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"Why, bless my soul, it's Tom McChesney!" he cried, ten paces away, while Tom grinned with pleasure at the recognition "But what have you here?" "A wife," said Tom, standing on one foot. Captain Sevier fixed his dark blue eyes on Polly Ann with approbation, and he bowed to her very gracefully. "Where are you going, Ma'am, may I ask?" he said. "To Kaintuckee," said Polly Ann.
Ham sandwich and a glass of milk. Dictated six letters between bites and swallows." A frown of annoyance appeared between T. A. Buck's remarkably fine eyes. He came over to Mrs. McChesney and looked down at her. "Look here, you'll kill yourself. It's all very well to be interested in one's business, but I draw the line at ruining my digestion for it.
Old Buck had regarded her a moment over his tortoise-shell rimmed glasses. Then, "I believe you could," he had said, quietly and thoughtfully. That brings her up to December. To some few millions of people D-e-c- e-m-b-e-r spells Christmas. But to Emma McChesney it spelled the dreaded spring trip.
"Why, girl, I can't imagine you doing anything so passive." In the busy year that followed, anyone watching Emma McChesney Buck as she worked and played and constructed, and helped others to work and play and construct, would have agreed with T. A. Buck. She did not seem a woman who was looking at life objectively.
Jock McChesney, from the tips of his twelve-dollar shoes to his radiant face, took the test and stood it triumphantly. He had entered with an air in which was mingled the briskness of assurance with the languor of ease. There were times when Jock McChesney was every inch the son of his mother.
Not one person in a thousand does. Why, take you I don't know you from Eve, but just from the way you shed the briny I know you're busy regretting." "Regretting?" repeated Emma McChesney, in a wail. "Do you know what I am? I'm a lady drummer. And do you know what I want to do this minute? I want to clean house.
They'll have to be coaxed and bullied and cajoled, and reasoned with. It's going to be a 'show-me' trip." T. A. Buck took a quick step forward. "That's just why. I won't have you fighting with buyers, taking their insults, kowtowing to them, salving them. It it isn't woman's work." Emma McChesney was sorting the contents of her desk with quick, nervous fingers.
I never held it up against you. Say, nobody ever admired you or appreciated you more than I did " "Look out!" said Emma McChesney. "You're speaking in the past tense. Please don't. It makes me nervous." Ed Meyers laughed, uncomfortably, and glanced yearningly toward the door. He seemed at a loss to account for something he failed to find in the manner and conversation of Mrs. McChesney.
Years of brilliant success, of triumphant execution, had not spoiled her, or made her offensively dictatorial. But they had taught her a certain self-confidence; had accustomed her to a degree of deference from others. Now she was the humblest of the satellites revolving about this sun of the household. She learned to tiptoe when small Emma McChesney was sleeping.
"Eh?" said Buck. "Wasn't what?" "Nothing," replied Emma McChesney. "I'm wool-gathering this morning. I'm afraid it's going to take me a day or two to get back into harness again." "If you'd rather wait, if you think you'll be more fit to-morrow or the day after, we'll wait. There's no real hurry. I just thought " But Mrs.
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