person in a thousand does. Why, take you--I don't know you from Eve,
but just from the way you shed the briny I know you're busy
regretting."

"Regretting?" repeated Emma McChesney, in a wail. "Do you know what I
am? I'm a lady drummer. And do you know what I want to do this minute?
I want to clean house. I want to wind a towel around my head, and pin
up my skirt, and slosh around with a pail of hot, soapy water. I want
to pound a couple of mattresses in the back yard, and eat a cold
dinner off the kitchen table. That's what I want to do."

"Well, go on and do it," said the fat man.

"Do it? I haven't any house to clean. I got my divorce ten years ago,
and I've been on the road ever since. I don't know why I stick. I'm
pulling down a good, fat salary and commissions, but it's no life for
a woman, and I know it, but I'm not big enough to quit. It's different
with a man on the road. He can spend his evenings taking in two or
three nickel shows, or he can stand on the drug-store corner and watch
the pretty girls go by, or he can have a game of billiards, or maybe
cards. Or he can have a nice, quiet time just going up to his room,
and smoking a cigar and writing to his wife or his girl. D'you know
what I do?"

"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,