“All right; I'll leave word so's they'll be ready. And say, Mr. Halloran, there's another thing. I was going to talk to Mrs. Higginson to-day about--about Mamie and me, but Mamie doesn't want me to. She says her mother wouldn't listen to a word from me. And we've been talking it over, and we wondered if you'd be willing to say a word for us.” He hurried to add: “I know it's sort of a funny thing to ask, but we're just up a tree. If I could see her father I could manage it, but it's pretty tough to go on like this and feel all the while that she's down on me.” Halloran pursed his lips. “It's Mrs. Higginson that you want me to talk to?” “Well, no--not since they're going to let you see him. Now don't you do it, Mr. Halloran, if you'd rather not. I know how------” “If I see a good chance I'll try to put in a word. You won't mind if I go in now and wash up?” “No. Say, it's mighty square of you------” “Never mind that. I suppose I'll see you this evening?” After supper Halloran walked around to the Higginson home and was met at the door by Mamie, blushing and smiling. “Come in, Mr. Halloran,” she said. “Papa's been impatient to see you. You can go right up. Mamma asked me to excuse her to you. She isn't feeling well.” Mr. Higginson, looking ten years older for his long sickness, was propped up in an arm chair. He smiled eagerly at the sight of his manager in the doorway, and held out his hand. “Come in, John,” he said. “I'm glad to see you. Sit down. You've been having a little vacation, haven't you?” [Illustration: 0303] “Yes--I've been East.” “I'm glad of it. You deserve it. Now I want you to tell me all about things.” Halloran hesitated, looking at the white, wrinkled face and wondering if there was yet strength behind it to go into the details of the business. “It's a good deal of a story.” “But it's ended, isn't it? Mamie's right in what she tells me?” “Yes, it's about over.” “And we've won?” “I guess we have. There isn't any combine now.” “And Bigelow-----?” “Bigelow's broken. It was in the paper this morning.” “Broken,” Mr. Higginson repeated, half dazed. “I didn't think our fight could break him.” “We didn't do it all. He's been punctured all around. I guess his Board of Trade deal hit him the hardest.” “What's this I've been hearing about this great lot of lumber in the yards--whose is it? I feel like Rip Van Winkle.” “It's ours. When the trust cut prices we bought in all we could get.” “But--but where did you get the money?” “From the National City.” “And you're going to sell now?” “We've begun already. It will just about cover our losses. I understand Corrigan wants to raise prices a peg or so, but I've been thinking we'll hold the advantage better if we refuse.” “You've had a fire, I understand?” “Yes--didn't amount to much--less than the insurance premium would have cost us.” “Did you ever find out how it started?”