The quarterly report had had a
startlingly lop-sided sound. After it was over Mrs. Emma McChesney,
secretary of the company, followed T. A. Buck, its president, into the
big, bright show-room. T. A. Buck's hands were thrust deep into his
pockets. His teeth worried a cigar, savagely. Care, that clawing,
mouthing hag, perched on his brow, tore at his heart.
He turned to face Emma McChesney.
"Well," he said, bitterly, "it hasn't taken us long, has it? Father's
been dead a little over a year. In that time we've just about run this
great concern, the pride of his life, into the ground."
Mrs. Emma McChesney, calm, cool, unruffled, scrutinized the harassed
man before her for a long minute.
"What rotten football material you would have made, wouldn't you?" she
observed.
"Oh, I don't know," answered T. A. Buck, through his teeth. "I can
stand as stiff a scrimmage as the next one. But this isn't a game. You
take things too lightly. You're a woman. I don't think you know what
this means.
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