heartiness. "Mr. Buck's out of town, as you know. He'll be back
next week. He wasn't in favor of--"

"Now, Mrs. McChesney," interrupted Ed Meyers nervously, "you know
there's always one live one in every firm, just like there's
always one star in every family. You're the--"

"I'm the one who wants to know how you could spend sixty-nine
dollars for two days' incidentals in Iowa. Iowa! Why, look here,
Ed Meyers, I made Iowa for ten years when I was on the road. You
know that. And you know, and I know, that in order to spend
sixty-nine dollars for incidentals in two days in Iowa you have to
call out the militia."

"Not when you're trying to win the love of every skirt buyer from
Sioux City to Des Moines."

Emma McChesney rose impatiently. "Oh, that's nonsense! You don't
need to do that these days. Those are old-fashioned methods.
They're out of date. They--"

At that a little sound came from Jock. Emma heard it, glanced at
him, turned away again in confusion.

"I was foolish enough in the first place to give you this job for
old times' sake," she continued hurriedly.

Fat Ed Meyers' face drooped dolefully. He cocked his round head on
one side fatuously. "For old times' sake," he repeated, with
tremulous pathos, and heaved a gusty sigh.

"Which goes to show that I need a guardian," finished Emma
McChesney cruelly. "The only old times that I can remember are
when I was selling Featherlooms, and you were out for the
Sans-Silk Skirt Company, both covering the same territory, and
both running a year-around race to see which could beat the other
at his own game. The only difference was that I always played
fair, while you played low-down whenever you had a chance."

"Now, my dear Mrs. McChesney--"

"That'll be all," said Emma McChesney, as one whose patience is
fast slipping away. "Mr. Buck will see you next week." Then,
turning to her son as the door closed on the drooping figure of
the erstwhile buoyant Meyers, "Where'll we lunch, Jock?"

"Mother," Jock broke out hotly, "why in the name of all that's
foolish do you persist in using the methods of Methuselah! People
don't sell goods any more by sending out fat old ex-traveling men
to jolly up the trade."

"Jock," repeated Emma McChesney slowly, "where--shall--we--lunch?"

It was a grim little meal, eaten almost in silence. Emma McChesney
had made it a rule to use luncheon time as a recess. She played
mental tag and hop-scotch, so that, returning to her offic