Germans, and French, the South American rages to pay cubic-feet
rates on boxes that are three-quarters empty.

So it was with a heavy heart but a knowing head that she faced
Rio de Janeiro. They had entered in the evening, the sunset
splashing the bay and the hills in the foreground and the
Sugar-loaf Mountain with an unbelievable riot of crimson and gold
and orange and blue. Suddenly the sun jerked down, as though
pulled by a string, and the magic purple night came up as though
pulled by another.

"Well, anyway, I've seen that," breathed Emma McChesney
thankfully.

Next morning, she packed her three samples, as before, her heart
heavy, her mind on Fat Ed Meyers coming up two weeks behind her.
Three days in Rio! And already she had bumped her impatient,
quick-thinking, quick-acting North American business head up
against the stone wall of South American leisureliness and
prejudice. She meant no irreverence, no impiety as she prayed,
meanwhile packing Nos. 79, 65, and 48 into her personal bag:

"O Lord, let Fat Ed Meyers have Bahia; but please, please help
me to land Rio and Buenos Aires!"

Then, in smart tailored suit and hat, interpreter in tow, a
prayer in her heart, and excitement blazing in cheeks and eyes,
she made her way to the dock, through the customs, into a cab
that was to take her to her arena, the broad Avenida.