"I'll see to my weasel."
So Emma McChesney and her son Jock, looking remarkably like brother
and sister, walked down the broad store aisles and out into the
street. There was little conversation between them. When the pillared
entrance of the hotel came into sight Jock broke the silence,
sullenly:
"Why do you stop at that old barracks? It's a rotten place for a
woman. No one stops there but clothing salesmen and boobs who still
think it's Chicago's leading hotel. No place for a lady."
"Any place in the world is the place for a lady, Jock," said Emma
McChesney quietly.
Automatically she started toward the clerk's desk. Then she
remembered, and stopped. "I'll wait here," she said. "Get the key for
five-eighteen, will you please? And tell the clerk that I'll want the
room adjoining beginning to-night, instead of to-morrow, as I first
intended. Tell him you're Mrs. McChesney's son."
He turned away. Emma McChesney brought her handkerchief up to her
mouth and held it there a moment, and the skin showed white over the
knuckles of her hand.
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