkeen, level, searching eyes.

  "Yes," she said slowly, "I will."

  "Cafe? We'll have a bottle--"

  "No."

  "Oh! Er--parlor?"

  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 thewriting-room, where you men can light up. I don't want to take advantageof you."

  "'Not that you look your age--not by ten years!'"]

  Down in the writing-room at eight they formed a strange little group. EdMeyers, flushed and eager, his pink face glowing like a peony, talking,arguing, smoking, reasoning, coaxing, with the spur of a fat commissionto urge him on; Abel Fromkin, with his peculiarly pallid skin madepaler in contrast to the purplish-black line where the razor had passed,showing no hint of excitement except in the restless little black eyesand in the work-scarred hands that rolled cigarette after cigarette,each glowing for one brief instant, only to die down to a blackened ashthe next; Emma McChesney, half fascinated, half distrustful, listeningin spite of herself, and trying to still a small inner voice--a voicethat had never advised her ill.

  "You know the ups and downs to this game," Ed Meyers was saying. "WhenI met you there in the elevator you looked like you'd lost your lastcustomer. You get pretty disgusted with it all, at times, like the restof us."

  "At that minute," replied Emma McChesney, "I was so disgusted thatif 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 likethat, Mrs. McChesney, but you're no kid. Not that you look your age--notby ten years! But I happen to know you're teetering somewhere betweenthirty-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 hisstrangely slim hands. "This ain't an argument. It's facts. Anotherten years on the road, and where'll you be? In the discard. A man offorty-six can keep step with the youngsters, even if it does make himpuff 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 kimonoand her afternoon snooze. You've seen some of those old girls on theroad. They've come down step by step until you spot 'em, bleachedhair, crow's-feet around the eyes, mussy shirt-waist, yellow and redcomplexion, demonstrating green and lavender gelatine messes in thegrocery of some department store. I don't say that a brainy corker ofa saleswoman like you would come down like that. But you've got toconsider sickness and a lot of other things. Those six weeks last summerwith the fever at Glen Rock put a crimp in you, didn't it? You've neverbeen yourself since then. Haven't had a decent chance to rest up."

  "No," said Emma McChesney wearily.

  "Furthermore, now that old T. A.'s cashed in, how do you know whatyoung 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. Itwas all between old Buck, Buck junior, and old lady Buck. How can youtell 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, please."

  "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 smarthead. You need his money. It'll mean a sure thing for you--a share ina growing and substantial business. When you get your road men trainedit'll mean that you won't need to go out on the road yourself, exceptfor a little missionary trip now and then, maybe. No more infernal earlytrains, no more bum hotel grub, no more stuffy, hot hotel rooms, no morehaughty lady buyers--gosh, I wish I had the chance!"

  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 sortof rest me if Mr. Fromkin were to say a word, seeing that it's reallyhis 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'sgot 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 likeyou should know my wife. And I got a little girl--Would you believeit, that child ain't more as a year old, and says Papa and Mama like aactress!"

  "Sure," put in Ed Meyers, disregarding the more intimate family details."You two get together and fix things up in shape; then you can signup and have it off your mind so you can enjoy the festive Christmasseason."

  Emma McChesney had been gazing out of the window to where thestreet-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 windowto the little dark man who was watching her so intently. She faced himsquarely, as though utterly disregarding Ed Meyers' flattery andbanter and cajolery. The little man before her seemed to recognize theearnestness of the moment. He leaned forward a bit attentively.

  "If what has been said is true," she began, "this ought to be a goodthing for me. If I go into it, I'll go in heart, soul, brain, andpocket-book. I do know the skirt business from thread to tape and backagain. I've managed to save a few thousand dollars. Only a woman couldunderstand how I've done it. I've scrimped on little things. I've deniedmyself necessities. I've worn silk blouses instead of linen ones to savelaundry-bills and taken a street-car or 'bus to save a quarter or fiftycents. I've always tried to look well dressed a
nd immaculate--"

  "You!" exclaimed Ed Meyers. "Why, say, you're what I call a swelldresser. Nothing flashy, understand, or loud, but the quiet, good stuffthat spells ready money."

  "M-m-m--yes. But it wasn't always so ready. Anyway, I always managedsomehow. The boy's at college. Sometimes I wonder--well, that's anotherstory. 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. Sprinkledpretty 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 timeit has turned out to be just a summer shower, with the sun coming outbright and warm."

  Her frank, clear, honest, blue eyes were plumbing the depths of theblack ones. "Those few thousand dollars that you hold so lightly willmean everything to me. They've been my cyclone-cellar. If--"

  Through the writing-room sounded a high-pitched, monotonous voice with anote 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 thesalver that the boy held out to her. Her quick glance rested on thewritten 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 trip.'"

  "Why--say--" began Meyers.

  "Well?"

  "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 tolisten 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 chasingacross each face.

  "Well, I thought I knew women, but--" began Ed Meyers fluently.

  Passing the desk, Mrs. McChesney heard her name. She glanced toward theclerk. He was just hanging up the telephone-receiver.

  "Baggage-room says the depot just notified 'em your trunks were tracedto Columbia City. They're on their way here now."

  "Columbia City!" repeated Emma McChesney. "Do you know, I believe I'velearned to hate the name of the discoverer of this fair land."

  Up in her room she opened the crumpled telegram again, and regarded itthoughtfully before she began to pack her bag.

  The thoughtful look was still there when she entered the big brightoffice of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. And with it wasanother 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, whocame swiftly toward her, was T. A. Buck--no longer junior. There wasa new look about him--a look of responsibility, of efficiency, ofclear-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 asyou came in. You know Mr. Beggs, of course. He has some things to tellyou--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 whathe wanted to say. A great deal of it was about you. I want you to readthat letter later."

  "I shall consider it a privilege," said Emma McChesney.

  Mr. Beggs waved her toward a chair. She took it in silence. She heardhim in silence, his sonorous voice beating upon her brain.

  "There are a great many papers and much business detail, but thatwill be attended to later," began Beggs ponderously. "You are to becongratulated on the position of esteem and trust which you held inthe mind of your late employer. By the terms of his will--I'll put itbriefly, for the moment--you are offered the secretaryship of the firmof T. A. Buck, Incorporated. Also you are bequeathed thirty shares inthe firm. Of course, the company will have to be reorganized. The lateMr. Buck had great trust in your capabilities."

  Emma McChesney rose to her feet, her breath coming quickly. She turnedto T. A. Buck. "I want you to know--I want you to know--that just beforeyour telegram came I was half tempted to leave the firm. To--"

  "Can't blame you," smiled T. A. Buck. "You've had a rotten six months ofit, beginning with that illness and ending with those infernal trunks.The road's no place for a woman."

  "'Christmas isn't a season...it's a feeling, and, thankGod, I've got it!'"]

  "Nonsense!" flashed Emma McChesney. "I've loved it. I've gloried init. And I've earned my living by it. Giving it up--don't now think meungrateful--won't be so easy, I can tell you."

  T. A. Buck nodded understandingly. "I know. Father knew too. And I don'twant you to let his going from us make any difference in this holidayseason. I want you to enjoy it and be happy."

  A shade crossed Emma McChesney's face. It was there when the door openedand a boy entered with a telegram. He handed it to Mrs. McChesney. Itheld 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!"