tary of the T.A. Buck Featherloom
Petticoat Company, that Sam Hupp noticed a rather cocky
over-assurance in Jock's attitude toward the world in general.
Whereupon he sent for him.

On Sam Hupp's broad flat desk stood an array of diminutive jars,
and bottles, and tiny pots that would have shamed the toilette
table of a musical comedy star's dressing-room. There were
rose-tinted salves in white bottles. There were white creams in
rose-tinted jars. There were tins of ointment and boxes of
fragrant soap.

Jock McChesney, entering briskly, eyed the array in some surprise.
Then he grinned, and glanced wickedly at Sam Hupp's prematurely
bald head.

"No use, Mr. Hupp. They say if it's once gone it's gone. Get a
toupee."

"Shut up!" growled Sam Hupp, good-humoredly. "Stay in this game
long enough and you'll be a hairless wonder yourself. Ten years
ago the girls used to have to tie their hands or wear mittens to
keep from running their white fingers through my waving silken
locks. Sit down a minute."

Jock reached forward and took up a jar of cream. He frowned in
thought. Then: "Thought I recognized this stuff. Mother uses it.
I've seen it on the bathroom shelf."

"You bet she uses it," retorted Sam Hupp. "What's more, millions
of other women will be using it in the next few years. This
woman," he pointed to the name on the label, "has hit upon the
real thing in toilette flub-dub. She's made a little fortune
already, and if she don't look out she'll be rich. They've got
quite a plant. When she started she used to put the stuff together
herself over the kitchen stove. They say it's made of cottage
cheese, stirred smooth and tinted pink. Well, anyway they're
nationally known now--or will be when they start to advertise
right."

"I've seen some of their stuff advertised--somewhere," interrupted
Jock, "but I don't remember--"

"There you are. You see the head of this concern is a little bit
frightened at the way she seems slated to become a lady cold cream
magnate. They say she's scared pink for fear somebody will steal
her recipes. She has a kid nephew who acts as general manager, and
they're both on the job all the time. They say the lady herself
looks like the spinster in a b'gosh drama. You can get a boy to
look up your train schedule."

Train! Schedule! Across Jock McChesney's mind there flashed a
vision of himself, alert, confident, brisk, taking the luxurious
nine o'clock for Philadelphia. Or, maybe, the Limite