Joan and Co.
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JOAN & CO.
=Books by Frederick Orin Bartlett=
PUBLISHED BY
A HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
JOAN & CO.
ONE YEAR OF PIERROT. Illustrated.
THE TRIFLERS. Illustrated.
THE WALL STREET GIRL. Illustrated.
JOAN OF THE ALLEY. Illustrated.
JOAN & CO.
_By_
FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
_The Riverside Press Cambridge_
COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
TO
R. S. B.
CONTENTS
I. DICKY IS SERIOUS 1
II. JOAN IS BORED 12
III. CHANCE 22
IV. THE DRIVER AND FATE 35
V. BANDAGED 42
VI. WHOSE FAULT? 51
VII. A LETTER 64
VIII. DICKY CALLS 71
IX. THE FIGHTING THINGS 82
X. AT HOME 93
XI. THE SILENT PARTNER 104
XII. JOAN & CO. 118
XIII. A CHALLENGE 134
XIV. PUMPKIN PIE 142
XV. LIKE NAPOLEON 146
XVI. THE DEVONS MANUFACTURING COMPANY 152
XVII. UPTOWN AND DOWNTOWN 161
XVIII. BEEF TEA 173
XIX. PRINCESSES 183
XX. THE FASTER GAME 198
XXI. A CONFESSION 206
XXII. A SALE 212
XXIII. NO TIME TO WASTE 222
XXIV. A VACATION 228
XXV. DANGER 235
XXVI. A NEW STENOGRAPHER 245
XXVII. REAL NEWS 257
XXVIII. THE BIG HOUR 270
XXIX. A STRAIGHT TIP 281
XXX. BANKRUPT 295
XXXI. DISCHARGED 305
XXXII. GOLF 311
XXXIII. THE BIG CHANCE 317
XXXIV. A BUSY MAN 333
XXXV. LOVE 344
XXXVI. THE DAY COMES 351
XXXVII. BACK HOME 364
XXXVIII. THE LAST ACT 373
JOAN & CO.
Joan & Co.
CHAPTER I
DICKY IS SERIOUS
The New York social season in which Miss Joan Fairburne made her début
was not more than half finished before the quizzical smile in the dark
eyes, half closed above a slightly upturned, dainty nose, which gave
her an air of amused boredom at first so fascinating to Dicky Burnett,
became, instead of an occasional expression, rather more frequent than
befitted a young woman of twenty. Also it was rather too inclusive to
be complimentary. As long as it was directed merely in a general way
at the assembled company at _thé dansant_ or box party or cards or
dance, Dicky fell in with it, and, his long legs crossed before him and
his arms folded over his chest, he assumed an air of weary submission
which he was sure established between him and Miss Fairburne a bond of
common lack of interest. But when those same dark eyes with their long
lashes began to turn also in his direction, as he made his gay comments
intended to cause her to nod sympathetically, but which did nothing of
the sort, he grew uncomfortable. It was as if she brushed him into the
pile with the others.
It was the more humiliating because he realized that the girl was
sincere. She was startlingly and delightfully sincere. He had known
her now for two years; first as one of twenty girls at Wellesley when
he was a junior at Harvard; then, when he was a senior, as one of a
half-dozen; then, in these last few months after graduation, when he
was not anything in particular, as one of two or three girls; and
finally, within a week, as _the_ girl.
She did not know this yet, and every time he made up his mind to
tell her he hesitated. This was not because he lacked courage or
experience. He had never actually asked any one to marry him, but he
had come so near it once or twice on especial occasions—such as certain
moonlight nights on that yachting trip he had taken two summers before
with Haywood, and again on a week-end with Benton when he met the
fascinating widow—that he realized that only abstention from the easily
spoken words had saved him. And always by the next morning he was
congratulating himself.
This time, however, it was different; the next morning he was blaming
himself. Reviewing the evening before in the luxurious quiet of the
suite of rooms which ever since he was seventeen had been set apart for
him in his father’s home, he thought of all the things he might have
said to her and had not said, and damned himself for one who had not
made the most of a rare opportunity.
Last night the Devereaux ballroom had been close with the crush
that filled it—it was like a room overcrowded with flowers—and she
had begged for a breath of fresh air. It was January, but Burnett
remembered the way to the little courtyard, and, finding her wrap and
overshoes, had led her to the tiny snow-dusted inclosure beneath the
white stars. He had taken her arm, and they walked back and forth in
the frosty night with the music coming to them muffled. It was a pretty
scene—a niche from another world, bounded by a high wall, with the
subdued light from the big windows cutting yellow across the snow, and
above them the illimitable purple. He had seen her lift her face—her
earnest, eager face, her beautiful half girl, half woman face; her
tender yet haughty face with its keen black eyes and its fine mouth.
She had stood so for a moment very erect like a princess challenging
the stars themselves, and breathing deep of some clearer air above. He
should have seized her then in his arms. He should have made her listen
to his words of love. He should have told her how, with everything
else in the world a man could crave, not having her he had nothing. He
should have told her how now she stood out among all the women in the
world as _the_ woman. And yet he had said nothing. He had watched her
in awe and said nothing. His heart beating in his throat, he had been
as tongue-tied as any freshman. Ass that he was!
Dicky Burnett continued, with variations, to libel himself in this
fashion all the while he dressed. To tell the truth, however, he
by no means looked the part he assigned to himself. He was rather
good-looking from either a man’s or a woman’s point of view. Tall,
lean, clean-cut, with an intelligent and good-humored face suggesting
in the nose and mouth elements of real strength, he was distinguished
in appearance above the average of his fellows. Offhand one would have
said he would make a good soldier. Men would not hesitate to follow him
because he would not hesitate to lead, given a goal he considered worth
reaching. Well, he had one now. Then why the devil—
Burnett was shaving himself with a safety razor and yet he managed to
cut himself slightly just below the left temple. He touched the scratch
with a bit of caustic and enjoyed the smart of it.
At half-past eight he went downstairs to breakfast, which he took
alone because his mother always joined his father, who left promptly
at eight for the offices of the Burnett Manufacturing Company. There
was no need of this early departure, as Dicky regularly informed him;
but the latter only affected to scorn this evident truth. He made a
sort of hobby of keeping to the old habits that had made his business
to-day what it was—the leader in the manufacture of a certain type of
patent-leather finish. His idea since he was forty had been, as he
informed his traveling men at the end of each fiscal year, “to make the
next twelve months the greatest in the history of the company.”
“That’s all very well,” his son observed whenever he found the
opportunity; “but when are you going to get off?”
“About the time I begin to smoke cigarettes,” Burnett senior answered
once, as he lighted a stogie.
Dicky waved responsibility aside with a motion of the hand containing a
fresh cigarette.
“Of course, if you’re going to be stubborn and not take advice—”
“Advice from who?” the elder demanded, utterly disregarding the rule
governing prepositions.
“From me. Hang it, you _are_ putting on weight.”
“What of it?”
“Mullen used to say—”
“Who’s Mullen?”
“Mullen is the ’varsity trainer,” Dicky replied imperturbably. “As I
was observing, when interrupted, Mullen said that any man who took on
weight after forty was running a chance.”
“All right; I’ll take the chance,” Burnett answered grimly.
It was a fact, however, that Dicky really was worried about his
father. He had a genuine love for him and an honest respect for his
opinion on every other subject except work and health. On the latter
subject Dicky actually was qualified to speak with some authority; for
although he had never distinguished himself in athletics he had been
under Mullen for three years as a member of the second baseball team.
After finishing a breakfast of eggs and toast, Burnett enjoyed his
usual walk from his home on Sixty-first Street to the Harvard Club.
Here he dropped in to glance at the morning papers, and then took a
taxi for the factory, reaching there at about half-past ten.
As second vice-president of the company, he had a desk in an office
with Forsythe, the actual vice-president. The latter, an aggressive
man of forty, with hair brushed back in a fashion that gave one the
weird impression that he was facing a strong wind, always glanced
up with an abrupt “Good-morning, Mr. Burnett,” and planned to find
business elsewhere the hour or so that Dicky remained. As a matter of
fact, there was not much for the latter to do. The smoothly running
organization had been built up of men who had learned the business from