Oshkosh and Southport and Altoona money has always been good enough for us. If we can keep that trade, we ought to be thankful." Emma McChesney pushed her hair back from her forehead with one gesture and patted it into place with another. Those two gestures, to one who knew her, meant loss of composure for one instant, followed by the quick regaining of it the next. "Let's not argue about it now. Suppose we wait until to-morrow—when it's too late. I am thankful for the trade we've got. But I don't want to be narrow about it. My thanking capacity is such that I can stretch it out to cover some things we haven't got yet. I've been reading up on South America." "Reading!" put in Buck hotly. "What actual first-hand information can you get about a country from books?" "Well, then, I haven't only been reading. I've been talking to everyone I could lay my hands on who has been down there and who knows. Those South American women love dress—especially the Argentines. And do you know what they've been wearing? Petticoats made in England! You know what that means. An English woman chooses a petticoat like she does a husband—for life. It isn't only a garment. It's a shelter. It's built like a tent. If once I can introduce the T. A. Buck Featherloom petticoat and knickerbocker into sunny South America, they'll use those English and German petticoats for linoleum floor-coverings. Heaven knows they'll fit the floor better than the human form!" But Buck was unsmiling. The muscles of his jaw were tense. "I won't let you go. Understand that! I won't allow it!" "Tut, tut, T. A.! What is this? Cave-man stuff?" "Emma, I tell you it's dangerous. It isn't worth the risk, no matter what it brings us." Emma McChesney struck an attitude, hand on heart. "'Heaven will protect the working girrul,'" she sang. Buck grabbed his hat. "I'm going to wire Jock." "All right! That'll save me fifty cents. Do you know what he'll wire back? 'Go to it. Get the tango on its native tairn'—or words to that effect."
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