The South American boat sailed Saturday afternoon. Saturday morning found the two partners deep in one of those condensed, last-minute discussions. Mrs. McChesney opened a desk drawer, took out a leather-covered pocket notebook, and handed it to Buck. A tiny smile quivered about her lips. Buck took it, mystified. 

 "Your last diary?" 

 "Something much more important. I call it  'The Salesman's Who's Who.' Read it as you ought your Bible." 

 "But what?"  Buck turned the pages wonderingly. He glanced at a paragraph, frowned, read it aloud, slowly. 

 

 "Des Moines, Iowa, Klein & Company. Miss Ella Sweeney, skirt buyer. Old girl. Skittish. Wants to be entertained. Take her to dinner and the theater." 

 

 He looked up, dazed.  "Good Lord, what is this? A joke?" 

 "Wait until you see Ella; you won't think it's a joke. She'll buy only your smoothest numbers, ask sixty days' dating, and expect you to entertain her as you would your rich aunt." 

 Buck returned to the little book dazedly. He flipped another leaf—another. Then he read in a stunned sort of voice: 

 

 "Sam Bloom, Paris Emporium, Duluth. See Sadie." 

 

 He closed the book.  "Say, see here, Emma, do you mean to——" 

 "Sam is the manager," interrupted Mrs. McChesney pleasantly, "and he thinks he does the buying, but the brains of that business is a little girl named Sadie Harris. She's a wonder. Five years from now, if she doesn't marry Sam, she'll be one of those ten-thousand-a-year foreign buyers. Play your samples up to Sammy, but quote your prices down to Sadie. Read the next one, T. A." 

 Buck read on, his tone lifeless: 

 

 "Miss Sharp. Berg 

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