aterial--silk, lace,
crepe de Chine, charmeuse, taffeta. The T. A. Buck Featherloom
Petticoat Company is prepared to fill orders for immediate----"

"Well, I'll be darned!" said Jock McChesney aloud. And, again,
heedless of the protesting "Sh-sh-sh-sh!" that his neighbors turned
upon him, "Well, I'll--be--darned!"

A hand twitched his coat sleeve. He turned, still dazed. His mother,
very pink-cheeked, very bright-eyed, pulled him through the throng. As
they reached the edge of the crowd, there came a great burst of
applause, a buzz of conversation, the turning, shifting, nodding,
staccato movements which mean approval in a mass of people.

"What the dickens! How!" stammered Jock. "When--did she--did she----"

Emma, half smiling, half tearful, raised a protesting hand.

"I don't know. Don't ask me, dear. And don't hate me for it. I tried
to tell her not to, but she insisted. And, Jock, she's done it, I tell
you! She's done it! They love the skirt! Listen to 'em!"

"Don't want to," said Jock. "Lead me to her."

"Angry, dear!"

"Me? No! I'm--I'm proud of her! She hasn't only brains and looks,
that little girl; she's got nerve--the real kind! Gee, how did I ever
have the gall to ask her to marry me!"

Together they sped toward the door that led to the dressing-rooms.
Buck, his fine eyes more luminous than ever as he looked at this
wonder-wife of his, met them at the entrance.

"She's waiting for you, Jock," he said, smiling. Jock took the steps
in one leap.

"Well, T. A.?" said Emma.

"Well, Emma?" said T. A.

Which burst of eloquence was interrupted abruptly by a short, squat,
dark man, who seized Emma's hand in his left and Buck's in his right,
and pumped them up and down vigorously. It was that volatile, voluble
person known to the skirt trade as Abel I. Fromkin, of the "Fromkin
Form-fit Skirt. It Clings!"

"I'm looking everywhere for you!" he panted. Then, his shrewd little
eyes narrowing, "You want to talk business?"

"Not here," said Buck abruptly.

"Sure--here," insisted Fromkin. "Say, that's me. When I got a thing
on my mind, I like to settle it. How much you take for the rights to
that skirt?"

"Take for it!" exclaimed Emma, in the tone a mother would use to one
who has suggested taking a beloved child from her.

"Now wait a minute. Don't get mad. You ain't started that skirt
right. It should have been advertised. It's too much of a shock.
You'll see. They won't