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Updated: June 12, 2025
The pleasurable expression had returned to his face. "If the secretary of the above-mentioned company has the cheek to play hooky at 3:30 P.M. in the middle of November, I fancy the president can demand to know where she's going, and then go too." Mrs. McChesney unconcernedly fastened the clasp of her smart English glove. "Didn't you take two hours for lunch? Had mine off the top of my desk.
Saunders wiped the sweat from his brow on his buckskin sleeve. "I reckon I could get the trace, Colonel, if you'd let me go a little way into the prairie." "Half an hour," said Clark, "and you'll not go alone." Sweeping his eye over Bowman's company, he picked out a man here and a man there to go with Saunders. Then his eye lighted on me. "Where's McChesney?" he said. "Fetch McChesney."
Your line's skirts, isn't it?" "Yes." "Land, I've heard an awful lot about you. The boys on the road certainly speak something grand of you. I'm really jealous. Say, I'd love to show you some of my samples for this season. They're just great. I'll just run down the hall to my room " She was gone. Emma McChesney shut her eyes, wearily. Her nerves were twitching.
"Has he?" said Polly Ann, with brave indifference. "He met a gal on the trail a blazin' fine gal," said Chauncey Dike. "She was goin' to Kaintuckee. And Tom he 'lowed he'd go 'long." Polly Ann laughed, and fingered the withered pieces of skin at Chauncey's girdle. "Did Tom give you them sculps?" she asked innocently. Chauncey drew up stiffly. "Who? Tom McChesney?
"Can't forget those two little business misunderstandings we had, can you?" "Business understandings," corrected Emma McChesney. "Call 'em anything your little heart dictates, but listen. Fromkin knows all about you. Knows you've got a million friends in the trade, that you know skirts from the belt to the hem.
Over Emma McChesney, lying there in the dark, there swept one of those unreasoning night-fears. The fear of living. The fear of life. A straining of the eyeballs in the dark. The pounding of heart-beats. She sat up in bed. Her hands went to her face. Her cheeks were burning and her eyes smarted. She felt that she must see Jock. At once. Just to be near him. To touch him.
Emma McChesney made straight for her desk and began dictating letters with an energy that bordered on fury. At five o'clock she was still working. At five-thirty T.A. Buck came in to find her still surrounded by papers, samples, models. "What is this?" he demanded wrathfully, "an all-night session?" Emma McChesney looked up from her desk.
"To France!" laughed the Captain. "No, this is become France enough. He is raising in Kentucky and in the Cumberland country an army with a cursed, high-sounding name. Some of his old Illinois scouts McChesney, whom you mentioned, for one have been collecting bear's meat and venison hams all winter.
They were seated at opposite sides of the book-littered library table in the living-room of the cheerful up-town apartment which was the realization of the nightly dream which Mrs. Emma McChesney had had in her ten years on the road for the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company.
Saunders wiped the sweat from his brow on his buckskin sleeve. "I reckon I could get the trace, Colonel, if you'd let me go a little way into the prairie." "Half an hour," said Clark, "and you'll not go alone." Sweeping his eye over Bowman's company, he picked out a man here and a man there to go with Saunders. Then his eye lighted on me. "Where's McChesney?" he said. "Fetch McChesney."
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