That's how
sure I am."
T. A. Buck stood up abruptly. He shrugged his shoulders. His face
looked strangely white and drawn. "I'll leave it to you. I'll do my
share of the work. But I'm not more than half convinced, remember."
"That's enough for the present," answered Emma McChesney, briskly.
"Well, now, suppose we talk machinery and girls, and cutters for a
while."
Two months later found T. A. Buck and his sales-manager, both shirt-
sleeved, both smoking nervously, as they marked, ticketed, folded,
arranged. They were getting out the travelers' spring lines. Entered
Mrs. McChesney, and stood eying them, worriedly. It was her dozenth
visit to the stock-room that morning. A strange restlessness seemed to
trouble her. She wandered from office to show-room, from show-room to
factory.
"What's the trouble?" inquired T. A. Buck, squinting up at her through
a cloud of cigar smoke.
"Oh, nothing," answered Mrs. McChesney, and stood fingering the piles
of glistening satin garments, a queer, faraway look in her eyes.
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