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Updated: June 14, 2025
To look at Grace Galt you would have thought that she should have been writing about the rose-tinted jars in Jock McChesney's hands instead of about such things as ignition, and insulation, and ball bearings, and induction windings. But it was Grace Galt's gift that she could take just such hard, dry, technical facts and weave them into a story that you followed to the end.
Sitting there on the edge of the bed she regarded the dear scrawl lovingly, savoring it, as is the way of a woman. M-m-m it wasn't much as to length. Just a scrawled page. Emma McChesney's eye plunged into it hungrily, a smile of anticipation dimpling her lips, lighting up her face. "Dearest Blonde," it began. He hoped the letter would reach her in time.
T. A. Buck stepped within the radius of the yellow light, so that its glow lighted up his already luminous eyes eyes that had a trick of translucence under excitement. "Sables and sealskin," repeated T. A. Buck, his voice vibrant. "If it's those you want, you can " Snap! went the electric switch under Emma McChesney's fingers. It was as decisive as a blow in the face. She walked to the door.
"You're a day ahead of schedule, Jock," she said evenly. "So are you," retorted Jock, sullenly, his hands jammed into his pockets. "All the better for both of us, Kid. I was just going over to the hotel to clean up, Jock. Come along, boy." The boy's jaw set. His eyes sought any haven but that of Emma McChesney's eyes. "I can't," he said, his voice very low.
He smiled down at her, calm, self-assured, impudent. A little flush grew in Emma McChesney's cheeks. "I've always said," she began, crisply, "that one could pretty well judge a man's character, temperament, morals, and physical make-up by just glancing at his expense account. The trouble with you is that you haven't learned the art of spending money wisely.
Beneath the comedy of the bleached hair, and the flaccid face, and the bizarre wrapper; behind the coarseness and vulgarity and ignorance, Emma McChesney's keen mental eye saw something decent and clean and beautiful. And something pitiable, and something tragic. "I guess you'd better come in and get some sleep," said Emma McChesney; and somehow found her hand resting on the woman's shoulder.
The buzzing fly alighted on Emma McChesney's left eyebrow. She swatted it with a hand that was not quite quick enough, spoiled the picture, and slowly rose from her perch at the bedside. "Oh, damn!" she remarked, wearily, and went over to the dresser. Then she pulled down her shirtwaist all around and went down to supper.
T. A. Buck passed his hand over his head in a dazed, helpless gesture. There was something pathetic in his utter bewilderment and helplessness in contrast with Emma McChesney's breezy self-confidence, and the show-girl's cool poise and unconcern. "Wait a minute," he murmured, almost pleadingly. "Let me ask a couple of questions, will you?" "Questions? A hundred. That proves you're interested."
Ten years on the road had taught Emma McChesney to extract a maximum of enjoyment out of a minimum of material. Emma McChesney's favorite occupation was selling T. A. Buck's Featherloom Petticoats, and her favorite pastime was studying men and women. The two things went well together.
Feet that once had turned quite as a matter of course toward the door marked "MRS. MCCHESNEY," now took the direction of the door opposite and that door bore the name of Buck. Those four months of Mrs. McChesney's absence had put her partner to the test. That acid test had washed away the accumulated dross of years and revealed the precious metal beneath.
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