“Trunks not here. Try Columbus, Nebraska.”
“Crash!” said Emma McChesney to the surprised baggage-master. “There goes my Haviland vegetable-dish.”
“Were you selling china?” he inquired.
“No, I wasn't,” replied Emma McChesney viciously. “And if you don't let me stand here and give my frank, unbiased opinion of this road, its president, board of directors, stockholders, baggage-men, Pullman porters, and other things thereto appertaining, I'll probably have hysterics.”
“Give it,” said the baggage-master. “You'll feel better. And we're used to it.”
She gave it. When she had finished:
“Did you say you was selling goods on the road? Say, that's a hell of a job for a woman! Excuse me, lady. I didn't mean—”
“I think perhaps you're right,” said Emma McChesney slowly. “It is just that.”
“Well, anyway, we'll do our best to trace it. Guess you're in for a wait.”
Emma McChesney waited. She made the rounds of her customers, and waited. She wired her firm, and waited. She wrote Jock to run along and enjoy himself, and waited. She cut and fitted a shirt-waist, took her hat apart and retrimmed it, made the rounds of her impatient customers again, threatened to sue the road, visited the baggage-room daily—and waited.