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Updated: June 12, 2025
He looked like a colossal chocolate fudge. "Red-faced, grinning, and a naughty wink I'll bet he sells coffins and undertakers' supplies," mused Emma McChesney. "And the other one the tall, lank, funereal affair in black I suppose his line would be sheet music, or maybe phonographs.
He would have made the most splendid specimen of North American hotel clerk look like a scullery boy. Mrs. McChesney spent two whole days in Buenos Aires before she discovered that she could paralyze this personage with a peso. A peso is forty-three cents. Her experience at Bahia and at Rio de Janeiro had taught her things.
He drew from the bosom of his hunting shirt a soiled piece of birch bark, scrawled over with rude writing. Polly seized it, and flew into the house. The hickories turned a flaunting yellow, the oaks a copper-red, the leaves crackled on the Catawba vines, and still Tom McChesney did not come.
"Not exactly b Not exactly, eh?" Then he was off again. Mrs. McChesney surveyed him in hurt and dignified silence. Then "Well, really, T.A., don't mind me. What you find so exquisitely funny " "That's the funniest part of it! That you, of all people, shouldn't see the joke. Not exactly bad!" He wiped his eyes.
The great Indian nations were making a frantic effort to drive from their hunting grounds the little bands of settlers there, and these were in sore straits. So I waited, and gave Polly Ann no hint of my intention. Sometimes she herself would slip away across the notch to see Mrs. McChesney and the children.
Emma McChesney seemed to waft across the rooms and into the embrace of the slim, tall figure. "Welcome home!" she cried. "Sketch in the furniture to suit yourself." "This is going to be great great!" announced Jock. "What do you know about the Oriental potentate down-stairs! I guess Otis Skinner has nothing on him when it comes Why, hello, Mr. Buck!" He was peering into the next room.
It had been a mystifyingly good season in a bad business year. Even old T. A. himself was almost satisfied. Commissions piled up with gratifying regularity for Emma McChesney. Then, quite suddenly, the lonely evenings, the lack of woman companionship, and the longing for a sight of her seventeen-year-old son had got on Emma McChesney's nerves.
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.
With a boy's sense of such things I knew that the other woodsmen were waiting for him to speak, for they glanced at him expectantly. "You had a near call, McChesney," said he, at length; "fortunate for you we were after this band, shot some of it to pieces yesterday morning." He paused, looking at Tom with that quality of tribute which comes naturally to a leader of men.
Success was no stranger to Mrs. McChesney. This last business victory had not turned her head. But it had come perilously near to tilting that extraordinarily well-balanced part. A certain light in her eyes, a certain set of her chin, an added briskness of bearing, a cocky slant of the eyebrow revealed the fact that, though Mrs.
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