Fromkin
knows all about you. Knows you've got a million friends in the trade,
that you know skirts from the belt to the hem. I don't know just what
his proposition is, but I'll bet he'll give you half interest in the
livest, come-upest little skirt factory in the country, just for a few
thousands capital, maybe, and your business head at the executive end.
Now just let that sink in before you speak."
"And why," inquired Emma McChesney, "don't you grab this matchless
business opportunity yourself?"
"Because, fair lady, Fromkin wouldn't let me get in with a crowbar.
He'll never be able to pronounce his t's right, and when he's dressed
up he looks like a 'bus-boy at Mouquin's, but he can see a bluff
farther than I can throw one--and that's somewhere beyond the horizon,
as you'll admit. Talk it over with us after dinner then?"
Emma McChesney was regarding the plump, pink, eager face before her
with keen, level, searching eyes.
"Yes," she said slowly, "I will."
"Cafe? We'll have a bottle--"
"No.
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