After that he follows me to the cabin, and sees Polly Ann and Tom and the children on the floor poking a 'possum. 'Ah, says he, in his softest voice, 'a pleasant family scene. And this is Mr. McChesney? 'I'm your man, says Tom. Then he praised the mill site and the land all over again. 'Tis good enough for a farmer, says Tom. 'Who holds under Henderson's grant, I cried.
I'm going to return good for evil. Traveling men and geniuses should never marry. But as long as you've done it, you might as well start right. If you move from this spot till I get through with you, I'll yell police and murder. Are you ready?" "I'm dead sorry, on the square, I am " "Ten minutes late," interrupted Emma McChesney.
Emma McChesney buttered her bit of toast, then looked up to remark quietly: "Hadn't you better qualify for the trial heats, Jock, before you jump into the finals?" "Trial heats!" sneered Jock. "They're poky. I want real money. Now! It isn't enough to be just well-to-do in these days. It needs money. I want to be rich! Not just prosperous, but rich!
She's been giving things up all her life, and what has it brought her?" "It has brought me a comfortable living, and the love of my two children, and the respect of my townspeople." "Respect? Why shouldn't they respect you? You're the smartest woman in Winnebago, and the hardest working." Emma McChesney frowned a little, in thought. "What do you two girls do for recreation?"
Around the eyes, and under the chin, and your hands, and the corners of your mouth." In the twilight Emma McChesney turned to stare at her son. "Just where did you learn all that, young 'un? At college?" And, "Some view, isn't it, Mother?" parried Jock. The two stood there, side by side, looking out across the great city that glittered and swam in the soft haze of the late November afternoon.
"You're all awfully good," said Emma McChesney, her eyes glowing with something other than fever. "I've something to say. It's just this. If I'm going to be sick I'd prefer to be sick right here, unless it's something catching. No hospital. Don't ask me why. I don't know. We people on the road are all alike. Wire T. A. Buck, Junior, of the Featherloom Petticoat Company, New York.
What are ye tom-foolin' about here for, Tom McChesney, when yere Ma's breakin' her heart? I wonder ye come back at all." "Polly Ann," says he, very serious, "I ain't a boaster. But when I think what I come through to git here, I wonder that I come back at all. The folks shut up at Harrod's said it was sure death ter cross the mountains now.
"Do you mean Ed Meyers of the Strauss Sans-silk Skirt Company?" "That's so. You two are in the same line, aren't you? He's a great little piano player, Ed is. Ever hear him play?" "When did he get in?" "Oh, he just came in fifteen minutes ago on the Ashland division. He's in at supper." "Oh," said Emma McChesney. The two letters breathed relief.
McChesney," said Colonel Clark to Polly Ann, "you look as if you could make johnny-cake. Have you any meal?" "That I have," cried Polly Ann, "though it's fair mouldy. Davy, run and fetch it." I ran to the pack on the sorrel mare. When I returned Mr. Clark said: "That seems a handy boy, Mrs. McChesney." "Handy!" cried Polly Ann, "I reckon he's more than handy.
But he said this made his sound as dry as cigars in Denver. And you know yourself that Sam Hupp's copy is so brilliant that he could sell brewery advertising to a temperance magazine." Emma McChesney stood up. She looked a little impatient, and a trifle puzzled. "But why all this talk! I don't get you. Take your plan to Mr. Berg.