neuralgic headaches. Then, the head of a skirt department in a store
is a woman, ten times out of ten. And lemme tell you," he leaned
forward earnestly, "a woman don't like to buy of a woman. Don't ask me
why. I'm too modest. But it's the truth."

"Well?" said young T. A., with the rising inflection.

"Well," finished Ed Meyers, "I like your stuff. I think it's great.
It's a seller, with the right man to push it. I'd like to handle it.
And I'll guarantee I could double the returns from your Middle-Western
territory." T. A. Junior had strangely translucent eyes. Their
luminous quality had an odd effect upon any one on whom he happened to
turn them. He had been scrawling meaningless curlycues on a piece of
paper as Ed Meyers talked. Now he put down the pencil, turned, and
looked Ed Meyers fairly in the eye.

"You mean you want Mrs. McChesney's territory?" he asked quietly.

"Well, yes, I do," confessed Ed Meyers, without a blush.

Young T. A. swung back to his desk, tore from the pad before him the
piece of paper on which he had been scrawling, crushed it, and tossed
it into the wastebasket with an air of finality.

"Take the second elevator down," he said. "The nearest one's out of
order."

For a moment Ed Meyers stared, his fat face purpling. "Oh, very well,"
he said, rising. "I just made you a business proposition, that's all.
I thought I was talking to a business man. Now, old T. A.--"