hat concern is a woman. That's one reason why
they didn't send me, I suppose. I--I'd like to say something, if
you don't mind."

"Anything you like," said Jock graciously.

"Well, then, don't be afraid of being embarrassed and fussed. If
you blush and stammer a little, she'll like it. Play up the coy
stuff."

"The coy stuff!" echoed Jock. "I hadn't thought much about my
attitude toward the--er--the lady,"--a little stiffly.

"Well, you'd better," answered Miss Galt crisply. She put out her
hand in much the same manner as Sam Hupp had used. "Good luck to
you. I'll have to ask you to go now. I'm trying to make this
magneto sound like something without which no home is complete,
and to make people see that there's as much difference between it
and every other magneto as there is between the steam shovels that
dug out the Panama Canal and the junk that the French left
there--" She stopped. Her eyes took on a far-away look. Her lips
were parted slightly. "Why, that's not a bad idea--that last. I'll
use that. I'll--"

[Illustration: "With a jolt Jock realized she had forgotten all
about him"]

She began to scribble rapidly on the sheet of paper before her.
With a jolt Jock McChesney realized that she had forgotten all
about him. He walked quietly to the door, opened it, shut it very
quietly, then made for the nearest telephone. He knew one woman he
could count on to be proud of him. He gave his number, waited a
little eager moment, then:

"Featherloom Petticoat Company? Mrs. McChesney." And waited again.
Then he smiled.

"You needn't sound so official," he laughed; "it's only your son.
Listen. I"--he took on an elaborate carelessness of tone--"I've
got to take a little jump out of town. On business. Oh, a day or
so. Rather important though. I'll have time to run up to the flat
and throw a few things into a bag. I'll tell you, I really ought
to keep a bag packed down here. In case of emergency, you know.
What? It's the Athena Toilette Preparations Company. Well, I
should say it is! I'll wire you. You bet. Thanks. My what? Oh,
toothbrush. No. Good-by."

So it was that at three-ten Jock McChesney took himself, his
hopes, his dread, and his smart walrus bag aboard a train that
halted and snuffed and backed, and bumped and halted with
maddening frequency. But it landed him at last in a little town
bearing the characteristics of all American little towns. It was
surprisingly full of six-cylinder cars, and five an