Roderick leaped aboard. Marian followed, trembling with fear.

Mr. Carlisle lay in his seaman's hammock beside the window. His gaunt hands were like ice. His lean face was ashen gray. But he nodded weakly and put out a shaking, courteous hand.

"Too bad to alarm you thus," he gasped. "I—I was afraid of this. Malaria plays ugly tricks with a man's heart now and then. You'd better ship me to the hospital at Saint Louis. They can patch me up in a week probably. Only, the sooner you can get me there, the better."

"You call the foreman and tell him to get up steam on the big launch, Hallowell." Burford, very pale, took command of the situation. "Miss Hallowell, will you go and bring Sally Lou? I want her right away. She's all kinds of good in an emergency."

Marian fled, her own heart pounding in her throat. But Sally Lou, after the first scared questions, rose to the occasion, steady and serene.

"Light the stove and make our soapstones and sand-bags piping-hot, Mammy. Heat some bouillon and put it into the thermos bottle. Ned, you and the foreman must take him down to Grafton Landing on the launch. The Lucy Lee is due to reach Grafton late this afternoon. I'll catch the Lucy's captain on the long-distance telephone at the landing above Grafton, and tell him to wait at Grafton Landing till you get there with Mr. Carlisle. Then you can put him aboard the Lucy. She will make Saint Louis in half the time that you could make it with the launch. Besides, the Lucy will mean far easier travelling for Mr. Carlisle."

"I never thought of the Lucy! I'd meant to wait with him at the Landing and take the midnight train. But the steam-boat will be a far easier trip. Sally Lou, you certainly are a peach!" Young Burford looked at his wife with solemn admiration. "Go and telephone, quick. We'll have Carlisle ready to start in an hour."

In less than an hour the launch was made ready, with cot and pillows and curtains, as like an ambulance as a launch could well be. With clumsy anxious pains Roderick and Burford lifted their chief aboard. Marian hung behind, eager to help, yet too frightened and nervous to be of service. But Sally Lou, her yellow hair flying under her ruffly red bonnet, her baby laughing and crowing on her shoulder, popped her flushed face gayly under the awning to bid Mr. Carlisle good-by.

"If it wasn't for these babies I'd go straight along and take care of you myself, Mr. Carlisle," she cried. "But the hospital will take better care of you than I could, I reckon. And the week's vacation will do you no end of good. Besides it will set these two lazybones to work." She gave her husband a gentle shake. "Ned and Mr. Hallowell will have to depend on themselves, instead of leaving all the responsibility to you. It will be the making of them. You'll see!"

"Perhaps that is true." Carlisle's gray lips smiled. He was white with suffering, but he spoke with his unvarying kind formality. "I am leaving you gentlemen with a pretty heavy load. But—I am not apprehensive. I know that you boys will stand up to the contract, and that you will carry it on with success. Good-by, and good luck to you!"

The launch shot away down-stream. Sally Lou looked after it. Marian saw her sparkling eyes grow very grave.

"Mr. Carlisle is mighty brave, isn't he? But he will not come back to work in a week's time. No, nor in a month's time either if I know anything about it. But there's no use a-glooming, is there, Thomas Tucker! You two come up to my house and we'll have supper together and watch for Ned; for if he meets the Lucy at Grafton he can bring the launch back by ten to-night."

Sally Lou was a good prophet. It was barely nine when Ned's launch whistled at the landing. Ned climbed the steps, looking tired and excited.

"Yes, we overhauled the Lucy, all right. Mr. Carlisle seemed much more comfortable when we put him aboard. He joked me about being so frightened and said he'd come back in a day or so as good as new. But—I don't know how we'll manage here. With Carlisle laid up, and Marvin gone off in the sulks, for nobody knows how long—Well, for the next few days this contract is up to us, Hallowell. That is all there is to that. And we've got to make good. We've got to put it through."

"You certainly must make good. And it is up to us girls to help things along," said Sally Lou, briskly. "Isn't it, Marian? Yes, I'm going to call you Marian right away. It's such a saving of time compared to 'Miss Hallowell.' And the very first thing to-morrow morning we will drive over to Mrs. Chrisenberry's, and coax her into letting you boys start that lateral through her land."

Three startled faces turned to her. Three astounded voices rose.

"Coax her, indeed! On my word! When she drove Rod and me off the place this very morning!"

"Think you dare ask her to take down her barb-wire barricade and lay away her shot-gun? 'Not till doomsday!'"

"Sally Lou, are you daft? You've never laid eyes on Mrs. Chrisenberry. You don't know what you're tackling. We'll not put that lateral through till we've dragged the whole question through the courts. Don't waste your time in dreaming, child."

"I'm not going to dream. I'm going to act. You'll go with me, won't you, Marian? We'll take the babies and the buckboard. But, if you don't mind, we'll leave Mr. Finnegan at home. Finnegan's diplomacy is all right, only that it's a trifle demonstrative. Yes, you boys are welcome to shake your heads and look owlish. But wait and see!"

"She'll never try to face that ferocious old lady," said Rod, on the way home.

"Of course not. She's just making believe," rejoined Marian.

Little did they know Sally Lou! Marian had just finished her breakfast the next morning when the yellow buckboard, drawn by a solemn, scraggy horse, drove up to Mrs. Gates's door. On the front seat, rosy as her scarlet gown and cloak, sat Sally Lou. From the back seat beamed Mammy Easter, in her gayest bandanna, with Edward Burford, Junior, dimpled and irresistible, beside her, and Thomas Tucker bouncing and crowing in her arms.

"Climb right in, Miss Northerner! Good-by, poor Finnegan! This time we're going to try the persuasive powers of two babies as compared to those of one collie. Here we go!"

"Are we really going to Mrs. Chrisenberry's? Are you actually planning to ask her for the right of way?" queried Marian.

Sally Lou chuckled. Her round face was guileless and bland.

"Certainly not. I am going to Mrs. Chrisenberry's to buy some goose-grease."

"To buy some goose-grease! Horrors! What is goose-grease, pray?"

"Goose-grease is goose-grease. Didn't you ever have the croup when you were young, Miss Northerner? And didn't they roll you in warm blankets, and then bandage your poor little throat with goose-grease and camphor and red pepper?"

"An' a baked onion for your supper," added Mammy Easter. "An' a big saucer of butterscotch, sizzlin'-hot. Dey ain't no croup what kin stand before dat!"

"Mercy, I should hope not. I never heard of anything so dreadful. You aren't going to give goose-grease to your own babies, I hope?"

Sally Lou surveyed her uproarious sons, and allowed herself a brief giggle.

"They've never had a sign of croup so far, I'm thankful to say. But one ought to be prepared. And Mrs. Chrisenberry has the finest poultry-yard in the country-side. We'll enjoy seeing that, too. Don't look so dubersome. Wait and see!"

Mrs. Chrisenberry was working in her vegetable garden as they drove up. Her queer little face was bound in a huge many-colored "nuby," her short skirts were kilted over high rubber boots. She leaned on her spade and gave the girls a nod that, as Marian told Rod later, was like a twelve-pound shot squarely across the enemy's bows.

Sally Lou merely beamed upon her.

"Wet weather for putting in your garden, isn't it?" she cried, gayly. "I'm Mrs. Burford, Mrs. Chrisenberry. My husband is an engineer on the Breckenridge contract."

"H'm!" Mrs. Chrisenberry glared. Sally Lou chattered gayly on.

"I'm staying down at the canal with these two youngsters, and I want to buy some of your fine goose-grease. They've never had croup in all their born days, but it's such a cold, wet spring that it is well to be prepared for anything."

"Goose-grease!" Mrs. Chrisenberry looked at her keenly. "For those babies? Highty-tighty! Goose-grease is well enough, but hot mutton taller is better yet. I've raised two just as fine boys as them, so I know. Mutton taller an' camphire, that's sovereign."

She put down her spade and picked her way to the buckboard. Edward Junior hailed her with a shriek of welcome. Thomas Tucker floundered wildly in Mammy's grasp and clutched Mrs. Chrisenberry around the neck with a strangling squeeze.

Marian gasped. For Mrs. Chrisenberry, grim, stern little nut-cracker lady, had lifted Thomas to her stooped little shoulder and was gathering Edward Junior into a lean strong little arm. Both babies crowed with satisfaction. Thomas jerked off the tasselled nuby and showered rose-leaf kisses from Mrs. Chrisenberry's tight knob of gray hair to the tip of her dour little chin. Edward pounded her gleefully with fists and feet.

"They'll strangle her," Marian whispered, aghast.

"Pooh, she doesn't mind," Sally Lou whispered back. "You mustn't let them pull you to pieces, Mrs. Chrisenberry. They're as strong as little bear cubs."

"Guess I know that." Mrs. Chrisenberry shook Edward's fat grip loose from her tatting collar. "They're the living images of my own boys, thirty years ago. I hope your children bring you as good luck as mine have brought me. They've grown up as fine men as you'd find in a day's journey. Let me take 'em to see the hen yard. They'll like to play with the little chickens, I know."

Edward and Thomas Tucker were charmed with the hen yard. They fell upon a brood of tiny yellow balls with cries of ecstasy. Only the irate pecks and squawks of the outraged hen mother prevented them from hugging the fuzzy peepers to a loving death.

"They're a pretty lively team," remarked Mrs. Chrisenberry. "Let's take 'em into the house, and I'll give them some cookies and milk. I don't know much about new-fangled ways of feeding children, but I do know that my cookies never hurt anybody yet."

She led them through her shining kitchen into a big, bright sitting-room. Again Marian halted to stare. This was not the customary chill and dreary farm-house "parlor." Instead, she saw a wide, fire-lit living-room, filled with flowering plants, home-like with its books and pictures; and at the arched bay-window a beautiful upright piano.

Mrs. Chrisenberry followed her glance.

"Land, I don't ever touch it," she said, with a dry little nut-cracker chuckle. "My oldest boy he gave it to me, for he knows I'm that hungry for music, and whenever my daughter-in-law comes to visit she plays for me by the hour, and it's something grand. And now and then a neighbor will pick out a tune for me. My, don't I wish I could keep it goin' all the time! You girls don't play, I suppose?"

Sally Lou's eyes met Marian's with a quick question. Marian's cheeks grew hot.

"I—I play a little. But I'm sure that Mrs. Burford——"

"Mrs. Burford will play some other time," interrupted Sally Lou, hastily. "Go on, that's a good girl!"

Now, it bored Marian dismally to play for strangers. She refused so habitually that few of her friends knew what a delightful pianist she really was. But dimly she realized that Sally Lou's eyes were flashing with anxious command. She opened the piano.

She ran through the airs from the "Tales from Hoffmann," then played a romping folk-dance, and, at last, the lovely magic of the "Spring Song."

Mrs. Chrisenberry hardly breathed. She sat rigidly in her chair, her knotted little hands shut tight, her beady eyes unwinking.

"My, but that goes to the place," she sighed, as the last airy harmony died away. "Now I'll bring your cookies and milk, you lambs, and then you'd better be starting home. It looks like rain."

Marian and Sally Lou fell behind in the procession to the carriage. Edward Junior toddled down the board walk, clinging to his hostess's skirt. Thomas Tucker laughed and gurgled in her arms. Mrs. Chrisenberry put Thomas on Mammy's lap, then picked up Edward, who, loath to depart, squeezed her neck with warm, crumby little hands and snuggled his fat cheek to her own. Mrs. Chrisenberry looked down at him. Her grim little nut-cracker face quivered oddly. A dim pink warmed her brown, withered cheek.

"It's nice while they're little, isn't it?" she said, with a queer, wistful smile. "Though I dassent complain. My boys are the best sons anybody ever had, and they treat me like a queen. Here, son, stop pulling my ears so hard; it hurts. Now, I'll send you a whole bowlful of mutton taller to-morrow; and a jar of goose-grease the very next rendering I make. Didn't you say you're living on the drainage job? Well"—the dim pink grew bright in her cheek—"well, you tell your man that he kin go right ahead and cut his ditch through my land. I'll not stand in the way no longer. Though tell him that I'll expect him to see that his men don't tramp through my garden nor steal my watermelons. Mind that."

"I know I can promise that, always." Sally Lou's eyes were brown stars. "And thank you more than tongue can tell, Mrs. Chrisenberry. You don't know what this will mean to my husband, and I never can tell you how much we shall appreciate your kindness. Packed in all right, Mammy? Come, Edward, son. Good-by!"

They drove away in the silence of utter, astonished joy.

"Your goose-grease worked that miracle, Sally Lou!"

"Nonsense! It was your music that carried the day. But oh, I was so afraid you were going to say no!"

Again Marian's cheeks flushed hot, with queer, vexed shame.

"Well, I did all but refuse. I do hate to play for anybody, especially for strangers."

"Why?" Sally Lou looked hopelessly puzzled. "But when it gives them so much pleasure! And besides, if you want a selfish reason, think how you have helped the boys. There they come now."

With a joyful call Sally Lou waved her scarf to the two figures plodding up the canal road. Then as the flimsy silk could not do justice to her feelings, she caught up little Thomas Tucker and flourished him, a somewhat ponderous banner. The boys hurried to meet them. They listened to the girls' excited tale, at first unbelieving, then with faces of amazement and relief.

"Well, you two girls deserve a diamond medal," declared Burford, heartily. His flushed, perturbed face brightened. "You don't know what a load you have taken off our shoulders." He looked at Roderick. "This is a real sterling-silver lining to our cloud, isn't it, Hallowell? So big that it fairly bulges out around the edges."

"A silver lining to what cloud, Ned?" demanded Sally Lou, promptly curious. "Has something gone wrong with the work? Another break in the machinery? Or trouble among the laborers, or what?"

The two boys looked at each other. Marian studied their faces. Burford was flushed and excited. Rod's stolid, dark face was frowning and intent.

"Own up!" commanded Sally Lou, sternly. "Don't you dare try to keep your dark and dreadful secrets from us!"

The boys laughed. But a quick warning glance flashed from one to the other. Then Burford spoke.

"Don't conjure up so many bogies, Sally Lou. We—we've had bad news from Mr. Carlisle. His doctor told me, over the long-distance, that he would not be able to leave the hospital for a fortnight. And he must not come back on the work for two months at the best."

Sally Lou sobered.

"That is bad news. Poor Mr. Carlisle! But is that all that you have to tell me, Ned?"

Burford jumped. He reddened a little.

"Y-yes, I reckon that's all. You girls will have to excuse us now. Hallowell and I are going back to our boat-house to fix up our March reports."

"Anything we two can help about?"

"You two have put in a mighty good day's work in securing that right of way. Though if you're hunting for a job you might verify the yardage report I left on your desk. Run along now, we're going to be busy."

"Such is gratitude," remarked Sally Lou, with ironic philosophy, as she drove away. "'Run along, we're busy.' Just like a boy!"

Roderick and Ned looked after the buckboard, a little shame-faced at Sally Lou's parting shot.

"Just the same, it does no good to tell them all our ill-luck," said Burford.

"And Marvin's threatening to quit is even worse luck than Carlisle's illness. For his quarrel with the foreman has started half a dozen quarrels among the workmen. Queer, isn't it? A grouch like that will spread like wild-fire through a whole camp."

"Marvin is waiting on the house-boat for us this minute." Ned peered through a telescope of his hands. "Now we'll listen to a tale of woe!"

Marvin did not wait till they could reach the boat. His angry voice rang out across the canal.

"Well, Mister Hallowell! I just got the note that you so kindly sent me. So you and Mr. Burford here think that I ought to stand by the job, hey, 'and not let my private quarrels influence me into deserting the contract?' Thank you, Mister Hallowell, for your kind advice. But I rather guess I can get along without any orders from either of you two swells. No, nor criticisms, either."

"We're not giving orders, and you know that, Marvin." Rod spoke sharply. "But you're never going to throw down your billet just because of a two-cent fuss with the foreman. Think what a hole you'd leave the company in! Carlisle sick, high water holding back our freight, coal shipments stalled, everything tied up——"

"And you're directly responsible to the company for that berm construction," broke in Burford hotly. "You know well enough that we can't watch that work and oversee the ditch-cutting at one and the same time. You're not going to sneak out and play quitter——"

"I'm going to play quitter, as you call it, whenever I choose. That happens to be right now. You two silk-stockings can like it, or lump it. Mulcahy!" he yelled to the camp commissary man, who was just starting down the canal in his launch on his way to Grafton for supplies. "Wait, I'm going with you. Here, take this."

He bolted into his cabin, then dashed back, carrying a heavy suit-case. He heaved it into the launch, then sprang in beside the open-mouthed steward.

"Now, I'm off!" He blazed the words at the two boys staring from the bank. "You can run this contract to suit yourselves, gentlemen. I'll send my resignation direct to the company. I don't have to take orders from you two swells another hour. Good-morning, gentlemen!"

The steward grinned sheepishly at sight of his superior officer behaving himself like a spunky small boy. With a rueful nod toward Roderick he headed the launch down the canal.

Burford expressed himself with some vim.

"Well, he's gone. Good riddance, I call it. The surly hound!"

"I don't know about that," muttered Rod. "It was my fault, maybe, writing him that letter. I was too high and mighty, I suppose."

"You needn't blame yourself," returned Burford bluntly. "We've put up with his insolence and his scamped work and his everlasting wrangling long enough. Mr. Carlisle won't blame us; neither will the company."

"We ought to wire company head-quarters at Chicago, and report just how things stand; then they'll send us a supervising engineer to take Mr. Carlisle's place. And a new scrub, too, instead of Marvin."

"You're right, Hallowell. You wire them straight off, will you? I'm going up to the first lateral to watch the afternoon shift."

Early that evening Roderick received the answering wire from head-quarters. He read it carefully. His sober young face settled into grim lines.

An hour later Burford turned up, tired, but in high spirits, for his dredge had made a flying start on the lateral. Roderick handed him the despatch.

The two boys stared at each other. A deep flush burned to Burford's temples. Rod's hard jaw set.

The message was curt and to the point.

"So we're made jointly responsible. Put in charge by Breckenridge. By Breck the Great, his very self. H'm-m." Burford looked out at the crowded boats, the muddy, half-built levee, stretching far as eye could see; the night shift of laborers, eighty strong, shuffling aboard the quarter-boat for their hot supper; the massed, powerful machinery, stretching its black funnels and cranes against the red evening sky. "So we're the two Grand Panjandrums on this job. Responsible for excavation that means prosperity or ruin for half the farmers in the district, according as we do or don't finish those laterals before the June rise; responsible for a pay-roll that runs over four hundred dollars a day; responsible for a time-lock contract that will cost our company five hundred dollars forfeit money a day for every day that we run over our time limit. Well, Hallowell?"

"It strikes me," said Rod, very briefly, "that it's up to us."

"Yes, it is up to us. But if we don't make good——"

"Don't let that worry you." Rod's jaw set, steel. "Don't give that a thought. We'll make good."