over to a lot of cold-blooded experts who--well--" she paused,
biting her lip.

"We'll see, Emma; we'll see."

They did see. The Featherloom petticoat campaign was launched with
a great splash. It sailed serenely into the sea of national
business. Then suddenly something seemed to go wrong with its
engines. It began to wobble and showed a decided list to port.
Jock, who at the beginning was so puffed with pride that his gold
fountain pen threatened to burst the confines of his very modishly
tight vest, lost two degrees of pompousness a day, and his
attitude toward his unreproachful mother was almost humble.

A dozen times a week T.A. Buck would stroll casually into Mrs.
McChesney's office. "Think it's going to take hold?" he would ask.
"Our men say the dealers have laid in, but the public doesn't seem
to be tearing itself limb from limb to get to our stuff."

Emma McChesney would smile, and shrug noncommittal shoulders.

When it became very painfully apparent that it wasn't "taking
hold," T.A. Buck, after asking the same question, now worn and
frayed with asking, broke out, crossly:

"Well, really, I don't mind the shrug, but I do wish you wouldn't
smile. After all, you know, this campaign is costing us
money--real money, and large chunks of it. It's very evident that
we shouldn't have tried to make a national campaign of this
thing."