Books: Roast Beef, Medium
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Edna Ferber >> Roast Beef, Medium
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"You're all awfully good," said Emma McChesney, her eyes glowing with
something other than fever. "I've something to say. It's just this. If
I'm going to be sick I'd prefer to be sick right here, unless it's
something catching. No hospital. Don't ask me why. I don't know. We
people on the road are all alike. Wire T. A. Buck, Junior, of the
Featherloom Petticoat Company, New York. You'll find plenty of clean
nightgowns in the left-hand tray of my trunk, covered with white
tissue paper. Get a nurse that doesn't sniffle, or talk about the
palace she nursed in last, where they treated her like a queen and
waited on her hand and foot. For goodness' sake, put my switch where
nothing will happen to it, and if I die and they run my picture in the
_Dry Goods Review_ under the caption, 'Veteran Traveling Saleswoman
Succumbs at Glen Rock,' I'll haunt the editor." She paused a moment.
"Everything will be all right," said the housekeeper, soothingly.
"You'll think you're right at home, it'll be so comfortable. Was there
anything else, now?"
"Yes," said Emma McChesney. "The most important of all. My son, Jock
McChesney, is fishing up in the Canadian woods. A telegram may not
reach him for three weeks. They're shifting about from camp to camp.
Try to get him, but don't scare him too much. You'll find the address
under J. in my address book in my handbag. Poor kid. Perhaps it's just
as well he doesn't know."
Perhaps it was. At any rate it was true that had the tribe of
McChesney been as the leaves of the trees, and had it held a family
reunion in Emma McChesney's little hotel bedroom, it would have
mattered not at all to her. For she _was_ sick--doctor-three-times-a-
day-trained-nurse-bottles-by-the-bedside sick, her head, with its
bright hair rumpled and dry with the fever, tossing from side to side
on the lumpy hotel pillow, or lying terribly silent and inert against
the gray-white of the bed linen. She never quite knew how narrowly she
escaped that picture in the _Dry Goods Review_.
Then one day the fever began to recede, slowly, whence fevers come,
and the indefinable air of suspense and repression that lingers about
a sick-room at such a crisis began to lift imperceptibly. There came a
time when Emma McChesney asked in a weak but sane voice:
"Did Jock come? Did they cut off my hair?"
"Not yet, dear," the nurse had answered to the first, "but we'll hear
in a day or so, I'm sure." And, "Your lovely hair! Well, not if I know
it!" to the second.
The spirit of small-town kindliness took Emma McChesney in its arms.
The dingy little hotel room glowed with flowers. The story of the sick
woman fighting there alone in the terrors of delirium had gone up and
down about the town. Housewives with a fine contempt for hotel soups
sent broths of chicken and beef. The local members of the U. C. T.
sent roses enough to tax every vase and wash-pitcher that the hotel
could muster, and asked their wives to call at the hotel and see what
they could do. The wives came, obediently, but with suspicion and
distrust in their eyes, and remained to pat Emma McChesney's arm, ask
to read aloud to her, and to indulge generally in that process known
as "cheering her up." Every traveling man who stopped at the little
hotel on his way to Minneapolis added to the heaped-up offerings at
Emma McChesney's shrine. Books and magazines assumed the proportions
of a library. One could see the hand of T. A. Buck, Junior, in the
cases of mineral water, quarts of wine, cunning cordials and tiny
bottles of liqueur that stood in convivial rows on the closet shelf
and floor. There came letters, too, and telegrams with such phrases as
"let nothing be left undone" and "spare no expense" under T. A. Buck,
Junior's, signature.
So Emma McChesney climbed the long, weary hill of illness and pain,
reached the top, panting and almost spent, rested there, and began the
easy descent on the other side that led to recovery and strength. But
something was lacking. That sunny optimism that had been Emma
McChesney's most valuable asset was absent. The blue eyes had lost
their brave laughter. A despondent droop lingered in the corners of
the mouth that had been such a rare mixture of firmness and
tenderness. Even the advent of Fat Ed Meyers, her keenest competitor,
and representative of the Strauss Sans-silk Company, failed to awaken
in her the proper spirit of antagonism. Fat Ed Meyers sent a bunch of
violets that devastated the violet beds at the local greenhouse. Emma
McChesney regarded them listlessly when the nurse lifted them out of
their tissue wrappings. But the name on the card brought a tiny smile
to her lips.
"He says he'd like to see you, if you feel able," said Miss Haney, the
nurse, when she came up from dinner.
Emma McChesney thought a minute. "Better tell him it's catching," she
said.
"He knows it isn't," returned Miss Haney. "But if you don't want him,
why--"
"Tell him to come up," interrupted Emma McChesney, suddenly.
A faint gleam of the old humor lighted up her face when Fat Ed Meyers
painfully tip-toed in, brown derby in hand, his red face properly
doleful, brown shoes squeaking. His figure loomed mountainous in a
light-brown summer suit.
"Ain't you ashamed of yourself?" he began, heavily humorous. "Couldn't
you find anything better to do in the middle of the season? Say, on
the square, girlie, I'm dead sorry. Hard luck, by gosh! Young T. A.
himself went out with a line in your territory, didn't he? I didn't
think that guy had it in him, darned if I did."
"It was sweet of you to send all those violets, Mr. Meyers. I hope
you're not disappointed that they couldn't have been worked in the
form of a pillow, with 'At Rest' done in white curlycues."
"Mrs. McChesney!" Ed Meyers' round face expressed righteous reproof,
pain, and surprise. "You and I may have had a word, now and then, and
I will say that you dealt me a couple of low-down tricks on the road,
but that's all in the game. I never held it up against you. Say,
nobody ever admired you or appreciated you more than I did--"
"Look out!" said Emma McChesney. "You're speaking in the past tense.
Please don't. It makes me nervous."
Ed Meyers laughed, uncomfortably, and glanced yearningly toward the
door. He seemed at a loss to account for something he failed to find
in the manner and conversation of Mrs. McChesney.
"Son here with you, I suppose," he asked, cheerily, sure that he was
on safe ground at last.
Emma McChesney closed her eyes. The little room became very still. In
a panic Ed Meyers looked helplessly from the white face, with its
hollow cheeks and closed eyelids to the nurse who sat at the window.
That discreet damsel put her finger swiftly to her lips, and shook her
head. Ed Meyers rose, hastily, his face a shade redder than usual.
"Well, I guess I gotta be running along. I'm tickled to death to find
you looking so fat and sassy. I got an idea you were just stalling for
a rest, that's all. Say, Mrs. McChesney, there's a swell little dame
in the house named Riordon. She's on the road, too. I don't know what
her line is, but she's a friendly kid, with a bunch of talk. A woman
always likes to have another woman fussin' around when she's sick. I
told her about you, and how I'd bet you'd be crazy to get a chance to
talk shop and Featherlooms again. I guess you ain't lost your interest
in Featherlooms, eh, what?"
Emma McChesney's face indicated not the faintest knowledge of
Featherloom Petticoats. Ed Meyers stared, aghast. And as he stared
there came a little knock at the door--a series of staccato raps, with
feminine knuckles back of them. The nurse went to the door,
disapproval on her face. At the turning of the knob there bounced into
the room a vision in an Alice-blue suit, plumes to match, pearl
earrings, elaborate coiffure of reddish-gold and a complexion that
showed an unbelievable trust in the credulity of mankind.
"How-do, dearie!" exclaimed the vision. "You poor kid, you! I heard
you was sick, and I says, 'I'm going up to cheer her up if I have to
miss my train out to do it.' Say, I was laid up two years ago in Idaho
Falls, Idaho, and believe me, I'll never forget it. I don't know how
sick I was, but I don't even want to remember how lonesome I was. I
just clung to the chamber-maid like she was my own sister. If your
nurse wants to go out for an airing I'll sit with you. Glad to."
"That's a grand little idea," agreed Ed Meyers. "I told 'em you'd
brighten things up. Well, I'll be going. You'll be as good as new in a
week, Mrs. McChesney, don't you worry. So long." And he closed the
door after himself with apparent relief.
Miss Haney, the nurse, was already preparing to go out. It was her
regular hour for exercise. Mrs. McChesney watched her go with a
sinking heart.
"Now!" said Miss Riordon, comfortably, "we girls can have a real, old-
fashioned talk. A nurse isn't human. The one I had in Idaho Falls was
strictly prophylactic, and antiseptic, and she certainly could give
the swell alcohol rubs, but you can't get chummy with a human
disinfectant. Your line's skirts, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Land, I've heard an awful lot about you. The boys on the road
certainly speak something grand of you. I'm really jealous. Say, I'd
love to show you some of my samples for this season. They're just
great. I'll just run down the hall to my room--"
She was gone. Emma McChesney shut her eyes, wearily. Her nerves were
twitching. Her thoughts were far, far away from samples and sample
cases. So he had turned out to be his worthless father's son after
all! He must have got some news of her by now. And he ignored it. He
was content to amuse himself up there in the Canadian woods, while his
mother--
Miss Riordon, flushed, and panting a little, burst into the room
again, sample-case in hand.
"Lordy, that's heavy! It's a wonder I haven't killed myself before
now, wrestling with those blamed things."
Mrs. McChesney sat up on one elbow as Miss Riordon tugged at the
sample-case cover. Then she leaned forward, interested in spite of
herself at sight of the pile of sheer, white, exquisitely embroidered
and lacy garments that lay disclosed as the cover fell back.
"Oh, lingerie! That's an ideal line for a woman. Let's see the yoke in
that first nightgown. It's a really wonderful design."
Miss Riordon laughed and shook out the folds of the topmost garment.
"Nightgown!" she said, and laughed again. "Take another look."
"Why, what--" began Emma McChesney.
"Shrouds!" announced Miss Riordon complacently.
"Shrouds!" shrieked Mrs. McChesney, and her elbow gave way. She fell
back on the pillow.
"Beautiful, ain't they?" Miss Riordon twirled the white garment in her
hand. "They're the very newest thing. You'll notice they're made up
slightly hobble, with a French back, and high waist-line in the front.
Last season kimono sleeves was all the go, but they're not used this
season. This one--"
"Take them away!" screamed Emma McChesney hysterically. "Take them
away! Take them away!" And buried her face in her trembling white
hands.
Miss Riordon stared. Then she slammed the cover of the case, rose, and
started toward the door. But before she reached it, and while the sick
woman's sobs were still sounding hysterically the door flew open to
admit a tall, slim, miraculously well-dressed young man. The next
instant Emma McChesney's lace nightgown was crushed against the top of
a correctly high-cut vest, and her tears coursed, unmolested, down the
folds of an exquisitely shaded lavender silk necktie.
"Jock!" cried Emma McChesney; and then, "Oh, my son, my son, my
beautiful boy!" like a woman in a play.
Jock was holding her tight, and patting her shoulder, and pressing his
healthy, glowing cheek close to hers that was so gaunt and pale.
"I got seven wires, all at the same time. They'd been chasing me for
days, up there in the woods. I thought I'd never get here."
And at that a wonderful thing happened to Emma McChesney. She lifted
her face, and showed dimples where lines had been, smiles where tears
had coursed, a glow where there had been a grayish pallor. She leaned
back a bit to survey this son of hers.
"Ugh! how black you are!" It was the old Emma McChesney that spoke.
"You young devil, you're actually growing a mustache! There's
something hard in your left-hand vest pocket. If it's your fountain
pen you'd better rescue it, because I'm going to hug you again."
But Jock McChesney was not smiling. He glanced around the stuffy
little hotel room. It looked stuffier and drearier than ever in
contrast with his radiant youth, his glowing freshness, his outdoor
tan, his immaculate attire. He looked at the astonished Miss Riordon.
At his gaze that lady muttered something, and fled, sample-case
banging at her knees. At the look in his eyes his mother hastened,
woman-wise, to reassure him.
[Illustration: "At his gaze that lady fled, sample-case banging at her
knees"]
"It wasn't so bad, Jock. Now that you're here, it's all right. Jock, I
didn't realize just what you meant to me until you didn't come. I
didn't realize--"
Jock sat down at the edge of the bed, and slid one arm under his
mother's head. There was a grim line about his mouth.
"And I've been fishing," he said. "I've been sprawling under a tree in
front of a darned fool stream and wondering whether to fry 'em for
lunch now, or to put my hat over my eyes and fall asleep."
His mother reached up and patted his shoulder. But the line around
Jock's jaw did not soften. He turned his head to gaze down at his
mother.
"Two of those telegrams, and one letter, were from T. A. Buck,
Junior," he said. "He met me at Detroit. I never thought I'd stand
from a total stranger what I stood from that man."
"Why, what do you mean?" Alarm, dismay, astonishment were in her eyes.
"He said things. And he meant 'em. He showed me, in a perfectly well-
bred, cleancut, and most convincing way just what a miserable,
selfish, low-down, worthless young hound I am."
"He--dared!--"
"You bet he dared. And then some. And I hadn't an argument to come
back with. I don't know just where he got all his information from,
but it was straight."
He got up, strode to the window, and came back to the bed. Both hands
thrust deep in his pockets, he announced his life plans, thus:
"I'm eighteen years old. And I look twenty-three, and act twenty-five
--when I'm with twenty-five-year-olds. I've been as much help and
comfort to you as a pet alligator. You've always said that I was to go
to college, and I've sort of trained myself to believe I was. Well,
I'm not. I want to get into business, with a capital B. And I want to
jump in now. This minute. I've started out to be a first-class slob,
with you keeping me in pocket money, and clothes, and the Lord knows
what all. Why, I--"
"Jock McChesney," said that young man's bewildered mother, "just what
did T. A. Buck, Junior, say to you anyway?"
"Plenty. Enough to make me see things. I used to think that I wanted
to get into one of the professions. Professions! You talk about the
romance of a civil engineer's life! Why, to be a successful business
man these days you've got to be a buccaneer, and a diplomat, and a
detective, and a clairvoyant, and an expert mathematician, and a
wizard. Business--just plain everyday business--is the gamiest,
chanciest, most thrilling line there is to-day, and I'm for it. Let
the other guy hang out his shingle and wait for 'em. I'm going out and
get mine."
"Any particular line, or just planning to corner the business market
generally?" came a cool, not too amused voice from the bed.
"Advertising," replied Jock crisply. "Magazine advertising, to start
with. I met a fellow up in the woods--named O'Rourke. He was a star
football man at Yale. He's bucking the advertising line now for the
_Mastodon Magazine_. He's crazy about it, and says it's the greatest
game ever. I want to get into it now--not four years from now."
He stopped abruptly. Emma McChesney regarded him, eyes glowing. Then
she gave a happy little laugh, reached for her kimono at the foot of
the bed, and prepared to kick off the bedclothes.
"Just run into the hall a second, son," she announced. "I'm going to
get up."
"Up! No, you're not!" shouted Jock, making a rush at her. Then, in the
exuberance of his splendid young strength, he picked her up, swathed
snugly in a roll of sheeting and light blanket, carried her to the big
chair by the window, and seated himself, with his surprised and
laughing mother in his arms.
But Mrs. McChesney was serious again in a moment. She lay with her
head against her boy's breast for a while. Then she spoke what was in
her sane, far-seeing mind.
[Illustration: "In the exuberance of his young strength, be picked her
up"]
"Jock, if I've ever wished you were a girl, I take it all back now.
I'd rather have heard what you just said than any piece of
unbelievable good fortune in the world. God bless you for it, dear.
But, Jock, you're going to college. No--wait a minute. You'll have a
chance to prove the things you just said by getting through in three
years instead of the usual four. If you're in earnest you can do it. I
want my boy to start into this business war equipped with every means
of defense. You called it a game. It's more than that--it's a battle.
Compared to the successful business man of to-day the Revolutionary
Minute Men were as keen and alert as the Seven Sleepers. I know that
there are more non-college men driving street-cars than there are
college men. But that doesn't influence me. You could get a job now.
Not much of a position, perhaps, but something self-respecting and
fairly well-paying. It would teach you many things. You might get a
knowledge of human nature that no college could give you. But there's
something--poise--self-confidence--assurance--that nothing but college
can give you. You will find yourself in those three years. After you
finish college you'll have difficulty in fitting into your proper
niche, perhaps, and you'll want to curse the day on which you heeded
my advice. It'll look as though you had simply wasted those three
precious years. But in five or six years after, when your character
has jelled, and you've hit your pace, you'll bless me for it. As for a
knowledge of humanity, and of business tricks--well, your mother is
fairly familiar with the busy marts of trade. If you want to learn
folks you can spend your summers selling Featherlooms with me."
"But, mother, you don't understand just why--"
"Yes, dear 'un, I do. After all, remember you're only eighteen. You'll
probably spend part of your time rushing around at class proms with a
red ribbon in your coat lapel to show you're on the floor committee.
And you'll be girl-fussing, too. But you'd be attracted to girls, in
or out of college, and I'd rather, just now, that it would be some
pretty, nice-thinking college girl in a white sweater and a blue serge
skirt, whose worst thought was wondering if you could be cajoled into
taking her to the Freshman-Sophomore basketball game, than some red-
lipped, black-jet-earringed siren gazing at you across the table in
some basement cafe. And, goodness knows, Jock, you wear your clothes
so beautifully that even the haberdashers' salesmen eye you with
respect. I've seen 'em. That's one course you needn't take at
college."
Jock sat silent, his face grave with thought. "But when I'm earning
money--real money--it's off the road for you," he said, at last. "I
don't want this to sound like a scene from East Lynne, but, mother--"
"Um-m-m-m--ye-ee-es," assented Emma McChesney, with no alarming
enthusiasm. "Jock dear, carry me back to bed again, will you? And then
open the closet door and pull out that big sample-case to the side of
my bed. The newest Fall Featherlooms are in it, and somehow, I've just
a whimsy notion that I'd like to look 'em over."
VIII
CATCHING UP WITH CHRISTMAS
Temptation himself is not much of a spieler. Raucous-voiced, red-
faced, greasy, he stands outside his gaudy tent, dilating on the
wonders within. One or two, perhaps, straggle in. But the crowd, made
wary by bitter experience of the sham and cheap fraud behind the
tawdry canvas flap, stops a moment, laughs, and passes on. Then
Temptation, in a panic, seeing his audience drifting away, summons
from inside the tent his bespangled and bewitching partner, Mlle.
Psychological Moment, the Hypnotic Charmer. She leaps to the platform,
bows, pirouettes. The crowd surges toward the ticket-window, nickel in
hand.
Six months of bad luck had dogged the footsteps of Mrs. Emma
McChesney, traveling saleswoman for the T. A. Buck Featherloom
Petticoat Company, New York. It had started with a six-weeks' illness
endured in the discomfort of a stuffy little hotel bedroom at Glen
Rock, Minnesota. By August she was back in New York, attending to out-
of-town buyers.
Those friendly Middle-Western persona showed dismay at her pale,
hollow-eyed appearance. They spoke to her of teaspoonfuls of olive-oil
taken thrice a day, of mountain air, of cold baths, and, above all, of
the advisability of leaving the road and taking an inside position. At
that Emma McChesney always showed signs of unmistakable irritation.
In September her son, Jock McChesney, just turned eighteen, went
blithely off to college, disguised as a millionaire's son in a blue
Norfolk, silk hose, flat-heeled shoes, correctly mounted walrus bag,
and next-week's style in fall hats. As the train glided out of the
great shed Emma McChesney had waved her handkerchief, smiling like
fury and seeing nothing but an indistinct blur as the observation
platform slipped around the curve. She had not felt that same
clutching, desolate sense of loss since the time, thirteen years
before, when she had cut off his curls and watched him march sturdily
off to kindergarten.
In October it was plain that spring skirts, instead of being full as
predicted, were as scant and plaitless as ever. That spelled gloom for
the petticoat business. It was necessary to sell three of the present
absurd style to make the profit that had come from the sale of one
skirt five years before.
The last week in November, tragedy stalked upon the scene in the death
at Marienbad of old T. A. Buck, Mrs. McChesney's stanch friend and
beloved employer. Emma McChesney had wept for him as one weeps at the
loss of a father.
They had understood each other, those two, from the time that Emma
McChesney, divorced, penniless, refusing support from the man she had
married eight years before, had found work in the office of the T. A.
Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company.
Old Buck had watched her rise from stenographer to head stenographer,
from head stenographer to inside saleswoman, from that to a minor road
territory, and finally to the position of traveling representative
through the coveted Middle-Western territory.
Old T. A. Buck, gruff, grim, direct, far-seeing, kindly, shrewd--he
had known Emma McChesney for what she was worth. Once, when she had
been disclosing to him a clever business scheme which might be turned
into good advertising material, old Buck had slapped his knee with one
broad, thick palm and had said:
"Emma McChesney, you ought to have been a man. With that head on a
man's shoulders, you could put us out of business."
"I could do it anyway," Mrs. McChesney had retorted.
Old Buck had regarded her a moment over his tortoise-shell rimmed
glasses. Then, "I believe you could," he had said, quietly and
thoughtfully.
That brings her up to December. To some few millions of people D-e-c-
e-m-b-e-r spells Christmas. But to Emma McChesney it spelled the
dreaded spring trip. It spelled trains stalled in snowdrifts, baggage
delayed, cold hotel bedrooms, harassed, irritable buyers.
It was just six o'clock on the evening of December ninth when Mrs.
Emma McChesney swung off the train at Columbus, Ohio, five hours late.
As she walked down the broad platform her eyes unconsciously searched
the loaded trucks for her own trunks. She'd have recognized them in
the hold of a Nile steamer--those grim, travel-scarred sample-trunks.
They had a human look to her. She had a way of examining them after
each trip, as a fond mother examines her child for stray scratches and
bruises when she puts it to bed for the night. She knew each nook and
corner of the great trunks as another woman knows her linen-closet or
her preserve-shelves.
Columbus, Ohio, was a Featherloom town. Emma McChesney had a fondness
for it, with its half rustic, half metropolitan air. Sometimes she
likened it to a country girl in a velvet gown, and sometimes to a city
girl in white muslin and blue sash. Singer & French always had a
Featherloom window twice a year.
The hotel lobby wore a strangely deserted look. December is a slack
month for actors and traveling men. Mrs. McChesney registered
automatically, received her mail, exchanged greetings with the affable
clerk.
"Send my trunks up to my sample-room as soon as they get in. Three of
'em--two sample-trunks and my personal trunk. And I want to see a
porter about putting up some extra tables. You see, I'm two days late
now. I expect two buyers to-morrow morning.
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