Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
BOOKS BY KATHARINE HOLLAND BROWN
PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
THE HALLOWELL PARTNERSHIP. 12mo net, $1.00
THE MESSENGER. 16mo net, .50
PHILIPPA AT HALCYON. Illustrated. 12mo $1.50
THE HALLOWELL PARTNERSHIP
[Illustration: MARIAN COULD ONLY LIE BY THE FIRE AND TEASE EMPRESS
AND FRET THE ENDLESS HOURS AWAY.]
THE HALLOWELL
PARTNERSHIP
BY
KATHARINE HOLLAND BROWN
AUTHOR OF "PHILIPPA AT HALCYON," ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED_
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1912
COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Published October, 1912
To
THE HOUSE OF THE BROWN THRUSH
The author wishes to acknowledge the courtesy of _The Youth's
Companion_, in permitting this publication of "The Hallowell
Partnership."
ILLUSTRATIONS
Marian could only lie by the fire and tease Empress
and fret the endless hours away _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
On the edge of the opposite bank stood the quaintest,
prettiest group that her eyes had ever beheld 62
"Well, Captain Lathrop!" Commodore McCloskey's
voice rang merciless and clear 138
Marian was on her knees by his chair, clasping his
cold hands in her own 234
The Hallowell Partnership
CHAPTER I
WHEN SLOW-COACH GOT HIS FIGHTING CHANCE
"Rod!"
No answer.
"Rod, what did that messenger boy bring? A special-delivery letter? Is
it anything interesting?" Marian Hallowell pushed Empress from her
knee and turned on her pillows to look at Roderick, her brother, who
sat absorbed and silent at his desk.
Roderick did not move. Only Empress cocked a topaz eye, and rubbed her
orange-tawny head against Marian's chair.
"Rod, why don't you answer me?" Marian's thin hands twitched. A sharp,
fretted line deepened across her pretty, girlish forehead. It was not
a pleasant line to see. And through her long, slow convalescence it
had grown deeper every day.
"_Roderick Hallowell!_"
Roderick jumped. He turned his sober, kind face to her, then bent
eagerly to the closely written letter in his hand.
"Just a minute, Sis."
"Oh, very well, Slow-Coach!" Marian lay back, with a resigned sniff.
She pulled Empress up by her silver collar, and lay petting the big,
satiny Persian, who purred like a happy windmill against her cheek.
Her tired eyes wandered restlessly about the dim, high-ceiled old
room. Of all the dreary lodgings on Beacon Hill, surely Roderick had
picked out the most forlorn! Still, the old place was quiet and
comfortable. And, as Roderick had remarked, his rooms were amazingly
inexpensive. That had been an important point; especially since
Marian's long, costly illness at college. That siege had been hard on
Rod in many ways, she thought, with a mild twinge of self-reproach. In
a way, those long weeks of suffering had come through her own fault.
The college physician had warned her more than once that she was
working and playing beyond her strength. Yet she felt extremely
ill-used.
"It wasn't nearly so bad, while I stayed in the infirmary at college."
She sighed as she thought of her bright, airy room, the coming and
going of the girls with their gay petting and sympathy, the roses and
magazines and dainties. "But here, in this tiresome, lonely place! How
can I expect to get well!"
Here she lay, shut up in Rod's rooms, alone day after day, save for
the vague, pottering kindnesses of Rod's vague old landlady. At night
her brother would come home from his long day's work as cub
draughtsman in the city engineer's office, too tired to talk. And
Marian, forbidden by overstrained eyes to read, could only lie by the
fire, and tease Empress, and fret the endless hours away.
At last, with a deep breath, Rod laid down the letter. He pulled his
chair beside her lounge.
"Tired, Sis?"
"Not very. What was your letter, Rod?"
"I'll tell you pretty soon. Anything doing to-day?"
"Isabel and Dorothy came in from Wellesley this morning, and brought
me those lovely violets, and told me all about the Barn Swallows'
masque dance last night. And the doctor came this afternoon."
"H'm. What did he say?"
Marian gloomed.
"Just what he always says. 'No more study this year. Out-door life.
Bread and milk and sleep.' Tiresome!"
Roderick nodded.
"Hard lines, Sister. And yet--"
He dropped his sentence, and sat staring at the fire.
"Rod! Are you never going to tell me what is in that letter?"
"That letter? Oh, yes. Sure it won't tire you to talk business?"
"Of course not."
"Well, then--I have an offer of a new position. A splendid big one at
that."
"A new position? Truly?" Marian sat up, with brightening eyes.
"Yes. But I'm not sure I can swing it." Rod's face clouded. "It
demands a mighty competent engineer."
"Well! Aren't you a competent engineer?" Marian gave his ear a mild
tweak. "You're always underrating yourself, you old goose. Tell me
about this. Quick."
Rod's thoughtful face grew grave.
"It's such a gorgeous chance that I can't half believe in it," he
said, at length. "Through Professor Young, I'm offered an engineer's
billet with the Breckenridge Engineering and Construction Company. The
Breckenridge Company is the largest and the best-known firm of
engineers in the United States. Breckenridge himself is a wonder. I'd
rather work under him than under any man I ever heard of. The work is
a huge drainage contract in western Illinois. One hundred dollars a
month and all my expenses. It's a two-year job."
"A two-year position, out West!" Marian's eyes shone. "The out-West
part is dreadful, of course. But think of a hundred-dollar salary,
after the sixty dollars that you have been drudging to earn ever since
you left Tech! Read Professor Young's letter aloud; do."
Roderick squirmed.
"Oh, you don't want to hear it. It's nothing much."
"Yes I do, too. Read it, I say. Or--give it to me. There!"
There was a short, lively scuffle. However, Marian had captured the
letter with the first deft snatch; and Roderick could hardly take it
from her shaky, triumphant hands by main force. He gave way,
grumbling.
"Professor Young always says a lot of things he doesn't mean. He does
it to brace a fellow up, that's all."
"Very likely." Marian's eyes skimmed down the first page.
"'--And as the company has asked me to recommend an engineer of whose
work I can speak from first-hand knowledge, I have taken pleasure in
referring them to you. To be sure, you have had no experience in
drainage work. But from what I recall of your record at Tech, your
fundamental training leaves nothing to be desired. When it comes to
handling the mass of rough-and-ready labor that the contract employs,
I am confident that your father's son will show the needed judgment
and authority. It is a splendid undertaking, this reclamation of waste
land. It is heavy, responsible work, but it is a man's work, straight
through; and there is enough of chance in it to make it a man's game,
as well. If you can make good at this difficult opportunity, you will
prove that you can make good at any piece of drainage engineering that
comes your way. This is your fighting chance at success. And I expect
to see you equal to its heaviest demands. Good luck to you!'
"That sounds just like Professor Young. And he means it. Every word."
Marian folded the letter carefully and gave it back to her brother.
"Honestly, Rod, it does sound too good to be true. And think, what a
frabjous time you can have during your vacations! You can run over to
the Ozarks for your week-ends, and visit the Moores on their big fruit
ranch, and go mountain-climbing--"
Roderick chortled.
"The Ozarks would be a trifling week-end jaunt of three hundred miles,
old lady. Didn't they teach you geography at Wellesley? As to
mountains, that country is mostly pee-rary and swamp. That's why this
contract will be a two-year job, and a stiff job at that."
"What does district drainage work mean, anyway?"
"In district drainage, a lot of farmers and land-owners unite to form
what is called, in law, a drainage district. A sort of mutual benefit
association, you might call it. Then they tax themselves, and hire
engineers and contractors to dig a huge system of ditches, and to
build levees and dikes, to guard their fields against high water. You
see, an Illinois farmer may own a thousand acres of the richest
alluvial land. But if half that land is swamp, and the other half lies
so low that the creeks near by may overflow and ruin his crops any
day, then his thousand mellow acres aren't much more use than ten
acres of hard-scrabble here in New England. To be sure, he can cut his
own ditches, and build his own levee, without consulting his
neighbors. But the best way is for the whole country-side to unite and
do the work on a royal scale."
"How do they go about digging those ditches? Where can they find
laboring men to do the work, away out in the country?"
"Why, you can't dig a forty-foot district canal by hand, Sis! That
would be a thousand-year job. First, the district calls in an
experienced engineer to look over the ground and make plans and
estimates. Next, it employs a drainage contractor; say, the
Breckenridge firm. This firm puts in three or four huge steam
dredge-boats, a squad of dump-carts and scrapers, an army of laborers,
and a staff of engineers--including your eminent C. E. brother--to
oversee the work. The dredges begin by digging a series of canals; one
enormous one, called the main ditch, which runs the length of the
district and empties into some large body of water; in this case, the
Illinois River. Radiating from this big ditch, they cut a whole family
of little ditches, called laterals. The main ditch is to carry off the
bulk of water in case of freshets; while the laterals drain the
individual farms."
"It sounds like slow, costly work."
"It is. And you've heard only half of it, so far. Then, following the
dredges, come the laborers, with their teams and shovels and
dump-carts. Along the banks of the ditch they build low
brush-and-stone-work walls and fill them in with earth. These walls
make a levee. So, even if the floods come, and your ditch runs
bank-full, the levee will hold back the water and save the crops from
ruin. Do you see?"
"Ye-es. But it sounds rather tangled, Rod."
"It isn't tangled at all. Look." Rod's pencil raced across the
envelope. "Here's a rough outline of this very contract. This squirmy
line is Willow Creek. It is a broad, deep stream, and it runs for
thirty crooked miles through the district, with swampy shores all the
way. A dozen smaller creeks feed into it. They're swampy, too. So you
can see how much good rich farm-land is being kept idle.
"This straight line is the main ditch, as planned. It will cut
straight through the creek course, as the crow flies. Do you see, that
means we'll make a new channel for the whole stream? A straight, deep
channel, too, not more than ten miles long, instead of the thirty
twisted, wasteful miles of the old channel. The short lines at right
angles to the main ditch represent the little ditches, or laterals.
They'll carry off surplus water from the farm-lands: even from those
that lie back from the creek, well out of harm's way."
[Illustration]
"What will your work be, Rod?"
"I'll probably be given a night shift to boss. That is--if I take the
job at all. The laborers are divided into two shifts, eleven hours
each. The dredges have big search-lights, and puff along by night,
regardless."
"How will you live?"
"We engineers will be allotted a house-boat to ourselves, and we'll
mess together. The laborers live on a big boat called the
quarter-boat. The firm furnishes food and bunks, tools, stationery,
everything, even to overalls and quinine."
"Quinine?"
"Yes. Those Illinois swamps are chock-full of chills and fever."
"Cheerful prospect! What if you get sick, Rod?"
"Pooh. I never had a sick day in all my life. However, the
farm-houses, up on higher ground, are out of the malaria belt. If I
get so Miss Nancy-fied that I can't stay in the swamp, I can sleep at
a farm-house. They say there are lots of pleasant people living down
through that section. It is a beautiful country, too. I--I'd like it
immensely, I imagine."
"Of course you will. But what makes you speak so queerly, Rod? You're
certainly going to accept this splendid chance!"
Rod's dark, sober face settled into unflinching lines.
"We'll settle that later. What about you, Sis? If I go West, where
will you go? How will you manage without me?"
"Oh, I'll go up to Ipswich for the summer. Just as I always do."
Rod considered.
"That won't answer, Marian. Now that the Comstocks have moved away,
there is nobody there to look after you. And you'd be lonely, too."
"Well, then, I can go to Dublin. Cousin Evelyn will give me a corner
in her cottage."
"But Cousin Evelyn sails for Norway in June."
"Dear me, I forgot! Then I'll visit some of the girls. Isabel was
teasing me this morning to come to their place at Beverly Farms for
August. Though--I don't know----"
Rod's serious young eyes met hers. A slow red mounted to his thatched
black hair.
"I don't believe that would work, Sis. I hate to spoil your fun.
But--we can't afford that sort of thing, dear."
"I suppose not. To spend a month with Isabel and her mother, in that
Tudor palace of theirs, full of man-servants, and maid-servants, and
regiments of guests, and flocks and herds of automobiles, would cost
me more, in new clothes alone, than the whole summer at Ipswich. But,
Rod, where can I stay? I'd go cheerfully and camp on my relatives,
only we haven't a relative in the world, except Cousin Evelyn.
Besides, I--I don't see how I can ever stand it, anyway!" Her fretted
voice broke, quivering. Mindful of Rod's boyish hatred of sentiment,
she gulped back the sob in her throat; but her weak hand clutched his
sleeve. "There are only the two of us, Rod, and we've never been
separated in all our lives. Not even for a single week. I--I can't let
you go away out there and leave me behind."
Now, on nine occasions out of ten, Slow-Coach was Rod's fitting title.
This was the tenth time. He stooped over Marian, his black eyes
flashing. His big hand caught her trembling fingers tight.
"That will just do, Sis. Stop your forebodings, you precious old
'fraid-cat. I'm going to pack you up and take you right straight
along."
"Why, Roderick Thayer Hallowell!"
Marian gasped. She stared up at her brother, wide-eyed.
"Why, I couldn't possibly go with you. It's absurd. I daren't even
think of it."
"Why not?"
"Well, it's such a queer, wild place. And it is so horribly far away.
And I'm not strong enough for roughing it."
"Nonsense. Illinois isn't a frontier. It's only two days' travel from
Boston. As for roughing it, think of the Vermont farm-houses where
we've stayed on fishing trips. Remember the smothery feather-beds, and
the ice-cold pickled beets and pie for breakfast? Darkest Illinois
can't be worse than that."
"N-no, I should hope not. But it will be so tedious and dull!"
"Didn't the doctor order you to spend a dull summer? Didn't he
prescribe bread and milk and sleep?"
"Rod, I won't go. I can't. I'd be perfectly miserable. There, now!"
Roderick gave her a long, grave look.
"Then I may as well write and decline the Breckenridge offer, Sis. For
I'll take you with me, or else stay here with you. That's all."
"Rod, you're so contrary!" Marian's lips quivered. "You must go West.
I won't have you stay here and drudge forever at office work. You must
not throw away this splendid chance. It isn't possible!"
"It isn't possible for me to do anything else, Sis." Roderick's stolid
face settled into granite lines. Marian started at the new ring of
authority in his voice. "Haven't you just said that you couldn't stand
it to be left behind? Well, I--I'm in the same boat. I can't go off
and leave you, Sis. I won't run the chances of your being sick, or
lonely, while I'm a thousand miles away. So you'll have to decide for
us both. Either you go with me, or else I stay here and drudge
forever, as you call it. For I'd rather drudge forever than face that
separation. That's all. Run along to bed now, that's a good girl.
You'll need plenty of sleep if you are to start for Illinois with me
next week. Good-night."
"Well, but Rod----"
"Run along, I say. Take Empress with you. I want to answer this
letter, and she keeps purring like a buzz-saw, and sharpening her
claws on my shoes, till I can't think straight."
"But, Rod, you don't understand!" Marian caught his arm. Her eyes
brimmed with angry tears. "I don't _want_ to go West. I'll hate it. I
know I shall. I want to stay here, where I can be with my friends,
where I can have a little fun. It's not fair to make me go with you!"
"Oh, I understand, all right." Roderick's eyes darkened. "You will not
like the West. You'll not be contented. I know that. But, remember,
I'm taking this job for both of us, Sis. We're partners, you know. I
wish you could realize that." His voice grew a little wistful. "If
you'd be willing to play up----"
"Oh, I'll play up, of course." Marian put her hands on his shoulders
and gave him a pettish kiss. "And I'll go West with you. Though I'd
rather go to Moscow or the Sahara. Come, Empress! Good-night, Rod."
The door closed behind her quick, impatient step. Roderick sat down at
his desk and opened his portfolio. He did not begin to write at once.
Instead, he sat staring at the letter in his hand. He was a slow,
plodding boy; he was not given to dreaming; but to-night, as he sat
there, his sober young face lighted with eager fire. Certain phrases
of that magical letter seemed to float and gleam before his eyes.
--"'A splendid undertaking ... heavy, responsible work, but a man's
work, and a man's game.... This is your fighting chance. If you can
make good.... And I expect to see you equal to its heaviest demands.'"
Rod's deep eyes kindled slowly.
"I'll make good, all right," he muttered. His strong hand clinched on
the folded sheet. "It's my fighting chance. And if I can't win out,
with such an opportunity as this one--then I'll take my name off the
_Engineering Record_ roster and buy me a pick and a shovel!"