In the parlour of the Higginson home, one evening shortly after the
incident of the last chapter, sat Mrs. Higginson and her daughter,
with expressions hardly significant of an intense joy in life. In the
library, talking earnestly behind closed doors, were Mr. Higginson and
Halloran.
“Well, Mr. Halloran, what is it?” had begun the head of the firm.
“The fight is on. I got the first word of it to-day.”
Mr. Higginson bowed slightly and waited.
“Bigelow has cut the price down below cost.”
It took a moment for the older man to grasp the meaning of this.
“Below cost?” he repeated.
“Yes; it's going to be a question of endurance.”
“But we have some large orders on hand. They will keep us busy for
awhile. How does the Carroll & Condit lumber stand?”
“It's about half cut out.”
“You can go ahead with it, then, for this week. And after that the
Michigan City contract will keep us busy for awhile.”
“The Carroll & Condit business is what brought me here to-night. Here
is a letter from them.” Halloran laid it on the table. “They offer us a
chance to meet the new price before they place their order elsewhere.”
Gradually the meaning of Halloran's words had been sinking into Mr.
Higginson's mind; the relations of cause and effect had been clearing
before him. He looked the letter over silently, twice, three times.
“I--I can hardly believe this------” He saw that this was useless talk
and he stopped. It had been a verbal order from Carroll, a man whom he
had reason to hold as the soul of honour; the price had been stated
and agreed to, precisely as for twenty years back; everything had been
satisfactory. Good Mr. Higginson had been the victim of a delusion.
After half a century of struggle he had allowed himself to believe that
the fight was about over, that his personal achievement meant something;
that he could stand securely on the heights. He had forgotten that
Business is Business, that Time is Money and Money Talks; he had
forgotten that the glorious old world was spinning along, as heedless
as ever, after the ever-receding glitter, and that there could be no
stopping until the last great stop should be reached.
“From what I can gather,” said Halloran, “they mean to fight us all
along the line. The Michigan City contract, I think, is good. We have
it down in black and white, and we can make the delivery in our own
steamers; but we should have to use the railroads for most of our other
orders, and I'm afraid we can't do it.” He disliked this hammering one
trouble after another into the old gentleman's aching head, but it
had to be done. “I'm quite sure that Bigelow has influence with the
railroads, and of course he will use it.”
Mr. Higginson was thinking--thinking.
“How much--” he was still thinking, desperately raking his facts
together and facing what seemed like chaos--“how much is this going to
cost us, Mr. Halloran?”
Halloran shook his head.
“It's too early to tell. He must show his hand before we can plan our
game. He's beginning now, and before he gets through, by ------, we'll
smash him. We'll make him feel like a whipped coach-dog every time he
passes a lumber pile.” Halloran was getting so excited he had to get
up and pace the carpet. “I know the man; I know his meanness and his
vanity. I've worked for him, and I've seen him off his guard, and I know
his insolence. Before we get through with him he'll wish he had gone
into a bucket-shop, where he belongs, and stayed there, the damned old
bloated frog of a tin-horn gambler. Let him wreck his Kentucky Coal and
his New Freighters all he pleases, but he'll get a bellyful if he tries
to wreck the lumber business.”
He stopped short, looked around at the dark, olive-tinted walls, at the
stately row of books in their morocco and calf and yellow and red and
gold; looked at the rich carpet and the restful chairs and at the soft
light of the polished student-lamp; looked last at Mr. Higginson--and
felt a cold sweat breaking out all over his body. What had he said?
Somewhere in Halloran's make-up, deep-hidden beneath the laborious years
of work and study, lay a well, a spouting, roaring geyser of profanity.
It had come into the world with him; it had been richly fed during his
rough, knockabout boyhood; and now, in spite of the weights he had put
on it, a year or two of Michigan lumbermen had been enough to prime it.
Mr. Higginson was still thinking--thinking. The facts were before him
now; at last he had penetrated to them and brought them together. And
he was facing them--meeting them squarely without flinching. Quietly he
sat, one elbow on the green-topped table, his hand shading his eyes;
and the lamplight fell gently on his head. He was facing the question
of himself, of his ability to conduct his own business; and another
question, granting that he was unable, whether he could, in his best
judgment, place everything he had in the world--his business, his
family, himself--in the hands of this man and bid him Godspeed in his
work. So he sat thinking--thinking; and Halloran, a little abashed, but
angry still, dropped into a chair and waited. At last the old gentleman
spoke--in a low, changed voice. “Mr. Halloran, I have not been well
lately; and I think it best--to tell you that--for the present the
business is in your hands. I will stay here and advise with you, but--I
do not wish you to feel hampered by my presence in carrying on this
fight. I am laying a heavy responsibility on you--but I think--I trust
you will be equal to it.”
Mr. Higginson's part of the fight was over; and he had won.
Mrs. Higginson was playing clock at the centre-table. She was a wiry
little woman, capable of great exertion and showing remarkable endurance
when set on some purpose, such as a shopping trip to Chicago; but
suffering at other times from languor, and low spirits, and in constant
need of medical attendance.
She had never been able to understand why “Mr. H.” should insist on
burying himself in the lumber business, when he was plenty rich enough
to sell out and take her and her daughter forth from the slumberous
quiet of Wauchung into the stir of the world. Such stupidity, such
meanness of ideals (to pass over the injustice to herself--_she_ was
nothing; _she_ didn't count) was out of her ken. And in the second
place, her heart had been set for three seasons on a trip to Hot
Springs; and even if Mr. H.'s plainness of character were to hold his
interests in Wauchung in spite of her known desires, he certainly owed
it to her to give her an outing for a few months. She had borne a great
deal for him--but never mind. Doctor Brown would sympathize with her,
anyway--would bring her medicine every day if she were but so much as to
drop a hint.
Mamie had been trying to read a novel; but being herself the meek
centre of a tremendous little drama, she found it difficult to focus her
attention.
“Ma,” she said, after a time, “don't you think pa looks a little run
down?” This was a euphemism; there was no question that Mr. Higginson
was looking very bad indeed.
“A little, perhaps,” replied her mother. At that moment, the
three-o'clock pile being prematurely completed, she gave up “Clock” in
disgust and shuffled her cards for the thirteen game.
Presently she said, “My head has ached hard all day.”
This was encouraging. Mamie took up her book again; but not for long.
“Do you suppose he is worrying about the business, ma? He and Mr.
Halloran are working almost every night now.”
“I suppose so,” Mrs. Higginson replied. “It would have been better for
him if he had taken my advice five years ago and retired. Your father
has no time to think of us, my dear.”
Mamie felt some injustice in this and would have dropped the subject had
not her mother, roused to it, pushed on.
“He says himself that Mr. Halloran has shown himself able to run the
business, and yet he will not go away even for a week. I think if we
could only get him off for a short time he would want to stay, once he
had made up his mind to it.” At this moment the library door opened
and the two men could be heard in the hall. Mrs. Higginson's face
brightened. “Play something for me, my dear,” she said.
“Oh, no, ma. They are just coming in here.”
“Who? Are they? Play the march Mr. Halloran likes so much.”
Mamie went obediently to the piano and was crashing out the opening
chords when the two men reached the parlour door. Mrs. Higginson
rose and extended her hand with a bright smile. Mamie showed signs of
stopping, but Halloran nodded to her to go on, and dropped into a chair.
Mrs. Higginson came over and sat down by him, leaving her cards in
disorder on the table.
“I had just asked Mamie to play for me before you came in,” she said,
pitching her voice somewhat above the noise of the march. “I always like
to hear her play when I have one of my headaches. It seems to make me
forget myself for a little while. And I really think she plays very
well.”
Yes; Halloran thought so, too.
“I am not one of your cultivated musicians, but I know what I like. And
that is all anybody can know, I guess. Only most people aren't honest
enough to say so. I have had a severe headache all day. It was in the
back of my head, just where I had one last Thursday; and if I hadn't
happened to have some of the pills left over that Doctor Brown brought
for me the last time, I don't know what I should have done. One does
hate so to give up. I have always said to my husband: 'No, Mr. H., I
will _not_ give up; I will _not_ go to bed and acknowledge myself an
invalid. Thank goodness I have pride enough left for that.'” Here
the doorbell claimed her attention for a moment. “Well, here is Harry
Crosman. He is such a good boy, we are all so fond of him. And then for
a long time”--very confidentially, this--“he was really almost the only
company there was for Mamie, and we were glad to have him drop around
on her account. The people in Wauchung are so--so--well, I'm sure you
understand. It was pleasant for the dear girl. I don't suppose he is
ever going to astonish the world, but we are always glad to see him.
Good-evening, Harry.”
At this greeting the newcomer took a chair, and found himself just in
time to hear Mrs. Higgin-son, keyed up to extra exertions by the music
and the company, bring all her artillery to bear on her husband.
“Now, Mr. Halloran, I'm just going to appeal to you if Mr. H. isn't
working too hard. Don't _you_ think it is time he took a little
vacation------”
She stopped short, for the long-suffering Mr. H. had turned on her with
downright impatience.
“Don't let me hear any more of that talk,” he said sharply; then, almost
before the last word was out of his mouth, he abruptly excused himself
and left the room.
He left silence behind him, and some little consternation; and Halloran,
seeing on Mrs. Higgin-son's face the signs of a storm, excused himself,
too, leaving Crosman to weather it as best he might.