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.