"No, I wasn't," replied Emma McChesney viciously. "And if you don't
let me stand here and give my frank, unbiased opinion of this road,
its president, board of directors, stockholders, baggage-men, Pullman
porters, and other things thereto appertaining, I'll probably have
hysterics."

"Give it," said the baggage-master." You'll feel better. And we're
used to it."

She gave it. When she had finished:

"Did you say you was selling goods on the road? Say, that's a hell of
a job for a woman! Excuse me, lady. I didn't mean--"

"I think perhaps you're right," said Emma McChesney slowly. "It is
just that."

"Well, anyway, we'll do our best to trace it. Guess you're in for a
wait."

Emma McChesney waited. She made the rounds of her customers, and
waited. She wired her firm, and waited. She wrote Jock to run along
and enjoy himself, and waited. She cut and fitted a shirt-waist, took
her hat apart and retrimmed it, made the rounds of her impatient
customers again, threatened to sue the road, visited the baggage-room
daily--and waited.

Four weary, nerve-racking days passed. It was late afternoon of the
fourth day when Mrs. McChesney entered the elevator to go to her room.