Emma McChesney Co | Page 4

see labeled, `Sunrise on Snow-covered
Mountain.' "
"Did he see----"
"He dodged when he saw me. Actually! At least, he seems to have the
decency to be ashamed of the deal he gave us when he left us flat in the
thick of his Middle Western trip and went back to the Sans-Silk Skirt
Company. I wanted him to know I had seen him. As I passed, I said,
`You'll mow 'em down in those clothes, Meyers.' " Buck sat down in
his leisurely fashion, and laughed his low, pleasant laugh. "Can't you
see him, Emma, at the seashore?"
But something in Emma McChesney's eyes, and something in her set,
unsmiling face, told him that she was not seeing seashores. She was
staring straight at him, straight through him, miles beyond him. There
was about her that tense, electric, breathless air of complete detachment,
which always enveloped her when her lightning mind was leaping
ahead to a goal unguessed by the slower thinking.
"What's your tailor's name?"
"Name? Trotter. Why?"
Emma McChesney had the telephone operator before he could finish.
"Get me Trotter, the tailor, T-r-o-double- t-e-r. Say I want to speak to
the tailor who fits Mr. Ed Meyers, of the Sans-Silk Skirt Company."
T. A. Buck leaned forward, mouth open, eyes wide. "Well, what in the
name of----"
"I'll let you know in a minute. Maybe I'm wrong. It's just one of my

hunches. But for ten years I sold Featherlooms through the same
territory that Ed Meyers was covering for the Sans-Silk Skirt people. It
didn't take me ten years to learn that Fat Ed hadn't the decency to be
ashamed of any deal he turned, no matter how raw. And let me tell you,
T. A.: If he dodged when he saw you it wasn't because he was ashamed
of having played us low-down. He was contemplating playing
lower-down. Of course, I may be----"
She picked up the receiver in answer to the bell. Then, sweetly, her
calm eyes smiling into Buck's puzzled ones:
"Hello! Is this Mr. Meyers' tailor? I'm to ask if you are sure that the
grade he selected is the proper weight for the tropics. What? Oh, you
say you assured him it was the weight of flannel you always advise for
South America. And you said they'd be ready when? Next week?
Thank you."
She hung up the receiver. The pupils of her eyes were dilated. Her
cheeks were very pink as always under excitement. She stood up, her
breath coming rather quickly.
"Hurray for the hunch! It holds. Fat Ed Meyers is going down to South
America for the Sans-Silk Company. It's what I've been planning to do
for the last six months. You remember I spoke of it. You pooh-poohed
the idea. It means hundreds of thousands of dollars to the Sans-Silk
people if they get it. But they won't get it."
T. A. Buck stood up suddenly.
"Look here, Emma! If you're----"
"I certainly am. Nothing can stop me. The skirt business has been--well,
you know what it's been for the last two years. The South American
boats sail twice a month. Fat Ed Meyers' clothes are promised for next
week. That means he isn't sailing until week after next. But the next
boat sails in three days." She picked up a piece of paper from her desk
and tossed it into Buck's hand. "That's the letter I was reading when
you came in. No; don't read it. Let me tell you instead."
Buck threw cane, hat, gloves, and letter on the broad desk, thrust his
hands into his pockets, and prepared for argument. But he got only as
far as: "But I won't allow it! You couldn't get away in three days, at any
rate. And at the end of two weeks you'll have come to your senses, and
besides----"
"T. A., I don't mean to be rude. But here are your hat and stick and

gloves. It's going to take me just forty-eight hours to mobilize."
"But, Emma, even if you do get in ahead of Meyers, it's an insane idea.
A woman can't go down there alone. It isn't safe. It's bad enough for a
man to tackle it. Besides, we're holding our own."
"That's just it. When a doctor issues a bulletin to the effect that the
patient is holding his own, you may have noticed that the relatives
always begin to gather."
"It's a bubble, this South American idea. Oshkosh and Southport and
Altoona money has always been good enough for us. If we can keep
that trade, we ought to be thankful."
Emma McChesney pushed her hair back from her forehead with one
gesture and patted it into place with another. Those two gestures, to one
who knew her, meant loss of composure for