"
"T.A.," said Emma McChesney solemnly, "T.A., we're getting old."
"Old! You! I! Ha!"
"You may 'Ha!' all you like. But do you know what they thought of
us in there? They thought we were a couple of fogies, and they
humored us, that's what they did. I'll tell you, T.A., when the
time comes for me to give Jock up to some little pink-faced girl
I'll do it, and smile if it kills me. But to hand my Featherlooms
over to a lot of cold-blooded experts who--well--" she paused,
biting her lip.
"We'll see, Emma; we'll see."
They did see. The Featherloom petticoat campaign was launched with
a great splash. It sailed serenely into the sea of national
business. Then suddenly something seemed to go wrong with its
engines. It began to wobble and showed a decided list to port.
Jock, who at the beginning was so puffed with pride that his gold
fountain pen threatened to burst the confines of his very modishly
tight vest, lost two degrees of pompousness a day, and his
attitude toward his unreproachful mother was almost humble.
A dozen times a week T.A. Buck would stroll casually into Mrs.
McChesney's office. "Think it's going to take hold?" he would ask.
"Our men say the dealers have laid in, but the public doesn't seem
to be tearing itself limb from limb to get to our stuff.
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