Emma McChesney Co | Page 6

exclaimed Emma McChesney. Then, as Buck dodged for
the door: "Just for that, I'm going to break this to you. You know that I
intended to handle the Middle Western territory for one trip, or until we
could get a man to take Fat Ed Meyers' place."
"Well?" said Buck apprehensively.
"I leave in three days. Goodness knows how long I'll be gone! A
business deal down there is a ceremony. And--you won't need any
white-flannel clothes in Rock Island, Illinois."
Buck, aghast, faced her from the doorway.
"You mean, I----"
"Just that," smiled Emma McChesney pleasantly. And pressed the
button that summoned the stenographer.
In the next forty-eight hours, Mrs. McChesney performed a series of
mental and physical calisthenics that would have landed an ordinary
woman in a sanatorium. She cleaned up with the thoroughness and
dispatch of a housewife who, before going to the seashore, forgets not
instructions to the iceman, the milkman, the janitor, and the maid. She
surveyed her territory, behind and before, as a general studies troops
and countryside before going into battle; she foresaw factory
emergencies, dictated office policies, made sure of staff organization
like the business woman she was. Out in the stock-room, under her
supervision, there was scientifically packed into sample-trunks and
cases a line of Featherloom skirts and knickers calculated to dazzle

Brazil and entrance Argentina. And into her own personal trunk there
went a wardrobe, each article of which was a garment with a purpose.
Emma McChesney knew the value of a smartly tailored suit in a
business argument.
T. A. Buck canceled his order at the tailor's, made up his own line for
the Middle West, and prepared to storm that prosperous and important
territory for the first time in his business career.
The South American boat sailed Saturday afternoon. Saturday morning
found the two partners deep in one of those condensed, last-minute
discussions. Mrs. McChesney opened a desk drawer, took out a
leather-covered pocket notebook, and handed it to Buck. A tiny smile
quivered about her lips. Buck took it, mystified.
"Your last diary?"
"Something much more important. I call it `The Salesman's Who's
Who.' Read it as you ought your Bible."
"But what?" Buck turned the pages wonderingly. He glanced at a
paragraph, frowned, read it aloud, slowly.
"Des Moines, Iowa, Klein & Company. Miss Ella Sweeney, skirt buyer.
Old girl. Skittish. Wants to be entertained. Take her to dinner and the
theater."
He looked up, dazed. "Good Lord, what is this? A joke?"
"Wait until you see Ella; you won't think it's a joke. She'll buy only
your smoothest numbers, ask sixty days' dating, and expect you to
entertain her as you would your rich aunt."
Buck returned to the little book dazedly. He flipped another
leaf--another. Then he read in a stunned sort of voice:
"Sam Bloom, Paris Emporium, Duluth. See Sadie."
He closed the book. "Say, see here, Emma, do you mean to----"
"Sam is the manager," interrupted Mrs. McChesney pleasantly, "and he
thinks he does the buying, but the brains of that business is a little girl
named Sadie Harris. She's a wonder. Five years from now, if she
doesn't marry Sam, she'll be one of those ten-thousand-a-year foreign
buyers. Play your samples up to Sammy, but quote your prices down to
Sadie. Read the next one, T. A."
Buck read on, his tone lifeless:
"Miss Sharp. Berg Brothers, Omaha. Strictly business. Known among
the trade as the human cactus. Canceled a ten-thousand-dollar order

once because the grateful salesman called her `girlie.' Stick to skirts."
Buck slapped the book smartly against the palm of his hand.
"Do you mean to tell me that you made this book out for me? Do you
mean to say that I have to cram on this like a kid studying for exams?
That I'll have to cater to the personality of the person I'm selling to?
Why--it's--it's----"
Emma McChesney nodded calmly.
"I don't know how this trip of yours is going to affect the firm's
business, T. A. But it's going to be a liberal education for you. You'll
find that you'll need that little book a good many times before you're
through. And while you're following its advice, do this: forget that your
name is Buck, except for business purposes; forget that your family has
always lived in a brownstone mausoleum in Seventy-second street;
forget that you like your chops done just so, and your wine at
such-and-such a temperature; get close to your trade. They're an
awfully human lot, those Middle Western buyers. Don't chuck them
under the chin, but smile on 'em. And you've got a lovely smile, T. A."
Buck looked up from the little leather book. And, as he gazed at Emma
McChesney, the smile appeared and justified its praise.
"I'll have this to