[Illustration: "'What is this anyway? A George Cohan comedy?'"]

PERSONALITY PLUS

 SOME EXPERIENCES OF EMMA McCHESNEY AND HER SON, JOCK

By

EDNA FERBER

AUTHOR OF "DAWN O'HARA, " "BUTTERED SIDE DOWN, ""ROAST BEEF, MEDIUM, " ETC. 

_WITH FIFTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS BYJAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG_

NEW YORKFREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY1914

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. MAKING GOOD WITH MOTHER

 II. PERSONALITY PLUS

III. DICTATED BUT NOT READ

 IV. THE MAN WITHIN HIM

 V. THE SELF-STARTER

ILLUSTRATIONS

"'What is this anyway? A George Cohan comedy?'" _Frontispiece_

"'You're a jealous blond, ' he laughed"

"He was the concentrated essence of do-it-now"

"'Hi! Hold that pose!' called Von Herman"

"With a jolt Jock realized she had forgotten all about him"

"'Well, raw-thah!' he drawled"

". . . Became in some miraculous way a little boy again"

"Jock McChesney began to carry a yellow walking stick down towork"

"'Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't mean it, but--'"

"'Greetings!'"

"She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and looked up into thesullen, angry young face"

"He made straight for the main desk with its battalion of clerks"

"'Let's not waste any time, ' he said"

"He found his mother on the floor . . . Surrounded by piles ofpajamas, socks, shirts and collars"

"'Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?'"

PERSONALITY PLUS

I

MAKING GOOD WITH MOTHER

When men began to build cities vertically instead of horizontallythere passed from our highways a picturesque figure, and from ourlanguage an expressive figure of speech. That oily-tongued, persuasive, soft-stepping stranger in the rusty Prince Albert andthe black string tie who had been wont to haunt our back steps andfront offices with his carefully wrapped bundle, retreated inbewildered defeat before the clanging blows of steel on steel thatmeant the erection of the first twenty-story skyscraper. "Asslick, " we used to say, "as a lightning-rod agent. " Of what usehis wares on a building whose tower was robed in clouds and whichused the chain lightning for a necklace? The Fourth Avenue antiquedealer had another curio to add to his collection of andirons, knockers, snuff boxes and warming pans. 

But even as this quaint figure vanished there sprang up a new andglittering one to take his place. He stood framed in the greatplate-glass window of the very building which had brought aboutthe defeat of his predecessor. A miracle of close shaving his facewas, and a marvel of immaculateness his linen. Dapper he was, anddressy, albeit inclined to glittering effects and a certainplethory at the back of the neck. Back of him stood shining shapesthat reflected his glory in enamel, and brass, and glass. Hislanguage was floral, but choice; his talk was of gearings andbearings and cylinders and magnetos; his method differed from thatof him who went before as the method of a skilled aëronaut differsfrom that of the man who goes over Niagara in a barrel. And as hemultiplied and spread over the land we coined a new figure ofspeech. "Smooth!" we chuckled. "As smooth as an automobilesalesman. "

But even as we listened, fascinated by his fluent verbiage theregrew within us a certain resentment. Familiarity with hisglittering wares bred a contempt of them, so that he fell tospeaking of them as necessities instead of luxuries. He juggledfigures, and thought nothing of four of them in a row. We lookedat our five-thousand-dollar salary, so strangely shrunken and thinnow, and even as we looked we saw that the method of the unctuous, anxious stranger had become antiquated in its turn. 

Then from his ashes emerged a new being. Neither urger norspellbinder he. The twentieth century was stamped across his brow, and on his lips was ever the word "Service. " Silent, courteous, watchful, alert, he listened, while you talked. His method, inturn, made that of the silk-lined salesman sound like the hoarsehoots of the ballyhoo man at a county fair. Blithely he acceptedfive hundred thousand dollars and gave in return--a promise. Andwhen we would search our soul for a synonym to express all thatwas low-voiced, and suave, and judicious, and patient, and sure, we began to say, "As alert as an advertising expert. "

Jock McChesney, looking as fresh and clear-eyed as only twenty-oneand a cold shower can make one look, stood in the doorway of hismother's bedroom. His toilette had halted abruptly at thebathrobe stage. One of those bulky garments swathed his slimfigure, while over his left arm hung a gray tweed Norfolk coat. From his right hand dangled a pair of trousers, in pattern amodish black-and-white. 

Jock regarded the gray garment on his arm with moody eyes. 

"Well, I'd like to know what's the matter with it!" he demanded, atrifle irritably. 

Emma McChesney, in the act of surveying her back hair in themirror, paused, hand glass poised half way, to regard her son. 

"All right, " she answered cheerfully. "I'll tell you. It's tooyoung. "

"Young!" He held it at arm's length and stared at it. "What d'youmean--young?"

Emma McChesney came forward, wrapping the folds of her kimonoabout her. She took the disputed garment in one hand and held italoft. "I know that you look like a man on a magazine cover in it. But Norfolk suits spell tennis, and seashore, and elegant leisure. And you're going out this morning, Son, to interview business men. You're going to try to impress the advertising world with the factthat it needs your expert services. You walk into a businessoffice in a Norfolk suit, and everybody from the office boy to thepresident of the company will ask you what your score is. "

She tossed it back over his arm. 

"I'll wear the black and white, " said Jock resignedly, and turnedtoward his own room. At his doorway he paused and raised his voiceslightly: "For that matter, they're looking for young men. Everybody's young. Why, the biggest men in the advertising gameare just kids. " He disappeared within his room, still talking. "Look at McQuirk, advertising manager of the Combs Car Company. He's so young he has to disguise himself in bone-trimmedeye-glasses with a black ribbon to get away with it. Look atHopper, of the Berg, Shriner Company. Pulls down ninety thousand ayear, and if he's thirty-five I'll--"

"Well, you asked my advice, " interrupted his mother's voice withthat muffled effect which is caused by a skirt being slipped overthe head, "and I gave it. Wear a white duck sailor suit with blueanchors and carry a red tin pail and a shovel, if you want to lookyoung. Only get into it in a jiffy, Son, because breakfast will beready in ten minutes. I can tell by the way Annie's crashing thecups. So step lively if you want to pay your lovely mother'ssubway fare. "

Ten minutes later the slim young figure, in its English-fittingblack and white, sat opposite Emma McChesney at the breakfasttable and between excited gulps of coffee outlined a meteoriccareer in his chosen field. And the more he talked and the rosierhis figures of speech became, the more silent and thoughtful fellhis mother. She wondered if five o'clock would find a droop to theset of those young shoulders; if the springy young legs in theirabsurdly scant modish trousers would have lost some of theirelasticity; if the buoyant step in the flat-heeled shoes would notdrag a little. Thirteen years of business experience had taughther to swallow smilingly the bitter pill of rebuff. But this boywas to experience his first dose to-day. She felt again thatsensation of almost physical nausea--that sickness of heart andspirit which had come over her when she had met her first sneerand intolerant shrug. It had been her maiden trip on the road forthe T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. She was secretary ofthat company now, and moving spirit in its policy. But the woundof that first insult still ached. A word from her would haveplaced the boy and saved him from curt refusals. She withheld thatword. He must fight his fight alone. 

"I want to write the kind of ad, " Jock was saying excitedly, "thatyou see 'em staring at in the subways, and street cars andL-trains. I want to sit across the aisle and watch their up-turnedfaces staring at that oblong, and reading it aloud to each other. "

"Isn't that an awfully obvious necktie you're wearing, Jock?"inquired his mother irrelevantly. 

"This? You ought to see some of them. This is a Quaker stock incomparison. " He glanced down complacently at the vivid-hued silkenscarf that the season's mode demanded. Immediately he was offagain. "And the first thing you know, Mrs. McChesney, ma'am, we'llhave a motor truck backing up at the door once a month and sixstrong men carrying my salary to the freight elevator in sacks. "

Emma McChesney buttered her bit of toast, then looked up to remarkquietly:

"Hadn't you better qualify for the trial heats, Jock, before youjump into the finals?"

"Trial heats!" sneered Jock. "They're poky. I want real money. Now! It isn't enough to be just well-to-do in these days. It needsmoney. I want to be rich! Not just prosperous, but rich! So richthat I can let the bath soap float around in the water without anypricks of conscience. So successful that they'll say, 'And he's amere boy, too. Imagine!'"

And, "Jock dear, " Emma McChesney said, "you've still to learn thatplans and ambitions are like soap bubbles. The harder you blow andthe more you inflate them, the quicker they burst. Plans andambitions are things to be kept locked away in your heart, Son, with no one but yourself to take an occasional peep at them. "

Jock leaned over the table, with his charming smile. "You're ajealous blonde, " he laughed. "Because I'm going to be a captain offinance--an advertising wizard; you're afraid I'll grab the gloryall away from you. "

 [Illustration: "'You're a jealous blond, ' he said"]

Mrs. McChesney folded her napkin and rose. She looked unbelievablyyoung, and trim, and radiant, to be the mother of this boastingboy. 

"I'm not afraid, " she drawled, a wicked little glint in her blueeyes. "You see, they'll only regard your feats and say, 'H'm, nowonder. He ought to be able to sell ice to an Eskimo. His motherwas Emma McChesney. '"

And then, being a modern mother, she donned smart autumn hat andtailored suit coat and stood ready to reach her office bynine-thirty. But because she was as motherly as she was modern sheswung open the door between kitchen and dining-room to advise withAnnie, the adept. 

"Lamb chops to-night, eh, Annie? And sweet potatoes. Jock loves'em. And corn au gratin and some head lettuce. " She glanced towardJock in the hallway, then lowered her voice. "Annie, " she teased, "just give us one of your peach cobblers, will you? You seehe--he's going to be awfully--tired when he gets home. "

So they went stepping off to work together, mother and son. Amother of twenty-five years before would have watched her sonwith tear-dimmed eyes from the vine-wreathed porch of a cottage. There was no watching a son from the tenth floor of an up-townapartment house. Besides, she had her work to do. The subwayswallowed both of them. Together they jostled and swung their waydown-town in the close packed train. At the Twenty-third Streetstation Jock left her. 

"You'll have dinner to-night with a full-fledged professionalgent, " he bragged, in his youth and exuberance and was off downthe aisle and out on the platform. Emma McChesney managed to turnin her nine-inch space of train seat so that she watched the slim, buoyant young figure from the window until the train drew away andhe was lost in the stairway jam. Just so Rachel had watched theboy Joseph go to meet the Persian caravans in the desert. 

"Don't let them buffalo you, Jock, " Emma had said, just before heleft her. "They'll try it. If they give you a broom and tell youto sweep down the back stairs, take it, and sweep, and don'tforget the corners. And if, while you're sweeping, you notice thatthat kind of broom isn't suited to the stairs go in and suggest anew kind. They'll like it. "

Brooms and back stairways had no place in Jock McChesney's mind asthe mahogany and gold elevator shot him up to the fourteenth floorof the great office building that housed the Berg, ShrinerCompany. Down the marble hallway he went and into the receptionroom. A cruel test it was, that reception room, with the crueltypeculiar to the modern in business. With its soft-shaded lamp, itstwo-toned rug, its Jacobean chairs, its magazine-laden cathedraloak table, its pot of bright flowers making a smart touch of colorin the somber richness of the room, it was no place for theshabby, the down-and-out, the cringing, the rusty, or themendicant. 

Jock McChesney, from the tips of his twelve-dollar shoes to hisradiant face, took the test and stood it triumphantly. He hadentered with an air in which was mingled the briskness ofassurance with the languor of ease. There were times when JockMcChesney was every inch the son of his mother. 

There advanced toward Jock a large, plump, dignified personage, apersonage courteous, yet reserved, inquiring, yet not offensivelycurious--a very Machiavelli of reception-room ushers. Even whilehis lips questioned, his eyes appraised clothes, character, conduct. 

"Mr. Hupp, please, " said Jock, serene in the perfection of hisshirt, tie, collar and scarf pin, upon which the appraising eyenow rested. "Mr. McChesney. " He produced a card. 

"Appointment?"

"No--but he'll see me. "

But Machiavelli had seen too many overconfident callers. Theirvery confidence had taught him caution. 

"If you will please state your--ah--business--"

Jock smiled a little patient smile and brushed an imaginary fleckof dust from the sleeve of his very correct coat. 

"I want to ask him for a job as office boy, " he jibed. 

An answering grin overspread the fat features of the usher. Evenan usher likes his little joke. The sense of humor dies hard. 

"I have a letter from him, asking me to call, " said Jock, toclinch it. 

"This way. " The keeper of the door led Jock toward the sacredinner portal and held it open. "Mr. Hupp's is the last door to theright. "

The door closed behind him. Jock found himself in the big, busy, light-flooded central office. Down either side of the great roomran a row of tiny private offices, each partitioned off, eachoutfitted with desk, and chairs, and a big, bright window. On hisway to the last door at the right Jock glanced into each tinyoffice, glimpsing busy men bent absorbedly over papers, girls busywith dictation, here and there a door revealing two men, or three, deep in discussion of a problem, heads close together, voiceslow, faces earnest. It came suddenly to the smartly modish, overconfident boy walking the length of the long room thatthe last person needed in this marvelously perfected andsmooth-running organization was a somewhat awed young man namedJock McChesney. There came to him that strange sensation whichcomes to every job-hunter; that feeling of having his spirituallegs carry him out of the room, past the door, down the hall andinto the street, even as, in reality, they bore him on to the verypresence which he dreaded and yet wished to see. 

Two steps more, and he stood in the last doorway, right. Nomatinee idol, nervously awaiting his cue in the wings, could haveplanned his entrance more carefully than Jock had planned this. Ease was the thing; ease, bordering on nonchalance, mixed with abrisk and businesslike assurance. 

The entrance was lost on the man at the desk. He did not even lookup. If Jock had entered on all-fours, doing a double tango tovocal accompaniment, it is doubtful if the man at the desk wouldhave looked up. Pencil between his fingers, head held a trifle toone side in critical contemplation of the work before him, eyesnarrowed judicially, lips pursed, he was the concentrated essenceof do-it-now. 

 [Illustration: "He was the concentrated essence of do-it-now"]

Jock waited a moment, in silence. The man at the desk worked on. His head was semi-bald. Jock knew him to be thirty. Jock fixed hiseye on the semi-bald spot and spoke. 

"My name's McChesney, " he began. "I wrote you three days ago; youprobably will remember. You replied, asking me to call, and I--"

"Minute, " exploded the man at the desk, still absorbed. 

Jock faltered, stopped. The man at the desk did not look up. Amoment of silence, except for the sound of the busy penciltraveling across the paper. Jock, glaring at the semi-bald spot, spoke again. 

"Of course, Mr. Hupp, if you're too busy to see me--"

"M-m-m-m, " a preoccupied hum, such as a busy man makes when he istrying to give attention to two interests. 

"--why I suppose there's no sense in staying; but it seems to methat common courtesy--"

The busy pencil paused, quivered in the making of a final period, enclosed the dot in a proofreader's circle, and rolled away acrossthe desk, its work done. 

"Now, " said Sam Hupp, and swung around, smiling, to face theaffronted Jock. "I had to get that out. They're waiting for it. "He pressed a desk button. "What can I do for you? Sit down, sitdown. "

There was a certain abrupt geniality about him. Histortoise-rimmed glasses gave him an oddly owlish look, like asmall boy taking liberties with grandfather's spectacles. 

Jock found himself sitting down, his anger slipping from him. 

"My name's McChesney, " he began. "I'm here because I want to workfor this concern. " He braced himself to present the convincing, reason-why arguments with which he had prepared himself. 

Whereupon Sam Hupp, the brisk, proceeded to whisk his breath andarguments away with an unexpected:

"All right. What do you want to do?"

Jock's mouth fell open. "Do!" he stammered. "Do! Why--anything--"

Sam Hupp's quick eye swept over the slim, attractive, radiant, correctly-garbed young figure before him. Unconsciously he rubbedhis bald spot with a rueful hand. 

"Know anything about writing, or advertising?"

Jock was at ease immediately. "Quite a lot; yes. I practicallyrewrote the Gridiron play that we gave last year, and I wasassistant advertising manager of the college publications fortwo years. That gives a fellow a pretty broad knowledge ofadvertising. "

"Oh, Lord!" groaned Sam Hupp, and covered his eyes with his hand, as if in pain. 

Jock stared. The affronted feeling was returning. Sam Hupprecovered himself and smiled a little wistfully. 

"McChesney, when I came up here twelve years ago I got a job asreception-room usher. A reception-room usher is an office boy inlong pants. Sometimes, when I'm optimistic, I think that if I livetwelve years longer I'll begin to know something about therudiments of this game. "

"Oh, of course, " began Jock, apologetically. But Hupp's glance wasover his head. Involuntarily Jock turned to follow the directionof his eyes. 

"Busy?" said a voice from the doorway. 

"Come in, Dutch! Come in!" boomed Hupp. 

The man who entered was of the sort that the boldest might wellhesitate to address as "Dutch"--a tall, slim, elegant figure, Van-dyked, bronzed. 

"McChesney, this is Von Herman, head of our art department. "

Their hands met in a brief clasp. Von Herman's thoughts wereevidently elsewhere. 

"Just wanted to tell you that that cussed model's skipped out. Gone with a show. Just when I had the whole series blocked out inmy mind. He was a wonder. No brains, but a marvel for looks andstyle. These people want real stuff. Don't know how I'm going togive it to them now. "

Hupp sat up. "Got to!" he snapped. "Campaign's late, as it is. Can't you get an ordinary man model and fake the Greek godbeauty?"

"Yes--but it'll look faked. If I could lay my hands on a chap whocould wear clothes as if they belonged to him--"

Hupp rose. "Here's your man, " he cried, with a snap of hisfingers. "Clothes! Look at him. He invented 'em. Why, you couldphotograph him and he'd look like a drawing. "

Von Herman turned, surprised, incredulous, hopeful, his artist eyebrightening at the ease and grace and modishness of the smart, well-knit figure before him. 

"Me!" exploded Jock, his face suffused with a dull, painful red. "Me! Pose! For a clothing ad!"

"Well, " Hupp reminded him, "you said you'd do anything. "

Jock McChesney glared belligerently. Hupp returned the stare witha faint gleam of amusement shining behind the absurd glasses. Theamused look changed to surprise as he beheld the glare in Jock'seyes fading. For even as he glared there had come a warning toJock--a warning sent just in time from that wireless stationlocated in his subconscious mind. A vivid face, full of pride, andhope, and encouragement flashed before him. 

"Jock, " it said, "don't let 'em buffalo you. They'll try it. Ifthey give you a broom and tell you to sweep down the backstairs--"

Jock was smiling his charming, boyish smile. 

"Lead me to your north light, " he laughed at Von Herman. "Got anyRobert W. Chambers's heroines tucked away there?"

Hupp's broad hand came down on his shoulder with a thwack. "That'sthe spirit, McChesney! That's the--" He stopped, abruptly. "Say, are you related to Mrs. Emma McChesney, of the Featherloom SkirtCompany?"

"Slightly. She's my one and only mother. "

"She--you mean--her son! Well I'll be darned!" He held out hishand to Jock. "If you're a real son of your mother I wish you'djust call the office boy as you step down the hall with Von Hermanand tell him to bring me a hammer and a couple of spikes. I'dbetter nail down my desk. "

"I'll promise not to crowd you for a year or two, " grinned Jockfrom the doorway, and was off with the pleased Von Herman. 

Past the double row of beehives again, into the elevator, outagain, up a narrow iron stairway, into a busy, cluttered, skylighted room. Pictures, posters, photographs hung all about. Some of the pictures Jock recognized as old friends that had gazedfamiliarly at him from subway trains and street cars and theaterprogrammes. Golf clubs, tennis rackets, walking sticks, billiardcues were stacked up in corners. And yet there was a bare andorderly look about the place. Two silent, shirt-sleeved men werebusy at drawing boards. Through a doorway beyond Jock could seeothers similarly engaged in the next room. On a platform in onecorner of the room posed a young man in one of those costumes thecoat of which is a mongrel mixture of cutaway and sack. You seethem worn by clergymen with unsecular ideas in dress, and by theleader of the counterfeiters' gang in the moving pictures. Thepose was that met with in the backs of magazines--the head lifted, eyes fixed on an interesting object unseen, one arm crooked tohold a cane, one foot advanced, the other trailing slightly togive a Fifth Avenue four o'clock air. His face was expressionless. On his head was a sadly unironed silk hat. 

Von Herman glanced at the drawing tacked to the board of one ofthe men. "That'll do, Flynn, " he said to the model. He glancedagain at the drawing. "Bring out the hat a little more, Mack. Theywon't burnish it if you don't, "--to the artist. Then, turningabout, "Where's that girl?"

From a far corner, sheltered by long green curtains, stepped agraceful almost childishly slim figure in a bronze-green Norfolksuit and close-fitting hat from beneath which curled a fluff ofbright golden hair. Von Herman stared at her. 

"You're not the girl, " he said. "You won't do. "

"You sent for me, " retorted the girl. "I'm Miss Michelin--GeldaMichelin. I posed for you six months ago, but I've been out oftown with the show since then. "

Von Herman, frowning, opened a table drawer, pulled out a cardindex, ran his long fingers through it and extracted a card. Heglanced at it, and then, the frown deepening, read it aloud. 

"'Michelin, Gelda. Telephone Bryant 4759. Brunette. Medium build. Good neck and eyes. Good figure. Good clothes. '"

He glanced up. "Well?"

"That's me, " said Miss Michelin calmly. "I've got the sametelephone number and eyes and neck and clothes. Of course my hairis different and I am thinner, but that's business. I'd like toknow what chance a fat girl would have in the chorus these days. "

Von Herman groaned. "I'll pay you for the time you've waited andfor your trouble. Can't use you for these pictures. " Then as sheleft he turned a comically despairing face to the two men at thedrawing boards. "What are we going to do? We've got to make astart on these pictures and everything has gone wrong. They wantsomething special. Two figures, young man and woman. Saidexpressly they didn't want a chicken. No romping curls and none ofthat eyes and lips fool-girl stuff. This chap's ideal for theman. " He pointed to Jock. 

Jock had been staring, fascinated, at the shaded, zigzag markswhich the artist--dark-skinned, velvet-eyed, foreign-lookingyouth--was making on the sheet of paper before him. He hadscarcely glanced up during the entire scene. Now he looked brieflyand coolly at Jock. 

"Where did you get him?" he asked, with the precise enunciation ofthe foreign-born. "Good figure. And he wears his clothes not likea cab driver, as the others do. "

"Thanks, " drawled Jock, flushing a little. Then, boyish curiositygetting the better of him, "Say, tell me, what in the world areyou doing to that drawing?"

He of the velvety eyes smiled a twisted little smile. His slimbrown fingers never stopped in their work of guiding the pen inits zigzag path. 

"It is work, " he sneered, "to delight the soul of an artist. I amnow engaged in the pleasing task of putting the bones in aherringbone suit. "

But Jock did not smile. Here was another man, he thought, who hadbeen given a broom and told to sweep down the stairway. 

Von Herman was regarding him almost wistfully. "I hate to let youslip, " he said. Then, his face brightening, "By Jove! I wonder ifMiss Galt would pose for us if we told her what a fix we were in. "

He picked up the telephone receiver. "Miss Galt, please, " he said. Then, aside, "Of course it's nerve to ask a girl who's earningthree thousand a year to leave her desk and come up and posefor--Hello! Miss Galt?"

Jock, seated on the edge of the models' platform, was beginning toenjoy himself. Even this end of the advertising business had itsinteresting side, he thought. Ten minutes later he knew it had. 

Ten minutes later there appeared Miss Galt. Jock left offswinging his legs from the platform and stood up. Miss Galt wasthat kind of girl. Smooth black hair parted and coiled low as onlyan exquisitely shaped head can dare to wear its glory-crown. Aface whose expression was sweetly serious in spite of its youth. Agirl whose clothes were the sort of clothes that girls ought towear in offices, and don't. 

"This is mighty good of you, Miss Galt, " began Von Herman. "It'sthe Kool Komfort Klothes Company's summer campaign stuff. We'llonly need you for an hour or so--to get the expression and generaloutline. Poster stuff, really. Then this young man will pose forthe summer union suit pictures. "

"Don't apologize, " said Miss Galt. "We had a hard enough time toget that Kool Komfort account. We don't want to start wrong withthe pictures. Besides, I think posing's real fun. "

Jock thought so too, quite suddenly. Just as suddenly Von Hermanremembered the conventions and introduced them. 

"McChesney?" repeated Miss Galt, crisply. "I know a Mrs. McChesney, of the T. A. Buck--"

"My mother, " proudly. 

"Your mother! Then why--" She stopped. 

"Because, " said Jock, "I'm the rawest rooky in the Berg, ShrinerCompany. And when I begin to realize what I don't know aboutadvertising I'll probably want to plunge off the Palisades. "

Miss Galt smiled up at him, her clear, frank eyes meeting his. 

"You'll win, " she said. 

"Even if I lose--I win now, " said Jock, suddenly audacious. 

"Hi! Hold that pose!" called Von Herman, happily. 

 [Illustration: "'Hi! Hold that pose!' called Von Herman"]

II

PERSONALITY PLUS

There are seven stages in the evolution of that individual whoseappearance is the signal for a listless "Who-do-you-want-to-see?"from the white-bloused, drab-haired, anæmic little girl who sitsin the outer office forever reading last month's magazines. Thebadge of fear brands the novice. Standing hat in hand, nervous, apprehensive, gulpy, with the elevator door clanging behind him, and the sacred inner door closed before him, he offers up a silentand paradoxical "Thank heaven!" at the office girl's languid "Notin, " and dives into the friendly shelter of the next elevatorgoing down. When, at that same message, he can smile, as with acertain grim agreeableness he says, "I'll wait, " then has hereached the seventh stage, and taken the orders of the regularlyordained. 

Jock McChesney had learned to judge an unknown prospective byglancing at his hall rug and stenographer, which marks the fifthstage. He had learned to regard office boys with something lessthan white-hot hate. He had learned to let the other fellow do thetalking. He had learned to condense a written report intotwenty-five words. And he had learned that there was as muchdifference between the profession of advertising as he had thoughtof it and advertising as it really was, as there is between asteam calliope and a cathedral pipe organ. 

In the big office of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company theyhad begun to chuckle a bit over the McChesney solicitor's reports. Those same reports indicated that young McChesney was beginning tofind the key to that maddening jumble of complexities known ashuman nature. Big Sam Hupp, who was the pet caged copy-writinggenius of the place, used even to bring an occasional example ofJock's business badinage into the Old Man's office, and the twowould grin in secret. As when they ran thus:

 _Pepsinale Manufacturing Company_:

 Mr. Bowser is the kind of gentleman who curses his subordinates in front of the whole office force. Very touchy. Crumpled his advertising manager. Our chance to get at him is when he is in one of his rare good humors. 

Or:

 _E. V. Kreiss Company_:

 Kreiss very difficult to reach. Permanent address seems to be Italy, Egypt, and other foreign ports. Occasionally his instructions come from Palm Beach. 

At which there rose up before the reader a vision of Kreisshimself--baggy-eyed, cultivated English accent, interested inpolo, fast growing contemptuous of things American. 

Or still another:

 _Hodge Manufacturing Company:_

 Mr. Hodge is a very conservative gentleman. Sits still and lets others do the talking. Has gained quite a reputation for business acumen with this one attribute. Spent $500 last year. Holding his breath preparatory to taking another plunge. 

It was about the time that Jock McChesney had got over the noveltyof paying for his own clothes, and had begun to talk business in aslightly patronizing way to his clever and secretly amused mother, Mrs. Emma McChesney, secretary of the T. A. Buck FeatherloomPetticoat Company, that Sam Hupp noticed a rather cockyover-assurance in Jock's attitude toward the world in general. Whereupon he sent for him. 

On Sam Hupp's broad flat desk stood an array of diminutive jars, and bottles, and tiny pots that would have shamed the toilettetable of a musical comedy star's dressing-room. There wererose-tinted salves in white bottles. There were white creams inrose-tinted jars. There were tins of ointment and boxes offragrant soap. 

Jock McChesney, entering briskly, eyed the array in some surprise. Then he grinned, and glanced wickedly at Sam Hupp's prematurelybald head. 

"No use, Mr. Hupp. They say if it's once gone it's gone. Get atoupee. "

"Shut up!" growled Sam Hupp, good-humoredly. "Stay in this gamelong enough and you'll be a hairless wonder yourself. Ten yearsago the girls used to have to tie their hands or wear mittens tokeep from running their white fingers through my waving silkenlocks. Sit down a minute. "

Jock reached forward and took up a jar of cream. He frowned inthought. Then: "Thought I recognized this stuff. Mother uses it. I've seen it on the bathroom shelf. "

"You bet she uses it, " retorted Sam Hupp. "What's more, millionsof other women will be using it in the next few years. Thiswoman, " he pointed to the name on the label, "has hit upon thereal thing in toilette flub-dub. She's made a little fortunealready, and if she don't look out she'll be rich. They've gotquite a plant. When she started she used to put the stuff togetherherself over the kitchen stove. They say it's made of cottagecheese, stirred smooth and tinted pink. Well, anyway they'renationally known now--or will be when they start to advertiseright. "

"I've seen some of their stuff advertised--somewhere, " interruptedJock, "but I don't remember--"

"There you are. You see the head of this concern is a little bitfrightened at the way she seems slated to become a lady cold creammagnate. They say she's scared pink for fear somebody will stealher recipes. She has a kid nephew who acts as general manager, andthey're both on the job all the time. They say the lady herselflooks like the spinster in a b'gosh drama. You can get a boy tolook up your train schedule. "

Train! Schedule! Across Jock McChesney's mind there flashed avision of himself, alert, confident, brisk, taking the luxuriousnine o'clock for Philadelphia. Or, maybe, the Limited to Chicago. Dashing down to the station in a taxi, of course. Strolling downthe car aisle to take his place among those other thoroughbreds ofcommerce--men whose chamois gloves and walking sticks, and talk ofgolf and baseball and motoring spelled elegant leisure, even astheir keen eyes and shrewd faces and low-voiced exchange of suchterms as "stocks, " and "sales" and "propositions" proclaimed themintent on bagging the day's business. Sam Hupp's next wordsbrought him back to reality with a jerk. 

"I think you have to change at Buffalo. It gets you to Tonawandain the morning. Rotten train. "

"Tonawanda!" repeated Jock. 

"Now listen, kid. " Sam Hupp leaned forward, and his eyes behindtheir great round black-rimmed glasses were intent on Jock. "I'mnot going to try to steer you. You think that advertising is agame. It isn't. There are those who think it's a science. But itisn't that either. It's white magic, that's what it is. And youcan't learn it from books, any more than you can master troutfishing from reading 'The Complete Angler. '" He swung about andswept the beauty lotions before him in a little heap at the end ofhis desk. "Here, take this stuff. And get chummy with it. Eat it, if necessary; learn it somehow. "

Jock stood up, a little dazed. "But, what!--How?--I mean--"

Sam Hupp glanced up at him. "Sending you down there isn't my idea. It's the Old Man's. He's got an idea that you--" He paused and puta detaining hand on Jock McChesney's arm. "Look here. You think Iknow a little something about advertising, don't you?"

"You!" laughed Jock. "You're the guy who put the whitening in theGreat White Way. Everybody knows you were the--"

"M-m-m, thanks, " interrupted Sam Hupp, a little dryly. "Let metell you something, young 'un. I've got what you might call athirty-horse-power mind. I keep it running on high all the time, with the muffler cut out, and you can hear me coming for miles. But the Old Man, "--he leaned forward impressively, --"the Old Man, boy, has the eighty-power kind, built like a watch--no smoke, nodripping, and you can't even hear the engine purr. But when hethrows her open! Well, he can pass everything on the road. Don'tforget that. " He turned to his desk again and reached for a stackof papers and cuts. "Good luck to you. If you want any furtherdetails you can get 'em from Hayes. " He plunged into his work. 

There arose in Jock McChesney's mind that instinct of the man inhis hour of triumph--the desire to tell a woman of his greatness. He paused a second outside Sam Hupp's office, turned, and walkedquickly down the length of the great central room. He stoppedbefore a little glass door at the end, tapped lightly, andentered. 

Grace Galt, copy-writer, looked up, frowning a little. Then shesmiled. Miss Galt had a complete layout on the desk beforeher--scrap books, cuts, copy, magazines. There was a little smudgeon the end of her nose. Grace Galt was writing about magnetos. She was writing about magnetos in a way to make you want to dropyour customer, or your ironing, or your game, and go downtown andbuy that particular kind of magneto at once. Which is thesecretest part of the wizardry of advertising copy. To look atGrace Galt you would have thought that she should have beenwriting about the rose-tinted jars in Jock McChesney's handsinstead of about such things as ignition, and insulation, and ballbearings, and induction windings. But it was Grace Galt's giftthat she could take just such hard, dry, technical facts and weavethem into a story that you followed to the end. She could make yousee the romance in condensers and transformers. She had the powerthat caused the reader to lose himself in the charm of magneticpoles, and ball bearings, and high-tension sparks. 

"Just dropped in to say good-by, " said Jock, very casually. "Goingto run up-state to see the Athena Company--toilette specialties, you know. It ought to be a big account. "

"Athena?" Grace Galt regarded him absently, her mind still on herwork. Then her eyes cleared. "You mean at Tonawanda? And they'resending you! Well!" She put out a congratulatory hand. Jockgripped it gratefully. 

"Not so bad, eh?" he boasted. 

"Bad!" echoed Grace Galt. Her face became serious. "Do you realizethat there are men in this office who have been here for fiveyears, six years, or even more, and who have never been given achance to do anything but stenography, or perhaps some privatesecretarying?"

"I know it, " agreed Jock. But there was no humbleness in his tone. He radiated self-satisfaction. He seemed to grow and expand beforeher eyes. A little shadow of doubt crept across Grace Galt'sexpression of friendly interest. 

"Are you scared, " she asked; "just the least bit?"

Jock flushed a little. "Well, " he confessed ruefully, "I don'tmind telling you I am--a little. "

"Good!"

"Good?"

"Yes. The head of that concern is a woman. That's one reason whythey didn't send me, I suppose. I--I'd like to say something, ifyou don't mind. "

"Anything you like, " said Jock graciously. 

"Well, then, don't be afraid of being embarrassed and fussed. Ifyou blush and stammer a little, she'll like it. Play up the coystuff. "

"The coy stuff!" echoed Jock. "I hadn't thought much about myattitude toward the--er--the lady, "--a little stiffly. 

"Well, you'd better, " answered Miss Galt crisply. She put out herhand in much the same manner as Sam Hupp had used. "Good luck toyou. I'll have to ask you to go now. I'm trying to make thismagneto sound like something without which no home is complete, and to make people see that there's as much difference between itand every other magneto as there is between the steam shovels thatdug out the Panama Canal and the junk that the French leftthere--" She stopped. Her eyes took on a far-away look. Her lipswere parted slightly. "Why, that's not a bad idea--that last. I'lluse that. I'll--"

 [Illustration: "With a jolt Jock realized she had forgotten all about him"]

She began to scribble rapidly on the sheet of paper before her. With a jolt Jock McChesney realized that she had forgotten allabout him. He walked quietly to the door, opened it, shut it veryquietly, then made for the nearest telephone. He knew one woman hecould count on to be proud of him. He gave his number, waited alittle eager moment, then:

"Featherloom Petticoat Company? Mrs. McChesney. " And waited again. Then he smiled. 

"You needn't sound so official, " he laughed; "it's only your son. Listen. I"--he took on an elaborate carelessness of tone--"I'vegot to take a little jump out of town. On business. Oh, a day orso. Rather important though. I'll have time to run up to the flatand throw a few things into a bag. I'll tell you, I really oughtto keep a bag packed down here. In case of emergency, you know. What? It's the Athena Toilette Preparations Company. Well, Ishould say it is! I'll wire you. You bet. Thanks. My what? Oh, toothbrush. No. Good-by. "

So it was that at three-ten Jock McChesney took himself, hishopes, his dread, and his smart walrus bag aboard a train thathalted and snuffed and backed, and bumped and halted withmaddening frequency. But it landed him at last in a little townbearing the characteristics of all American little towns. It wassurprisingly full of six-cylinder cars, and five and ten-centstores, and banks with Doric columns, and paved streets. 

After he had registered at the hotel, and as he was cleaning up abit, he passed an amused eye over the bare, ugly, fusty littlehotel bedroom. But somehow, as he stood in the middle of the room, a graceful, pleasing figure of youth and confidence, the smilefaded. Towel in hand he surveyed the barrenness of it. He staredat the impossible wall paper, at the battered furniture, the worncarpet. He sniffed the stuffy smell of--what was that smell, anyhow?--straw, and matting, and dust, and the ghost-odor ofhundreds who had occupied the room before him. It came over himwith something of a shock that this same sort of room had been hismother's only home in the ten years she had spent on the road as atraveling saleswoman for the T. A. Buck Featherloom PetticoatCompany. This was what she had left in the morning. To this shehad come back at night. As he stared ahead of him there rosebefore him a mental picture of her--the brightness of her, thesunniness, the indomitable energy, and pluck, and courage. With asudden burst of new determination he wadded the towel into a moistball, flung it at the washstand, seized hat, coat, and gloves, andwas off down the hall. So it was with something of his mother'ssplendid courage in his heart, but with nothing of her cannyknowledge in his head, Jock McChesney fared forth to do battlewith the merciless god Business. 

It was ten-thirty of a brilliant morning just two days later thata buoyant young figure swung into an elevator in the great officebuilding that housed the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Justone more grain of buoyant swing and the young man's walk mighthave been termed a swagger. As it was, his walrus bag just savedhim. 

Stepping out of the lift he walked, as from habit, to the littleunlettered door which admitted employes to the big, bright, inneroffice. But he did not use it. Instead he turned suddenly andwalked down the hall to the double door which led into thereception room. He threw out his legs stiffly and came down ratherflat-footed, the way George Cohan does when he's pleased withhimself in the second act. 

"Hel-lo, Mack!" he called out jovially. 

Mack, the usher, so called from his Machiavellian qualities, turned to survey the radiant young figure before him. 

"Good morning, Mr. McChesney, " he made answer smoothly. Macknever forgot himself. His keen eye saw the little halo ofself-satisfaction that hovered above Jock McChesney's head. "Asuccessful trip, I see. "

Jock McChesney laughed a little, pleased, conscious laugh. "Well, raw-thah!" he drawled, and opened the door leading into the mainoffice. He had been loath to lose one crumb of the savor of it. 

 [Illustration: "'Well, raw-thah!' he drawled"]

Still smiling, he walked to his own desk, with a nod here andthere, dropped his bag, took off coat and hat, selected acigarette, tapped it smartly, lighted it, and was off down the bigroom to the little cubby-hole at the other end. But Sam Hupp'splump, keen, good-humored face did not greet him as he entered. The little room was deserted. Frowning, Jock sank into the emptydesk chair. He cradled his head in his hands, tilted the chair, pursed his mouth over the slender white cylinder and squinted hiseyes up toward the lazy blue spirals of smoke--the very pictureof content and satisfaction. 

Hupp was in attending some conference in the Old Man's office, ofcourse. He wished they'd hurry. The business of the week was beingboiled-down there. Those conferences were great cauldrons intowhich the day's business, or the week's, was dumped, to be boiled, simmered, stirred, skimmed, cooled. Jock had never been privilegedto attend one of these meetings. Perhaps by this time next week hemight have a spoon in the stirring too--

There came the murmur of voices as a door was opened. The voicescame nearer. Then quick footsteps. Jock recognized them. He rose, smiling. Sam Hupp, vibrating electric energy, breezed in. 

"Oh--hello!" he said, surprised. Jock's smile widened to a grin. "You back?"

"Hello, Hupp, " he said, coolly. It was the first time that he hadomitted the prefix. "You just bet I'm back. "

There flashed across Sam Hupp's face a curious little look. Thenext instant it was gone. 

"Well, " said Jock, and took a long breath. 

"Mr. Berg wants to see you. "

Hupp plunged into his work. 

"Me? The Old Man wants to see me?"

"Yes, " snapped Hupp shortly. Then, in a new tone, "Look here, son. If he says--" He stopped, and turned back to his work again. 

"If he says what?"

"Nothing. Better run along. "

"What's the hurry? I want to tell you about--"

"Better tell him. "

"Oh, all right, " said Jock stiffly. If that was the way theytreated a fellow who had turned his first real trick, why, verywell. He flung out of the little room and made straight for theOld Man's office. 

Seated at his great flat table desk, Bartholomew Berg did not lookup as Jock entered. This was characteristic of the Old Man. Everything about the chief was deliberate, sure, unhurried. Hefinished the work in hand as though no other person stood therewaiting his pleasure. When at last he raised his massive head heturned his penetrating pale blue eyes full on Jock. Jock wasconscious of a little tremor running through him. People were aptto experience that feeling when that steady, unblinking gaze wasturned upon them. And yet it was just the clear, unwavering lookwith which Bartholomew Berg, farmer boy, had been wont to gaze outacross the fresh-plowed fields to the horizon beyond which lay thecity he dreamed about. 

"Tell me your side of it, " said Bartholomew Berg tersely. 

"All of it?" Jock's confidence was returning. 

"Till I stop you. "

"Well, " began Jock. And standing there at the side of the OldMan's desk, his legs wide apart, his face aglow, his hands on hiships, he plunged into his tale. 

"It started off with a bang from the minute I walked into theoffice of the plant and met Snyder, the advertising manager. Weshook hands and sparked--just like that. " He snapped thumb andfinger. "What do you think! We belong to the same frat! He's '93. Inside of ten minutes he and I were Si-washing around like mad. Heintroduced me to his aunt. I told her who I was, and all that. ButI didn't start off by talking business. We got along from thejump. They both insisted on showing me through the place. I--well, "--he laughed a little ruefully, --"there's somethingabout being shown through a factory that sort of paralyzes mybrain. I always feel that I ought to be asking keen, alert, intelligent questions like the ones Kipling always asks, or theJaps when they're taken through the Stock Yards. But I never canthink of any. Well, we didn't talk business much. But I could seethat they were interested. They seemed to, "--he faltered andblushed a little, --"to like me, you know. I played golf withSnyder that afternoon and he beat me. Won two balls. The nextmorning I found there's been a couple of other advertising menthere. And while I was talking to Snyder--he was telling me aboutthe time he climbed up and muffled the chapel bell--that fellowFlynn, of the Dowd Agency, came in. Snyder excused himself, andtalked to him for--oh, half an hour, perhaps. But that was all. Hewas back again in no time. After that it looked like plainsailing. We got along wonderfully. When I left I said, 'I expectto know you both better--'"

"I guess, " interrupted the Old Man slowly, "that you'll know thembetter all right. " He reached out with one broad freckled handand turned back the page of a desk memorandum. "The Athena accountwas given to the Dowd Advertising Agency yesterday. "

It took Jock McChesney one minute--one long, sickening minute--tograsp the full meaning of it all. He stared at the massive figurebefore him, his mouth ludicrously open, his eyes round, his breathfor the moment suspended. Then, in a queer husky voice:

"D'you mean--the Dowd--but--they couldn't--"

"I mean, " said Bartholomew Berg, "that you've scored what thedramatic critics call a personal hit; but that doesn't get the boxoffice anything. "

"But, Mr. Berg, they said--"

"Sit down a minute, boy. " He waved one great heavy hand toward anear-by chair. His eyes were not fixed on Jock. They gazed out ofthe window toward the great white tower toward which hundreds ofthousands of eyes were turned daily--the tower, four-faced butfaithful. 

"McChesney, do you know why you fell down on that Athena account?"

"Because I'm an idiot, " blurted Jock. "Because I'm adouble-barreled, corn-fed, hand-picked chump and--"

"That's one reason, " drawled the Old Man grimly. "But it's not thechief one. The real reason why you didn't land that account wasbecause you're too darned charming. "

"Charming!" Jock stared. 

"Just that. Personality's one of the biggest factors in businessto-day. But there are some men who are so likable that it actuallycounts against them. The client he's trying to convince is sotaken with him that he actually forgets the business herepresents. We say of a man like that that he is personality plus. Personality is like electricity, McChesney. It's got to be tamedto be useful. "

"But I thought, " said Jock, miserably, "that the idea was not totalk business all the time. "

"You've got it, " agreed Berg. "But you must think it all the time. Every minute. It's got to be working away in the back of yourhead. You know it isn't always the biggest noise that gets thebiggest result. The great American hen yields a bigger income thanthe Steel Trust. Look at Miss Galt. When we have a job that needsa woman's eye do we send her? No. Why? Because she's too blamecharming. Too much personality. A man just naturally refuses totalk business to a pretty woman unless she's so smart that--"

"My mother, " interrupted Jock, suddenly, and then stopped, surprised at himself. 

"Your mother, " said Bartholomew Berg slowly, "is one woman in amillion. Don't ever forget that. They don't turn out models likeEmma McChesney more than once every blue moon. "

Jock got to his feet slowly. He felt heavy, old. "I suppose, " hebegan, "that this ends my--my advertising career. "

"Ends it!" The Old Man stood up and put a heavy hand on the boy'sshoulder. "It only begins it. Unless you want to lie down andquit. Do you?"

"Quit!" cried Jock McChesney. "Quit! Not on your white space!"

"Good!" said Bartholomew Berg, and took Jock McChesney's hand inhis own great friendly grasp. 

An instinct as strong as that which had made him blatant in hishour of triumph now caused him to avoid, in his hour of defeat, the women-folk before whom he would fain be a hero. He avoidedGrace Galt all that long, dreary afternoon. He thought wildly ofstaying down-town for the evening, of putting off the meeting withhis mother, of avoiding the dreaded explanations, excuses, confessions. 

But when he let himself into the flat at five-thirty the place wasvery quiet, except for Annie, humming in a sort of nasal singsongof content in the kitchen. 

He flicked on the light in the living-room. A new magazine hadcome. It lay on the table, its bright cover staring up invitingly. He ran through its pages. By force of habit he turned to the backpages. Ads started back at him--clothing ads, paint ads, motorads, ads of portable houses, and vacuum cleaners--and toilettepreparations. He shut the magazine with a vicious slap. 

He flicked off the light again, for no reason except that heseemed to like the dusk. In his own bedroom it was very quiet. 

He turned on the light there, too, then turned it off. He sat downat the edge of his bed. How was it in the stories? Oh, yes! Thecub always started out on an impossibly difficult business stuntand came back triumphant, to be made a member of the firm at once. 

A vision of his own roseate hopes and dreams rose up before him. It grew very dark in the little room, then altogether dark. Thenan impudent square of yellow from a light turned on in theapartment next door flung itself on the bedroom floor. Jock staredat it moodily. 

A key turned in the lock. A door opened and shut. A quick step. Then: "Jock!" A light flashed in the living-room. 

Jock sat up suddenly. He opened his mouth to answer. There issuedfrom his throat a strange and absurd little croak. 

"Jock! Home?"

"Yes, " answered Jock, and straightened up. But before he couldflick on his own light his mother stood in the doorway, a tall, straight, buoyant figure. 

"I got your wire and--Why, dear! In the dark! What--"

"Must have fallen asleep, I guess, " muttered Jock. Somehow hedreaded to turn on the lights. 

And then, very quietly, Emma McChesney came in. She found him, there in the dark, as surely as a mother bear finds her cubs in acave. She sat down beside him at the edge of the bed and put herhand on his shoulder, and brought his head down gently to herbreast. And at that the room, which had been a man's room with itspipe, its tobacco jar, its tie rack filled with cravats offascinating shapes and hues, became all at once a boy's roomagain, and the man sitting there with straight, strong shouldersand his little air of worldliness became in some miraculous way alittle boy again. 

 [Illustration: ". . . Became in some miraculous way a little boy again"]

III

DICTATED BUT NOT READ

About the time that Jock McChesney began to carry a yellowwalking-stick down to work each morning his mother noticed agrowing tendency on his part to patronize her. Now Mrs. EmmaMcChesney, successful, capable business woman that she was, couldafford to regard her young son's attitude with a quiet and deepamusement. In twelve years Emma McChesney had risen from thehumble position of stenographer in the office of the T. A. BuckFeatherloom Petticoat Company to the secretaryship of the firm. Sowhen her young son, backed by the profound business knowledgegained in his one year with the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company, hinted gently that her methods and training were archaic, ineffectual, and lacking in those twin condiments known to thetwentieth century as pep and ginger, she would listen, eyebrowsraised, lower lip caught between her teeth--a trick which givesa distorted expression to the features, calculated to hide anylurking tendency to grin. Besides, though Emma McChesney was fortyshe looked thirty-two (as business women do), and knew it. Herhard-working life had brought her in contact with people, andthings, and events, and had kept her young. 

 [Illustration: "Jock McChesney began to carry a yellow walking-stick down to work"]

"Thank fortune!" Mrs. McChesney often said, "thatI wasn't cursed with a life of ease. Thesemassage-at-ten-fitting-at-eleven-bridge-at-one womenalways look such hags at thirty-five. "

But repetition will ruin the rarest of jokes. As the weeks went onand Jock's attitude persisted, the twinkle in Emma McChesney's eyedied. The glow of growing resentment began to burn in its place. Now and then there crept into her eyes a little look of doubt andbewilderment. You sometimes see that same little shocked, dazedexpression in the eyes of a woman whose husband has just said, "Isn't that hat too young for you?"

Then, one evening, Emma McChesney's resentment flared into openrevolt. She had announced that she intended to rise half an hourearlier each morning in order that she might walk a brisk mile orso on her way down-town, before taking the subway. 

"But won't it tire you too much, Mother?" Jock had asked withmaddeningly tender solicitude. 

His mother's color heightened. Her blue eyes glowed dark. 

"Look here, Jock! Will you kindly stop this lean-on-me-grandmastuff! To hear you talk one would think I was ready for a wheelchair and gray woolen bedroom slippers. "

"Why, I didn't mean--I only thought that perhaps overexertion in awoman of your--That is, you need your energy for--"

"Don't wallow around in it, " snapped Emma McChesney. "You'll onlysink in deeper in your efforts to crawl out. I merely want to warnyou that if you persist in this pose of tender solicitude for yourdoddering old mother, I'll--I'll present you with a stepfather ayear younger than you. Don't laugh. Perhaps you think I couldn'tdo it. "

"Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't mean it, but--"

"Mean it! Cleverer women than I have been driven by theirchildren to marrying bell-boys in self-defense. I warn you!"

 [Illustration: "'Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't mean it, but--'"]

That stopped it--for a while. Jock ceased to bestow upon hismother judicious advice from the vast storehouse of his ownexperience. He refrained from breaking out with elaborateadvertising schemes whereby the T. A. Buck Featherloom PetticoatCompany might grind every other skirt concern to dust. He gaveonly a startled look when his mother mischievously suggestedraspberry as the color for her new autumn suit. Then, quitesuddenly, Circumstance caught Emma McChesney in the meshes and, before she had fought her way free, wrought trouble and changeupon her. 

Jock McChesney was seated in the window of his mother's office atnoon of a brilliant autumn day. A little impatient frown wasforming between his eyes. He wanted his luncheon. He had calledaround expressly to take his mother out to luncheon--always afestive occasion when taken together. But Mrs. McChesney, seatedat her desk, was bent absorbedly over a sheet of paper whereon shewas adding up two columns of figures at a time--a trick on whichshe rather prided herself. She was counting aloud, her mindleaping agilely, thus:

"Eleven, twenty-nine, forty-three, sixty, sixty-nine--" Her pencilcame down on the desk with a thwack. "SIXTY-NINE!" she repeated incapital letters. She turned around to face Jock. "Sixty-nine!" Hervoice bristled with indignation. "Now what do you think of that!"

"I think you'd better make it an even seventy, whatever it isyou're counting up, and come on out to luncheon. I've anappointment at two-fifteen, you know. "

"Luncheon!"--she waved the paper in the air--"with this outrage onmy mind! Nectar would curdle in my system. "

Jock rose and strolled lazily over to the desk. "What is it?" Heglanced idly at the sheet of paper. "Sixty-nine what?"

Mrs. McChesney pressed a buzzer at the side of her desk. "Sixty-nine dollars, that's what! Representing two days' expensesin the six weeks' missionary trip that Fat Ed Meyers just made forus. And in Iowa, too. "

"When you gave that fellow the job, " began Jock hotly, "I toldyou, and Buck told you, that--"

Mrs. McChesney interrupted wearily. "Yes, I know. You'll neverhave a grander chance to say 'I told you so. ' I hired himbecause he was out of a job and we needed a man who knew theMiddle-Western trade, and then because--well, poor fellow, hebegged so and promised to keep straight. As though I oughtn't toknow that a pinochle-and-poker traveling man can never be anythingbut a pinochle-and-poker traveling man--"

The office door opened as there appeared in answer to the buzzer avery alert, very smiling, and very tidy office girl. EmmaMcChesney had tried office boys, and found them wanting. 

"Tell Mr. Meyers I want to see him. "

"Just going out to lunch, "--she turned like a race horse tremblingto be off, --"putting on his overcoat in the front office. ShallI--"

"Catch him. "

"Listen here, " began Jock uncomfortably; "if you're going to callhim perhaps I'd better vanish. "

"To save Ed Meyers's tender feelings! You don't know him. Fat EdMeyers could be courtmartialed, tried, convicted, and publiclydisgraced, with his epaulets torn off, and his sword broken, andlikely as not he'd stoop down, pick up a splinter of steel to useas a toothpick, and Castlewalk down the aisle to the tune withwhich they were drumming him out of the regiment. Stay righthere. Meyers's explanation ought to be at least amusing, if noteducating. "

In the corridor outside could be heard some one blithely hummingin the throaty tenor of the fat man. The humming ceased with alast high note as the door opened and there entered Fat Ed Meyers, rosy, cherubic, smiling, his huge frame looming mountainous in therippling folds of a loose-hung London plaid topcoat. 

"Greetings!" boomed this cheery vision, raising one hand, palmoutward, in mystic salute. He beamed upon the frowning Jock. "How's the infant prodigy!" The fact that Jock's frown deepened toa scowl ruffled him not at all. "And what, " went on he, crossinghis feet and leaning negligently against Mrs. McChesney's desk, "and what can I do for thee, fair lady?"

 [Illustration: "'Greetings!'"]

"For me?" said Emma McChesney, looking up at him through narrowedeyelids. "I'll tell you what. You can explain to me, in whatthey call a few well-chosen words, just how you, or any otherliving creature, could manage to turn in an expense account likethat on a six-weeks' missionary trip through the Middle West. "

"Dear lady, "--in the bland tones that one uses to an unreasonablechild, --"you will need no explanation if you will just remember tolay the stress on the word missionary. I went forth through theMiddle West to spread the light among the benighted skirt trade. This wasn't a selling trip, dear lady. It was a buying expedition. And I had to buy, didn't I? all the way from Michigan to Indiana. "

He smiled down at her, calm, self-assured, impudent. A littleflush grew in Emma McChesney's cheeks. 

"I've always said, " she began, crisply, "that one could prettywell judge a man's character, temperament, morals, and physicalmake-up by just glancing at his expense account. The trouble withyou is that you haven't learned the art of spending money wisely. It isn't always the man with the largest expense sheet that getsthe most business. And it isn't the man who leaves the greatestnumber of circles on the table top in his hotel room, either. "She paused a moment. Ed Meyers's smile had lost some of itsheartiness. "Mr. Buck's out of town, as you know. He'll be backnext week. He wasn't in favor of--"

"Now, Mrs. McChesney, " interrupted Ed Meyers nervously, "you knowthere's always one live one in every firm, just like there'salways one star in every family. You're the--"

"I'm the one who wants to know how you could spend sixty-ninedollars for two days' incidentals in Iowa. Iowa! Why, look here, Ed Meyers, I made Iowa for ten years when I was on the road. Youknow that. And you know, and I know, that in order to spendsixty-nine dollars for incidentals in two days in Iowa you have tocall out the militia. "

"Not when you're trying to win the love of every skirt buyer fromSioux City to Des Moines. "

Emma McChesney rose impatiently. "Oh, that's nonsense! You don'tneed to do that these days. Those are old-fashioned methods. They're out of date. They--"

At that a little sound came from Jock. Emma heard it, glanced athim, turned away again in confusion. 

"I was foolish enough in the first place to give you this job forold times' sake, " she continued hurriedly. 

Fat Ed Meyers' face drooped dolefully. He cocked his round head onone side fatuously. "For old times' sake, " he repeated, withtremulous pathos, and heaved a gusty sigh. 

"Which goes to show that I need a guardian, " finished EmmaMcChesney cruelly. "The only old times that I can remember arewhen I was selling Featherlooms, and you were out for theSans-Silk Skirt Company, both covering the same territory, andboth running a year-around race to see which could beat the otherat his own game. The only difference was that I always playedfair, while you played low-down whenever you had a chance. "

"Now, my dear Mrs. McChesney--"

"That'll be all, " said Emma McChesney, as one whose patience isfast slipping away. "Mr. Buck will see you next week. " Then, turning to her son as the door closed on the drooping figure ofthe erstwhile buoyant Meyers, "Where'll we lunch, Jock?"

"Mother, " Jock broke out hotly, "why in the name of all that'sfoolish do you persist in using the methods of Methuselah! Peopledon't sell goods any more by sending out fat old ex-traveling mento jolly up the trade. "

"Jock, " repeated Emma McChesney slowly, "where--shall--we--lunch?"

It was a grim little meal, eaten almost in silence. Emma McChesneyhad made it a rule to use luncheon time as a recess. She playedmental tag and hop-scotch, so that, returning to her officerefreshed in mind and body, she could attack the afternoon's workwith new vigor. And never did she talk or think business. 

To-day she ate her luncheon with a forced appetite, glanced aboutwith a listlessness far removed from her usual alert interest, andfollowed Jock's attempts at conversation with a polite effort thatwas more insulting than downright inattention. 

"Dessert, Mother?" Jock had to say it twice before she heard. 

"What? Oh, no--I think not. "

The waiter hesitated, coughed discreetly, lifted his eyebrowsinsinuatingly. "The French pastry's particularly nice to-day, madam. If you'd care to try something? Eclair, madam--peachtart--mocha tart--caramel--"

Emma McChesney smiled. "It does sound tempting. " She glanced atJock. "And we're wearing our gowns so floppy this year that itmakes no difference whether one's fat or not. " She turned to thewaiter. "I never can tell till I see them. Bring your pastry tray, will you?"

Jock McChesney's finger and thumb came together with a snap. Heleaned across the table toward his mother, eyes glowing, lipsparted and eager. "There! you've proved my point. "

"Point?"

"About advertising. No, don't stop me. Don't you see that whatapplies to pastry applies to petticoats? You didn't think ofFrench pastry until he suggested it to you--advertised it, really. And then you wanted a picture of them. You wanted to knowwhat they looked like before buying. That's all there is toadvertising. Telling people about a thing, making 'em want it, andshowing 'em how it will look when they have it. Get me?"

Emma McChesney was gazing at Jock with a curious, fascinatedstare. It was a blank little look, such as we sometimes wear whenthe mind is working furiously. If the insinuating waiter, presenting the laden tray for her inspection, was startled by therapt expression which she turned upon the cunningly wrought wares, he was too much a waiter to show it. 

A pause. "That one, " said Mrs. McChesney, pointing to the leastornate. She ate it, down to the last crumb, in a silence that waspregnant with portent. She put down her fork and sat back. 

"Jock, you win. I--I suppose I have fallen out of step. PerhapsI've been too busy watching my own feet. T. A. Will be back nextweek. Could your office have an advertising plan roughly sketchedby that time?"

"Could they!" His tone was exultant. "Watch 'em! Hupp's been crazyto make Featherlooms famous. "

"But look here, son. I want a hand in that copy. I knowFeatherlooms better than your Sam Hupp will ever--"

Jock shook his head. "They won't stand for that, Mother. It neverworks. The manufacturer always thinks he can write magic stuffbecause he knows his own product. But he never can. You see, heknows too much. That's it. No perspective. "

"We'll see, " said Emma McChesney curtly. 

So it was that ten days later the first important conference inthe interests of the Featherloom Petticoat Company's advertisingcampaign was called. But in those ten days of hurried preparationa little silent tragedy had come about. For the first time in herbrave, sunny life Emma McChesney had lost faith in herself. Andwith such malicious humor does Fate work her will that she choseSam Hupp's new dictagraph as the instrument with which to prickthe bubble of Mrs. McChesney's self-confidence. 

Sam Hupp, one of the copy-writing marvels of the Berg, Shrinerfirm, had a trick of forgetting to shut off certain necessarycurrents when he paused in his dictation to throw inconversational asides. The old and experienced stenographers, hadlearned to look out for that, and to eliminate from theirtypewritten letters certain irrelevant and sometimes irreverentasides which Sam Hupp evidently had addressed to his pipe, or theoffice boy, and not intended for the tube of the all-devouringdictagraph. 

There was a new and nervous little stenographer in the outeroffice, and she had not been warned of this. 

"We think very highly of the plan you suggest, " Sam Hupp had saidinto the dictagraph's mouthpiece. "In fact, in one of yourvaluable copy suggestions you--"

Without changing his tone he glanced over his shoulder at hiscolleague, Hopper, who was listening and approving. 

". . . Let the old girl think the idea is her own. She's virtuallythe head of that concern, and they've spoiled her. Successful, andused to being kowtowed to. Doesn't know her notions of copy areten years behind the advertising game--"

And went on with his letter again. After which he left the officeto play golf. And the little blond numbskull in the outer officedutifully took down what the instrument had to say, word for word, marked it, "Dictated, but not read, " signed neat initials, andwith a sigh went on with the rest of her sheaf of letters. 

Emma McChesney read the letter next morning. She read it down tothe end, and then again. The two readings were punctuated with alittle gasp, such as we give when an icy douche is suddenlyturned upon us. And that was all. 

A week later an intent little group formed a ragged circle aboutthe big table in the private office of Bartholomew Berg, head ofthe Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Bartholomew Berg himself, massive, watchful, taciturn, managing to give an impression ofpower by his very silence, sat at one side of the long table. Justacross from him a sleek-haired stenographer bent over her notebook, jotting down every word, that the conference might makebusiness history. Hopper, at one end of the room, studied his shoeheel intently. He was unbelievably boyish looking to command thefabulous salary reported to be his. Advertising men, mentioninghis name, pulled a figurative forelock as they did so. Near Mrs. McChesney sat Sam Hupp, he of the lightning brain and thesure-fire copy. Emma McChesney, strangely silent, kept her eyesintent on the faces of the others. T. A. Buck, interested, enthusiastic, but somewhat uncertain, glanced now and then at hissilent business partner, found no satisfaction in her set face, and glanced away again. Grace Galt, unbelievably young and prettyto have won a place for herself in that conference of businesspeople, smiled in secret at Jock McChesney's evident struggle toconceal his elation at being present at this, his first staffmeeting. 

The conference had lasted one hour now. In that time Featherloompetticoats had been picked to pieces, bit by bit, from hem towaist-band. Nothing had been left untouched. Every angle had comeunder the keen vision of the advertising experts--the comfort ofthe garment, its durability, style, cheapness, service. Which toemphasize?

"H--m, novelty campaign, in my opinion, " said Hopper, breaking oneof his long silences. "There's nothing new in petticoatsthemselves, you know. You've got to give 'em a new angle. "

"Yep, " agreed Hupp. "Start out with a feature skirt. Mightillustrate with one of those freak drawings they're crazy aboutnow--slinky figure, you know, hollow-chested, one foot trailing, and all that. They're crazy, but they do attract attention, nodoubt of that. "

Bartholomew Berg turned his head slowly. "What's your opinion, Mrs. McChesney?" he asked. 

"I--I'm afraid I haven't any, " said Emma McChesney listlessly. T. A. Buck stared at her in dismay and amazement. 

"How about you, Mr. Buck?"

"Why--I--er--of course this advertising game's new to me. I'mreally leaving it in your hands. I really thought that Mrs. McChesney's idea was to make a point of the fact that thesepetticoats were not freak petticoats, but skirts for the everydaywomen. She gave me what I thought was a splendid argument a weekago. " He turned to her helplessly. 

Mrs. McChesney sat silent. 

Bartholomew Berg leaned forward a little and smiled one of hisrare smiles. 

"Won't you tell us, Mrs. McChesney? We'd all like to hear what youhave to say. "

Mrs. McChesney looked down at her hands. Then she looked up, andaddressed what she had to say straight to Bartholomew Berg. 

"I--simply didn't want to interfere in this business. I knownothing about it, really. Of course, I do know Featherloompetticoats. I know all about them. It seemed to me that justbecause the newspapers and magazines were full of pictures showingspectacular creatures in impossible attitudes wearing tango teaskirts, we are apt to forget that those types form only a thinupper crust, and that down beneath there are millions and millionsof regular, everyday women doing regular everyday things inregular everyday clothes. Women who wash on Monday, and iron onTuesday, and bake one-egg cakes, and who have to hurry home to getsupper when they go down-town in the afternoon. They're the kindwho go to market every morning, and take the baby along in thego-cart, and they're not wearing crêpe de chine tango petticoatsto do it in, either. They're wearing skirts with a drawstring inthe back, and a label in the band, guaranteed to last one year. Those are the people I'd like to reach, and hold. "

"Hm!" said Hopper, from his corner, cryptically. 

Bartholomew Berg looked at Emma McChesney admiringly. "Soundsreasonable and logical, " he said. 

Sam Hupp sat up with a jerk. 

"It does sound reasonable, " he said briskly. "But it isn't. Pardonme, won't you, Mrs. McChesney? But you must realize that this isan extravagant age. The very workingmen's wives have caught thespending fever. The time is past when you can attract people toyour goods with the promise of durability and wear. They don'texpect goods to wear. They'd resent it if they did. They get tiredof an article before it's worn out. They're looking for novelties. They'd rather get two months' wear out of a skirt that's slashed anew way, than a year's wear out of one that looks like the sortthat mother used to make. "

Mrs. McChesney, her cheeks very pink, her eyes very bright, subsided into silence. In silence she sat throughout the rest ofthe conference. In silence she descended in the elevator with T. A. Buck, and in silence she stepped into his waiting car. 

T. A. Buck eyed her worriedly. "Well?" he said. Then, as Mrs. McChesney shrugged noncommittal shoulders, "Tell me, how do youfeel about it?"

Emma McChesney turned to face him, breathing rather quickly. 

"The last time I felt as I do just now was when Jock was a baby. He took sick, and the doctors were puzzled. They thought it mightbe something wrong with his spine. They had a consultation--fiveof them--with the poor little chap on the bed, naked. Theywouldn't let me in, so I listened in the hallway, pressed againstthe door with my face to the crack. They prodded him, and pokedhim, and worked his little legs and arms, and every time he criedI prayed, and wept, and clawed the door with my fingers, andcalled them beasts and torturers and begged them to let me in, though I wasn't conscious that I was doing those things--at thetime. I didn't know what they were doing to him, though they saidit was all for his good, and they were only trying to help him. But I only knew that I wanted to rush in, and grab him up in myarms, and run away with him--run, and run, and run. "

She stopped, lips trembling, eyes suspiciously bright. 

"And that's the way I felt in there--this afternoon. "

T. A. Buck reached up and patted her shoulder. "Don't, old girl!It's going to work out splendidly, I'm sure. After all, thosechaps do know best. "

"They may know best, but they don't know Featherlooms, " retortedEmma McChesney. 

"True. But perhaps what Jock said when he walked with us to theelevator was pretty nearly right. You know he said we werecriticising their copy the way a plumber would criticise theParthenon--so busy finding fault with the lack of drains that wefailed to see the beauty of the architecture. "

"T. A. , " said Emma McChesney solemnly, "T. A. , we're getting old. "

"Old! You! I! Ha!"

"You may 'Ha!' all you like. But do you know what they thought ofus in there? They thought we were a couple of fogies, and theyhumored us, that's what they did. I'll tell you, T. A. , when thetime comes for me to give Jock up to some little pink-faced girlI'll do it, and smile if it kills me. But to hand my Featherloomsover to a lot of cold-blooded experts who--well--" she paused, biting her lip. 

"We'll see, Emma; we'll see. "

They did see. The Featherloom petticoat campaign was launched witha great splash. It sailed serenely into the sea of nationalbusiness. Then suddenly something seemed to go wrong with itsengines. It began to wobble and showed a decided list to port. Jock, who at the beginning was so puffed with pride that his goldfountain pen threatened to burst the confines of his very modishlytight vest, lost two degrees of pompousness a day, and hisattitude toward his unreproachful mother was almost humble. 

A dozen times a week T. A. Buck would stroll casually into Mrs. McChesney's office. "Think it's going to take hold?" he would ask. "Our men say the dealers have laid in, but the public doesn't seemto be tearing itself limb from limb to get to our stuff. "

Emma McChesney would smile, and shrug noncommittal shoulders. 

When it became very painfully apparent that it wasn't "takinghold, " T. A. Buck, after asking the same question, now worn andfrayed with asking, broke out, crossly:

"Well, really, I don't mind the shrug, but I do wish you wouldn'tsmile. After all, you know, this campaign is costing usmoney--real money, and large chunks of it. It's very evident thatwe shouldn't have tried to make a national campaign of thisthing. "

Whereupon Mrs. McChesney's smile grew into a laugh. "Forgive me, T. A. I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing because--well, I can'ttell you why. It's a woman's reason, and you wouldn't think it areason at all. For that matter, I suppose it isn't, but--Anyway, I've got something to tell you. The fault of this campaign hasbeen the copy. It was perfectly good advertising, but it left thepublic cold. When they read those ads they might have beenimpressed with the charm of the garment, but it didn't fill theirbreasts with any wild longing to possess one. It didn't make thewomen feel unhappy until they had one of those skirts hanging onthe third hook in their closet. The only kind of advertising thatis advertising is the kind that makes the reader say, 'I'll haveone of those. '"

T. A. Buck threw out helpless hands. "What are we going to do aboutit?"

"Do? I've already done it. "

"Done what?"

"Written the kind of copy that I think Featherlooms ought to have. I just took my knowledge of Featherlooms, plus what I knew abouthuman nature, sprinkled in a handful of good humor and sincerity, and they're going to feed it to the public. It's the same recipethat I used to use in selling Featherlooms on the road. It used togo by word of mouth. I don't see why it shouldn't go on paper. Itisn't classic advertising. It isn't scientific. It isn't even whatthey call psychological, I suppose. But it's human. And it's goingto reach that great, big, solid, safe, spot-cash mass known as themiddle class. Of course my copy may be wrong. It may not go, afterall, but--"

But it did go. It didn't go with a rush, or a bang. It wentslowly, surely, hand over hand, but it went, and it kept on going. And watching it climb and take hold there came back to EmmaMcChesney's eye the old sparkle, to her step the old buoyancy, toher voice the old delightful ring. And now, when T. A. Buckstrolled into her office of a morning, with his, "It's takinghold, Mrs. Mack, " she would dimple like a girl as she laughed backat him--

"With a grip that won't let go. "

"It looks very much as though we were going to be millionaires inour old age, you and I?" went on Buck. 

Emma McChesney opened her eyes wide. 

"Old!" she mocked, "Old! You! I! Ha!"

IV

THE MAN WITHIN HIM

They used to do it much more picturesquely. They rode in coats ofscarlet, in the crisp, clear morning, to the winding of horns andthe baying of hounds, to the thud-thud of hoofs, and the crackleof underbrush. Across fresh-plowed fields they went, crashingthrough forest paths, leaping ditches, taking fences, scramblingup the inclines, pelting down the hillside, helter-skelter, until, panting, wide-eyed, eager, blood-hungry, the hunt closed in at thedeath. 

The scarlet coat has sobered down to the somber gray and thesnuffy brown of that unromantic garment known as the businesssuit. The winding horn is become a goblet, and its notes are thetinkle of ice against glass. The baying of hounds has harshened tothe squawk of the motor siren. The fresh-plowed field is a blueprint, the forest maze a roll of plans and specifications. Eachfence is a business barrier. Every ditch is of a competitor'smaking, dug craftily so that the clumsy-footed may come a cropper. All the romance is out of it, all the color, all the joy. But twothings remain the same: The look in the face of the hunter as heclosed in on the fox is the look in the face of him who sees thecoveted contract lying ready for the finishing stroke of his pen. And his words are those of the hunter of long ago as, eyesa-gleam, teeth bared, muscles still taut with the tenseness of thechase, he waves the paper high in air and cries, "I've made akilling!"

For two years Jock McChesney had watched the field as it swept byin its patient, devious, cruel game of Hunt the Contract. But hehad never been in at the death. Those two years had taught him howto ride; to take a fence; to leap a ditch. He had had his awkwardbumps, and his clumsy falls. He had lost his way more than once. But he had always groped his way back again, stumblingly, throughthe dusk. Jock McChesney was the youngest man on the Berg, ShrinerAdvertising Company's big staff of surprisingly young men. Soyoung that the casual glance did not reveal to you the marks thatthe strain of those two years had left on his boyish face. But themarks were there. 

Nature etches with the most delicate of points. She knows thecunning secret of light and shadow. You scarcely realize that shehas been at work. A faint line about the mouth, a fairy tracing atthe corners of the eyes, a mere vague touch just at thenostrils--and the thing is done. 

Even Emma McChesney's eyes--those mother-eyes which make the lynxseem a mole--had failed to note the subtle change. Then, suddenly, one night, the lines leaped out at her. 

They were seated at opposite sides of the book-littered librarytable in the living-room of the cheerful up-town apartment whichwas the realization of the nightly dream which Mrs. Emma McChesneyhad had in her ten years on the road for the T. A. Buck FeatherloomPetticoat Company. Jock McChesney's side of the big table wascompletely covered with the mass of copy-paper, rough sketches, photographs and drawings which make up an advertising lay-out. Hewas bent over the work, absorbed, intent, his forearms resting onthe table. Emma McChesney glanced up from her magazine just asJock bent forward to reach a scrap of paper that had flutteredaway. The lamplight fell full on his face. And Emma McChesney saw. The hand that held the magazine fell to her lap. Her lips wereparted slightly. She sat very quietly, her eyes never leaving theface that frowned so intently over the littered table. The roomhad been very quiet before--Jock busy with his work, his motherinterested in her magazine. But this silence was different. Therewas something electric in it. It was a silence that beats on thebrain like a noise. Jock McChesney, bent over his work, heard it, felt it, and, oppressed by it, looked up suddenly. He met thosetwo eyes opposite. 

"Spooks? Or is it my godlike beauty which holds you thus? Or is myface dirty?"

Emma McChesney did not smile. She laid her magazine on the table, face down, and leaned forward, her staring eyes still fixed on herson's face. 

"Look here, young 'un. Are you working too hard?"

"Me? Now? This stuff you mean--?"

"No; I mean in the last year. Are they piling it up on you?"

Jock laughed a laugh that was nothing less than a failure, solittle of real mirth did it contain. 

"Piling it up! Lord, no! I wish they would. That's the trouble. They don't give me a chance. "

"A chance! Why, that's not true, son. You've said yourself thatthere are men who have been in the office three times as long asyou have, who never have had the opportunities that they've givenyou. "

It was as though she had touched a current that thrilled him toaction. He pushed back his chair and stood up, one hand thrustinto his pocket, the other passing quickly over his head from browto nape with a quick, nervous gesture that was new to him. 

"And why!" he flung out. "Why! Not because they like the way Ipart my hair. They don't do business that way up there. It'sbecause I've made good, and those other dubs haven't. That's why. They've let me sit in at the game. But they won't let me take anytricks. I've been an apprentice hand for two years now. I'm tiredof it. I want to be in on a killing. I want to taste blood. I wanta chance at some of the money--real money. "

Emma McChesney sat back in her chair and surveyed the angry figurebefore her with quiet, steady eyes. 

"I might have known that only one thing could bring those linesinto your face, son. " She paused a moment. "So you want money asbadly as all that, do you?"

Jock's hand came down with a thwack on the papers before him. 

"Want it! You just bet I want it. "

"Do I know her?" asked Emma McChesney quietly. 

Jock stopped short in his excited pacing up and down the room. 

"Do you know--Why, I didn't say there--What makes you thinkthat--?"

"When a youngster like you, whose greatest worry has been whetherHarvard'll hold 'em again this year, with Baxter out, begins tohowl about not being appreciated in business, and to wear a latefall line of wrinkles where he has been smooth before, I feeljustified in saying, 'Do I know her?'"

"Well, it isn't any one--at least, it isn't what you mean youthink it is when you say you--"

"Careful there! You'll trip. Never you mind what I mean I think itis when I say. Count ten, and then just tell me what you think youmean. "

Jock passed his hand over his head again with that nervous littlegesture. Then he sat down, a little wearily. He stared moodilydown at the pile of papers before him: His mother faced himquietly across the table. 

"Grace Galt's getting twice as much as I am, " Jock broke out, withsavage suddenness. "The first year I didn't mind. A fellow getsaccustomed, these days, to see women breaking into all theprofessions and getting away with men-size salaries. But her paycheck doubles mine--more than doubles it. "

"It's been my experience, " observed Emma McChesney, "that when afirm condescends to pay a woman twice as much as a man, that meansshe's worth six times as much. "

A painful red crept into Jock's face. "Maybe. Two years ago thatwould have sounded reasonable to me. Two years ago, when I walkeddown Broadway at night, a fifty-foot electric sign at Forty-secondwas just an electric sign to me. Just part of the town'sdecoration like the chorus girls, and the midnight theater crowds. Now--well, now every blink of every red and yellow globe iscrammed full of meaning. I know the power that advertising has;how it influences our manners, and our morals, and our minds, andour health. It regulates the food we eat, and the clothes we wear, and the books we read, and the entertainment we seek. It'scolossal, that's what it is! It's--"

"Keep on like that for another two years, sonny, and no businessbanquet will be complete without you. The next thing you knowyou'll be addressing the Y. M. C. A. Advertising classes on The YoungMan in Business. "

Jock laughed a rueful little laugh. "I didn't mean to makea speech. I was just trying to say that I've served myapprenticeship. It hurts a fellow's pride. You can't hold yourhead up before a girl when you know her salary's twice yours, andyou know that she knows it. Why look at Mrs. Hoffman, who's withthe Dowd Agency. Of course she's a wonder, even if her face doeslook like the fifty-eighth variety. She can write copy that liftsa campaign right out of the humdrum class, and makes it luminous. Her husband works in a bank somewhere. He earns about as much asMrs. Hoffman pays the least of her department subordinates. Andhe's so subdued that he side-steps when he walks, and they callhim the human jelly-fish. "

Emma McChesney was regarding her son with a little puzzled frown. Suddenly she reached out and tapped the topmost of the scribbledsheets strewn the length of Jock's side of the table. 

"What's all this?"

Jock tipped back his chair and surveyed the clutter before him. 

"That, " said he, "is what is known on the stage as 'the papers. 'And it's the real plot of this piece. "

"M-m-m--I thought so. Just favor me with a scenario, will you?"

Half-grinning, half-serious, Jock stuck his thumbs in the armholesof his waistcoat, and began. 

"Scene: Offices of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Time, the present. Characters: Jock McChesney, handsome, daring, brilliant--"

"Suppose you--er--skip the characters, however fascinating, andget to the action. "

Jock McChesney brought the tipped chair down on all-fours with athud, and stood up. The grin was gone. He was as serious as he hadbeen in the midst of his tirade of five minutes before. 

"All right. Here it is. And don't blame me if it sounds like cheapmelodrama. This stuff, " and he waved a hand toward the paper-ladentable, "is an advertising campaign plan for the Griebler GumCompany, of St. Louis. Oh, don't look impressed. The office hasn'thanded me any such commission. I just got the idea like a flash, and I've been working it out for the last two weeks. It workeditself out, almost--the way a really scorching idea does, sometimes. This Griebler has been advertising for years. Youknow the Griebler gum. But it hasn't been the right sort ofadvertising. Old Griebler, the original gum man, had fogy notionsabout advertising, and as long as he lived they had to keep itdown. He died a few months ago--you must have read of it. Left aregular mint. Ben Griebler, the oldest son, started right in toclean out the cobwebs. Of course the advertising end of it hascome in for its share of the soap and water. He wants to make aclean sweep of it. Every advertising firm in the country has beenangling for the contract. It's going to be a real one. Two-thirdsof the crowd have submitted plans. And that's just where my kickcomes in. The Berg, Shriner Company makes it a rule never tosubmit advance plans. "

"Excuse me if I seem a trifle rude, " interrupted Mrs. McChesney, "but I'd like to know where you think you've been wronged inthis. "

"Right here!" replied Jock, and he slapped his pocket, "and here, "he pointed to his head. "Two spots so vital that they make oldAchilles's heel seem armor-plated. Ben Griebler is one of theshow-me kind. He wants value received for money expended, andwhile everybody knows that he has a loving eye on the Berg, Shriner crowd, he won't sign a thing until he knows what he'sgetting. A firm's record, standing, staff, equipment, mean nothingto him. "

"But, Jock, I still don't see--"

Jock gathered up a sheaf of loose papers and brandished them inthe air. "This is where I come in. I've got a plan here that willfetch this Griebler person. Oh, I'm not dreaming. I outlined itfor Sam Hupp, and he was crazy about it. Sam Hupp had some sort ofplan outlined himself. But he said this made his sound as dry ascigars in Denver. And you know yourself that Sam Hupp's copy is sobrilliant that he could sell brewery advertising to a temperancemagazine. "

Emma McChesney stood up. She looked a little impatient, and atrifle puzzled. "But why all this talk! I don't get you. Take yourplan to Mr. Berg. If it's what you think it is he'll see itquicker than any other human being, and he'll probably fall onyour neck and invest you in royal robes and give you a mahoganydesk all your own. "

"Oh, what's the good!" retorted Jock disgustedly. "This Grieblerhas an appointment at the office to-morrow. He'll be closeted withthe Old Man. They'll call in Hupp. But never a plan will theyreveal. It's against their code of ethics. Ethics! I'm sick of theword. I suppose you'd say I'm lucky to be associated with a firmlike that, and I suppose I am. But I wish in the name of all thegods of Business that they weren't so bloomin' conservative. Ethics! They're all balled up in 'em, like Henry James in hisstyle. "

Emma McChesney came over from her side of the table and stood veryclose to her son. She laid one hand very lightly on his arm andlooked up into the sullen, angry young face. 

 [Illustration: "She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and looked up into the sullen, angry young face"]

"I've seen older men than you are, Jock, and better men, andbigger men, wearing that same look, and for the same reason. Everyambitious man or woman in business wears it at one time oranother. Sooner or later, Jock, you'll have your chance at themoney end of this game. If you don't care about the thing you callethics, it'll be sooner. If you do care, it will be later. Itrests with you, but it's bound to come, because you've got thestuff in you. "

"Maybe, " replied Jock the cynical. But his face lost some of itssullenness as he looked down at that earnest, vivid countenanceup-turned to his. "Maybe. It sounds all right, Mother--in thestory books. But I'm not quite solid on it. These days it isn'tso much what you've got in you that counts as what you can bringout. I know the young man's slogan used to be 'Work and Wait, ' orsomething pretty like that. But these days they've boiled it downto one word--'Produce'!"

"The marvel of it is that there aren't more of 'em, " observed EmmaMcChesney sadly. 

"More what?"

"More lines. Here, "--she touched his forehead, --"and here, "--shetouched his eyes. 

"Lines!" Jock swung to face a mirror. "Good! I'm so infernallyyoung-looking that no one takes me seriously. It's darned hardtrying to convince people you're a captain of finance when youlook like an errand boy. "

From the center of the room Mrs. McChesney watched the boy as hesurveyed himself in the glass. And as she gazed there came afrightened look into her eyes. It was gone in a minute, and in itsplace came a curious little gleam, half amused, half pugnacious. 

"Jock McChesney, if I thought that you meant half of what you'vesaid to-night about honor, and ethics, and all that, I'd--"

"Spank me, I suppose, " said the young six-footer. 

"No, " and all the humor had fled, "I--Jock, I've never said muchto you about your father. But I think you know that he was what hewas to the day of his death. You were just about eight when I madeup my mind that life with him was impossible. I said then--and youwere all I had, son--that I'd rather see you dead than to have youturn out to be a son of your father. Don't make me remember thatwish, Jock. "

Two quick steps and his arms were about her. His face was allcontrition. "Why--Mother! I didn't mean--You see this is business, and I'm crazy to make good, and it's such a fight--"

"Don't I know it?" demanded Emma McChesney. "I guess your motherhasn't been sitting home embroidering lunchcloths these lastfifteen years. " She lifted her head from the boy's shoulder. "Andnow, son, considering me, not as your doting mother, but in mybusiness capacity as secretary of the T. A. Buck FeatherloomPetticoat Company, suppose you reveal to me the inner workings ofthis plan of yours. I'd like to know if you really are theadvertising wizard that you think you are. "

So it was that long after Annie's dinner dishes had ceased toclatter in the kitchen; long after she had put her head in at thedoor to ask, "Aigs 'r cakes for breakfast?" long after those twobusy brains should have rested in sleep, the two sat at eitherside of the light-flooded table, the face of one glowing as hetalked, the face of the other sparkling as she listened. And atmidnight:

"Why, you infant wonder!" exclaimed Emma McChesney. 

At nine o'clock next morning when Jock McChesney entered theoffices of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company he carried aflat, compact bundle of papers under his arm encased in protectingcovers of pasteboard, and further secured by bands of elastic. This he carried to his desk, deposited in a drawer, and locked thedrawer. 

By eleven o'clock the things which he had predicted the nightbefore had come to pass. A plump little man, with a fussy mannerand Western clothes had been ushered into Bartholomew Berg'sprivate office. Instinct told him that this was Griebler. Jockleft his desk and strolled up to get the switchboard operator'sconfirmation of his guess. Half an hour later Sam Hupp hustled byand disappeared into the Old Man's sanctum. 

Jock fingered the upper left-hand drawer of his desk. Themaddening blankness of that closed door! If only he could findsome excuse for walking into that room--any old excuse, no matterhow wild!--just to get a chance at it--

His telephone rang. He picked up the receiver, his eye on theclosed door, his thoughts inside that room. 

"Mr. Berg wants to see you right away, " came the voice of theswitchboard operator. 

Something seemed to give way inside--something in the region ofhis brain--no, his heart--no, his lungs--

"Well, can you beat that!" said Jock McChesney aloud, in a kind oftrance of joy. "Can--you--beat--that!"

Then he buttoned the lower button of his coat, shrugged hisshoulders with an extra wriggle at the collar (the modern hero'smethod of girding up his loins), and walked calmly intoBartholomew Berg's very private office. 

In the second that elapsed between the opening and the closing ofthe door Jock's glance swept the three men--Bartholomew Berg, quiet, inscrutable, seated at his great table-desk; Griebler, lostin the depths of a great leather chair, smoking fussily andtwitching with a hundred little restless, irritating gestures; SamHupp, standing at the opposite side of the room, hands in pockets, attitude argumentative. 

"This is Mr. McChesney, " said Bartholomew Berg. "Mr. Griebler, McChesney. "

Jock came forward, smiling that charming smile of his. "Mr. Griebler, " he said, extending his hand, "this is a greatpleasure. "

"Hm!" growled Ben Griebler, "I didn't know they picked 'em soyoung. "

His voice was a piping falsetto that somehow seemed to match hisrestless little eyes. 

Jock thrust his hands hurriedly into his pockets. He felt his facegetting scarlet. 

"They're--ah--using 'em young this year, " said Bartholomew Berg. His voice sounded bigger, and smoother, and pleasanter than everin contrast with that other's shrill tone. "I prefer 'em young, myself. You'll never catch McChesney using 'in the last analysis'to drive home an argument. He has a new idea about every nineteenminutes, and every other one's a good one, and every nineteenthor so's an inspiration. " The Old Man laughed one of his low, chuckling laughs. 

"Hm--that so?" piped Ben Griebler. "Up in my neck of the woods wearen't so long on inspiration. We're just working men, and we wearworking clothes--"

"Oh, now, " protested Berg, his eyes twinkling, "McChesney'snecktie and socks and handkerchief may form one lovely, blissfulcolor scheme, but that doesn't signify that his advertisingschemes are not just as carefully and artistically blended. "

Ben Griebler looked shrewdly up at Jock through narrowed lids. "Maybe. I'll talk to you in a minute, young man--that is--" heturned quickly upon Berg--"if that isn't against your crazyprinciples, too?"

"Why, not at all, " Bartholomew Berg assured him. "Not at all. Youdo me an injustice. "

Griebler moved up closer to the broad table. The two fell into alow-voiced talk. Jock looked rather helplessly around at Sam Hupp. That alert gentleman was signaling him frantically with head andwagging finger. Jock crossed the big room to Hupp's side. The twomoved off to a window at the far end. 

"Give heed to your Unkie, " said Sam Hupp, talking very rapidly, very softly, and out of one corner of his mouth. "This Griebler'slooking for an advertising manager. He's as pig-headed asa--a--well, as a pig, I suppose. But it's a corking chance, youngster, and the Old Man's just recommended you--strong. Now--"

"Me--!" exploded Jock. 

"Shut up!" hissed Hupp. "Two or three years with that firm wouldbe the making of you--if you made good, of course. And you could. They want to move their factory here from St. Louis within thenext few years. Now listen. When he talks to you, you play up thekeen, alert stuff with a dash of sophistication, see? If you cankeep your mouth shut and throw a kind of a canny, I-get-you, lookinto your eyes, all the better. He's gabby enough for two. Try aline of talk that is filled with the fire and enthusiasm ofyouth, combined with the good judgment and experience of middleage, and you've--"

"Say, look here, " stammered Jock. "Even if I was Warfield enoughto do all that, d'you honestly think--me an advertisingmanager!--with a salary that Griebler--"

"You nervy little shrimp, go in and win. He'll pay five thousandif he pays a cent. But he wants value for money expended. Now I'vetipped you off. You make your killing--"

"Oh, McChesney!" called Bartholomew Berg, glancing round. 

"Yes, sir!" said Jock, and stood before him in the same moment. 

"Mr. Griebler is looking for a competent, enthusiastic, hard-working man as advertising manager. I've spoken to him ofyou. I know what you can do. Mr. Griebler might trust my judgmentin this, but--"

"I'll trust my own judgment, " snapped Ben Griebler. "It's goodenough for me. "

"Very well, " returned Bartholomew Berg suavely. "And if you decideto place your advertising future in the hands of the Berg, ShrinerCompany--"

"Now look here, " interrupted Ben Griebler again. "I'll tie upwith you people when you've shaken something out of your cuffs. I'm not the kind that buys a pig in a poke. We're going to spendmoney--real money--in this campaign of ours. But I'm not such acome-on as to hand you half a million or so and get a promise inreturn. I want your plans, and I want 'em in full. "

A little exclamation broke from Sam Hupp. He checked it, but notbefore Berg's curiously penetrating pale blue eyes had glanced upat him, and away again. 

"I've told you, Mr. Griebler, " went on Bartholomew Berg's patientvoice, "just why the thing you insist on is impossible. This firmdoes not submit advance copy. Every business commission that comesto us is given all the skill, and thought, and enthusiasm, andcareful planning that this office is capable of. You know ourrecord. This is a business of ideas. And ideas are too precious, too perishable, to spread in the market place for all to see. "

Ben Griebler stood up. His cigar waggled furiously between hislips as he talked. 

"I know something else that don't stand spreading in the marketplace, Berg. And that's money. It's too darned perishable, too. "He pointed a stubby finger at Jock. "Does this fool rule of yoursapply to this young fellow, too?"

Bartholomew Berg seemed to grow more patient, more self-containedas the other man's self-control slipped rapidly away. 

"It goes for every man and woman in this office, Mr. Griebler. This young chap, McChesney here, might spend weeks and monthsbuilding up a comprehensive advertising plan for you. He'd spendthose weeks studying your business from every possible angle. Perhaps it would be a plan that would require a year of waitingbefore the actual advertising began to appear. And then you mightlose faith in the plan. A waiting game is a hard game to play. Some other man's idea, that promised quicker action, might appealto you. And when it appeared we'd very likely find our ownoriginal idea incorporated in--"

"Say, look here!" squeaked Ben Griebler, his face dully red. "D'you mean to imply that I'd steal your plan! D'you mean to sitthere and tell me to my face--"

"Mr. Griebler, I mean that that thing happens constantly in thisbusiness. We're almost powerless to stop it. Nothing spreadsquicker than a new idea. Compared to it a woman's secret is asealed book. "

Ben Griebler removed the cigar from his lips. He was stutteringwith anger. With a mingling of despair and boldness Jock saw theadvantage of that stuttering moment and seized on it. He steppedclose to the broad table-desk, resting both hands on it andleaning forward slightly in his eagerness. 

"Mr. Berg--I have a plan. Mr. Hupp can tell you. It came to mewhen I first heard that the Grieblers were going to broaden out. It's a real idea. I'm sure of that. I've worked it out in detail. Mr. Hupp himself said it--Why, I've got the actual copy. And it'snew. Absolutely. It never--"

"Trot it out!" shouted Ben Griebler. "I'd like to see one ideaanyway, around this shop. "

"McChesney, " said Bartholomew Berg, not raising his voice. Hiseyes rested on Jock with the steady, penetrating gaze that waspeculiar to him. More foolhardy men than Jock McChesney hadfaltered and paused, abashed, under those eyes. "McChesney, yourenthusiasm for your work is causing you to forget one thing thatmust never be forgotten in this office. "

Jock stepped back. His lower lip was caught between his teeth. Atthe same moment Ben Griebler snatched up his hat from the table, clapped it on his head at an absurd angle and, bristling like afighting cock, confronted the three men. 

"I've got a couple of rules myself, " he cried, "and don't youforget it. When you get a little spare time, you look up St. Louisand find out what state it's in. The slogan of that state is myslogan, you bet. If you think I'm going to make you a present ofthe money that it took my old man fifty years to pile up, then youdon't know that Griebler is a German name. Good day, gents. "

He stalked to the door. There he turned dramatically and leveled aforefinger at Jock. "They've got you roped and tied. But I thinkyou're a comer. If you change your mind, kid, come and see me. "

The door slammed behind him. 

"Whew!" whistled Sam Hupp, passing a handkerchief over his baldspot. 

Bartholomew Berg reached out with one great capable hand and swepttoward him a pile of papers. "Oh, well, you can't blame him. Advertising has been a scream for so long. Griebler doesn't knowthe difference between advertising, publicity, and bunk. He'lllearn. But it'll be an awfully expensive course. Now, Hupp, let'sgo over this Kalamazoo account. That'll be all, McChesney. "

Jock turned without a word. He walked quickly through the outeroffice, into the great main room. There he stopped at theswitchboard. 

"Er--Miss Grimes, " he said, smiling charmingly. "Where's this Mr. Griebler, of St. Louis, stopping; do you know?"

"Say, where would he stop?" retorted the wise Miss Grimes. "Lookat him! The Waldorf, of course. "

"Thanks, " said Jock, still smiling. And went back to his desk. 

At five Jock left the office. Under his arm he carried the flatpasteboard package secured by elastic bands. At five-fifteen hewalked swiftly down the famous corridor of the great red stonehotel. The colorful glittering crowd that surged all about him heseemed not to see. He made straight for the main desk with itsbattalion of clerks. 

 [Illustration: "He made straight for the main desk with its battalion of clerks"]

"Mr. Griebler in? Mr. Ben Griebler, St. Louis?"

The question set in motion the hotel's elaborate system ofinvestigation. At last: "Not in. "

"Do you know when he will be in?" That futile question. 

"Can't say. He left no word. Do you want to leave your name?"

"N-no. Would he--does he stop at this desk when he comes in?"

He was an unusually urbane hotel clerk. "Why, usually they leavetheir keys and get their mail from the floor clerk. But Mr. Griebler seems to prefer the main desk. "

"I'll--wait, " said Jock. And seated in one of the great thronelikechairs, he waited. He sat there, slim and boyish, while thelaughing, chattering crowd swept all about him. If you sit longenough in that foyer you will learn all there is to learn aboutlife. An amazing sight it is--that crowd. Baraboo helps swell it, and Spokane, and Berlin, and Budapest, and Pekin, and Paris, andWaco, Texas. So varied it is, so cosmopolitan, that if you sitthere patiently enough, and watch sharply enough you will even seea chance New Yorker. 

From door to desk Jock's eyes swept. The afternoon-tea crowd, inparadise feathers, and furs, and frock coats swam back and forth. He saw it give way to the dinner throng, satin-shod, bejeweled, hurrying through its oysters, swallowing unbelievable numbers ofcloudy-amber drinks, and golden-brown drinks, and maroon drinks, then gathering up its furs and rushing theaterwards. He was stillsitting there when that crowd, its eight o'clock freshnesssomewhat sullied, its sparkle a trifle dimmed, swept back for moreoysters, more cloudy-amber and golden-brown drinks. 

At half-hour intervals, then at hourly intervals, the figure inthe great chair stirred, rose, and walked to the desk. 

"Has Mr. Griebler come in?"

The supper throng, its laugh a little ribald, its talk a shadehigh-pitched, drifted towards the street, or was wafted up inelevators. The throng thinned to an occasional group. Then thesebecame rarer and rarer. The revolving door admitted one man, ortwo, perhaps, who lingered not at all in the unaccustomed quiet ofthe great glittering lobby. 

The figure of the watcher took on a pathetic droop. The eyelidsgrew leaden. To open them meant an almost superhuman effort. Thestare of the new night clerks grew more and more hostile andsuspicious. A grayish pallor had settled down on the boy's face. And those lines of the night before stood out for all to see. 

In the stillness of the place the big revolving door turned oncemore, complainingly. For the thousandth time Jock's eyeslifted heavily. Then they flew wide open. The drooping figurestraightened electrically. Half a dozen quick steps and Jock stoodin the pathway of Ben Griebler who, rather ruffled and untidy, hadblown in on the wings of the morning. 

He stared a moment. "Well, what--"

"I've been waiting for you here since five o'clock last evening. It will soon be five o'clock again. Will you let me show you thoseplans now?"

Ben Griebler had surveyed Jock with the stony calm of theout-of-town visitor who is prepared to show surprise at nothing inNew York. 

"There's nothing like getting an early start, " said Ben Griebler. "Come on up to my room. " Key in hand, he made for the elevator. For an almost imperceptible moment Jock paused. Then, with alittle rush, he followed the short, thick-set figure. "I knew youhad it in you, McChesney. I said you looked like a comer, didn'tI?"

Jock said nothing. He was silent while Griebler unlocked his door, turned on the light, fumbled at the windows and shades, picked upthe telephone receiver. "What'll you have?"

"Nothing. " Jock had cleared the center table and was opening hisflat bundle of papers. He drew up two chairs. "Let's not waste anytime, " he said. "I've had a twelve-hour wait for this. " He seemedto control the situation. Obediently Ben Griebler hung up thereceiver, came over, and took the chair very close to Jock. 

 [Illustration: "'Let's not waste any time, ' he said"]

"There's nothing artistic about gum, " began Jock McChesney; andhis manner was that of a man who is sure of himself. "It's ashirt-sleeve product, and it ought to be handled from ashirt-sleeve standpoint. Every gum concern in the country hasspent thousands on a 'better-than-candy' campaign before itrealized that gum is a candy and drug store article, and that noman is going to push a five-cent package of gum at the sacrificeof the sale of an eighty-cent box of candy. But the health note isthere, if only you strike it right. Now, here's my idea--"

At six o'clock Ben Griebler, his little shrewd eyes sparkling, hisvoice more squeakily falsetto than ever, surveyed the youngsterbefore him with a certain awe. 

"This--this thing will actually sell our stuff in Europe! No gumconcern has ever been able to make the stuff go outside of thiscountry. Why, inside of three years every 'Arry and 'Arriet inEngland'll be chewing it on bank holidays. I don't know aboutGermany, but--" He pushed back his chair and got up. "Well, I'msolid on that. And what I say goes. Now I'll tell you what I'lldo, kid. I'll take you down to St. Louis with me, at a figurethat'll make your--"

Jock looked up. 

"Or if you don't want the Berg, Shriner crowd to get wise, I'llfix it this way. I'll go over there this morning and tell 'em I'vechanged my mind, see? The campaign's theirs, see? Then I refuseto consider any of their suggestions until I see your plan. Andwhen I see it I fall for it like a ton of bricks. Old Berg'llnever know. He's so darned high-principled--"

Jock McChesney stood up. The little drawn pinched look which hadmade his face so queerly old was gone. His eyes were bright. Hisface was flushed. 

"There! You've said it. I didn't realize how raw this deal wasuntil you put it into words for me. I want to thank you. You'reright. Bartholomew Berg is so darned high-principled that twomuckers like you and me, groveling around in the dirt, can't evensee the tips of the heights to which his ideals have soared. Don'tstop me. I know I'm talking like a book. But I feel like somethingthat has just been kicked out into the sunshine after having beenin jail. "

"You're tired, " said Ben Griebler. "It's been a strain. Somethingalways snaps after a long tension. "

Jock's flat palm came down among the papers with a crack. 

"You bet something snaps! It has just snapped inside me. " Hebegan quietly to gather up the papers in an orderly little way. 

"What's that for?" inquired Griebler, coming forward. "You don'tmean--"

"I mean that I'm going to go home and square this thing with alady you've never met. You and she wouldn't get on if you did. Youdon't talk the same language. Then I'm going to have a cold bath, and a hot breakfast. And then, Griebler, I'm going to take thisstuff to Bartholomew Berg and tell him the whole nasty business. He'll see the humor of it. But I don't know whether he'll fire me, or make me vice-president of the company. Now, if you want to comeover and talk to him, fair and square, why come. "

"Ten to one he fires you, " remarked Griebler, as Jock reached thedoor. 

"There's only one person I know who's game enough to take you upon that. And it's going to take more nerve to face her atsix-thirty than it will to tackle a whole battalion of BartholomewBergs at nine. "

"Well, I guess I can get in a three-hour sleep before--er--"

"Before what?" said Jock McChesney from the door. 

Ben Griebler laughed a little shamefaced laugh. "Before I see youat ten, sonny. "

V

THE SELF-STARTER

There is nothing in the sound of the shrill little bell to warn usof the import of its message. More's the pity. It may be that borewhose telephone conversation begins: "Well, what do you knowto-day?" It may be your lawyer to say you've inherited a million. Hence the arrogance of the instrument. It knows its voice willnever wilfully go unanswered so long as the element of chance liesconcealed within it. 

Mrs. Emma McChesney heard the call of her telephone across thehall. Seated in the office of her business partner, T. A. Buck, shewas fathoms deep in discussion of the T. A. Buck FeatherloomPetticoat Company's new spring line. The buzzer's insistentvoice brought her to her feet, even while she frowned at theinterruption. 

"That'll be Baumgartner 'phoning about those silk swatches. Backin a minute, " said Emma McChesney and hurried across the hall justin time to break the second call. 

The perfunctory "Hello! Yes" was followed by a swift change ofcountenance, a surprised little cry, then, --in quite anothertone--"Oh, it's you, Jock! I wasn't expecting . . . No, not toobusy to talk to you, you young chump! Go on. " A moment of silence, while Mrs. McChesney's face smiled and glowed like a girl's as shelistened to the voice of her son. Then suddenly glow and smilefaded. She grew tense. Her head, that had been leaning socarelessly on the hand that held the receiver, came up with ajerk. "Jock McChesney!" she gasped, "you--why, you don't mean!--"

Now, Emma McChesney was not a woman given to jerky conversations, interspersed with exclamation points. Her poise and balance hadbecome a proverb in the business world. Yet her lips weretrembling now. Her eyes were very round and bright. Her face hadflushed, then grown white. Her voice shook a little. "Yes, ofcourse I am. Only, I'm so surprised. Yes, I'll be home early. Five-thirty at the latest. "

She hung up the receiver with a little fumbling gesture. Her handdropped to her lap, then came up to her throat a moment, droppedagain. She sat staring straight ahead with eyes that saw onethousand miles away. 

From his office across the hall T. A. Buck strolled in casually. 

"Did Baumgartner say he'd--?" He stopped as Mrs. McChesney lookedup at him. A quick step forward--"What's the matter, Emma?"

"Jock--Jock--"

"Jock! What's happened to the boy?" Then, as she still stared athim, her face pitiful, his hand patted her shoulder. "Dear girl, tell me. " He bent over her, all solicitude. 

"Don't!" said Emma McChesney faintly, and shook off his hand. "Your stenographer can see--What will the office think? Please--"

"Oh, darn the stenographer! What's this bad news of Jock?"

Emma McChesney sat up. She smiled a little nervously and passedher handkerchief across her lips. "I didn't say it was bad, did I?That is, not exactly bad, I suppose. "

T. A. Buck ran a frenzied hand over his head. "My dear child, "with careful politeness, "will you please try to be sane? I findyou sitting at your desk, staring into space, your face white as aghost's, your whole appearance that of a person who has received adeath-blow. And then you say, 'Not exactly bad'!"

"It's this, " explained Emma McChesney in a hollow tone: "The Berg, Shriner Advertising Company has appointed Jock manager of theirnew Western branch. They're opening offices in Chicago in March. "Her lower lip quivered. She caught it sharply between her teeth. 

For one surprised moment T. A. Buck stared in silence. Then a roarbroke from him. "Not exactly bad!" he boomed between laughs. "Notexactly b--Not ex_act_ly, 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 soexquisitely 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. "Why, do you mean to tell me that because your young cub of a son, by aheaven-sent stroke of good fortune, has landed a job that mentwice his age would give their eyeteeth to get, I find you sittingat the telephone looking as if he had run off with Annie the cook, or had had a leg cut off!"

"I suppose it is funny. Only, the joke's on me. That's why I can'tsee it. It means that I'm losing him. "

"That's the first selfish word I've ever heard you utter. "

"Oh, don't think I'm not happy at his success. Happy! Haven't Ihoped for it, and worked for it, and prayed for it! Haven't Isaved for it, and skimped for it! How do you think I could havestood those years on the road if I hadn't kept up courage with thethought that it was all for him? Don't I know how narrowly Jockescaped being the wrong kind! I'm his mother, but I'm not quiteblind. I know he had the making of a first-class cad. I've seenhim start off in the wrong direction a hundred times. "

"If he has turned out a success, it's because you've steered himright. I've watched you make him over. And now, when his bigchance has come, you--"

"I don't expect you to understand, " interrupted Emma McChesney alittle wearily. "I know it sounds crazy and unreasonable. There'sonly one sort of human being who could understand what I mean. That's a woman with a son. " She laughed a little shamefacedly. "I'm talking like the chorus of a minor-wail sob song, but it'sthe truth. "

"If you feel like that, Emma, tell him to stay. The boy wouldn'tgo if he thought it would make you unhappy. "

"Not go!" cried Emma McChesney sharply. "I'd like to see him dareto refuse it!"

"Well then, what in--" began Buck, bewildered. 

"Don't try to understand it, T. A. It's no use. Don't try to pokeyour finger into the whirligig they call 'Woman's Sphere. ' Itsmechanism is too complicated. It's the same quirk that makes womenpray for daughters and men for sons. It's the same kink that makeswomen read the marriage and death notices first in a newspaper. It's the same queer strain that causes a mother to lavish the mostlove on the weakest, wilfullest child. Perhaps I wouldn't haveloved Jock so much if there hadn't been that streak of yellow inhim, and if I hadn't had to work so hard to dilute it until nowit's only a faint cream color. There ought to be a special prayerfor women who are bringing up their sons alone. "

Buck stirred a little uneasily. "I've never heard you talk likethis before. "

"You probably never will again. " She swung round to her desk. 

T. A. Buck, strolling toward the door, still wore the puzzled look. 

"I don't know what makes you take this so seriously. Of course, the boy will be a long way off. But then, you've been separatedfrom him before. What's the difference now?"

"T. A. , " said Emma McChesney solemnly, "Jock will be drawing aman-size salary now. Something tells me I'll be a grandmother inanother two years. Girls aren't letting men like Jock run aroundloose. He'll be gobbled up. Just you wait. "

"Oh, I don't know, " drawled Buck mischievously. "You've just saidhe's a headstrong young cub. He strikes me as the kind who'draise the dickens if his three-minute egg happened to be fiveseconds overtime. "

Emma McChesney swung around in her chair. "Look here, T. A. Asbusiness partners we've quarreled about everything from silksamples to traveling men, and as friends we've wrangled on everysubject from weather to war. I've allowed you to criticise my soultheories, and my new spring hat. But understand that I'm the onlyliving person who has the right to villify my son, JockMcChesney. "

The telephone buzzed a punctuation to this period. 

"Baumgartner?" inquired Buck humbly. 

She listened a moment, then, over her shoulder, "Baumgartner, "--grimly, her hand covering the mouthpiece--"andif he thinks that he can work off a lot of last year's silkswatches on--Hello! Yes, Mrs. McChesney talking. Look here, Mr. Baumgartner--"

And for the time being Emma McChesney, mother, was relegated tothe background, while Emma McChesney, secretary of the T. A. BuckFeatherloom Petticoat Company, held the stage. 

Having said that she would be home at five-thirty. Mrs. McChesneywas home at five-thirty, being that kind of a person. Jock camein at six, breathless, bright-eyed, eager, and late, being thatkind of a person. 

He found his mother on the floor before the chiffonier in hisbedroom, surrounded by piles of pajamas, socks, shirts andcollars. 

 [Illustration: "He found his mother on the floor . . . Surrounded by piles of pajamas, socks, shirts and collars"]

He swooped down upon her from the doorway. "What do you think ofyour blue-eyed boy! Poor, eh?"

Emma McChesney looked up absently. "Jock, these medium-weights ofyours didn't wear at all, and you paid five dollars for them. "

"Medium-weights! What in--"

"You've enough silk socks to last you the rest of your naturallife. Handkerchiefs, too. But you'll need pajamas. "

Jock stooped, gathered up an armful of miscellaneous undergarmentsand tossed them into an open drawer. Then he shut the drawer witha bang, reached over, grasped his mother firmly under the arms andbrought her to her feet with a swing. 

"We will now consider the question of summer underwear ended. Would it bore you too much to touch lightly on the subject of yourson's future?"

Emma McChesney, tall, straight, handsome, looked up at her son, taller, straighter, handsomer. Then she took him by the coatlapels and hugged him. 

"You were so bursting with your own glory that I couldn't resistteasing you. Besides, I had to do something to keep my mindoff--off--"

"Why, Blonde dear, you're not--!"

"No, I'm not, " gulped Emma McChesney. "Don't flatter yourself, young 'un. Tell me just how it happened. From the beginning. " Sheperched at the side of the bed. Jock, hands in pockets, hair alittle rumpled, paced excitedly up and down before her as hetalked. 

"There wasn't any beginning. That's the stunning part of it. Ijust landed right into the middle of it with both feet. I knewthey had been planning to start a big Western branch. But we allthought they'd pick some big man for it. There are plenty ofmedium-class dubs to be had. The kind that answers the ad:'Manager wanted, young man, preferably married, able to furnishA-1 reference. ' They're as thick as advertising men in Detroit onMonday morning. But we knew that this Western branch was going tobe given an equal chance with the New York office. Those bigWestern advertisers like to give their money to Western firms ifthey can. So we figured that they'd pick a real top-notcher--evenHopper, or Hupp, maybe--and start out with a bang. So when the OldMan called me into his office this morning I was as unconscious asa babe. Well, you know Berg. He's as unexpected as a summer showerand twice as full of electricity. 

"'Morning, McChesney!' he said. 'That a New York necktie you'rewearing?'

"'Strictly, ' says I. 

"'Ever try any Chicago ties?'

"'Not from choice. That time my suit case went astray--'

"'M-m-m-m, yes. ' He drummed his fingers on the table top a coupleof times. Then--McChesney, what have you learned about advertisingin the last two and a half years?'

"I was wise enough as to Bartholomew Berg to know that he didn'tmean any cut-and-dried knowledge. He didn't mean rules of thegame. He meant tricks. 

"'Well, ' I said, 'I've learned to watch a man's eyes when I'mtalking business to him. If the pupils of his eyes dilate he'slistening to you, and thinking about what you're saying. When theycontract it means that he's only faking interest, even though he'slooking straight at you and wearing a rapt expression. Histhoughts are miles away. '

"'That so?' said Berg, and sort of grinned. 'What else?'

"'I've learned that one negative argument is worth six positiveones; that it never pays to knock your competitor; that it's wiseto fight shy of that joker known as "editorial coöperation. "'

"'That so?' said Berg. 'Anything else?'

"I made up my mind I could play the game as long as he could. 

"'I've learned not to lose my temper when I'm in the middle of awhite-hot, impassioned business appeal and the office boy bouncesin to say to the boss: "Mrs. Jones is waiting. She says you weregoing to help her pick out wall paper this morning;" and Jonessays, "Tell her I'll be there in five minutes. "'

"'Sure you've learned that?' said Berg. 

"'Sure, ' says I. 'And I've learned to let the other fellow thinkyour argument's his own. He likes it. I've learned that thesurest kind of copy is the slow, insidious kind, like theFeatherloom Petticoat Company's campaign. That was an idealcampaign because it didn't urge and insist that the public buyFeatherlooms. It just eased the idea to them. It started bysketching a history of the petticoat, beginning with Eve's figleaf and working up. Before they knew it they were interested. '

"'That so? That campaign was your mother's idea, McChesney. ' Youknow, Mother, he thinks you're a wonder. "

"So I am, " agreed Emma McChesney calmly. "Go on. "

"Well, I went on. I told him that I'd learned to stand so that thelight wouldn't shine in my client's eyes when I was talking tohim. I lost a big order once because the glare from the windowirritated the man I was talking to. I told Berg all the tricks I'dlearned, and some I hadn't thought of till that minute. Berg putin a word now and then. I thought he was sort of guying me, as hesometimes does--not unkindly, you know, but in that quiet way hehas. Finally I stopped for breath, or something, and he said:

"'Now let me talk a minute, McChesney. Anybody can teach you theessentials of the advertising business, if you've any advertisinginstinct in you. But it's what you pick up on the side, by yourown efforts and out of your own experience, that lifts you out ofthe scrub class. Now I don't think you're an ideal advertising manby any means, McChesney. You're shy on training and experience, and you've just begun to acquire that golden quality known asbalance. I could name a hundred men that are better all-aroundadvertising men than you will ever be. Those men have advertisingability that glows steadily and evenly, like a well-banked fire. But you've got the kind of ability that flares up, dies down, flares up. But every flare is a real blaze that lights things redwhile it lasts, and sends a new glow through the veins ofbusiness. You've got personality, and youth, and enthusiasm, and aprecious spark of the real thing known as advertising genius. There's no describing it. You know what I mean. Also, youknow enough about actual advertising not to run an ad for afive-thousand-dollar motor car in the "Police Gazette. " All ofwhich leads up to this question: How would you like to buy yourneckties in Chicago, McChesney?'

"'Chicago!' I blurted. 

"'We've taken a suite of offices in the new Lakeview Building onMichigan Avenue. Would you like your office done in mahogany oroak?'"

Jock came to a full stop before his mother. His cheeks werescarlet. Hers were pale. He was breathing quickly. She was veryquiet. His eyes glowed. So did hers, but the glow was dimmed by amist. 

"Mahogany's richer, but make it oak, son. It doesn't showfinger-marks so. " Then, quite suddenly, she stood up, shaking alittle, and buried her face in the boy's shoulder. 

"Why--why, Mother! Don't! Don't, Blonde. We'll see each otherevery few weeks. I'll be coming to New York to see the sights, like the rest of the rubes, and I suppose the noise and lightswill confuse me so that I'll be glad to get back to the sylvanquiet of Chicago. And then you'll run out there, eh? We'll haveregular bats, Mrs. Mack. Dinner and the theater and supper! Yes?"

"Yes, " said Emma McChesney, in muffled tones that totally lackedenthusiasm. 

"Chicago's really only a suburb of New York, anyway, these days, and--"

Emma McChesney's head came up sharply. "Look here, son. If you'regoing to live in Chicago I advise you to cut that suburb talk, andsort of forget New York. Chicago's quite a village, for an inlandsettlement, even if it has only two or three million people, and alake as big as all outdoors. That kind of talk won't elect you tothe University Club, son. "

So they talked, all through supper and during the evening. Rather, Jock talked and his mother listened, interrupting with only anoccasional remark when the bubble of the boy's elation seemed togrow too great. 

Quite suddenly Jock was silent. After the almost incessant rush ofconversation quiet settled down strangely on the two seated therein the living-room with its soft-shaded lamps. Jock picked up amagazine, twirled its pages, put it down, strolled into his ownroom, and back again. 

"Mother, " he said suddenly, standing before her, "there was atime when you were afraid I wasn't going to pan out, wasn'tthere?"

"Not exactly afraid, dear, just a little doubtful, perhaps. "

Jock smiled a tolerant, forgiving smile. "You see, Mother, youdidn't understand, that's all. A woman doesn't. I was all right. Aman would have realized that. I don't mean, dear, that you haven'talways been wonderful, because you have. But it takes a man tounderstand a man. When you thought I was going bad on your hands Iwas just developing, that's all. Remember that time in Chicago, Mother?"

"Yes, " answered Emma McChesney, "I remember. "

"Now a man would have understood that that was only kidfoolishness. If a fellow's got the stuff in him it'll show up, sooner or later. If I hadn't had it in me I wouldn't be going toChicago as manager of the Berg, Shriner Western office, would I?"

"No, dear. "

Jock looked at her. In an instant he was all contrition andtenderness. "You're tired. I've talked you to death, haven't I?Lordy, it's midnight! And I want to get down early to-morrow. Conference with Mr. Berg, and Hupp. " He tried not to sound tooimportant. 

Emma McChesney took his head between her two hands and kissed himonce on the lips, then, standing a-tiptoe, kissed his eyelids withinfinite gentleness as you kiss a baby's eyes. Then she broughthis cheek up against hers. And so they stood for a moment, silently. 

Ten minutes later there came the sound of blithe whistling fromJock's room. Jock always whistled when he went to bed and when herose. Even these years of living in a New York apartment hadnot broken him of the habit. It was a cheerful, disconnectedwhistling, sometimes high and clear, sometimes under the breath, sometimes interspersed with song, and sometimes ceasing altogetherat critical moments, say, during shaving, or while bringing thefour-in-hand up tight and snug under the collar. It was one ofthose comfortable little noises that indicate a masculinepresence; one of those pleasant, reassuring, man-in-the-housenoises that every woman loves. 

Emma McChesney, putting herself to bed in her room across thehall, found herself listening, brush poised, lips parted, asthough to the exquisite strains of celestial music. There came thethump of a shoe on the floor. An interval of quiet. Then anotherthump. Without having been conscious of it, Emma McChesney hadgrown to love the noises that accompanied Jock's retiring andrising. His dressing was always signalized by bangings andthumpings. His splashings in the tub were tremendous. His morningplunge could be heard all over the six-room apartment. Mrs. McChesney used to call gayly through the door:

"Mercy, Jock! You sound like a school of whales coming up forair. "

"You'll think I'm a school of sharks when it comes to breakfast, "Jock would call back. "Tell Annie to make enough toast, Mum. She'sthe tightest thing with the toast I ever did--"

The rest would be lost in a final surging splash. 

The noises in the room across the hall had subsided now. Shelistened more intently. No, a drawer banged. Another. Then:

"Hasn't my gray suit come back from the tailor's?"

"It was to be sponged, too, you know. He said he'd bring itWednesday. This is Tuesday. "

"Oh!" Another bang. Then: '"Night, Mother!"

"Good night, dear. " Creaking sounds, then a long, comfortable sighof complete relaxation. 

Emma McChesney went on with her brushing. She brushed her hairwith the usual number of swift even strokes, from the top of theshining head to the waist. She braided her hair into two plaits, Gretchen fashion. Millions of scanty-locked women would have givenall they possessed to look as Emma McChesney looked standing therein kimono and gown. She nicked out the light. Then she, too, relaxed upon her pillow with a little sigh. Quiet fell on thelittle apartment. The street noises came up to her, now roaring, now growing faint. Emma McChesney lay there sleepless. She layflat, hands clasped across her breast, her braids spread out onthe pillow. In the darkness of the room the years rolled beforeher in panorama: her girlhood, her marriage, her unhappiness, Jock, the divorce, the struggle for work, those ten years on theroad. Those ten years on the road! How she had hated them--andloved them. The stuffy trains, the jarring sleepers, the barelittle hotel bedrooms, the bad food, the irregular hours, theloneliness, the hard work, the disappointments, the temptations. Yes but the fascination of it, the dear friends she had made, thegreat human lesson of it all! And all for Jock. That Jock mighthave good schools, good clothes, good books, good surroundings, happy times. Why, Jock had been the reason for it all! She hadswallowed insult because of Jock. She had borne the drudgerybecause of Jock. She had resisted temptation, smiled underhardship, worked, fought, saved, succeeded, all because of Jock. And now this pivot about which her whole life had revolved was tobe pulled up, wrenched away. 

Over Emma McChesney, lying there in the dark, there swept one ofthose unreasoning night-fears. The fear of living. The fear oflife. A straining of the eyeballs in the dark. The pounding ofheart-beats. 

She sat up in bed. Her hands went to her face. Her cheeks wereburning and her eyes smarted. She felt that she must see Jock. Atonce. Just to be near him. To touch him. To take him in her arms, with his head in the hollow of her breast, as she used to when hewas a baby. Why, he had been a baby only yesterday. And now he wasa man. Big enough to stand alone, to live alone, to do withouther. 

Emma McChesney flung aside the covers and sprang out of bed. Shethrust her feet in slippers, groped for the kimono at the foot ofthe bed and tiptoed to the door. She listened. No sound from theother room. She stole across the hall, stopped, listened, gainedthe door. It was open an inch or more. Just to be near him, toknow that he lay there, sleeping! She pushed the door very, verygently. Then she stood in the doorway a moment, scarcelybreathing, her head thrust forward, her whole body tense withlistening. She could not hear him breathe! She caught her breathagain in that unreasoning fear and took a quick step forward. 

"Stop or I'll shoot!" said a voice. Simultaneously the lightflashed on. Emma McChesney found herself blinking at a determinedyoung man who was steadily pointing a short, chubby, businesslikelooking steel affair in her direction. Then the hand that held thesteel dropped. 

"What is this, anyway?" demanded Jock rather crossly. "A GeorgeCohan comedy?"

Emma McChesney leaned against the foot of the bed rather weakly. 

"What did you think--"

"What would you think if you heard some one come sneaking alongthe hall, stopping, listening, sneaking to your door, and thenopening it, and listening again, and sneaking in? What would youthink it was? How did I know you were going around making socialcalls at two o'clock in the morning!"

Suddenly Emma McChesney began to laugh. She leaned over thefootboard and laughed hysterically, her head in her arms. Jockstared a moment in offended disapproval. Then the humor of itcaught him, and he buried his head in his pillow to stifleunseemly shrieks. His legs kicked spasmodically beneath thebedclothes. 

As suddenly as she had begun to laugh Mrs. McChesney became verysober. 

"Stop it, Jock! Tell me, why weren't you sleeping?"

"I don't know, " replied Jock, as suddenly solemn. "I--sortof--began to think, and I couldn't sleep. "

"What were you thinking of?"

Jock looked down at the bedclothes and traced a pattern with oneforefinger on the sheet. Then he looked up. 

"Thinking of you. "

"Oh!" said Emma McChesney, like a bashful schoolgirl. "Of--me!"

Jock sat up very straight and clasped his hands about his knees. "I got to thinking of what I had said about having made good allalone. That's rot. It isn't so. I was striped with yellow like astick of lemon candy. If I've got this far, it's all because ofyou. I've been thinking all along that I was the original electricself-starter, when you've really had to get out and crank me everyfew miles. "

Into Emma McChesney's face there came a wonderful look. It was thesort of look with which a newly-made angel might receive hercrown and harp. It was the look with which a war-hero sees themedal pinned on his breast. It was the look of one who has comeinto her Reward. Therefore:

"What nonsense!" said Emma McChesney. "If you hadn't had it inyou, it wouldn't have come out. "

"It wasn't in me, in the first place, " contested Jock stubbornly. "You planted it. "

From her stand at the foot of the bed she looked at him, her eyesglowing brighter and brighter with that wonderful look. 

"Now see here, "--severely--"I want you to go to sleep. I don'tintend to stand here and dispute about your ethical innards atthis hour. I'm going to kiss you again. "

"Oh, well, if you must, " grinned Jock resignedly, and folded herin a bear-hug. 

To Emma McChesney it seemed that the next three weeks leaped by, not by days, but in one great bound. And the day came when alittle, chattering, animated group clustered about the slim youngchap who was fumbling with his tickets, glancing at his watch, signaling a porter for his bags, talking, laughing, trying to hidethe pangs of departure under a cloak of gayety and badinage thatdeceived no one. Least of all did it deceive the two women whostood there. The eyes of the older woman never left his face. Theeyes of the younger one seldom were raised to his, but she saw hisevery expression. Once Emma McChesney's eyes shifted a little soas to include both the girl and the boy in her gaze. Grace Galt inher blue serge and smart blue hat was worth a separate glance. 

Sam Hupp was there, T. A. Buck, Hopper, who was to be with him inChicago for the first few weeks, three or four of the younger menin the office, frankly envious and heartily congratulatory. 

They followed him to his train, all laughter and animation. 

"If this train doesn't go in two minutes, " said Jock, "I'll getscared and chuck the whole business. Funny, but I'm not so keen ongoing as I was three weeks ago. "

His eyes rested on the girl in the blue serge and the smart hat. Emma McChesney saw that. She saw that his eyes still rested thereas he stood on the observation platform when the train pulled out. The sight did not pain her as she thought it would. There wassuccess in every line of him as he stood there, hat in hand. Therewas assurance in every breath of him. His clothes, his skin, hisclear eyes, his slim body, all were as they should be. He hadmade a place in the world. He was to be a builder of ideas. Shethought of him, and of the girl in blue serge, and of theirchildren-to-be. 

Her breast swelled exultingly. Her head came up. 

This was her handiwork. She looked at it, and found that it wasgood. 

"Let's strike for the afternoon and call it a holiday, " suggestedBuck. 

Emma McChesney turned. The train was gone. "T. A. , you'll nevergrow up. "

"Never want to. Come on, let's play hooky, Emma. "

"Can't. I've a dozen letters to get out, and Miss Loeb wants toshow me that new knicker-bocker design of hers. "

They drove back to the office almost in silence. Emma McChesneymade straight for her desk and began dictating letters with anenergy that bordered on fury. At five o'clock she was stillworking. At five-thirty T. A. Buck came in to find her stillsurrounded by papers, samples, models. 

"What is this?" he demanded wrathfully, "an all-night session?"

Emma McChesney looked up from her desk. Her face was flushed, hereyes bright, but there was about her an indefinable air ofweariness. 

"T. A. , I'm afraid to go home. I'll rattle around in that emptyflat like a hickory nut in a barrel. "

"We'll have dinner down-town and go to the theater. "

"No use. I'll have to go home sometime. "

"Now, Emma, " remonstrated Buck, "you'll soon get used to it. Thinkof all the years you got along without him. You were happy, weren't you?"

"Happy because I had somebody to work for, somebody to plan for, somebody to worry about. When I think of what that flat will bewithout him--Why, just to wake up and know that you can say goodmorning to some one who cares! That's worth living for, isn't it?"

"Emma, " said T. A. Evenly, "do you realize that you are virtuallyhounding me into asking you to marry me?"

"T. A. !" gasped Emma McChesney. 

"Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?"

 [Illustration: "'Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?'"]

A little whimsical smile lay lightly on his lips. 

"Timothy Buck, I'm over forty years old. "

"Emma, in another minute I'm going to grow sentimental, andnothing can stop me. "

She looked down at her hands. There fell a little silence. Buckstirred, leaned forward. She looked up from the little watch thatticked away at her wrist. 

"The minute's up, T. A. , " said Emma McChesney. 

THE END