n by the Winnebago young men--their straw sailors were likely
to be saw-edged when the local edges were smooth, and their coats were
more flaring, or their trousers wider than the coats and trousers of
the Winnebago boys--they were not, for the most part, the gay dogs that
Winnebago's fancy painted them. Many of them were very lonely married
men who missed their wives and babies, and loathed the cuspidored
discomfort of the small-town hotel lobby. They appreciated Mrs.
Brandeis' good-natured sympathy, and gave her the long end of a deal
when they could. It was Sam Kiser who had begged her to listen to
his advice to put in Battenberg patterns and braid, long before the
Battenberg epidemic had become widespread and virulent.

"Now listen to me, Mrs. Brandeis," he begged, almost tearfully. "You're
a smart woman. Don't let this get by you. You know that I know that a
salesman would have as much chance to sell you a gold brick as to sell
old John D. Rockefeller a gallon of oil." Mrs. Brandeis eyed his samples
coldly. "But it looks so unattractive. And the average person has
no imagination. A bolt of white braid and a handful of buttons--they
wouldn't get a mental picture of the completed piece. Now, embroidery
silk----"

"Then give 'em a real picture!" interrupted Sam. "Work up one of these
water-lily pattern table covers. Use No. 100 braid and the smallest
buttons. Stick it in the window and they'll tear their hair to get
patterns."

She did it, taking turns with Pearl and Sadie at weaving the great, lacy
square during dull moments. When it was finished they placed it in
the window, where it lay like frosted lace, exquisitely graceful and
delicate, with its tracery of curling petals and feathery fern sprays.
Winnebago gazed and was bitten by the Battenberg bug. It wound itself up
in a network of Battenberg braid, in all the numbers. It bought
buttons of every size; it stitched away at Battenberg covers, doilies,
bedspreads, blouses, curtains. Battenberg tumbled, foamed, cascaded over
Winnebago's front porches all that summer. Listening to Sam Kiser had
done it.

She listened to the farmer women too, and to the mill girls, and to the
scant and precious pearls that dropped from the lips of the East End
society section. There was something about her brown eyes and her
straight, sensible nose that reassured them so that few suspected the
mischievous in her. For she was mischievous. If she had not been I think
she could not