"You're right," sobbed Emma McChesney, her face glowing.

"By the way," interrupted the fat man, "what's your line?"

"Petticoats. I'm out for T. A. Buck's Featherloom Skirts. What's
yours?"

"Suffering cats!" shouted the fat man. "D' you mean to tell me that
you're the fellow who sold that bill to Blum, of the Novelty Cloak and
Suit concern, and spoiled a sale for me?"

"You! Are you--"

"You bet I am. I sell the best little skirt in the world. Strauss's
Sans-silk Petticoat, warranted not to crack, rip, or fall into holes.
Greatest little skirt in the country."

Emma McChesney straightened her collar and jabot with a jerk, and sat
up.

"Oh, now, don't give me that bunk. You've got a good little seller,
all right, but that guaranty don't hold water any more than the
petticoat contains silk. I know that stuff. It looms up big in the
window displays, but it's got a filler of glucose, or starch or
mucilage or something, and two days after you wear it it's as limp as
a cheesecloth rag. It's showy, but you take a line like mine, for
instance, why--"

"My customers swear by me. I make DeKalb to-morrow, and there's
Nussbaum, of the Paris Emporium, the biggest store there, who just--"