Ed Meyers turned the knob of the door marked "Private," and entered,
smiling. Ed Meyers had a smile so cherubic that involuntarily you
armed yourself against it.

"Hel-lo Buck!" he called jovially. "I hear that at last you're taking
an interest in skirts--other than on the hoof." And he offered young
T. A. a large, dark cigar with a fussy-looking band encircling its
middle. Young T. A. looked at it disinterestedly, and spake, saying:

"What are you after?"

"Why, I just dropped in--" began Ed Meyers lamely.

"The dropping," observed T. A. Junior, "is bad around here this
morning. I have one little formula for all visitors to-day, regardless
of whether they're book agents or skirt salesmen. That is, what can I
do for you?"

Ed Meyers tucked his cigar neatly into the extreme right corner of his
mouth, pushed his brown derby far back on his head, rested his
strangely lean hands on his plump knees, and fixed T. A. Junior with a
shrewd blue eye. "That suits me fine," he agreed. "I never was one to
beat around the bush. Look here. I know skirts from the draw-string to
the ruffle. It's a woman's garment, but a man's line. There's fifty
reasons why a woman can't handle it like a man. For one thing the
packing cases weigh twenty-five pounds each, and she's as dependent on
a packer and a porter as a baby is on its mother. Another is that if a
man has to get up to make a train at 4 A.M. he don't require twenty-
five minutes to fasten down three sets of garters, and braid his hair,
and hook his waist up the back, and miss his train. And he don't have