nical. But his face lost some of its
sullenness as he looked down at that earnest, vivid countenance
up-turned to his. "Maybe. It sounds all right, Mother--in the
story books. But I'm not quite solid on it. These days it isn't
so much what you've got in you that counts as what you can bring
out. I know the young man's slogan used to be 'Work and Wait,' or
something pretty like that. But these days they've boiled it down
to one word--'Produce'!"

"The marvel of it is that there aren't more of 'em," observed Emma
McChesney sadly.

"More what?"

"More lines. Here,"--she touched his forehead,--"and here,"--she
touched his eyes.

"Lines!" Jock swung to face a mirror. "Good! I'm so infernally
young-looking that no one takes me seriously. It's darned hard
trying to convince people you're a captain of finance when you
look like an errand boy."

From the center of the room Mrs. McChesney watched the boy as he
surveyed himself in the glass. And as she gazed there came a
frightened look into her eyes. It was gone in a minute, and in its
place came a curious little gleam, half amused, half pugnacious.

"Jock McChesney, if I thought that you meant half of what you've
said to-night about honor, and ethics, and all that, I'd--"

"Spank me, I suppose," said the young six-footer.

"No," and all the humor had fled, "I--Jock, I've never said much
to you about your father. But I think you know that he was what he
was to the day of his death. You were just about eight when I made
up my mind that life with him was impossible. I said then--and you
were all I had, son--that I'd rather see you dead than to have you
turn out to be a son of your father. Don't make me remember that
wish, Jock."

Two quick steps and his arms were about her. His face was all
contrition. "Why--Mother! I didn't mean--You see this is business,
and I'm crazy to make good, and it's such a fight--"

"Don't I know it?" demanded Emma McChesney. "I guess your mother
hasn't been sitting home embroidering lunchcloths these last
fifteen years." She lifted her head from the boy's shoulder. "And
now, son, considering me, not as your doting mother, but in my
business capacity as secretary of the T.A. Buck Featherloom
Petticoat Company, suppose you reveal to me the inner workings of
this plan of yours. I'd like to know if you really are the
advertising wizard that you think you are."

So it was that long after Annie's dinner dishes had ceased to
clatter in the kitc