"Thanks. That's what they all do. After a while I'll begin to believe
that there must be something hauntingly beautiful and girlish about me
or every one wouldn't petrify when I announce that I've a six-foot son
attached to my apron-strings. He looks twenty-one, but he's seventeen.
He thinks the world's rotten because he can't grow one of those fuzzy
little mustaches that the men are cultivating to match their hats.
He's down at the depot now, straightening out our baggage. Now I want
to say this before he gets here. He's been out with me just four days.
Those four days have been a revelation, an eye-opener, and a series of
rude jolts. He used to think that his mother's job consisted of
traveling in Pullmans, eating delicate viands turned out by the hotel
chefs, and strewing Featherloom Petticoats along the path. I gave him
plenty of money, and he got into the habit of looking lightly upon
anything more trifling than a five-dollar bill. He's changing his mind
by great leaps. I'm prepared to spend the night in the coal cellar if
you'll just fix him up--not too comfortably. It'll be a great lesson
for him. There he is now. Just coming in. Fuzzy coat and hat and
English stick. Hist! As they say on the stage."

The boy crossed the crowded lobby. There was a little worried, annoyed
frown between his eyes. He laid a protecting hand on his mother's arm.
Emma McChesney was conscious of a little thrill of pride as she
realized that he did not have to look up to meet her gaze.

"Look here, Mother, they tell me there's some sort of a convention
here, and the town's packed. That's what all those banners and things
were for. I hope they've got something decent for us here. I came up
with a man who said he didn't think there was a hole left to sleep
in."