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.