nced, triumphant that
every necessity had been anticipated. "Jimmy Platt, son of an old
neighbor of mine. Fine, smart boy, and knows all about the Westmarsh
proposition. Bless you, I figured on this with him every vacation
during his schooling!"

An hour later, Bobby, Mr. Applerod and the secretly jubilant Jimmy
Platt had sped out Westmarsh way, and were inspecting the hundred and
twelve acres of swamp which the new firm of Burnit and Applerod held
between them.

"It's a fine job," said the young engineer, coveting anew the
tremendous task as he bent upon it an admiring professional eye. "This
time next year you won't recognize the place. It's a noble thing, Mr.
Burnit, to turn an utterly useless stretch of swamp like this into
habitable land. Have you secured the entire tract?"

"Unfortunately, no," Bobby confessed with a frown. "The extreme north
eight acres are owned by another party."

"And when you drain your property," mused Jimmy, smiling, "you will
drain his."

"Not if I can help it," declared Bobby emphatically.

"You must come to some arrangement before you begin," warned the
engineer with the severe professional authority common to the quite
young. Already, however, he was trying to grow regulation engineer's
whiskers; also he immediately planned to get married upon the proceeds
of this big job, which, after years of chimerical dreaming, had become
too real, almost, to be believed. "Perhaps you could get the owner to
stand his proportionate share of the expense of drainage."

Bobby smiled at the suggestion but made no other answer. He knew Silas
Trimmer, or thought that he did, and the idea of Silas bearing a
portion of a huge expense like this, when he could not be forced to
shoulder it, struck him as distinctly humorous.

CHAPTER IX

AGNES DELIVERS BOBBY A NOTE FROM OLD JOHN BURNIT--IN A GRAY ENVELOPE

That night, at the Traders' Club, Bobby was surprised when Mr. Trimmer
walked over to his table and dropped his pudgy trunk and his lean
limbs into a chair beside him. His yellow countenance was creased with
ingratiating wrinkles, and the smile behind his immovable mustache
became of perfectly flawless circumference as his muddy black eyes
peered at Bobby through thick spectacles. It seemed to Bobby that
there was malice in the wrinkles about those eyes, but the address of
Mr. Trimmer was most conciliatory.

"I have a fuss to pick with you, young man," he said with clumsy
joviality. "Yo