FullReads

“No,” answered the fat man, interestedly. “What?”

“Evenings I go up to my room and sew or read. Sew! Every hook and eye and button on my clothes is moored so tight that even the hand laundry can’t tear ’em off. You couldn’t pry those fastenings away with dynamite. When I find a hole in my stockings I’m tickled to death, because it’s something to mend. And read? Everything from the Rules of the House tacked up on the door to spelling out the French short story in the back of the Swell Set Magazine. It’s getting on my nerves. Do you know what I do Sunday mornings? No, you don’t. Well, I go to church, that’s what I do. And I get green with envy watching the other women there getting nervous about 11:45 or so, when the minister is still in knee-deep, and I know they’re wondering if Lizzie has basted the chicken often enough, and if she has put the celery in cold water, and the ice-cream is packed in burlap in the cellar, and if she has forgotten to mix in a tablespoon of flour to make it smooth. You can tell by the look on their faces that there’s company for dinner. And you know that after dinner they’ll sit around, and the men will smoke, and the women folks will go upstairs, and she’ll show the other woman her new scalloped, monogrammed, hand-embroidered guest towels, and the waist that her cousin Ethel brought from Paris. And maybe they’ll slip off their skirts and lie down on the spare-room bed for a ten minutes’ nap. And you can hear the hired girl rattling the dishes in the kitchen, and talking to her lady friend who is helping her wipe up so they can get out early. You can hear the two of them laughing above the clatter of the dishes–“

The fat man banged one fist down on the piano keys with a crash.

“I’m through,” he said. “I quit to-night. I’ve got my own life to live. Here, will you shake on it? I’ll quit if you will. You’re a born housekeeper. You don’t belong on the road any more than I do. It’s now or never. And it’s going to be now with me. When I strike the pearly gates I’m not going to have Saint Peter say to me, ‘Ed, old kid, what have you done with your talents?'”

“You’re right,” sobbed Emma McChesney, her face glowing.

“By the way,” interrupted the fat man, “what’s your line?”

“Petticoats. I’m out for T. A. Buck’s Featherloom Skirts. What’s yours?”

“Suffering cats!” shouted the fat man. “D’ you mean to tell me that you’re the fellow who sold that bill to Blum, of the Novelty Cloak and Suit concern, and spoiled a sale for me?”

“You! Are you–“

“You bet I am. I sell the best little skirt in the world. Strauss’s Sans-silk Petticoat, warranted not to crack, rip, or fall into holes. Greatest little skirt in the country.”

Emma McChesney straightened her collar and jabot with a jerk, and sat up.

“Oh, now, don’t give me that bunk. You’ve got a good little seller, all right, but that guaranty don’t hold water any more than the petticoat contains silk. I know that stuff. It looms 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.