Roast Beef, Medium: The Business Adventures of Emma McChesney. Edna Ferber

up big in the window displays, but it's got a filler of glucose, or starch or mucilage or something, and two days after you wear it it's as limp as a cheesecloth rag. It's showy, but you take a line like mine, for instance, why—”

      “My customers swear by me. I make DeKalb to-morrow, and there's Nussbaum, of the Paris Emporium, the biggest store there, who just—”

      “I make DeKalb, too,” remarked Emma McChesney, the light of battle in her eye.

      “You mean,” gently insinuated the fat man, “that you were going to, but that's all over now.”

      “Huh?” said Emma.

      “Our agreement, you know,” the fat man reminded her, sweetly. “You aren't going back on that. The cottage and the Sunday dinner for you, remember.”

      “Of course,” agreed Emma listlessly. “I think I'll go up and get some sleep now. Didn't get much last night on the road.”

      “Won't you—er—come down and have a little something moist? Or we could have it sent up here,” suggested the fat man.

      “You're the third man that's asked me that to-day,” snapped Emma McChesney, somewhat crossly. “Say, what do I look like, anyway? I guess I'll have to pin a white ribbon on my coat lapel.”

      “No offense,” put in the fat man, with haste. “I just thought it would bind our bargain. I hope you'll be happy, and contented, and all that, you know.”

      “Let it go double,” replied Emma McChesney, and shook his hand.

      “Guess I'll run down and get a smoke,” remarked he.

      He ran down the stairs in a manner wonderfully airy for one so stout. Emma watched him until he disappeared around a bend in the stairs. Then she walked hastily in the direction of sixty-five.

      Down in the lobby the fat man, cigar in mouth, was cautioning the clerk, and emphasizing his remarks with one forefinger.

      “I want to leave a call for six thirty,” he was saying. “Not a minute later. I've got to get out of here on that 7:35 for DeKalb. Got a Sunday customer there.”

      As he turned away a telephone bell tinkled at the desk. The clerk bent his stately head.

      “Clerk. Yes, ma'am. No, ma'am, there's no train out of here to-night for DeKalb. To-morrow morning. Seven thirty-five A.M. I sure will. At six-thirty? Surest thing you know.”