Emma McChesney Co | Page 9

will conduct you immediately
to my office. We will pretend it is a friendly call. Your friend need not
know. If I lose----"
"If you lose, you must promise to let her show you her sample line."
"But, dear madam, I do no buying."
"Then you must introduce her favorably to the department buyer of her
sort of goods."
"But if I win?" persisted Senor Pages.

"If she isn't as charming as--as you say I am, you may make your own
terms."
Senor Pages' fine eyes opened wide.
It was on the fourteenth day of their trip that they came into quaint
Bahia. The stay there was short. Brazilian business methods are long.
Emma McChesney took no chances with sample-trunks or cases. She
packed her three leading samples into her own personal suitcase, eluded
the other tourists, secured an interpreter, and prepared to brave Bahia.
She returned just in time to catch the boat, flushed, tired, and orderless.
Bahia would have none of her.
In three days they would reach Rio de Janeiro, the magnificent. They
would have three days there. She told herself that Bahia didn't count,
anyway--sleepy little half-breed town! But the arrow rankled. It had
been the first to penetrate the armor of her business success. But she
had learned things from that experience at Bahia. She had learned that
the South American dislikes the North American because his Northern
cousin patronizes him. She learned that the North American business
firm is thought by the Southern business man to be tricky and dishonest,
and that, because the Northerner has not learned how to pack a case of
goods scientifically, as have the English, Germans, and French, the
South American rages to pay cubic-feet rates on boxes that are
three-quarters empty.
So it was with a heavy heart but a knowing head that she faced Rio de
Janeiro. They had entered in the evening, the sunset splashing the bay
and the hills in the foreground and the Sugar-loaf Mountain with an
unbelievable riot of crimson and gold and orange and blue. Suddenly
the sun jerked down, as though pulled by a string, and the magic purple
night came up as though pulled by another.
"Well, anyway, I've seen that," breathed Emma McChesney thankfully.
Next morning, she packed her three samples, as before, her heart heavy,
her mind on Fat Ed Meyers coming up two weeks behind her. Three
days in Rio! And already she had bumped her impatient, quick-thinking,
quick-acting North American business head up against the stone wall of
South American leisureliness and prejudice. She meant no irreverence,
no impiety as she prayed, meanwhile packing Nos. 79, 65, and 48 into
her personal bag:
"O Lord, let Fat Ed Meyers have Bahia; but please, please help me to

land Rio and Buenos Aires!"
Then, in smart tailored suit and hat, interpreter in tow, a prayer in her
heart, and excitement blazing in cheeks and eyes, she made her way to
the dock, through the customs, into a cab that was to take her to her
arena, the broad Avenida.
Exactly two hours later, there dashed into the customs-house a
well-dressed woman whose hat was very much over one ear. She was
running as only a woman runs when she's made up her mind to get
there. She came hot-foot, helter-skelter, regardless of modishly
crippling skirt, past officers, past customs officials, into the section
where stood the one small sample-trunk that she had ordered down in
case of emergency. The trunk had not gone through the customs. It had
not even been opened. But Emma McChesney heeded not trifles like
that. Rio de Janeiro had fallen for Featherlooms. Those three samples,
Nos. 79, 65, and 48, that boasted style, cut, and workmanship never
before seen in Rio, had turned the trick. They were as a taste of blood
to a hungry lion. Rio wanted more!
Emma McChesney was kneeling before her trunk, had whipped out her
key, unlocked it, and was swiftly selecting the numbers wanted from
the trays, her breath coming quickly, her deft fingers choosing
unerringly, when an indignant voice said, in Portuguese, "It is
forbidden!"
Emma McChesney did not glance around. Her head was buried in the
depths of the trunk. But her quick ears had caught the word,
"PROHIBA!"
"Speak English," she said, and went on unpacking.
"INGLES!" shouted the official. "No!" Then, with a superhuman effort,
as Emma McChesney stood up, her arms laden with Featherloom
samples of rainbow hues, "PARE! Ar-r-r-rest!"
Mrs. McChesney slammed down the trunk top, locked it, clutched her
samples firmly, and faced the enraged official.
"Go 'way! I haven't time to be arrested this morning. This is my busy
day. Call around this evening."
Whereupon she fled to her waiting cab, leaving behind her a Brazilian
official stunned and raging