VI
SIMPLY SKIRTS
They may differ on the subjects of cigars, samples, hotels, ball teamsand pinochle hands, but two things there are upon which they standunited. Every member of that fraternity which is condemned to a hotelbedroom, or a sleeper berth by night, and chained to a sample case byday agrees in this, first: That it isn't what it used to be. Second:If only they could find an opening for a nice, paying gents' furnishingbusiness in a live little town that wasn't swamped with that kind ofthing already they'd buy it and settle down like a white man, by George!and quit this peddling. The missus hates it anyhow; and the kids knowthe iceman better than they do their own dad.
On the morning that Mrs. Emma McChesney (representing T. A. Buck,Featherloom Petticoats) finished her talk with Miss Hattie Stitch, headof Kiser & Bloch's skirt and suit department, she found herself in arare mood. She hated her job; she loathed her yellow sample cases; shelonged to call Miss Stitch a green-eyed cat; and she wished that she hadchosen some easy and pleasant way of earning a living, like doingplain and fancy washing and ironing. Emma McChesney had been sellingFeatherloom Petticoats on the road for almost ten years, and she wasfamed throughout her territory for her sane sunniness, and her love ofher work. Which speaks badly for Miss Hattie Stitch.
Miss Hattie Stitch hated Emma McChesney with all the hate that aflat-chested, thin-haired woman has for one who can wear a largethirty-six without one inch of alteration, and a hat that turns sharplyaway from the face. For forty-six weeks in the year Miss Stitch existedin Kiser & Bloch's store at River Falls. For six weeks, two in spring,two in fall, and two in mid-winter, Hattie lived in New York, with acapital L. She went there to select the season's newest models (slightlymodified for River Falls), but incidentally she took a regular trousseauwith her.
All day long Hattie picked skirt and suit models with unerring goodtaste and business judgment. At night she was a creature transformed.Every house of which Hattie bought did its duty like a soldier and agentleman. Nightly Hattie powdered her neck and arms, performed sacredrites over her hair and nails, donned a gown so complicated that a hotelmaid had to hook her up the back, and was ready for her evening's escortat eight. There wasn't a hat in a grill room from one end of the CrookedCow-path to the other that was more wildly barbaric than Hattie's, evenin these sane and simple days when the bird of paradise has become thenational bird. The buyer of suits for a thriving department store in ahustling little Middle-Western town isn't to be neglected. Whenever ashow came to River Falls Hattie would look bored, pass a weary hand overher glossy coiffure and say: "Oh, yes. Clever little show. Saw it twowinters ago in New York. This won't be the original company, of course."The year that Hattie came back wearing a set of skunk everyone thoughtit was lynx until Hattie drew attention to what she called the "browntone" in it. After that Old Lady Heinz got her old skunk furs out of themoth balls and tobacco and newspapers that had preserved them, and herdaughter cut them up into bands for the bottom of her skirt, and thecuffs of her coat. When Kiser & Bloch had their fall and spring openingsthe town came ostensibly to see the new styles, but really to gazeat Hattie in a new confection, undulating up and down the department,talking with a heavy Eastern accent about this or that being "smart" or"good this year," or having "a world of style," and sort of trailing hertoes after her to give a clinging, Grecian line, like pictures of EthelBarrymore when she was thin. The year that Hattie confided to some onethat she was wearing only scant bloomers beneath her slinky silk thefloor was mobbed, and they had to call in reserves from the basementladies-and-misses-ready-to-wear.
Miss Stitch came to New York in March. On the evening of her arrivalshe dined with Fat Ed Meyers, of the Strauss Sans-silk Skirt Company. Heinformed her that she looked like a kid, and that that was some classylittle gown, and it wasn't every woman who could wear that kind of thingand get away with it. It took a certain style. Hattie smiled, and hummedoff-key to the tune the orchestra was playing, and Ed told her it was ashame she didn't do something with that voice.
"I have something to tell you," said Hattie. "Just before I left I hada talk with old Kiser. Or rather, he had a talk with me. You know I havepretty much my own way in my department. Pity if I couldn't have. I madeit. Well, Kiser wanted to know why I didn't buy Featherlooms. I said wehad no call for 'em, and he came back with figures to prove we're losinga good many hundreds a year by not carrying them. He said the StraussSans-silk skirt isn't what it used to be. And he's right."
"Oh, say--" objected Ed Meyers.
"It's true," insisted Hattie. "But I couldn't tell him that I didn'tbuy Featherlooms because McChesney made me tired. Besides, she neverentertains me when I'm in New York. Not that I'd go to the theater inthe evening with a woman, because I wouldn't, but--Say, listen. Whydon't you make a play for her job? As long as I've got to put in a heavyline of Featherlooms you may as well get the benefit of it. Youcould double your commissions. I'll bet that woman makes her I-don'tknow-how-many thousands a year."
Ed Meyers' naturally ruddy complexion took on a richer tone, and hedropped his fork hastily. As he gazed at Miss Stitch his glance was notmore than half flattering. "How you women do love each other, don'tyou! You don't. I don't mind telling you my firm's cutting down itsroad force, and none of us knows who's going to be beheadednext. But--well--a guy wouldn't want to take a job away from awoman--especially a square little trick like McChesney. Of course she'splayed me a couple of low-down deals and I promised to get back at her,but that's business. But--"
"So's this," interrupted Miss Hattie Stitch. "And I don't know thatshe is so square. Let me tell you that I heard she's no better than shemight be. I have it on good authority that three weeks ago, at the RiverHouse, in our town--"
Their heads came close together over the little, rose-shaded restauranttable.
At eleven o'clock next morning Fat Ed Meyers walked into the office ofthe T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company and asked to see old T. A.
"He's in Europe," a stenographer informed him, "spaing, and sprudeling,and badening. Want to see T. A. Junior?"
"T. A. Junior!" almost shouted Ed Meyers. "You don't mean to tell me_that_ fellow's taken hold--"
"Believe _me_. That's why Featherlooms are soaring and Sans-silks aresinking. Nobody would have believed it. T. A. Junior's got a live wirelooking like a stick of licorice. When they thought old T. A. was goingto die, young T. A. seemed to straighten out all of a sudden and takehold. It's about time. He must be almost forty, but he don't show it. Idon't know, he ain't so good-looking, but he's got swell eyes."
Ed Meyers turned the knob of the door marked "Private," and entered,smiling. Ed Meyers had a smile so cherubic that involuntarily you armedyourself against it.
"Hel-lo Buck!" he called jovially. "I hear that at last you're taking aninterest in skirts--other than on the hoof." And he offered young T.A. a large, dark cigar with a fussy-looking band encircling its middle.Young T. A. looked at it disinterestedly, and spake, saying:
"What are you after?"
"Why, I just dropped in--" began Ed Meyers lamely.
"The dropping," observed T. A. Junior, "is bad around here this morning.I have one little formula for all visitors to-day, regardless of whetherthey're book agents or skirt salesmen. That is, what can I do for you?"
Ed Meyers tucked his cigar neatly into the extreme right corner of hismouth, pushed his brown derby far back on his head, rested his strangelylean hands on his plump knees, and fixed T. A. Junior with a shrewd blueeye. "That suits me fine," he agreed. "I never was one to beat aroundthe bush. Look here. I know skirts from the draw-string to the ruffle.It's a woman's garment, but a man's line. There's fifty reasons why awoman can't handle it like a man. For one thing the packing cases weightwenty-five pounds each, and she's as dependent on a packer and a porteras a baby is on its mother. Another is that if a man has to get up tomake a train at 4 A.M. he don't require twenty-five minutes to fastendown three sets of garters, and braid his hair, and hook his waist upthe back, and miss his t
rain. And he don't have neuralgic headaches.Then, the head of a skirt department in a store is a woman, ten timesout of ten. And lemme tell you," he leaned forward earnestly, "a womandon't like to buy of a woman. Don't ask me why. I'm too modest. But it'sthe truth."
"Well?" said young T. A., with the rising inflection.
"Well," finished Ed Meyers, "I like your stuff. I think it's great. It'sa seller, with the right man to push it. I'd like to handle it. AndI'll guarantee I could double the returns from your Middle-Westernterritory." T. A. Junior had strangely translucent eyes. Their luminousquality had an odd effect upon any one on whom he happened to turn them.He had been scrawling meaningless curlycues on a piece of paper as EdMeyers talked. Now he put down the pencil, turned, and looked Ed Meyersfairly in the eye.
"You mean you want Mrs. McChesney's territory?" he asked quietly.
"Well, yes, I do," confessed Ed Meyers, without a blush.
Young T. A. swung back to his desk, tore from the pad before him thepiece of paper on which he had been scrawling, crushed it, and tossed itinto the wastebasket with an air of finality.
"Take the second elevator down," he said. "The nearest one's out oforder."
For a moment Ed Meyers stared, his fat face purpling. "Oh, very well,"he said, rising. "I just made you a business proposition, that's all. Ithought I was talking to a business man. Now, old T. A.--"
"That'll be about all," observed T. A. Junior, from his desk.
Ed Meyers started toward the door. Then he paused, turned, and came backto his chair. His heavy jaw jutted out threateningly.
"No, it ain't all, either. I didn't want to mention it, and if you'dtreated me like a gentleman, I wouldn't have. But I want to say to youthat McChesney's giving this firm a black eye. Morals don't figure witha man on the road, but when a woman breaks into this game, she's got tobe on the level."
T. A. Junior rose. The blonde stenographer who had made the admiringremark anent his eyes would have appreciated those features now. Theyglowed luminously into Ed Meyers' pale blue ones until that gentlemandropped his eyelids in confusion. He seemed at a disadvantage in everyway, as T. A. Junior's lean, graceful height towered over the fat man'sbulk. "I don't know Mrs. McChesney," said T. A. Junior. "I haven't evenseen her in six years. My interest in the business is very recent. I doknow that my father swears she's the best salesman he has on the road.Before you go any further I want to tell you that you'll have to provewhat you just implied, so definitely, and conclusively, and convincinglythat when you finish you'll have an ordinary engineering blue-printlooking like a Turner landscape. Begin."
Ed Meyers, still standing, clutched his derby tightly and began.
"She's a looker, Emma is. And smooth! As the top of your desk. But she'sgetting careless. Now a decent, hard-working, straight girl like MissHattie Stitch, of Kiser & Bloch's, River Falls, won't buy of her. You'llfind you don't sell that firm. And they buy big, too. Why, last summer Ihad it from the clerk of the hotel in that town that she ran around allday with a woman named LeHaye--Blanche LeHaye, of an aggregation ofbum burlesquers called the Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles. And say, for awhole month there, she had a tough young kid traveling with her that shecalled her son. Oh, she's queering your line, all right. The daysare past when it used to be a signal for a loud, merry laugh if youmentioned you were selling goods on the road. It's a fine art, and ascience these days, and the name of T. A. Buck has always stood for--"
Downstairs a trim, well-dressed, attractive woman stepped into theelevator and smiled radiantly upon the elevator man, who had smiledfirst.
"Hello, Jake," she said. "What's old in New York? I haven't been here inthree months. It's good to be back."
"Seems grand t' see you, Mis' McChesney," returned Jake. "Well, nothin'much stirrin'. Whatcha think of the Grand Central? I understandthey're going to have a contrivance so you can stand on a mat in thewaiting-room and wish yourself down to the track an' train that you'releavin' on. The G'ints have picked a bunch of shines this season. T.A. Junior's got a new sixty-power auto. Genevieve--that yella-headedsteno--was married last month to Henry, the shipping clerk. My wifepresented me with twin girls Monday. Well, thank _you_, Mrs. McChesney.I guess that'll help some."
Emma McChesney swung down the hall and into the big, bright office. Shepaused at the head bookkeeper's desk. The head bookkeeper was a woman.Old Man Buck had learned something about the faithfulness of womenemployees. The head bookkeeper looked up and said some convincingthings.
"Thanks," said Emma, in return. "It's mighty good to be here. Is it truethat skirts are going to be full in the back? How's business? T. A. in?"
"Young T. A. is. But I think he's busy just now. You know T. A. Seniorisn't back yet. He had a tight squeeze, I guess. Everybody's talkingabout the way young T. A. took hold. You know he spent years runningaround Europe, and he made a specialty of first nights, and firsteditions, and French cars when he did show up here. But now! He'schanged the advertising, and designing, and cutting departments aroundhere until there's as much difference between this place now and theplace it was three months ago as there is between a hoop-skirt and ahobble. He designed one skirt--Here, Miss Kelly! Just go in and getone of those embroidery flounce models for Mrs. McChesney. How's that?Honestly, I'd wear it myself."
Emma McChesney held the garment in her two hands and looked it overcritically. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. She looked up to reply whenthe door of T. A. Buck's private office opened, and Ed Meyers walkedbriskly out. Emma McChesney put down the skirt and crossed the officeso that she and he met just in front of the little gate that formed anentrance along the railing.
Ed Meyers' mouth twisted itself into a smile. He put out a welcominghand.
"Why, hello, stranger! When did you drive in? How's every little thing?I'm darned if you don't grow prettier and younger every day of yoursweet life."
"Quit Sans-silks?" inquired Mrs. McChesney briefly.
"'Honestly. I'd wear it myself!'"]
"Why--no. But I was just telling young T. A. in there that if I couldonly find a nice, paying little gents' furnishing business in a livelittle town that wasn't swamped with that kind of thing already I'd buyit, by George! I'm tired of this peddling."
"Sing that," said Emma McChesney. "It might sound better," and marchedinto the office marked "Private."
T. A. Junior's good-looking back and semi-bald head were toward her asshe entered. She noted, approvingly, woman-fashion, that his neck wouldnever lap over the edge of his collar in the back. Then Young T.A. turned about. He gazed at Emma McChesney, his eyebrows raisedinquiringly. Emma McChesney's honest blue eyes, with no translucentnonsense about them, gazed straight back at T. A. Junior.
"I'm Mrs. McChesney. I got in half an hour ago. It's been a good littletrip, considering business, and politics, and all that. I'm sorry tohear your father's still ill. He and I always talked over things aftermy long trip."
Young T. A.'s expert eye did not miss a single point, from the tip ofMrs. McChesney's smart spring hat to the toes of her well-shod feet,with full stops for the fit of her tailored suit, the freshness of hergloves, the clearness of her healthy pink skin, the wave of her soft,bright hair.
"How do you do, Mrs. McChesney," said Young T. A. emphatically. "Pleasesit down. It's a good idea--this talking over your trip. There areseveral little things--now Kiser & Bloch, of River Falls, for instance.We ought to be selling them. The head of their skirt and suit departmentis named Stitch, isn't she? Now, what would you say of Miss Stitch?"
"Say?" repeated Emma McChesney quickly. "As a woman, or a buyer?"
T. A. Junior thought a minute. "As a woman."
Mrs. McChesney thoughtfully regarded the tips of her neatly glovedhands. Then she looked up. "The kindest and gentlest thing I can sayabout her is that if she'd let her hair grow out gray maybe her facewouldn't look so hard."
T. A. Junior flung himself back in his chair and threw back his head andlaughed at the ceiling.
Then, "How old is your son?" with dis
concerting suddenness.
"Jock's scandalously near eighteen." In her quick mind Emma McChesneywas piecing odds and ends together, and shaping the whole to fit Fat EdMeyers. A little righteous anger was rising within her.
T. A. Junior searched her face with his glowing eyes.
"Does my father know that you have a young man son? Queer you nevermentioned it.
"Queer? Maybe. Also, I don't remember ever having mentioned what churchmy folks belonged to, or where I was born, or whether I like my steakrare or medium, or what my maiden name was, or the size of my shoes, orwhether I take my coffee with or without. That's because I don't believein dragging private and family affairs into the business relation. Ithink I ought to tell you that on the way in I met Ed Meyers, of theStrauss Sans-silk Skirt Company, coming out. So anything you say won'tsurprise me."
"You wouldn't be surprised," asked T. A. Junior smoothly, "if I were tosay that I'm considering giving a man your territory?" Emma McChesney'seyes--those eyes that had seen so much of the world and its ways, andthat still could return your gaze so clearly and honestly--widened untilthey looked so much like those of a hurt child, or a dumb animalthat has received a death wound, that young T. A. dropped his gaze inconfusion.
Emma McChesney stood up. Her breath came a little quickly. But when shespoke, her voice was low and almost steady.
"If you expect me to beg you for my job, you're mistaken. T. A. Buck'sFeatherloom Petticoats have been my existence for almost ten years. I'vesold Featherlooms six days in the week, and seven when I had a Sundaycustomer. They've not only been my business and my means of earninga livelihood, they've been my religion, my diversion, my life, mypet pastime. I've lived petticoats, I've talked petticoats, I've soldpetticoats, I've dreamed petticoats--why, I've even worn the darnedthings! And that's more than any man will ever do for you."
"'I've lived petticoats, I've talked petticoats, I'vedreamed petticoats--why, I've even worn the darn things!'"]
Young T. A. rose. He laughed a little laugh of sheer admiration.Admiration shone, too, in those eyes of his which so many women foundirresistible. He took a step forward and laid one well-shaped hand onEmma McChesney's arm. She did not shrink, so he let his hand slip downthe neat blue serge sleeve until it reached her snugly gloved hand.
"You're all right!" he said. His voice was very low, and there was a newnote in it. "Listen, girlie. I've just bought a new sixty-power machine.Have dinner with me to-night, will you? And we'll take a run out in thecountry somewhere. It's warm, even for March. I'll bring along a furcoat for you. H'm?"
Mrs. McChesney stood thoughtfully regarding the hand that covered herown. The blue of her eyes and the pink of her cheeks were a marvel tobehold.
"It's a shame," she began slowly, "that you're not twenty-five yearsyounger, so that your father could give you the licking you deserve whenhe comes home. I shouldn't be surprised if he'd do it anyway. The Lordpreserve me from these quiet, deep devils with temperamental hands andluminous eyes. Give me one of the bull-necked, red-faced, hoarse-voiced,fresh kind every time. You know what they're going to say, at least,and you're prepared for them. If I were to tell you how the hand you'reholding is tingling to box your ears you'd marvel that any human beingcould have that much repression and live. I've heard of this kind ofthing, but I didn't know it happened often off the stage and outside ofnovels. Let's get down to cases. If I let you make love to me, I keep myjob. Is that it?"
"Why--no--I--to tell the truth I was only--"
"Don't embarrass yourself. I just want to tell you that before I'daccept your auto ride I'd open a little fancy art goods and needleworkstore in Menominee, Michigan, and get out the newest things inHardanger work and Egyptian embroidery. And that's my notion of zero inoccupation. Besides, no plain, everyday workingwoman could enjoy herselfin your car because her conscience wouldn't let her. She'd be thinkingall the time how she was depriving some poor, hard-working chorus girlof her legitimate pastime, and that would spoil everything. The elevatorman told me that you had a new motor car, but the news didn't interestme half as much as that of his having new twin girls. Anything with fivethousand dollars can have a sixty-power machine, but only an elevatorman on eight dollars a week can afford the luxury of twins."
"My dear Mrs. McChesney--"
"Don't," said Emma McChesney sharply. "I couldn't stand much more. Ijoke, you know, when other women cry. It isn't so wearing."
She turned abruptly and walked toward the door. T. A. Junior overtookher in three long strides, and placed himself directly before her.
"My cue," said Emma McChesney, with a weary brightness, "to say, 'Let mepass, sir!'"
"Please don't," pleaded T. A. Junior. "I'll remember this the rest ofmy life. I thought I was a statue of modern business methods, but afterto-day I'm going to ask the office boy to help me run this thing. If Icould only think of some special way to apologize to you--"
"Oh, it's all right," said Emma McChesney indifferently.
"But it isn't! It isn't! You don't understand. That human jellyfish ofa Meyers said some things, and I thought I'd be clever and prove them.I can't ask your pardon. There aren't words enough in the language. Why,you're the finest little woman--you're--you'd restore the faith of acynic who had chronic indigestion. I wish I--Say, let me relieve youof a couple of those small towns that you hate to make, and give youCleveland and Cincinnati. And let me--Why say, Mrs. McChesney! Please!Don't! This isn't the time to--"
"I can't help it," sobbed Emma McChesney, her two hands before her face."I'll stop in a minute. There; I'm stopping now. For Heaven's sake, stoppatting me on the head!"
"Please don't be so decent to me," entreated T. A. Junior, his fine eyesmore luminous than ever. "If only you'd try to get back at me I wouldn'tfeel so cut up about it." Emma McChesney looked up at him, a smileshining radiantly through the tears. "Very well. I'll do it. Just beforeI came in they showed me that new embroidery flounced model youjust designed. Maybe you don't know it, but women wear only one limppetticoat nowadays. And buttoned shoes. The eyelets in that embroideryare just big enough to catch on the top button of a woman's shoe, andtear, and trip her. I ought to have let you make up a couple of millionof them, and then watch them come back on your hands. I was going totell you, anyway, for T. A. Senior's sake. Now I'm doing it for yourown."
"And found himself addressing the backs of the letters onthe door marked 'Private'"]
"For--" began T. A. Junior excitedly. And found himself addressing thebacks of the letters on the door marked "Private," as it slammed afterthe trim, erect figure in blue.