Spalding drew a sibilant breath. “I'll be there!” he grinned. “I'll be there!”
But he wasn't. At eight the next morning there burst upon Mrs. McChesney a distraught T. A. Buck.
“Hear about Spalding?” he demanded.
“Spalding? No.”
“His wife 'phoned from St. Luke's. Taken with an appendicitis attack at midnight. They operated at five this morning. One of those had-it-been-twenty-four-hours-later-etc. operations. That settles us.”
“Poor kid,” replied Emma McChesney. “Rough on him and his brand-new wife.”
“Poor kid! Yes. But how about his territory? How about our new line? How about—”
“Oh, that's all right,” said Emma McChesney, cheerfully.
“I'd like to know how! We haven't a man equal to the territory. He's our one best bet.”
“Oh, that's all right,” said Mrs. McChesney again, smoothly.