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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14756 ***</div>
<h1 class="pg">The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Man in the Twilight, by Ridgwell Cullum</h1>
<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<hr class="full">
<div class="text">
<div class="front">

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<div>
<h2>The Man in the Twilight</h2>
<p>by Ridgwell Cullum</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<h6>G.P. Putnam's Sons<br />

New York and London<br />

The Knickerbocker Press</h6>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<p>To My Nephew</p>
<p>Geoffrey Frederick Burghard</p>
<p>This Book Is Affectionately Dedicated</p>

</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<p>THE AUTHOR TO THE READER</p>


<p>The story of the Sachigo wood-pulp mills, told in this
book, is entirely a work of imagination. But as I have
had to draw very largely on my knowledge of the wood-pulp
trade of Eastern Canada, and the conditions under
which it is carried on, I desire it to be clearly understood
that this story contains no portraiture of any
person or persons, living or dead, and contains no
representation of any business organisation connected
with the trade.</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div class="div" id="toc"><a name="toc_1"></a><h2>Contents</h2><ul class="toc">

<li style="margin: 0em 0em;"><a href="#toc_1">Contents</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 0em;"><a href="#toc_2">Part I</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_3">Chapter I&mdash;The Crisis</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_4">Chapter II&mdash;The Man With The Mail</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_5">Chapter III&mdash;Idepski</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_6">Chapter IV&mdash;The "Yellow Streak"</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_7">Chapter V&mdash;Nancy Mcdonald</a></li>

<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_8">Chapter VI&mdash;Nathaniel Hellbeam</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 0em;"><a href="#toc_9">Part II&mdash;Eight Years Later</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_10">Chapter I&mdash;Bull Sternford</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_11">Chapter II&mdash;Father Adam</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_12">Chapter III&mdash;Bull Learns Conditions</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_13">Chapter IV&mdash;Drawing The Net</a></li>

<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_14">Chapter V&mdash;The Progress Of Nancy</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_15">Chapter VI&mdash;The Lonely Figure</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_16">Chapter VII&mdash;The Skandinavia Moves</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_17">Chapter VIII&mdash;An Affair Of Outposts</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_18">Chapter IX&mdash;On The Open Sea</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_19">Chapter X&mdash;In Quebec</a></li>

<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_20">Chapter XI&mdash;Drawn Swords</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_21">Chapter XII&mdash;At The Chateau</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_22">Chapter XIII&mdash;Deepening Waters</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_23">Chapter XIV&mdash;The Planning Of Campaign</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_24">Chapter XV&mdash;The Sailing Of The Empress</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_25">Chapter XVI&mdash;On Board The Empress</a></li>

<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_26">Chapter XVII&mdash;The Lonely Figure Again</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_27">Chapter XVIII&mdash;Bull Sternford'S Vision Of Success</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_28">Chapter XIX&mdash;The Hold-Up</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_29">Chapter XX&mdash;On The Home Trail</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_30">Chapter XXI&mdash;The Man In The Twilight</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_31">Chapter XXII&mdash;Dawn</a></li>

<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_32">Chapter XXIII&mdash;Nancy</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_33">Chapter XXIV&mdash;The Coming Of Spring</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_34">Chapter XXV&mdash;Nancy's Decision</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_35">Chapter XXVI&mdash;The Message</a></li>
<li style="margin: 0em 2em;"><a href="#toc_36">Chapter XXVII&mdash;Lost In The Twilight</a></li>
</ul></div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<p>Also By Ridgwell Cullum</p>

<p>THE DEVIL'S KEG</p>
<p>THE HOUND FROM THE NORTH</p>
<p>THE BROODING WILD</p>
<p>THE NIGHT RIDERS</p>
<p>THE WATCHERS OF THE PLAINS</p>

<p>THE COMPACT</p>
<p>THE TRAIL OF THE AXE</p>
<p>THE ONE WAY TRAIL</p>
<p>THE SHERIFF OF DYKE HOLE</p>
<p>TWINS OF SUFFERING CREEK</p>
<p>THE GOLDEN WOMAN</p>
<p>THE WAY OF THE STRONG</p>
<p>THE LAW BREAKERS</p>
<p>THE SON OF HIS FATHER</p>

<p>THE MEN WHO WROUGHT</p>
<p>THE PURCHASE PRICE</p>
<p>THE TRIUMPH OF JOHN KARS</p>
<p>THE LAW OF THE GUN</p>
<p>THE HEART OF UNAGA</p>
</div>

</div>

<div class="body">

<hr class="doublepage">

<div>
<h2>THE MAN IN THE TWILIGHT</h2>

</div>

<div>
<a name="toc_2"></a>
<h2>Part I</h2>


<div>

<a name="toc_3"></a>
<h3>Chapter I&mdash;The Crisis</h3>

<p>They sat squarely gazing into each other's eyes. Bat
Marker had only one mood to express. It was a mood
that suggested determination to fight to a finish, to
fight with the last ounce of strength, the last gasp of
breath. He was sitting at the desk, opposite his friend
and employer, Leslie Standing, and his small grey eyes
were shining coldly under his shaggy, black brows. His
broad shoulders were squared aggressively.</p>

<p>There was far less display in the eyes of Leslie Standing.
They were wide with a deep pre-occupation. But
then Standing was of very different type. His pale face,
his longish black hair, brushed straight back from an
abnormally high forehead, suggested the face of a
student, even a priest. Harker was something of the
roused bull-dog, strong, rugged, furious; a product of
earth's rough places.</p>

<p>"Give us that last bit again."</p>

<p>Bat's tone matched his attitude. It was abrupt, forceful,
and he thrust out a hand pointing at the letter from
which the other had been reading.</p>

<p>Standing's eyes lit with a shadow of a smile as he
turned again to the letter.</p>

<div class="display">
<p>"There's just one thing more. It's less pleasant, so I've
kept it till the last. Hellbeam is in Quebec. So is his agent&mdash;the
man Idepski. My informant tells me he saw the latter
leaving the steam-packet office. It suggests things are on
the move your way again. However, my man is keeping tab.
I'll get warning through at the first sign of danger."</p>
</div>



<p>Standing looked up. His half smile had gone. There
was doubt in his eyes, and the hand grasping the letter
was not quite steady. But when he spoke his tone was
a flat denial of the physical sign that Bat had been quick
to observe.</p>

<p>"Charlie Nisson's as keen as a needle," Standing said.
"His whisper's a sight more than another fellow's shout."</p>

<p>Bat regarded the letter. He watched the other lay
it aside on a pile of papers. He was thinking, thinking
hard. And his thought was mostly of the man whose
shaking hand betrayed him. Suddenly an explosive
movement brought his clenched fist down on the table
with a thud.</p>

<p>"Hell!" he cried, in a fury of impatience. "What's
the use? The danger sign's hoisted. I know it. You
know it. Nisson knows it. Well? Say, Hellbeam's
been in Quebec a score of times since&mdash;since&mdash;. That
don't worry a thing. No. He's got big finance in the
Skandinavia bunch in Quebec. We know all about that.
It's Idepski. Idepski ain't visiting the packet office for
his health. He ain't figgerin' on a joy trip up the Labrador
coast. No. That's the signal, sure. Idepski at the
packet office. Their darn mud-scow mostly runs here,
to Sachigo, and there ain't a thing along the way to
interest Idepski&mdash;but Sachigo. We'll be getting word
from Charlie Nisson in some hurry."</p>

<p>"Yes, we'll get it in a hurry."</p>

<p>Standing nodded. He was transparently perturbed.
Bat watched him closely. Then, in a moment, his mind
was made up.</p>

<p>"See right here, Les," he cried, in a tone he vainly
endeavoured to restrain. "I've figgered right along this
thing would need to happen sometime. You can't beat a
feller like Hellbeam all the time and leave him without
a kick. It don't need me to tell you that. But I want
to get a square eye on the whole darn game. Maybe you

don't get all you did to that guy when you cleaned him
out of ten million dollars on Wall Street seven years ago.</p>

<p>"Say, you were a mathematical professor at a Scottish
University before you reckoned to buck the game on
Wall Street, weren't you?" he went on, more moderately.
He forced a grin into eyes that were scarcely accustomed.
"One of those guys who mostly make two and two into
four, and by no sort of imagination can cypher 'em into
five. I know. You figgered out that Persian Oil gamble
to suit yourself, and forgot to figger that Hellbeam was at
the other end of it. No. The other feller don't cut
any ice with you while you're playing around with
figgers. It's only afterwards you find that figgers ain't
the whole game, and wrostling ten million dollars out of
one of the biggest railroad kings and bank presidents
in America has something to it liable to hand you nightmare.
Well, you got that nightmare. So did I. You've
had it for most the whole of the last seven years. But
it ain't a nightmare now. It's dead real, which is only
a way of sayin' Hellbeam's set his dogs on a hot trail,
and we're the poor darn gophers huntin' our holes right
up here on the Labrador coast.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes. I know what you'd say. You've said it
all before. Hellbeam hasn't a kick comin'. You were
both operators on Wall Street. You were both playing
the financial game as all the world knows it. You beat
him on a straight financial fight. It was just a matter
of the figgers which it's your job to play around with.</p>

<p>"Now I'm just going to say the thing that's in my
mind," he went on, his tone changing again to something
clumsily persuasive. "You can take it easy from me.
You see, you picked me up when I was down and out.
You passed me a hand when there wasn't a hope left
me but a stretch of penitentiary. I fought that darn
lumber-jack to a finish, which is mostly my way in things.
And it was plumb bad luck that he went out by accident.

Well, it don't matter. It was you who got me clear away
when they'd got the penitentiary gates wide open waiting
for me, and it's a thing I can't never forget. I'm out for
you all the time, and I want you to know it when I'm
telling you the things in my mind. Hellbeam's got a
mighty big kick coming. It's the biggest kick any feller
of his sort can have. He's the money power of Sweden.
He's one of the big money powers of the States. He lives
for money and the power it hands him. Well? This is
how I figger. Just how you played him up I can't say.
But it's his job to juggle around with figgers same as
it's yours, and if you beat him out of ten million dollars
you must have played a slicker hand than him. All of
which says you must have got more to windward of the
law than him&mdash;and he knows it. Why, it's easy. The
feller who has the money power to hold the crown jewels
of Sweden from falling into the hands of yahoo politicians
out to grab the things they haven't the brains to
come by honestly, is mostly powerful enough to buy up
the justice he needs, or any other old thing. Hellbeam
means to get his hands on you. He's going to get you
across the darn American border. And when he's got
you there he's going to send you down, by hook or crook,
to the worst hell an American penitentiary can show
you. It's seven years since you hurt him. But that ain't
a circumstance. If it takes him seventy-seven he'll never
quit your trail."</p>

<p>Bat paused, and, for a moment, turned from the wide
black eyes he had held seemingly fascinated while he
was talking. It almost seemed that the emotions stirring
in his broad bosom were too overpowering for him,
and he needed respite from their pressure. But he came
again. He was bound to. It was his nature to drive to
the end at whatever cost to himself.</p>

<p>"I'm handing you this stuff, Les, because I got to,"
he went on. "It ain't because I'm liking it. No, sir.

And if you've the horse sense I reckon you have, you'll
locate my object easy. Those words of Nisson's have
told us plain we got to fight. We got to fight like hell.
And the time's right now. Oh, yes, we're going to fight.
You an' me, just the same as we've fought a heap of
times before. There ain't a feller I know who's got
more fight in him than you&mdash;when you feel that way.
But&mdash;well, say, you just need a boost to make you feel
like it. You ain't like me who wants to fight most all
the time. No. Well&mdash;I'm going to hand you that boost."</p>

<p>"How?"</p>

<p>Standing's unruffled interrogation was in sharp contrast
with the other's earnestness. There was a calm
tolerance in it. The tolerance of a temperament given to
philosophy rather than passion. Perhaps it was a mask.
Perhaps it was real. Whatever it was, Bat's next words
sent the hot fire of a man's soul leaping into his eyes.</p>

<p>"When your boy's born, what then?"</p>

<p>"Ah!"</p>

<p>Bat's fists clenched at the sound of the other's ejaculation.
It was the nervous clenching at a sound that
threatened danger. Swift as a shot he followed up his
challenge.</p>

<p>"Your pore gal's down there in Quebec hopin' and
prayin' to hand you that boy child you reckon Providence
is going to send you. Well, when he gets along, and
Hellbeam's around&mdash;and&mdash;"</p>

<p>Bat broke off. Standing had risen from his chair.
He had moved swiftly, his lean figure propelled towards
the window by long, nervous strides. His voice came
back to the man at the table, while his eyes gazed down
upon the waters of Farewell Cove, over the widespread
roofs of the great groundwood mill, the building of which
was the result of his seven years' sojourn on the Labrador
coast.</p>

<p>"You've handed it me, Bat," he said, in a quick,

nervous way. "I'll fight. I know. You guess I'm
scared at Nisson's news. Maybe I am, I don't know.
I'm not a man of iron guts. Maybe I never shall be.
It's hell to me to feel a shadow dogging my every step.
Yes, you're right. It's been a nightmare, and now&mdash;why,
now it's real. But get your mind at rest. I'm going to
fight Hellbeam all I know. And with the thought of
Nancy, and the boy she's going to give me, I don't need
a thing else. No."</p>

<p>"That's how I figgered."</p>

<p>Bat's delight softened his hard eyes for the moment,
and his attitude relaxed as Standing went on.</p>

<p>"You reckon I've no imagination," he said. "You
reckon I'm just a calculating machine that can juggle
figures better than any other machine." He shook his
dark head. "I guess you don't do me full justice.
When I quit the university on the other side it was
because I had built myself up a big dream. I crossed to
the United States with my imagination full of the things
I hoped to do. It was the chance I looked for. And I
found it in Hellbeam, and the Persian Oils it was his
hobby to manipulate. I jumped in and grabbed it with
both hands. And, as you say, I beat him at his own
game. But that was only part of my dream. The next
part you also know, though you choose to think it was
only as a refuge from Hellbeam that I came here to
Sachigo. I admit circumstances have modified my
original dream, but then I dreamed my first dream as a
man unmarried. Now I have added to it in the thought
of the son my wife's going to present me with. After
beating Hellbeam and making the fortune I desired, I
didn't flee here to the coast of Labrador as a mere refuge
from the man you tell me I robbed. No. This place
served its purpose that way, it's true. But it was the
place I selected long since for the fulfilment of the second
part of my dream.</p>


<p>"Bat&mdash;Bat, old friend. It isn't I who lack imagination.
It's you, with your bull-dog, fighting nature.
Years ago, way back there in my rooms at the university,
I took up a study that interested me mightily. It was
when the European war was on, and was doing its best
to unship the brains of half the world. I took it up to
relieve myself of the strain of things. And it inspired
me with a desire to achieve something that looked well-nigh
impossible. I was watching the Swedes, the
Skandinavians generally, and I saw them getting fat and
rich by holding the rest of the world to ransom for paper
and wood pulp&mdash;the stuff we call here groundwood. It
was then that my dream was born. Oh, yes, it's changed
a bit since then. But not so much. All I learned at
that time told me there was only one country in the
world that was due to hold the world's paper industry,
and that country was yours&mdash;Canada. The illimitable
forests of the country are one of the most amazing features
of it. The water power&mdash;yes, and even the climate.
But I saw all Skandinavia's advantage. Hitherto they've
had a complete monopoly. Geographically they were
in the thick of the world. The whole darn thing was
in their lap. But they have a weakness which you
could never find in this country. Their forests are being
eaten into. Their lumber is receding farther and farther
from their mills. Their labour is difficult. Well, I
set to work with a map and those figures which you
guess are my strong point. I played around with all the
information of Quebec and Labrador I could get hold
of. Then, after worrying around awhile, I realised
that, with only eighteen hundred sea miles dividing
Britain from Labrador, given the cheapness of power,
sufficiently extensive plant and forest limits and adequate
shipping, I could put groundwood on the European
market in favourable competition with Skandinavia. By
this means I could build up an industry which means the

wealth of Canada for the Canadians, and establish the
paper industry of the world within the heart of our
British Empire. So it was Farewell Cove and Sachigo
on the coast of Labrador for me. And the locality had
nothing to do with the man who guesses I robbed him."</p>

<p>It was Bat who was held silent now. He nodded his
head at the narrow back that remained turned on him.</p>

<p>"Well, since then," Standing went on, "seven years
have passed. Circumstances have forced modifications
on my plans. Hellbeam is the circumstance. You say
we are the gophers hunting our holes. Maybe you're
right. Anyway Hellbeam's shadow is haunting me.
It's haunting me in that I know&mdash;<em>I</em> feel&mdash;that the fulfilment
of this dream is not for me. Why?"</p>

<p>He turned abruptly from the window. His pale face
was even paler under the excitement burning in his
dark eyes. He thrust out a hand, a delicate, long-fingered
hand pointing at his friend and faithful
servant.</p>

<p>"Say, you reckon I've no imagination. Listen. I
see the time coming when all you say of Hellbeam's
purpose will be fulfilled, and my dream shattered and
tumbling about my head. If Hellbeam succeeds, can
I let this thing happen? Can I sacrifice this great purpose
in such a personal disaster? No. My hope is in
my little wife, that dear woman who's given herself to
me with the full knowledge of the threat hanging over
my future. She and I have dreamed a fresh dream.
And she's even now fulfilling her part of that dream. Yes,
you're right. I'm going to fight for our dream with
every ounce that's in me. I know my failings. I'm
at heart a coward. But I'm out to fight though the gates
of hell are agape waiting for me. And when I'm beaten,
and Hellbeam's satisfied his kick, my boy, my little son,
will step into my shoes and carry on the work till it's
complete. Oh, yes, I say 'my son.' Nancy will see to

it that she gives me a son. And, by God, how I will
fight for him!"</p>

<p>Bat was silent before the tide of his friend's passion.
He listened to the strange mixture of clear thinking and
unreasoning faith with a feeling of something like awe
of a man whom he had long since given up attempting
to fathom. He was a rough lumberman, a mill-boss,
who, by sheer force, had raised himself from the dregs of
a lumber camp to a position where his skill and capacity
had full play. And in his utter lack of education it was
impossible that he should be able to fathom a nature so
complex, so far removed from his sphere of culture.</p>

<p>His devotion to the ex-university professor was based
on a splendid gratitude such as only the native generosity
of his temper could bestow. The man had once served
him in his extremity. Even to this day he never quite
realised how the thing had come about, and Leslie Standing
refused to talk of it. All he knew was that as mill-boss
of an obscure mill, far in the interior of Quebec,
away down south of Sachigo, he had fought one of
those sudden battles with a lumber-jack which seem to
spring up without any apparent reason. And in the
desperateness of it, in the fierce height to which his
battling temper had arisen, he had killed his man. Even
so, these things were sufficiently common for little notice
of the matter to have been taken. But it so happened
that the dead man was the hero of the workers of the
mill, and Bat Harker was their well-hated boss. Forthwith,
in their numbers, the workers at once determined
that Bat should pay the penalty. They seized and imprisoned
him, while they sent down country to get him
duly tried and condemned. It was then the miracle
happened.</p>

<p>It happened in the night, with the appearance of a
lean, tall man, with a high forehead, and smooth black
hair, and the clothes of civilisation to which Bat Harker

was little enough accustomed. He entered his prison
room seemingly without question. He told Bat that if
he cared to get away he had the means awaiting him
outside. And the prisoner who had visions of hanging,
or at best, a long term of imprisonment, snatched at the
helping hand held out. And Leslie Standing had brought
him in safety straight to Farewell Cove, where together,
with the vast capital which the former had wrung from
the Swedish financier, Nathaniel Hellbeam, they had
undertaken the creation of the great mill of Sachigo.</p>

<p>Bat, in his wonder at the apparent ease of his rescue,
had sought information. But little enough had been
forthcoming. Leslie Standing had only smiled in his
pensive fashion.</p>

<p>"Money," he had said calmly. "Just money. It can
do most things."</p>

<p>That was all. And thenceforward the subject had
been taboo. Even after seven years of intimate relations,
Bat was still mystified on the subject, he was still
guessing.</p>

<p>Now, as he listened to his friend's expressions of faith,
so strangely jumbled with calculated purpose, he sat at
the table groping helplessly. Suppose&mdash;suppose that
faith were to be shattered. What then? His mind
was concerned, deeply concerned. And he dared not put
his fears into words.</p>

<p>Standing came back to his chair.</p>

<p>"Here, we've talked these things enough," he said.
"You've got my word. Just don't worry a thing. If
Hellbeam's dogs get around, well&mdash;we're here first. All
I want is news of Nancy. And that'll be along any old
time now. When I get that&mdash;."</p>

<p>The door of the office was thrust open, and an olive-hued
face appeared. It was the clerk who worked in
direct contact with the owner of the Sachigo mill. He
was one-third nigger, another French Canadian, and the

rest of him was Indian. It was a combination that
appealed to the man who employed him.</p>

<p>"They've 'phoned it through from the wireless at
the headland, Boss," the man said without preamble,
pushing a sheet of paper into Leslie Standing's hand.</p>

<p>He had gone as swiftly and silently as he came, and
the door was closed softly behind him.</p>

<p>Standing was gazing across at Bat. He had not even
glanced at the message.</p>

<p>"I'd like to bet," he cried, his eyes alight with a smiling
excitement. Then he shook his head. "No. I
wouldn't bet on it. It's too sacred. Nancy&mdash;my
Nancy&mdash;."</p>

<p>He broke off, and glanced down at the paper. In a
moment the smile fell from his eyes. When he looked
up it was to flash a keen glance at the rugged face beyond
the desk.</p>

<p>"Here, listen," he cried, with a sharp intake of breath.</p>

<p>"Watch <em>Lizzie</em> for U.G.P. Signed&mdash;Nisson."</p>

<p>Bat nodded.</p>

<p>"U.G.P. That's Union Great Peninsular Railroad.
That's Hellbeam's. It means&mdash;."</p>

<p>"It means Hellbeam's men are aboard. The packet
<em>Lizzie</em> is due at our quay in less than an hour."</p>

<p>Standing tore the message into small fragments and
dropped them into the wastepaper basket beside him.
Only was his emotion displayed in the deliberate care
with which he reduced the paper to the smallest possible
fragments.</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_4"></a>
<h3>Chapter II&mdash;The Man With The Mail</h3>


<p>The calm waters of Farewell Cove lay a-shimmer under
the slanting rays of the sun. A wealth of racing white
cloud filled the dome of the summer sky, speeding under

the pressure of a strong top wind. Even the harsh world
of Labrador was smiling under the beneficence of the
brief summer season.</p>

<p>Leslie Standing stood for a moment before passing
down the winding woodland trail on his way to the
water-front below. The view of it all was irresistible to
him in his present mood, and he feasted his eyes hungrily
while the resolve he had taken yielded an inflexible
hardening.</p>

<p>Bat Harker was less affected by the things spread out
before him. He was concerned only for the mood of the
man beside him. So he waited with such patience as
his hasty nature could summon.</p>

<p>"It's all good, Bat, old friend," Standing said, after a
moment's silent contemplation. "It's too good to lose.
It's too good for us to stand for interference from&mdash;Nathaniel
Hellbeam."</p>

<p>Bat grunted some sort of acquiescence. He was gazing
steadily out over the spruce belt which covered the
lower slopes of the hillside. His keen deep-set eyes were
on the shipping lying out in the cove, watching the fussy
approach of the bluff packet boat.</p>

<p>It was a scene of amazing natural splendour which
the works of man had no power to destroy. Farewell
Cove was a perfect natural harbour, deep-set amidst
surrounding, lofty, forest-clad hills. It was wide and
deep, a veritable sea-lake, backing inland some fifteen
miles behind the wide headland gateway to the East,
which guarded its entrance from the storming Atlantic.
Its shores were of virgin forest, peopled with the delicate-hued
spruce, and all the many other varieties of soft,
white, long-fibred timber demanded in the manufacture
of the groundwood pulp needed for the world's paper
industry.</p>

<p>Far as the eye could see, in every direction, it was the
same; forest and hill. And, in the heart of it all, the

great watercourse of the Beaver River debouched upon
the cove which linked it with the ocean beyond. It was a
world of forest, seeming of limitless extent.</p>

<p>But the feast that had inspired Leslie Standing's words
was less the banquet which Nature had spread than the
things which expressed the labours he and his companion
had expended during the past seven years. He was
concerned for the endless forests. He appreciated the
great waterfall to the west, where the Beaver River fell
off the highlands of the interior and precipitated itself into
the cove below. These were the two things in Nature
he had demanded to make his work possible. For the
rest, the rugged immensity of scenery, the mighty contours
of the aged land about him, the vastness of the
harsh primordial world, so inhospitable, so forbidding
under the fierce climate which Nature had imposed, made
no appeal. It served, and so it was sufficient. The
lights and shades under the summer sunlight were full of
splendour. No artist eye could have gazed upon it all
and missed its appeal. But these men lived amidst it
the year round, and they had learned something of the
fear which the ruthless northland inspires. To them
the beauty of the open season was a mockery, a sham,
the cruel trap of a heartless mistress.</p>

<p>It was on the wide southern foreshore, just below
where the falls of the Beaver River thundered into the
chasm which the centuries of its flood had hewn in
the granite rock, that Standing had founded his great
mill. It lay there, in full view from the hillside, amidst
a tangle of stoutly made roads, where seven years ago
not even a game track had existed. He had set it up beside
his water-power, and had given it the name which belonged
to the ruined trading post he had found on the
southern headland of the cove when first he had explored
the region. Sachigo. A native, Labrador word which
meant "Storm." The trading post had since been re-built

into a modern wireless station, and so had become no
longer the landmark it once had been. But Standing's
whim had demanded the necessity for preserving the
name, if only for the sake of its meaning.</p>

<p>In seven years the translation of the wilderness had
been well-nigh complete. Its vast desolation remained.
That could never change under human effort. It was
one of the oldest regions of the earth's land, driven and
beaten and desolated under a climate beyond words in
its merciless severity. But now the place was peopled.
Now human dwellings dotted the forest foreshore of the
cove. And the latter were the homes of the workers
who had come at the mill-owner's call to share in his
great adventure.</p>

<p>Then there was shipping in the cove. A fleet of
merchant shipping awaiting cargoes. There was a built
inner harbour, with quays, and warehouses. There were
travelling cranes, and every appliance for the loading
of the great freighters with all possible dispatch. There
were light railways running in every direction. There
were sheltering "booms" in the river mouth crammed
with logs, and dealt with by an army of river men
equipped with their amazing peavys with which they
thrust, and rolled, and shepherded the vast mass of hewn
timber towards the slaughterhouse of saws. Then, immediately
surrounding the mill, there was a veritable
town of storehouses and offices and machine shops of
every description. There were power-houses, there were
buildings in the process of construction, and the laid
foundations of others projected. It was a world of active
human purpose lost in the heart of an immense solitude
which it was nevertheless powerless to disturb.</p>

<p>"Yes, it's all too good to have things happen, Bat,"
Standing went on presently. "Hark at the roar of the
falls. What is it? Five hundred thousand horsepower
of water, summer and winter. Listen to the drone of

the grinders." He shook his head. "It's a great song,
boy, and they never get tired of singing it. There's
only thirty-six of 'em at present. Thirty-six. We'll
have a hundred and thirty-six some day. Look down
there at the booms." He stood pointing, a tall, lean
figure on the hillside. "Tens of thousands of logs, and
hundreds of men. We'll multiply those again and again&mdash;one
day. It's fine. The freighters lying at anchor
awaiting their cargoes. Some day we'll have our own
ships&mdash;a big fleet of 'em. See the smoke pennants floating
from our smoke stacks. They're the triumphant
pennants of successful industry, eh? We can't have
too many such flags flying. One day we'll have trolley
cars running along the shores of the cove to bring the
workers in to the mill. It'll be like a veritable Atlantic
City. Oh, it's a great big dream. There's nothing
amiss. No."</p>

<p>"Only the <em>Lizzie</em> getting in."</p>

<p>Bat was without apparent appreciation. He was
thinking only of the message they had received, and
the threat it contained.</p>

<p>Standing glanced round at the sturdy figure beside
him. A half smile lit his sallow features. Then he
turned again and sought out the tubby vessel approaching
the wharf below. But it was only for a moment. Some
subtle thought impelled him, and he glanced back at the
house on the hillside he had just left, the house he had
erected for the woman whose devotion had taught him
the real meaning of life.</p>

<p>It was a long, low, rambling, gabled building. It was
an extensive timber-built home with a wide verandah
and those many vanities and conceits of building that
would never have been permitted had it been intended
for bachelordom. He remembered how Nancy and he
had designed it together. He remembered the delight
with which they had looked forward to its completion, and

ultimately their boundless joy in the task of its furnishing.
He remembered how Nancy had insisted that it should
contain not only their home, but his own private office,
from which he could control the great work he had set his
hand to. It had been her ardent desire to be always
near him, always there to support him under the burden
of his immense labours. And remembering these things
a fierce desire leapt within him, and he turned again to
the man at his side.</p>

<p>"Yes, she's getting in, Bat," he said. "But I just
wanted to get a peek at things. Well, I've seen all I
want, old friend. Now I'm ready. Fight? Oh, yes,
I'm ready to fight. Come on." And he laughed as he
hurried down the woodland trail to the water-side.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>The two men had reached the quay-side, which was
lined with bales of wood-pulp stacked ready for shipment.
Farther down its length the cranes were rattling their
chains, swinging their burdens out over the holds of the
vessel taking in its moist cargo. The stevedores were
vociferously busy, working against time. For, in the
brief open season, time was the very essence of the success
demanded for the mills. The noise, the babel of it all
was usually the choicest music to Standing and his
manager.</p>

<p>But just now they were less heeding. Their eyes were
turned upon the small steamer plugging its deliberate
way over the water towards them. It was a small,
heavily-built tub of a vessel calculated to survive the
worst Atlantic storms.</p>

<p>Bat's face was without any expression of undue emotion.
But the hard lines about his clean-shaven mouth
were sharply set. Standing was asurge with an excitement
that fired his dark eyes. His wide-brimmed hat was
thrust back from his forehead, and he stood with his
hands thrust deeply in the pockets of his moleskin

trousers. His nervous fingers were playing with loose
coins and keys which they found irresistible.</p>

<p>The <em>Lizzie</em> came steadily on.</p>

<p>"We'll know the whole game in minutes now."</p>

<p>Standing could keep silent no longer. Bat nodded.</p>

<p>"Yep."</p>

<p>Orders from the bridge of the packet boat rang out
over the water. Then Standing went on.</p>

<p>"I want to find Idepski aboard," he said. He was
scarcely addressing his companion. "It would be good
to get Master Walter here, fifty-three degrees north."
A short, hard laugh punctuated his words. Then he
turned abruptly. "Who's running No. 10 camp?"</p>

<p>Just for an instant Bat withdrew his gaze from the
approaching vessel. He flashed a keen look of enquiry
into the eyes of the questioner.</p>

<p>"Ole Porson," he said.</p>

<p>"I thought so. He's a good boy. He'll do."</p>

<p>Standing nodded. The cold significance of his tone
was not lost on his companion. Maybe Bat understood
the thing that was passing in the other's mind. At any
rate he turned again to the broad-beamed tub steaming
so busily towards them.</p>

<p>"I see old Hardy on the bridge," Standing went on a
moment later. Then he added: "Fancy navigating the
Labrador coast for forty years. No, I couldn't do it.
I wouldn't have the&mdash;guts."</p>

<p>Bat still remained silent. He understood. The other
was talking because it was impossible for him to refrain.</p>

<p>"They're standing ready to make fast," Standing said
sharply. He drew a quick breath. Then his manner
changed and his words came pensively. "Say, it's a queer
life&mdash;a hell of a life. The sea folk, I mean. It's about
the worst on earth. Think of it, cooped within those
timbers that are never easy till they lie at anchor in the
shelter of a harbour. I'd just hate it. Their life? What

is it? It's not life at all. Hard work, hard food, hard
times, and hard drinking&mdash;when they're ashore&mdash;most
of them. I think I can understand. They surely need
something to drown the memory of the threat they're
always living under. No, they don't live. They exist.
Here, let's stand clear. They're coming right in."</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>The bustle of landing was in full swing. Even with so
small a craft as the <em>Lizzie</em> there was commotion. Orders
flew from lip to lip. Creaking cables strained at unyielding
bollards. Gangways clattered out from deck, and
ran down on to the quay with a crash. Hatches were
flung open and the steam winches rattled incessantly.</p>

<p>Standing and Harker were looking on from a vantage
point well clear of the work of unloading. The captain
of the vessel, "Old Man" Hardy, was with them. The
seaman was beaming with that satisfaction which belongs
to the master when his vessel is safely in port.</p>

<p>"Oh, I guess it ain't been too bad a trip," he was
saying. "Takin' the 'ins' with the 'outs,' I'd say it was
a fairish passage, which is mostly as it should be, seein'

it's my last voyage in the old barge. Y'see, you folks are
kind of robbing me of this blessed old kettle," he explained,
with a grin that lit up the whole of his mahogany
features. "Y'see we're loaded well-nigh rail under with
stuff for your mill, which don't leave a dog's chance for
the other folks along the coast. The Company guesses
they got to put on a two thousand tonner. The <em>Myra</em>.
I haven't a kick comin'. She's all a seaboat. Still, I'm
kind of sorry, don't you know. I've known the <em>Lizzie</em>

since she came off the stocks, which is mostly forty years,
and we're mighty good friends, which ain't allus the way.
I'd say, too, I'm getting old for a change. Still&mdash;."</p>

<p>Standing shook his head.</p>

<p>"What do they say? 'Hardy' by name, 'Hardy' by
nature. The toughest and best sailorman on the Labrador

coast! Well, I'm sorry you don't feel good about it.
But," he added with a smile, "it means a good deal to
us getting a bigger packet."</p>

<p>Captain Hardy nodded.</p>

<p>"Thankee kindly. It's good to know folks reckon a
fellow something more than just part of a kettle of scrap
like this old packet. But I'd have been glad to finish
my job with her. Still, times don't stand around even
in Labrador." He finished up with something in the
nature of a sigh.</p>

<p>The work going forward was full of interest. But it
was not the work that held Standing, or the watchful
eyes of Bat Harker. Their sole interest was in the personality
of the crew and the five passengers, mostly
"drummers," from the great business houses of Quebec
and Montreal, who were struggling to land their trunks
of samples and get them off to the offices of the mill so
as to complete their trade before the <em>Lizzie</em> put to sea
again. Not one of these escaped their observation.</p>

<p>"You seem to keep much the same crew right along,
Hardy," Standing said pleasantly. "I suppose they like
shipping with a good skipper. I seem to recognise most
of their faces."</p>

<p>"Oh, yes. They're mostly the same boys," Hardy
agreed, obviously appreciating the compliment. "But
I guess I lost four boys this trip. They skipped half an
hour before putting to sea. It happens that way now
and then, if they're only soused enough when they get
aboard. They're a crazy lot with rye under their belts.
I just had to replace 'em with some dockside loafers, or
lie alongside another day."</p>

<p>Standing nodded. A man was moving down the gangway
bearing a large, grey, official-looking sack on his
shoulders. He was a slight, dark man with a curiously
foreign cast about his features.</p>

<p>"The mail?" he enquired. And a curious sharpness

flavoured his demand. Then he added, with studied indifference.
"One of your&mdash;dockside loafers?"</p>

<p>Captain Hardy laughed. He continued to laugh as
he watched the unhandiness of the man staggering down
the gangway under his burden.</p>

<p>"Yep. The mail," he said. "And I'd hate to set
that feller to work on a seaman's job. He's about as
unhandy as a doped Chinaman. I'd say Masters is playing
safe keeping him from messing up the running gear
while we're discharging. Say, get a look at it."</p>

<p>A great laugh accompanied the old man's words as the
foreign-looking creature tripped on the gangway, and
only saved himself from a bad fall by precipitating his
burden upon the quay. There was no responsive laughter
in Standing. And Bat Harker's features remained rigidly
unsmiling. Standing turned sharply.</p>

<p>"Maybe you can spare that boy to run those mails
up to my office," he said. "It's a good healthy pull
up the hill for him, and my folks are full to the neck
with things. I'd be glad."</p>

<p>"Sure he can." Captain Hardy was only too delighted
to be able to oblige so important a customer of his company.
He promptly shouted at the landing officer.</p>

<p>"Ho, you! Masters! Just let that darn Dago tote
them mails right up to Mr. Standing's office. He ain't
no sort of use out of hell down here&mdash;anyway."</p>

<p>The mate's reply came back with an appreciative grin.</p>

<p>"Ay, sir," he cried, and forthwith hurled the order at
the mail carrier with a plentiful accompaniment of
appropriate adjectives.</p>

<p>"Thanks," Standing turned away. His smiling
luminous eyes were shining. "I'll get right along up,
Captain. There's liable to be things need seeing to in
that mail before you pull out. You'd best come along,
too, Bat," he added pointedly.</p>

<p>Standing hurried away. A sudden fierce passion was

surging through his veins. Nisson was right. He knew
it&mdash;now. And in a fever of impatience he was yearning
to come to grips with those who would rob him of the
hopes in which his whole being was bound up.</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_5"></a>
<h3>Chapter III&mdash;Idepski</h3>


<p>The two men reached the office on the hillside minutes
before the mail carrier. They took the hill direct, passing
hurriedly through the aisles of scented woods which
shadowed its face. The other, the stranger, was left
with no alternative but the roadway, zigzagging at an
easier incline.</p>

<p>Standing passed into the house. His confidential man
of many races looked up from his work. The quick,
black eyes were questioning. He was perhaps startled
at the swift return of the man whom he regarded above
all others.</p>

<p>Standing spoke coldly, emphatically.</p>

<p>"There's a man coming along up. He's a sailorman,
and he's dressed in dirty dungaree, and he's carrying a
sack of mail. Now see and get this clearly, Loale. It's
important. It's so important I can't stand for any sort
of mistake. When he comes you've got to send him
right into my room with the mail-bag. I want him to
take it in <em>himself</em>. You get that?"</p>

<p>The half-breed's eyes blinked. It was rather the
curious attitude of an attentive dog. But that was always
his way when the master of the Sachigo Mill spoke to
him.</p>

<p>Pete Loale was quite an unusual creature. He looked
unkempt and unclean, with his yellow, pock-marked skin,
and his clothes that would have disgraced a second-hand
dealer's stores of waste. But for all his lack in these

directions there was that in the man which was more
than worth while. Out of his black eyes looked a world
of intelligence. There was also a resource and initiative
in him that Standing fully appreciated.</p>

<p>"Sure I get that," he said simply. Then he repeated
in the manner of a child determined to make no mistake.
"He's to take that mail-bag right into your office&mdash;<em>himself</em>."</p>

<p>"That's it. Don't knock on my door. Don't let
him think there's a soul inside that room. Just boost
him right in. You get that?"</p>

<p>The half-breed nodded.</p>

<p>"I'll just say: 'Here you! Just push that darn
truck right inside that room, an' don't worry me with it,
I'm busy.' That how?" The man hunched his slim
shoulders into a shrug.</p>

<p>"See you do it&mdash;just that way," Standing said. Then
he turned to Bat. "We'll get inside," he went on. "He'll
be right along."</p>

<p>They passed into the office. The door closed behind
them and Standing moved over to his seat at the crowded
desk.</p>

<p>"Wal?"</p>

<p>Bat was still standing. He failed to grasp his friend's
purpose. His wit was unequal to the rapid process of
the other's swiftly calculating mind.</p>

<p>Standing littered his writing-pad with papers. He
picked up a pen and jabbed it in the inkwell. Then he
flung it aside and adopted a fountain-pen which he drew
from his waistcoat pocket. His eyes lit with a half-smile
as he finally raised them to the rugged face before him.</p>

<p>"You sit right over there by that window, Bat," he
said easily. "If you get a look out of it you'll be amazed
at the number of things to interest you." He nodded as
Bat moved away with a grin and took the chair indicated.
"That's it. Just sit around, and you won't see or even

hear the fellow with the mail fall in through the door.
And maybe, sitting there, you'll want to smoke your
foul old pipe. Sort of pipe of peaceful meditation. Yes,
I'd smoke that pipe, old friend, but you can cut out the
peaceful meditation. You need to be ready to act quick
when I pass the word. It's going to be easy. So easy
I almost feel sorry for&mdash;Idepski."</p>

<p>"It <em>is</em>&mdash;Idepski?" Bat filled and lit his pipe.</p>

<p>"It surely is. No other. And&mdash;I'm glad. Now we'll
quit talk, old friend. Just smoke, and look out of that
window, and&mdash;think like hell."</p>

<p>Bat's understanding of his friend was well founded.
The extreme nervous tension in Standing was obvious.
It was in the wide, dark eyes. It was in the constant
shifting of the feet which the table revealed. For the
time, at least, the cowardice Standing claimed for himself
was entirely swamped. He was stirred by the headlong
excitement of battle in a manner that left Bat more than
satisfied.</p>

<p>Once Bat turned from his contemplation of the piled-up
country beyond the valley. It was at the sound of
Standing's fiercely scratching pen. And his quick gaze
took in the luxury of the setting for the little drama he
felt was about to be enacted.</p>

<p>It was a wide, pleasant room, built wholly of red pine,
and polished as only red pine will polish. There was a
thick oriental carpet on the floor, and all the mahogany
furniture was upholstered in red morocco. There were
a few carefully selected pictures upon the walls, hung
with an eye to the light upon each. But it was not an
extravagant room. It suggested the homeland of Scotland,
from which the owner of it all hailed. The Canadian
atmosphere only found expression in the great steel
stove which stood in one corner, and the splendid timber
of which the walls of the room were built.</p>

<p>But Bat's eyes swiftly returned to their allotted task,

and his reeking pipe did its duty with hearty goodwill.
There was the sound of strident voices in the outer room,
and the rattle of the door handle turning with a wrench.</p>

<p>The door swung open. The next moment there was
the sound of a sack pitched upon the soft pile of the
carpet. And through the open doorway the harsh voice
of Loale pursued the intruder in sharp protest.</p>

<p>"Say, do you think you're stowing cargo in your
darn, crazy old barge?" he cried. "If you fancy throwing
things around you best get out an' do it. Guess
you ain't used to a gent's office, you darn sailorman&mdash;"</p>

<p>But the door was closed with a slam and the rest of the
protest was cut off. Bat swung about in his chair to
discover a picture not easily to be forgotten.</p>

<p>Standing had left his desk. He was there with his
back against the closed door, and his lean figure towered
over the shorter sailorman in dungaree, who stood gazing
up at him questioningly. The sight appealed to the grim
humour of the manager. He wanted to laugh. But he
refrained, though his eyes lit responsively as he watched
the smile of irony that gleamed in the mill-owner's eyes.</p>

<p>"Well, well." Standing's tone lost none of the aggravation
of his smile. "Say, I'd never have recognised
you, Idepski, if it hadn't been that I was warned you'd
shipped on the <em>Lizzie</em>." He laughed outright. "I can't
help it. You wouldn't blame me laughing if you could
see yourself. Last time I had the pleasure of encountering
you was in Detroit. That's years ago. How many?
Nearly seven. It seems to me I remember a bright-looking

'sleuth,' neat, clean, spruce, with a crease to his
pant-legs like a razor edge, a fellow more concerned for
his bath than his religion. Say, where did you raise all
that junk? From old man Hardy's slop-chest? Hellbeam
makes you work for your money when you're driven to
wallowing in a muck-hole like the <em>Lizzie</em>. It isn't worth
it. You see, you've run into the worst failure you've

made in years. But I only wish you could see the sorry
sort of sailorman you look."</p>

<p>Standing's right hand was behind him, and Bat heard
the key turn in the lock of the door. He waited. But the
trapped agent never opened his lips.</p>

<p>Idepski had seen Standing and the other down at the
quay-side. He had left them there when he started up
the hill. Yet&mdash;A bitter fury was driving him. He
realised the trap that had been laid. He realised something
of the deadly purpose lying behind it. So he
remained silent under the scourge that was intended to
hurt.</p>

<p>For all the filthy dungarees tucked into the clumsy
legs of high leather sea boots, the dirty-coloured handkerchief
knotted about his neck, the curious napless cloth
cap with its peak pulled down over one eye, that curious
cap which seems to be worn by no one else in the world
but seafaring men, it was easy enough for Bat to visualise
the dapper picture, that other picture of Walter Idepski
that Standing had described. The man possessed a well-knit,
sinuous figure which his dungarees could not
disguise. His alert eyes were good-looking. And, cleaned
of the black, stubbly growth of beard and whisker, an
amazing transformation in his looks would surely have
been achieved. But Bat's interest was less with these
things than with the possible reaction the man might
contemplate.</p>

<p>For the moment, however, the situation was entirely
dominated by Standing, who displayed no sign of relaxing
his hold upon it. He flung out a pointing hand, and
Bat saw it was grasping the door key.</p>

<p>"You'd best take that chair, Idepski," he ordered.
"You've opened war on me, but there's no need to keep
you standing for it. You'll take that seat against my
writing table. But first, Bat, here, is going to relieve
you of the useless weapons I see you've got on you. Get

those, Bat! There's a gun and a sheath knife, and they're
clumsily showing their shape under his dungarees."</p>

<p>It was the word the mill-manager had awaited. He
was on his feet in an instant. Idepski stirred to action.
He turned to meet him.</p>

<p>"Keep your darn hands off!" he cried fiercely.
"By&mdash;"</p>

<p>His hand had flown to his hip. But he was given no
time. Bat was on him like an avalanche, an avalanche
of furious purpose. The fighting spirit in him yearned,
and in a moment his victim was caught up in a crushing
embrace. There was a short, fierce struggle. But
Idepski was no match for the super lumber-jack.</p>

<p>While Bat held on, the tenacious hands of Standing
tore the weapons he had discovered from their hiding
places. Then in a moment Idepski found himself sprawling
in the chair he had been invited to take.</p>

<p>Standing's appreciation was evident as he watched the
man draw a gold cigarette case from the breast pocket
of his overalls as though nothing had occurred. It was
an act of studied coolness that did not for a moment
deceive, but it pleased. However, his next effrontery
pleased the mill-owner still more.</p>

<p>"Say, boys," Idepski observed quietly, as he opened
the case and extracted a cigarette. "I guess I'm kind o'
glad you left me this. But I don't figger you're out for
loot, anyway." Then he glanced up at the man watching
him so interestedly. "Maybe you'll oblige me with a
light," he demanded, and cocked up the cigarette he had
thrust between his lips with an exaggerated impertinence.</p>

<p>The action was quite irresistible and Standing nodded.</p>

<p>"Sure," he said smilingly, and picked up the matchbox
lying on his table.</p>

<p>He struck a match and held it while the other obtained
the required light. Then he passed round the desk to
the seat he had originally occupied.</p>


<p>Idepski leant back in his chair, and luxuriated in a
deep inhalation of smoke. Bat watched him from his
place at the window. Standing placed the revolver and
sheath knife he had taken possession of in a drawer in the
desk, and closed it carefully.</p>

<p>"Well, what's the play?" Idepski addressed himself
solely to Standing. "I guess you've said a deal calculated
to rile, and your pardner's done more," he went on.
"Still&mdash;anyway we're mostly men and not school-kids.
What's the play?"</p>

<p>Standing, too, was leaning back in his chair.</p>

<p>"It's easy," he said, after a moment's thoughtful
regard. Suddenly he drew his chair up to the table,
and, leaning forward, folded his arms upon the littered
blotting pad in front of him. "It's seven years since
Hellbeam&mdash;blazed the war trail," he said deliberately.
"I know he's persistent. He's angry. And he's the
sort of man who doesn't cool down easily. But it's taken
him seven years to locate me here. And during all that
time I've been looking on, watching his every move."
He shook his head. "He's badly served, for all his
wealth. He was badly served from the start. You
should never have let me beat you in that first race across
the border. I got away with every cent of the stuff,
and&mdash;you shouldn't have let me. You certainly were at
fault. However, it doesn't matter."</p>

<p>Idepski removed his cigarette from his lips and dropped
the ash of it in the waste basket.</p>

<p>"No. It doesn't matter, because I'll get you&mdash;in the
end," he retorted coldly.</p>

<p>"Perhaps."</p>

<p>Standing shrugged. But there was no indifference in
his eyes. The acid sharpness of Idepski's retort had
driven straight home. If the agent failed to detect it,
the watchful eyes of Bat missed nothing. To him the
danger signal lay in the curious flicker of his friend's

eyelids. The sight impelled him. He jumped in and
took up the challenge in the blunt fashion he best
understood.</p>

<p>"Guess you've got nightmare, boy," he said, with a
sneering laugh. "I ain't much at figgers, but it seems
to me if it's taken you seven years to locate us here, it's
going to take you seventy-seven gettin' Standing back
across that border. Work it out."</p>

<p>Idepski had no intention of being drawn. He replied
without turning.</p>

<p>"You think that?" he said easily. "Say, don't worry
a thing; I'm satisfied. Just as sure as the sun'll rise
to-morrow, Hellbeam'll get Leslie Martin, or Standing
as he chooses to call himself now, just where he needs
him. And if I know Hellbeam that'll be in the worst
penitentiary the United States can produce. Guess you're
going to wish you hadn't, Mister&mdash;Standing."</p>

<p>Perhaps Idepski knew his man, and understood the
weakness of which Bat was so painfully aware. Perhaps
he was just fencing, or even putting up a bluff in view
of his own position. Whatever his purpose the effect
of his added threat was instant.</p>

<p>Standing's luminous eyes hardened. The muscles of
his jaws gripped. He sat up, and his whole attitude
expressed again that fighting mood in which Bat rejoiced.</p>

<p>"That's all right," he said sharply. "That's just talk.
You've come a hell of a long way with those boys of
yours down at the <em>Lizzie</em> to worry out some body-snatching.
That's all right. I don't just see how you've
figgered to do it. But that's your affair. The point is,
I'm going to do the body-snatching instead of you. And
it's quite clear to me how I intend doing it. You're
going a trip&mdash;right off. And it's a trip from which you
won't get a chance of getting back to Quebec under this
time next year. You see, winter's closing down in a
month, and Labrador and Northern Quebec aren't wholesome

territory for any man to set out to beat the trail in
winter, especially with folks around anxious to stop him.
You reckon I'm to pass a while in a States penitentiary.
Well, meanwhile you're going to try what this country
can show you in the way of a&mdash;prison ground. And
you're going to try it for at least a year. You'll be
treated white. But you'll need to work for your grub
like other folks, and if you don't feel like working you
won't eat. We're fifty-three degrees north here, and our
ways are the tough ways of the tough country we live
in. There's no sort of mercy in this country. Bat, here,
is going to see you on your trip, and, if you take my
advice, you won't rile Bat. He's got it in him, and in
his hands, to make things darn unpleasant for you.
You've a goodish nerve, and maybe you've goodish sense.
You'll need 'em both for the next twelve months. After
that it's up to you. But if you try kicking between now
and then, why&mdash;God help you."</p>

<p>Standing beckoned Bat from his seat at the window.
He held up the door key.</p>

<p>"You best take this," he said. "No. 10. And he
starts out right away. He needs to be well on the road
before the <em>Lizzie</em> puts to sea."</p>

<p>Bat took the key. He moved away and unlocked
the door, and remained beside it grimly regarding the
man who had listened without comment to the sentence
passed on him, without the smallest display of emotion.
Idepski was smoking his second cigarette.</p>

<p>"No. 10. I s'pose that's one of your lumber camps."
Idepski looked up from his contemplation of the cigarette.
His dark eyes were levelled at the man across the writing
table. "A tough place, eh? or you wouldn't be sending
me there." He laughed in a fashion that left his eyes
coldly enquiring.</p>

<p>Standing inclined his head. He was without mercy,
without pity.</p>


<p>"It's a tough camp in a tough country," he said deliberately.
"It's a camp where you'll get just as good a
time as you choose to earn. The boy who runs it learnt
his job in the forests of Quebec, and you'll likely understand
what that means. Well, you're going right off
now. But there's this I want to tell you before I see
the last of you&mdash;for a year. I know you, Idepski. I
know you for all you are, and all you're ever likely to
be. You're an unscrupulous blackmailer and crook.
You're a parasite battening yourself on the weakness of
human nature, taking your toll from whichever side of
a dispute will pay you best. You're taking Hellbeam's
money in the dispute between him and me, and you'll
go on taking it till you pull off the play he's asking, or
get broken in the work of it. That's all right as far as
I'm concerned. You've nerve, you've courage, or you
wouldn't be the crook you are. I guess you'll go on
because I've no intention of competing with Hellbeam
for your services. But I want you to understand clearly
you've jumped into a mighty big fight. This is a country
where a fight can go on without the prying eyes of the
laws of civilisation peeking into things. And by that I
take it you'll understand I reckon to make war to the
knife. You came here prepared to use force. That's all
right. We shan't hesitate to use force on our side. And
we're going to use it to the limit. If peace is only to be
gained at the cost of your life you're going to pay that
cost&mdash;if it suits me. That's all I've to say at the moment.
For the present, for a year, you'll be safely muzzled.
You see, I don't need to worry with those boys you
brought with you. You best go along with Bat now.
He'll fix things ready for your trip."</p>

<p>The dismissal was complete, and Bat was prompt to
accept his cue. He moved towards the man smoking at
the table, much in the fashion of a warder advancing to
take possession of his prisoner after sentence of the court.</p>


<p>It was at that moment that the cold mask of indifference
fell from the agent. Hardy as he was, the contemplation
of his momentary failure, which was about to
cost him twelve months of hardship in one of the roughest
lumber camps in Labrador, robbed him of something of
that nerve which was his chief asset. He glanced for
the first time at the burly figure of Bat. He contemplated
the rugged features of the man whose battling instinct
was his strongest characteristic. He read the purpose
in the grim set of the square jaws, and in the unyielding
light of the grey eyes peering out from under shaggy
brows. And that which he read reduced him to a feeling
of impotence. He flung a look of fury and hate at the
man behind the desk.</p>

<p>"Maybe that's all you've to say," he cried, his jaws
snapping viciously over his words, his eyes fiercely
alight. "You think you've won when you've only gained
a moment's respite. You can't win. You don't know.
Oh, yes. I guess you can send me along out of the way.
You can do just all you reckon. And if it suits you, you
can shoot me up or any other old thing. You forget
Hellbeam. You tell me I'm a crook and a blackmailer,
you give me credit for nerve and courage. That's all
right. You think these things, and I don't have to worry.
But you've robbed Hellbeam. You've robbed him like
any common 'hold-up'&mdash;of millions. It's not for you to
talk of crooks and blackmailers. The laws of the States
are going to find you the crook, and Hellbeam'll see they
don't err for leniency. Hellbeam'll get you as sure as
God. You've got months to think it over, and when
you've done I reckon you won't fancy shouting. Well,
I'm ready for this joy spot you call No. 10. I'm not
going to kick. I've sense enough to know when the
drop's on me. But you'll see me again. Oh, yes, you'll
see me again because you're not going to shoot me up.
For all your talk you haven't the nerve. You'll see me

again, and when you do&mdash;well, don't forget Hellbeam's
at the other end of this business. Guess I'm ready."</p>

<p>The man stood up. And as he stood his eyes looked
squarely into those of Bat.</p>

<p>"Get on with it," he cried, and flung the remains of
his lighted cigarette on the pile of the carpet, and trod
it viciously underfoot with his heavy sea boot.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Standing was alone. He was alone with the thoughts
his encounter with Idepski had inspired. Judging by
the expression of his reflective eyes they were scarcely
those of a man confident of victory. Had Bat been
there to witness, the task he was at that moment engaged
upon would surely have been robbed of half its satisfaction.</p>

<p>But Bat had gone. And with him had gone the man
who was to learn the rigours of a Labrador winter under
conditions of hardship he had not yet realised. Meanwhile
Standing was free to think as his emotions guided
him, with no watchful eyes to observe.</p>

<p>"You'll see me again, and when you do&mdash;well, don't
forget Hellbeam's at the other end of this business."</p>

<p>The words haunted. The threat of them appealed
to an imagination that was a-riot.</p>

<p>After a time Standing stirred restlessly. He sat up
and brushed the litter of paper aside. Then he leant back
in his chair and his fine eyes were lit with an agony of
doubt and disquiet. The poisonous seed of the agent's
retort had fallen upon fruitful soil.</p>

<p>But after awhile the tension seemed to relax, and his
gaze wandered from the grey daylight beyond the window
and was suddenly caught and held by the mail bag, still
lying where the man had flung it. It was like the swift
passing of a summer storm. The man's whole expression
underwent a complete transformation. The mail!
The mail from Quebec&mdash;unopened!</p>


<p>He sprang to his feet. For the moment Idepski, Hellbeam,
everything was forgotten. His thought had
bridged the miles between Farewell Cove and the ancient
city of the early French, Nancy! That woman&mdash;that
devoted wife who was striving with all the power of a
frail body to serve him. There would be a letter in that
mail from Nisson, telling him&mdash;Yes. There might
even be a letter from Nancy herself.</p>

<p>The sack was in his hands. He had broken the seals.
He shook out the contents upon the floor. A packet of
less than half a hundred letters, and the rest was an
assortment of parcels of all shapes and sizes. It was the
letter packet that interested him, and he untied the string
that held it.</p>

<p>A swift search produced the expected. Standing looked
for the handwriting of Charles Nisson, the shrewd, obscure
lawyer in the country town of Abercrombie. He had
never yet failed him. He would not be likely to. A
bulky letter remained in his hand. The others lay
scattered broadcast upon the desk.</p>

<p>For some moments he held the letter unopened. The
lean fingers felt the bulk of the envelope, while feverish
eyes surveyed, and read over and over the address in the
familiar small, cramped handwriting. The impulse of
the moment was to tear open the letter forthwith, to
snatch at the tidings he felt it to contain. But something
deterred. Something left him doubting, hesitating. It
was what Bat had called his "yellow streak." Suppose&mdash;suppose&mdash;But
with all his might he thrust his fears
aside. He tore off the outer cover and unfolded the closely
written pages.</p>

<p>Long, silent moments passed, broken only by the
shuffling of the sheets of the letter as he turned them.
Not once did he look up from his reading. Right through
to the end, the dreadful, bitter end, he read the hideous
news his loyal friend had to impart. Twice, during the

reading, the sharp intake of breath, that almost whistled
in the silence of the room, told of an emotion he had no
power to repress, and at the finish of it all the mechanically
re-folded page's fell from shaking, nerveless fingers upon
the littered desk.</p>

<p>His eyes remained lowered gazing at the fallen letter.
His hands remained poised where the letter had fallen
from them. His face had lost its healthful hue. It was
grey, and drawn, and the lips that parted as he muttered
had completely blanched.</p>

<p>"Dead!" he whispered without consciousness of
articulation. "Dead! Nancy! My boy! Both! Oh,
God!"</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_6"></a>
<h3>Chapter IV&mdash;The "Yellow Streak"</h3>


<p>The grey, evening light was significant of the passing
season. A chilly breeze whipped about the faces of the
men at the fringe of the woods. They were resting after
a long tramp of inspection through the virgin forests.
It was on a ledge, high up on the hillside of the northern
shore of the cove, where the ground dropped away in
front of them several hundreds of feet to the waters
below. Behind them was a backing of standing timber
which sheltered them from the full force of the biting
wind.</p>

<p>It was nearly a week since Bat Harker had returned
from his mission to No. 10 Camp. He had returned
full of satisfaction at the completion of his task, and
comforted by the knowledge that the horizon of the
mill had been cleared of threatening clouds for at least
the period of a year. Then he encountered the ricochet
of the blow which Fate had dealt his friend and
employer.</p>


<p>It had been within half an hour of his return, while
yet the stains and dust of his journey remained upon
him, while yet he was yearning for that rest for his
body to which it was entitled.</p>

<p>Bat had concluded the report of his journey, and
the two men were closeted together in the office on
the hillside. The lumberman had had no suspicion of
the thing that had happened in his absence, and
Standing had given no indication. Standing seemed
unchanged. There had been the customary smile of welcome
in his eyes. There had been the cordial handshake
of friendship. Maybe Standing had talked less,
and the searching questions usual in him had not been
forthcoming. Maybe there was a curiously tired,
strained look in his eyes. But that was all.</p>

<p>At the conclusion of his report Bat had bent eagerly
forward over the desk which stood between them. His
hard eyes were smiling. His whole manner was that
of a man anticipating something pleasant.</p>

<p>"Say, Les," he cried, "guess you've maybe some
news for me, too. It's more than a month since&mdash;and
you were expecting&mdash;Things all right?"</p>

<p>Standing reached towards the drawer beside him, and
as he did so there was a sound. It was a curious, inarticulate
sound that Bat interpreted into a laugh. The
other opened the drawer and drew out the folded pages
of a letter. These he passed across the table, and his
eyes were without a shadow of the laugh which Bat
thought he had heard.</p>

<p>"Best read it," he said. "Take your time. I'll just
finish these figures I'm working on."</p>

<p>It was the curious, cold tone that stirred Bat to his
first misgiving.</p>

<p>He took the letter. There were pages of it. He set
them in order and commenced to read. And meanwhile
Standing remained apparently engrossed in his figures.</p>


<p>He read the letter through. He read it slowly,
carefully. Then, like the other had done, the man to
whom it was addressed, he read it a second time. And
as he read every vestige of his previous satisfaction
passed from him. A cold constriction seemed to fasten
upon his strong heart. And a terrible realisation of
the tragedy of it all took possession of him. At the
end of his second reading he handed the letter back to
its owner without comment of any sort, without a word,
but with a hand that, for once in his life, was
unsteady.</p>

<p>"That was in the mail Idepski brought," Standing
said, as he returned the letter to its place, and shut and
locked the drawer.</p>

<p>"You remember?" he went on, pointing. "He flung
it down there. Just by the door. Yes, it was just
there, because I stood against the door, and was only
just clear of it."</p>

<p>He paused and his hand remained pointing at the
spot where the mail bag had lain. It was as if the
spot held him fascinated. Then his arm lowered
slowly, and his hand came to rest on the edge of the
table, gripping it with unnecessary force.</p>

<p>"Seems queer," he went on, after a while. Then he
shook his head. "Think of it. Nancy&mdash;my Nancy.
Dead! She died giving birth to my boy. And he&mdash;he
was stillborn. Why? I&mdash;I can't seem to realize it.
I&mdash;don't&mdash;" He paused, and a strained, hunted look
grew in his eyes. "No. It's easy. It's just Fate.
That's it. There's no escape."</p>

<p>He drew a deep breath and one lean hand smoothed
back his shining black hair. Then his eyes came back
to the face of the man opposite, and the agony in them
was beyond words. After a moment their terrible expression
became lost as he bent over his work. "I'm
glad you're back, Bat," he said, without looking up.</p>


<p>"There's a hell of a lot of orders to get out. We're
running close up to winter."</p>

<p>The lumberman understood. At a single blow this
man's every hope had been smashed and ground under
the heel of an iron fate. The wife, the woman he had
worshipped, had given her life to serve him, and with her
had gone the man-child, about whom had been woven
the entire network of a father's hopes and desires.</p>

<p>A week had passed since Bat had witnessed the voiceless
agony of his friend. A week of endless labour
and unspoken fears. He knew Standing as it is given
to few to know the heart of another. His sympathy
was real. It was of that quality which made him
desire above all things to render the heartbroken man
real physical and moral help. But no opening had
been given him, and he feared to probe the wound
that had been inflicted. During those first seven
days Standing seemed to be obsessed with a desire to
work, to work all day and every night, as though he
dared not pause lest his disaster should overwhelm
him.</p>

<p>Now it was Sunday. Night and day the work had
gone on. No less than ten freighters had been loaded
and dispatched since Bat's return, and only that morning
two vessels had cast off, laden to the water-line, and
passed down on the tide for the mouth of the cove. At
the finish of the midday meal Standing had announced
his intentions for the afternoon.</p>

<p>"We need to get a look into the lumber on the north
side, Bat," he said. "You'd best come along with me.
How do you think?"</p>

<p>And Bat had agreed on the instant.</p>

<p>"Sure," he said. "There's a heap to be done that
way if we're to start layin' the penstocks down on that
side next year."</p>

<p>So they had spent the hours before dusk in a

prolonged tramp through the forests of the Northern
shore. And never for one moment was their talk and
apparent interest allowed to drift from the wealth of
long-fibred timber they were inspecting.</p>

<p>But somehow to Bat the whole thing was unreal. It
meant nothing. It could mean nothing. He felt like
a man walking towards a precipice he could not avoid.
He felt disaster, added disaster, was in the air and
was closing in upon them. He knew in his heart that
this long, weary inspection, all the stuff they talked, all
the future plans they were making for the mill was
the merest excuse. And he wondered when Standing
would abandon it and reveal his actual purpose. The
man, he knew, was consumed by a voiceless grief.
His soul was tortured beyond endurance. And there
was that "yellow streak," which Bat so feared. When,
when would it reveal itself? How?</p>

<p>Now, at last, as they rested on the ledge overlooking
the mill and the waters of the cove, he felt the moment
of its revelation had arrived. He was propped against
the stump of a storm-thrown tamarack. Standing was
stretched prone upon the fallen trunk itself. Neither
had spoken for some minutes. But the trend of
thought was apparent in each. Bat's deep-set, troubled
eyes were regarding the life and movement going on
down at the mill, whose future was the greatest concern
of his life. Standing, too, was gazing out over the
waters. But his darkly brooding eyes were on the splendid
house he had set up on the opposite hillside. It was
the home about which his every earthly hope had centred.
And even now, in his despair, it remained a magnet for
his hopeless gaze.</p>

<p>Winter was already in the bite of the air and in the
absence of the legions of flies and mosquitoes as well
as in the chilly grey of the lapping waters below them.
It was doubtless, too, searching the heart of these men

whose faces gave no indication of the sunlight of
summer shining within.</p>

<p>"Bat!"</p>

<p>The lumberman turned sharply. He spat out a stream
of tobacco juice and waited.</p>

<p>"Bat, old friend, it's no use." Standing had swung
himself into a sitting posture. He was leaning forward
on the tree-trunk with his forearms folded across
his knees. "We've done a lot of talk, and we've searched
these forests good. And it's all no use. None at all.
There's going to be no penstocks set up this side of the
water next year&mdash;as far as I'm concerned. I've done.
Finished. Plumb finished. I'm quitting. Quitting it all."</p>

<p>The lumberman ejected a masticated chew and took
a fresh one.</p>

<p>"You see, old friend, I'll go crazy if I stop around,"
Standing went on. "I've been hit a pretty desperate
punch, and I haven't the guts to stand up to it. When
it came I set my teeth. I wanted to keep sane. I reminded
myself of all I owed to the folks working for
us. I thought of you. And I tried to bolster myself
with the schemes we had for beating the Skandinavians
out of this country's pulp-wood trade. Yes, I tried.
God, how I tried! But my guts are weak, and I know
what lies ahead. For nearly six weeks I've been working
things out, and for a week I've been wondering
how I should tell you. I brought you here to tell you.</p>

<p>"I want you to understand it good," he went on,
after the briefest pause. "I can't stand to live on in
the house that Nancy and I built up. Every room is
haunted by her. By her happy laugh, and by memories
of the hours we sat and talked of the boy-child we'd
both set our hearts on. I just can't do it without going
stark, staring, raving mad. I can't."</p>

<p>"That's how I figgered. I've watched it in you, Les.
Tell me the rest."</p>


<p>Bat chewed steadily. It was a safety-valve for his
feelings.</p>

<p>"The rest?" Standing turned to gaze out at the
house across the water. "If it weren't for you, Bat,
I'd close right down. I'd leave everything standing
and&mdash;get out," he went on slowly. "The whole thing's
a nightmare. Look at it. Look around. The forests
of soft wood. The township we've set up. The
harnessed water power. That&mdash;that house of mine. It's
all nightmare, and I don't want it. I'm afraid. I'm
scared to death of it."</p>

<p>Bat moved away from the stump he had been propped
against. He passed across to the edge of the ledge and
stood gazing down on the scenes below.</p>

<p>"You needn't worry for me," he said. "It don't
matter a cuss where or how I hustle my dry hash. I
was born that way. Fix things the way you feel. Cut
me right out."</p>

<p>The man's generosity was a simple expression of
his rugged nature. His love of that great work below
him, in the creation of which he had taken so great a
part, was nothing to him at that moment. He was
concerned only for the man, who had held out a succouring
hand, and led him, in his darkest moments, to safety
and prosperity.</p>

<p>Standing shook his head at the broad back squared
against the grey, wintry sky.</p>

<p>"I didn't mean it that way, old friend," he said.</p>

<p>Bat swung around. His grey eyes were wide. His
face seemed to have softened out of its usual harsh cast.</p>

<p>"But I do, Les," he cried. "You don't need to figger
a thing about me. You're hurt, boy. You're hurt
mighty sore. Cut me right out of your figgers, and
do the things that's goin' to heal that sore. If there's
a thing I can do to help you, why, I guess I'd be glad
to know it."</p>


<p>For a few moments Standing remained silent.
Perhaps he was pondering upon what he had to say.
Perhaps he was simply gaining time to suppress the
emotions which the selflessness of the other had inspired.</p>

<p>"Here," he cried at last, "I best tell you the whole
story that's in my mind. I told you I've been figuring
it out. Well, it's figured to the last decimal. You
think you know me. Maybe you do. Maybe you know
only part of the things I know about myself. If you
knew them all I'd hate to think of the contempt you'd
have to hand me. You see, Bat, I'm a coward, a terrible
moral coward. Oh, I'm not scared of any man living
when it comes to a fight. But my mind's full of ghosts
and nightmares ready to jump at me with every doubt,
every new effort where I can't figure the end. Years
ago, when I was a youngster, I yearned for fortune.
And I realised that I had it in me to get it quick by
means of that crazy talent for figures you reckon is so
wonderful. I got the chance and jumped, for it. But
every step I took left me scared to the verge of craziness.
When I hit up against Hellbeam I got a desire to beat
him that was irresistible, and I jumped into the fight
with my heart in my mouth. It was easy&mdash;so easy.
Hellbeam was a babe in my hands. I could play with
him as a spider plays with its victim, and when, like a
spider, I'd bound him with my figures, hand and foot,
I was free to suck his blood till I was satiated. I did
all that, and then my nightmare descended upon me
again. You know how I fled with Hellbeam's hounds
on my heels. I was terrified at the enormity of the
thing I'd done. I could have stood my ground and
beaten him&mdash;and them. But moral cowardice overwhelmed
me and drove me to these outlands. God,
what I suffered! And after all I haven't the certainty
that I deserved it."</p>


<p>Bat came back to his stump and stood against it while
Standing passed a weary hand across his forehead.</p>

<p>"The happenings since then you know as well as I
do. I don't need to talk of them. I mean, how I met
and married Nancy, when she was widow of that no-account
McDonald feller, the editor of <em>The Abercrombie
Herald!</em>"</p>

<p>Bat nodded.</p>

<p>"Yes, sure, I know, Les. When you married
Nancy an' made her thirteen-year-old daughter&mdash;your
daughter."</p>

<p>"Yes. I'd almost forgotten. Yes, there's her girl,
Nancy. She's still at school. Well, anyway, you know,
these things, all of 'em. But what you don't know is
that you&mdash;you Bat, old friend, are solely responsible
for all the work that's being done here. You, old
friend, are responsible that I've enjoyed seven years of
something approaching peace of mind. You, you with
your bulldog fighting spirit, you with your hell-may-care
manner of shouldering responsibility, and facing
every threat, have been the staunch pillar on which I
have always leant. Without you I'd have gone under
years ago, a victim of my own mental ghosts. No, no,
Bat," he went on quickly, as the lumberman shook his
head in sharp denial, "it's useless. I know. Leaning
on you I've built up around me the reality of that
original dream, with the other things I've now lost, and
with every ounce in me I've worked for its fulfilment.</p>

<p>"Well, what's the logic of it all?" he continued, after
a moment's pause. "Yes, it is the logic of it. You
may argue that for seven years I've been doing a big
work and there's no reason, in spite of what's happened,
that I should now abandon it all. But there is. And
in your strong old heart you'll know the thing I say is
true&mdash;if cowardly. During seven years, or part of
them, I've known a happiness that's compensated for

every terror I've endured. Nancy's been my guardian
angel, and the boy, that was to be born, was the beacon
light of my life. My poor little wife has gone, and that
beacon light, the son we yearned for, has been snuffed
right out. And in the shadows left I see only the groping
hand of Hellbeam reaching out towards me. In
the end that hand will get me, and crush the remains
of my miserable life out. I know. Just as sure as God,
Hellbeam's going to get me."</p>

<p>The sweat of terror stood on the man's high forehead,
and he wiped it away.</p>

<p>Bat flung a clenched fist down upon the tree stump.</p>

<p>"You're wrong, Les. You're plumb wrong. If it
means murder I swear before God Hellbeam'll never
lay hands on you. Hellbeam? Gee! Let him set his
nose north of 'fifty' and I'll promise him a welcome so
hot that'll leave hell like a glacier. As for his darn
agents? Why, say, I want to feel sorry for 'em 'fore
they start. Idepski's hating himself right&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I know," cried Standing impatiently. "I know it
all. Everything you've said you mean, but&mdash;it won't
save me. But we can leave all that. There's the other
things. Why should I go on living here, working,
slaving, haunted by the terror of Hellbeam? With my
boy, my wife, to fight for it was worth all the agony.
But without them&mdash;why? Why in the name of sanity
should I go on? To beat the Skandinavians out of
Canada's trade, and claim it all for a country that doesn't
care a curse? To build up a great name that in the
end must be dragged in the mire of public estimation?
Not on your life, Bat. No, no. I'm going to cut
adrift. I'm going to quit. I'm going to lose myself
in these forests, and live the remaining years of my
life free to run to earth at the first shot of the hunter's
gun. It's all that's left me&mdash;as I see it."</p>

<p>"And all this?" Bat said, reaching out one great

hand in the direction of the Cove. "An' that school
gal 'way down at Abercrombie, learning her knitting,
an' letters, an' crying her dandy eyes out for the mother
who had to leave her there when she passed over to you?
Say, Les, you best go on. Jest go right on an' I'll say
my piece after."</p>

<p>Standing sat up. A deep earnestness was in the dark
eyes that looked fearlessly into Bat's. He took the
other at his word and went on. He had nothing to
conceal.</p>

<p>"The mill? Why, I want to pass it over to your
care, Bat," he said, permitting one swift regretful glance
in the direction of the grey waters below them. Then
he spoke almost feverishly. "Here's the proposition.
I'm going to hand you full powers&mdash;through Charles
Nisson. You'll run this thing on the lines laid down.
If you fancy carrying on the original proposition of
extension, well and good. If not, just carry on and
leave the rest for&mdash;later. You'll be manager for me
through Nisson. I shan't remove one cent of capital.
I don't want Hellbeam's money beyond the barest grub
stake. It'll remain under Nisson's guardianship for your
use in running this mill. You'll simply satisfy Nisson.
For the rest I shan't interfere. You're drawing a big
salary now. Well, seeing I go out of the work, that
salary will be doubled. That's for the immediate. Then
there's the future. I've a notion. Maybe it's a crazy
notion. But it's mine and I mean to test it. Here.
We reckon to build up this enterprise for one great,
big purpose. It was my dream to break the Skandinavian
ring governing the groundwood trade of this
country. It was work that appealed to my imagination.
I wanted to build this great thing and pass it on to my
boy. It seemed to me fine. Worth while. It was a
man's work, and it seemed to me a life well spent. I
had the guts then&mdash;with your support, and the support

the thought of my son gave me. I haven't the guts
now. The notion fired you, too. It fired you, and
it'll grieve you desperately to see it abandoned. It shan't
be abandoned. Once in the woods of this queer country
I found a man&mdash;such a man as is rarely found. He
was a man into whose hands I could put my life. And
I guess there's no greater trust one man can have in
another. He was a man of immense capacity. A man
of intellect for all he had no schooling but the schooling
of Quebec's rough woods. That man was you, Bat.
I'd like to say to you: 'Here's the property. You know
the scheme. Go on. Carry it through.' But I can't.
I can't because one man can't do it. Well, the woods
gave me one man, and they're going to give me another
to take the place of the weak-gutted creature who intends
to 'rat.' I'm going to find you a partner, a man with
brain and force like yourself. A man of iron guts.
And when I've found him I'm going to send him on
to you. And if you approve him he shall be full partner
with you in this concern the day that sees the Canadian
Groundwood Trust completed, and the breaking of the
Skandinavian ring. Do you follow it all? You and
this man will be equal partners in the mill, and every
available cent of its capital&mdash;the capital I made Hellbeam
provide. It'll be yours and his, solely and alone.
I&mdash;I shall pass right out of it. Hellbeam has no score
against you. He has no penitentiary preparing for you.
You are not concerned with him. Whatever he may
have in store for me he can do nothing to you, and the
money I beat him out of will have passed beyond his
reach."</p>

<p>"And this man you figger to locate? You reckon
to take a chance on your judgment?"</p>

<p>Bat's challenge came on the instant.</p>

<p>"On mine, and&mdash;yours." Standing's eyes were full
of a keen confidence. And Bat realised something of

the sanity lying behind a seemingly mad proposition.
"He'll own nothing until he and you have completed
the work as we see it. To own his share in the thing
he must prove his capacity. He'll be held by the tightest
and strongest contract Charles Nisson can draw up."</p>

<p>Bat spat out his chew. He replaced it with a pipe,
and prepared to flake off its filling from a plug of
tobacco. Standing watched him with the anxious eyes
of a prisoner awaiting sentence. With the cutting of
the first flakes of tobacco, Bat looked up.</p>

<p>"And this little gal-child, with the same name as the
mother who just meant the whole of everything life
could hand you? This kiddie with her mother's blood
running in innocent veins? She's your Nancy's daughter
and I guess your marriage made her yours."</p>

<p>"She's another man's child."</p>

<p>Standing's retort was instant. And the tone of it
cut like a knife.</p>

<p>Bat regarded him keenly. His knife had ceased from
its work on the plug.</p>

<p>"That's so," he said after a while. Then his gaze
drifted in the direction of the house across the water,
and the expression in the grey depths of his eyes became
lost to the man who could not forget that the remaining
child of his wife was the offspring of another man.
"It seems queer," he went on reflectively. "That
woman, your Nancy, was about the best loved wife, a
fellow could think of. She was all sorts of a woman
to you. Guess she was mostly the sun, moon, an' stars
of your life. Yet her kiddie, a pore, lonesome kiddie,
was toted right off to school so she couldn't butt in on
you. You've never seen her, have you? And she was
blood of the woman that set you nigh crazy. Only her
father was another feller. No, Les." He shook his
head, and went on filling his pipe. "No, Les, this mill
and all about it can go hang if that pore, lone kiddie

is wiped out of your reckoning. Maybe I'm queer about
things. Maybe I'm no account anyway when it comes
to the things of life mostly belonging to Sunday School.
But I'd as lief go back to the woods I came from, as
handle a proposition for you that don't figger that little
gal in it. You best take that as all I've to say. There's
a heap more I could say. But it don't matter. You're
feelin' bad. Things have hit you bad. And you reckon
they're going to hit you worse. Maybe you're right.
Maybe you're wrong. Anyway these things are for
you, though I'd be mighty thankful to help you. You
want to go out of it all. You want to follow up some
queer notion you got. You reckon it's going to give
you peace. I hope so. I do sure. The thing you've
said goes with me without shouting one way or the
other. It grieves me bad. But that's no account anyway.
But there's that gal standing between us, and
she's going to stand right there till you've finished the
things you're maybe going to say."</p>

<p>For a moment the men looked into each other's eyes.
It was a tense moment of sudden crisis between them.</p>

<p>"Well?"</p>

<p>Bat's unyielding interrogation came sharply. Standing
nodded.</p>

<p>"I hadn't thought, Bat," he said. Then he drew a
deep breath. "I surely hadn't, but I guess you're right.
She's my stepdaughter. And I've a right to do the
thing you say. Yes. It's queer when I think of it,"
he went on musingly. "When I married her mother
the girl didn't seem to come into our reckoning. She
was at school, and I never even saw her. Then her
mother wanted her left there, anyway till her schooling
was through. Everything was paid. I saw to that. But&mdash;yes,
I guess you're right. It's up to me, and I'll fix it."</p>

<p>"The mill?"</p>

<p>"She shall have equal share when the time comes."</p>


<p>"When the whole work's put through?"</p>

<p>"Yes. And meanwhile she'll be amply provided for."
Standing spread out his hands deprecatingly. "You see,
we did things in a hurry, Bat. There was always Hellbeam.
And my Nancy understood that. I wonder&mdash;"</p>

<p>Bat smoked on thoughtfully, and presently the other
roused himself from the pre-occupation into which he
had fallen.</p>

<p>"Does that satisfy?" he demanded.</p>

<p>Bat nodded.</p>

<p>"I'll do the darnedest I know, Les," he said in his
sturdy fashion. Fix that pore gal right. Hand her
the share she's a right to&mdash;when the time comes along.
Do that an' I'll not rest till the Skandinavians are left
hollerin'. That kid's your daughter, for all she ain't
flesh and blood of yours, an' you ain't ever see her.
And anyway she's flesh of your Nancy, which seems
to me hands her even a bigger claim."</p>

<p>He moved away from his leaning post and his back was
turned to hide that which looked out of his eyes.</p>

<p>"I'm grieved," he went on, in his simple fashion,
"I'm so grieved about things I can't tell you, Les. I
always guessed to drive this thing through with you. I
always reckoned to make good to you for that thing you
did by me. Well, there's no use in talkin'. You reckon
this notion of yours'll make you feel better, it's goin'
to hand you&mdash;peace. That goes with me. Oh, yes, all
the time, seein' you feel that way. But&mdash;say, we best
get right home&mdash;or I'll cry like a darn-fool kid."</p>

</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_7"></a>
<h3>Chapter V&mdash;Nancy Mcdonald</h3>


<p>Charles Nisson was standing at the window. His eyes
were deeply reflective as he watched the gently falling

snow outside. He was a sturdy creature in his well-cut,
well-cared-for black suit. For all he was past middle
life there was little about him to emphasise the fact
unless it were his trim, well-brushed snow-white hair,
and the light covering of whisker and beard of a similar
hue. He looked to be full of strength of purpose and
physical energy.</p>

<p>His back was turned on the pleasant dining-room of his
home in Abercrombie, a remote town in Ontario, where he
and his wife had only just finished breakfast. Sarah
Nisson was sitting beside the anthracite stove which
radiated its pleasant warmth against the bitter chill of
winter reigning outside. She was still consuming the
pages of her bulky mail.</p>

<p>A clock chimed the hour, and the wife looked up from
her letter. She turned a face that was still pretty for all
her fifty odd years, in the direction of the man at the
window.</p>

<p>"Ten o'clock, Charles," she reminded him. Then her
enquiring look melted into a gentle smile. "The office
has less attraction with the snow falling."</p>

<p>"It has less attraction to-day, anyway," the lawyer
responded without turning. A short laugh punctuated
his prompt reply.</p>

<p>"You mean the Nancy McDonald business?"</p>

<p>Sarah Nisson laid her mail aside.</p>

<p>"Yes." The lawyer sighed and turned from his
contemplation of the snow. He moved across to the
stove. "I'm a bit of a coward, Sally," he went on,
holding out his hands to the warmth. "The lives of
other people are nearly as interesting as they are exasperating.
They seem just as foolishly ordered as we
believe our own to be well and truly ordered. I don't
know who it was said 'all men are fools,' or liars, or
something, but I guess he was right. Yes, we're all
fools. I really don't know how we manage to get through

a day, let alone a lifetime, without absolute disaster.
We spend most of our time abusing Providence for the
result of our own shortcomings, when really we ought to
be mighty polite and thankful to the blind good fortune
that lets us dodge the results of our follies."</p>

<p>"All of which I suppose has to do with the way Leslie
Martin, or Leslie Standing, as he calls himself now, is
acting."</p>

<p>"Well, most of it."</p>

<p>The man's eyes had become seriously reflective again.</p>

<p>Sarah Nisson nodded her pretty head. She leant her
ample proportions towards the stove and emulated her
husband's attitude, warming her plump hands. Her brown
eyes were twinkling, and her broad, unlined brow was
calmly serene. Her iron-grey hair was as carefully
dressed as though she were still in the twenties, moreover
it was utterly untouched by any of the shams so beloved
of the modern woman of advancing years.</p>

<p>"The death of his poor wife almost seems to have
unhinged him," she said, with a troubled pucker of her
brows. "But&mdash;but I don't wonder, I really don't. She
was the sweetest girl. Poor soul. And that bonny wee
boy. But there, I can't bear to think of it all. You
mustn't blame him too much, Charles. I guess you don't
in your heart. It's just as his attorney you feel mad
about things. It's best to remember you were his friend
first, and only his adviser, and man of business, after.
The whole thing makes me feel I want to cry. And that
poor girl coming to see you to-day. The other Nancy, I
mean. I don't think I'd feel so bad about things if it
wasn't for her. You know, I like Leslie. And I was as
fond of his wife as I just could be, for all she made a fool
of herself when she married that hateful James McDonald,
who was no better than a revolutionary. Thank goodness
he died and got out before he could do any harm.
But I do think Leslie and poor Nancy were selfish about

her child. I don't believe it was so much him as Nancy.
From the moment Leslie came on the scene it was she
who kept the poor child at college. She never even let
him see her. And she's such a bonny girl, too. Do you
know, I believe Nancy's death, and even the death of the
baby boy, wouldn't have meant half so much to Leslie
if he'd had Nancy's own girl with him. She'd have got
herself right into his heart with her bonny ways, and her
hazel eyes that look like great, big smiling flowers. Then
her hair. She's a lovely, lovely child. I wish she was
mine. I'd like to have her right here always. Couldn't
you fix it that way?"</p>

<p>The man shook his head.</p>

<p>"I'd like to&mdash;but&mdash;"</p>

<p>"But what?"</p>

<p>"You see there's a whole lot to think about," the
lawyer went on seriously. "Why, I don't even know
how to get through my interview with her to-day without
lying to her like a politician. Now just get a look at the
position. Here's a girl, a beautiful, high-spirited girl of
sixteen, straight out from college, at the beginning of
life, with her, head full of 'whys,' and 'wherefores.'

Sixteen's well-nigh grown up these days, mind you. Her
mother's dead, and curiously the fact didn't seem to
break her up as you'd have expected it to. Why?" The
man shrugged. "It's not because she lacks feeling. Oh,
no. Maybe it's because of the strength of those feelings.
Remember her mother married Leslie when the child was
thirteen. A good understanding age. She was never
allowed to see her father. No. She was packed off to
school and kept there&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Yes, I know," Sarah broke in, with impatient warmth.
"And just at the time a girl most needs she never even
saw her mother for over three years. God doesn't give us
women our babies to treat them as if they weren't our
own flesh and blood. Young Nancy was left to those

maiden dames at college, who don't know more about
a child than is laid down by highbrow officials in the
text books they need to study to qualify for their posts.
They haven't a notion beyond stuffing her poor wee
head with the sort of view of life set down in fool
history books. They say she's clever and bright. Well,
that's all they care about. When they've done with her
they'll have knocked all the girl out of her, and turned
her adrift on the world behind a pair of disfiguring
spectacles, with her beautiful hair all scratched back off
her pretty face, and maybe 'bobbed,' and they'll fill
her grips with pamphlets and literature enough to stock
a patent med'cine factory, instead of the lawn, and lace,
and silk a girl should think about, and leave her with as
much chance of getting happily married as a queen
mummy of the Egyptians. It's a shame, just a real
shame. Why, if that poor, lonesome child came right
along to me, I'd&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Teach her all the bright tricks of hunting down a
husband and&mdash;hooking him." The lawyer shook his
head and smiled. "You know, Sally, you're almost an
outrage on the subject of marriage. Sometimes I wonder
the sort of tricks I was up against when I&mdash;"</p>

<p>A plump warning finger and smiling threat interrupted
the laughing charge.</p>

<p>"You were due at the office long ago, Charles," his
wife admonished. "If you aren't careful I'll have to
pack you off right away."</p>

<p>"That's all right, Sally," the man demurred. "I
won't go further with that. I'll get back to the things I
was saying before you interrupted." His pale blue eyes
became serious again. "Do you think Nancy didn't
understand why she was packed off to school&mdash;and kept
there? Of course she did. She knew she wasn't
wanted. She knew she was in the way. She must not
be permitted to intrude on this stepfather, or her mother's

new life. It was all a bit heartless, and if I know anything
of the child, she understands it that way. I felt
that when she came to see her mother, and went to her
funeral. Now then, Nancy's coming to see me to-day.
Remember she's sixteen. She's got to learn from me the
settlement Leslie's made on her. She's got to learn
further that she isn't likely to ever see her stepfather.
She knows I'm his business man. She knows I'm his
friend. Well, when she's financially independent, do you
think she'll feel like rushing into our arms, here, for a
home, feeling the way I believe she does about her
parent? It's going to be difficult, and&mdash;damned unpleasant.
And for all I'm ready to help Leslie anyway
I know, I'd rather see anybody on his behalf than that
kiddie, with her wide, honest, angry eyes and red hair.
I'm not going to press our home on her, Sally, because,
sooner or later, if she accepted it, which I don't believe
she would, she'd have to learn things of Leslie, and&mdash;well,
the affairs you know about. That must not be. She's
not going to learn these things from us. I'm going to do
the best I know for the child, and when it comes to the
matter of a home she must choose for herself. There's
always her mother's folk, or even James McDonald's
folk&mdash;"</p>

<p>"God forbid! No. Oh, no." The woman's instant
denial was horrified. "Not the McDonald lot. They're
all revolutionaries. All of them. It's&mdash;it's unthinkable.
It certainly is."</p>

<p>The man moved away.</p>

<p>"That's so," he agreed. "Well, anyway, I'll do the
best I know for the child, Sally. You can trust me."</p>

<p>The woman's anxiety abated, and she rose from her
chair.</p>

<p>"I know that, Charles," she said. "But the McDonalds!
They're&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Sure they are." The man laughed. "Well, good-bye,

my dear. I'll tell you all about it when I've fixed things.
Thank goodness it's quit snowing and the sun's shining
again. I wish I felt as good as it looks outside here."</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Charles Nisson had become a lawyer without any
marked inclination or enthusiasm for his profession. It
had been simply a matter of following the father before
him. It would have been much the same if his father
had been a farmer, or a politician, or anything else. The
son was patient, temperate, and of no great ambition.
But he was also keenly intelligent. Without impulse,
or striking originality, but with a tremendous capacity
for hard work, he was bound to be moderately successful
in any career. In his father's profession his temperament
was particularly suited, and in spite of lacking
enthusiasm he had become unquestionably a better lawyer
than the country attorney he had succeeded.</p>

<p>Just now his mind was filled with unease. The matter
of his forthcoming interview with a child of sixteen years
had only small place in the affairs which disturbed him.
His real concern was for his friend, Leslie Standing, and
the disaster, which, in a seemingly overwhelming rush
had befallen at far-off Sachigo. Again his trouble had
no relation to these things as they affected his own
worldly affairs. It was of the man himself he was thinking.</p>

<p>He knew it all now. He had painfully learned the
complete story of disaster. And, to his sturdy mind, it
was a deplorable example of almost unbelievable human
weakness.</p>

<p>Standing had conveyed his final determination to
abandon his Labrador enterprise in the correspondence
which had passed between them during the three months
which had elapsed since the funeral of his wife and stillborn
child. And during that time their friendship had

been sorely tested. There had been times when the
lawyer's native patience had been unequal to the strain.
There had been times when his temper had leapt from
under the bonds which so strongly held it. But for all
the ordeals of that prolonged correspondence, for all he
deplored the pitiful weakness in the other, his friendship
remained, and he finally accepted his instructions. But
the whole thing left him very troubled.</p>

<p>As the hour of noon approached, his trouble showed no
sign of abatement. It was the reverse. There were
moments, as he sat in the generously upholstered chair
before his desk, in the comfortable down-town office
which overlooked Abercrombie's principal thoroughfare,
that he felt like abandoning all responsibility in the chaos
of his friend's affairs. But this was only the result of
irritation, and had no relation to his intentions. He
knew well enough that everything in his power would
be done for the man who never so surely needed his help
as now.</p>

<p>He refreshed his memory with the details of the deed
of settlement for the abandoned stepdaughter. Then, as
the hands of the clock approached the hour of his appointment,
he sat back yielding his whole concentration upon
those many problems confronting him.</p>

<p>What, he asked himself, was going to become of
Standing now that he had cut himself adrift from that
anchorage which had held him safe for the past seven
years? He strove to follow the driving of the man's
curiously haunted mind. He had declared his intention
of going away. Where? Definite information had been
withheld. He was going to devote himself to some purpose
he claimed to have always lain at the back of his
mind. What was that purpose? Again there had been
no information forthcoming. Was it good, or&mdash;bad?
The man who was endeavouring to solve the riddle of it
all dared not trust himself to a decision. He felt that

his friend's unstable soul might drive him in almost any
direction after the shock it had sustained.</p>

<p>No. Speculation was useless. The crude facts were
like a brick wall he had to face. Standing's wealth and
the great mill at Sachigo were left to his administration
with the trusting confidence of a child. The responsibility
for the neglected stepdaughter had similarly been
flung upon his shoulders. And, satisfied with this manner
of disposing of his worldly concerns, Standing intended to
fare forth, shorn of any possession but a bare pittance
for his daily needs, to lose himself, and all the shadows
of a haunted mind, in the dim, remote interior of the
unexplored forests of Northern Quebec. The whole
thing was mad&mdash;utterly&mdash;</p>

<p>The muffled electric bell on his table drubbed out its
summons. One swift glance at the clock and the lawyer
yielded to professional instinct. He became absorbed in
the papers neatly spread out on his table as a bespectacled
clerk thrust open the door.</p>

<p>"Miss McDonald to see you," he announced, in the
modulated tone which was part of his professional make-up.</p>

<p>The lawyer rose at once. He moved toward the door
with a smiling welcome. The sex and personality of his
visitor demanded this departure from his custom.</p>

<p>Nancy McDonald stood just inside the doorway
through which the clerk had departed. She was tall,
beautifully tall, for all she was only sixteen. In her simple
college girl's overcoat, with its muffling of fur about the
neck, it was impossible to detect the graces of the youthful
figure concealed. Her carriage was upright, and her
bearing full of that confidence which is so earnestly
taught in the schools of the newer countries.</p>

<p>But these things passed unnoticed by the white-haired
lawyer. He was smiling into the radiant face under the
low-pressed fur cap. It was the wide, hazel eyes, so

deeply fringed with a wealth of curling, dark lashes, that
inspired his smiling interest. It was the level brows, so
delicately pencilled, and dark as were the eyelashes.
It was the perfect nose, and lips, and chin, and the
chiselled beauty of oval cheeks, all in such classic harmony
with the girl's wealth of vivid hair.</p>

<p>Nancy returned his gaze without the shadow of a
smile. She had come at this man's call from the coldly
correct halls of Marypoint College, which was also the
soulless home she had been condemned to for the three
or four most impressionable years of her life. And she
knew the purpose of the summons.</p>

<p>There was a deep abiding resentment in her heart. It
was not against this man or his wife. From these two
she had received only kindness and affection. It was
directed against the stepfather whom she believed to
be the cause of the banishment she had had to endure.
Furthermore, she could never forget that her banishment
was only terminated that she might gaze at last upon the
dead features of her dearly loved mother before the cold
earth hid them from view forever.</p>

<p>The lawyer understood. He had understood from her
reply to his letter summoning her. There was no need
for the confirmation he read now in her unsmiling eyes.</p>

<p>"You sent for me?" she said.</p>

<p>Nancy's voice was deep and rich for all her youth.
Then with a display of some slight confusion, she suddenly
realised the welcoming hand outheld. She took
it hurriedly, and the brief hand clasp completely broke
down the barrier she had deliberately set up.</p>

<p>"Oh, it's a shame, Uncle Charles," she cried, almost
tearfully. "It's&mdash;it's a shame. I know. I'm just a kid&mdash;a
fool kid who hasn't a notion, or a feeling, or&mdash;or
anything. I'm to be treated that way. When he says

'listen,' why, I've just got to listen. And when he says
'obey,' I've got to obey, because the law says he's

my stepfather. He's robbed me of my mother. Oh,
it's cruel. Now he's going to rob me of everything else I
s'pose. Who is he? What is he that he has the power
to&mdash;to make me a sort of slave to his wishes? I've never
seen him. I hate him, and he hates me, and yet&mdash;oh&mdash;I'm
kind of sorry," she said, in swift contrition at the
sight of the old man's evident distress. "I&mdash;I&mdash;didn't
think. I&mdash;oh, I know it's not your fault, uncle. It's
just nothing to do with you. You've always been so
kind and good to me&mdash;you and Aunt Sally. You've
got to send for me and tell me the things he says, because&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Because I'm his 'hired man.' But also because I'm
his friend."</p>

<p>The lawyer spoke kindly, but very firmly. He knew
the impulsive nature of this passionate child. He knew
her unusual mentality. He realised, none better, that
he was dealing with a strong woman's mind in a girl of
childhood's years. He knew that Nancy had inherited
largely from her father, that headstrong, headlong
creature whose mentality had driven him to every length
in a wild endeavour to upset civilisation that he might
witness the birth of a millennium in the ashes of a world
saturated with the blood of countless, helpless creatures.
So he checked the impulsive flow of the child's protest.
He held out his hands.</p>

<p>"You'd best let me take your coat, my dear," he said,
with a smile the girl found it impossible to resist. "Maybe
you'd like to remove your overshoes, too. There's a big
talk to make, and I want to get things fixed so you can
come right along up home and take food with us before
you go back to Marypoint."</p>

<p>The child capitulated. But she needed no assistance.
Her coat was removed in a moment and flung across a
chair, and she stood before him, the slim, slightly angular
schoolgirl she really was.</p>


<p>"Guess I'll keep my rubbers on," she said. Then she
added with a laugh which a moment before must have
been impossible. "That way I'll feel I can run away when
I want to. What next?"</p>

<p>"Why, just sit right here."</p>

<p>The lawyer drew up a chair and set it beside his desk.
His movements were swift now. He had no desire to
lose the girl's change of mood.</p>

<p>And Nancy submitted. She took the chair set for her
while the man she loved to call "Uncle Charlie" passed
round to his. He gave her no time for further reflection,
but plunged into his talk at once.</p>

<p>"Now, my dear," he said earnestly, "you came here
feeling pretty bad about things, and maybe I don't
blame you. But there isn't the sort of thing waiting on
you you're guessing. Before we get to the real business
I just want to tell you the things in my mind. Of course,
as you say, you're a 'kid' yet&mdash;a school-kid, eh? That's
all right. But I know you can get a grip of things that
many much older girls could never hope to. That's why
I want to tell you the things I'm going to. Now you've
worked it out in your mind that your stepfather is just a
heartless, selfish creature who has no sort of use for you,
and just wants to forget your existence. He married
your mother, but had no idea of taking on her burdens&mdash;that's
you. It isn't so. It wasn't so. I know, because
this man is my friend, and I know all there is to know
about him. The whole thing has been deplorable.
You've been the victim of circumstances that I may not
explain even to you. But I promise you this, your stepfather
is not the man to have desired to cut you out of
your mother's life."</p>

<p>"Who did then? Mother?"</p>

<p>The girl's beautiful face flushed under her stirring
emotions. The man shook his head.</p>

<p>"Circumstances. Yes, those circumstances I told

you of. Those circumstances I can't explain." Charles
Nisson picked up a typescript and held it out to the child.</p>

<p>"I want you to take this. It's not the deed, but a
true copy. I want you to read it over and think about it,
and when you get back to Marypoint, and feel like talking
to those teachers you trust there, you can tell them what
it contains, and hear what they have to say about it, and
see if they won't think better of your stepfather than
you do. You needn't read it now," as the girl turned
the pages and glanced down the confusion of legal
phraseology. "I'm going to tell you what it contains in
plain words. But I want you to have it, and read it,
and think over it, because I want you to try and get a
real understanding of the man whose signature is set to
the original deed."</p>

<p>"Yes," he went on, meditatively, and in a tone of real
regret. "I'd be pretty glad to have you think better of
him. I think just now he needs the kind thought of anyone
who belongs to him. He's in pretty bad trouble&mdash;someways."</p>

<p>The girl looked up. A curious anxiety was shining in
her eyes.</p>

<p>"Trouble?" she demanded. "You mean he's done
wrong? What d'you mean? What sort of&mdash;trouble?"</p>

<p>The man shook his head.</p>

<p>"No. It's not that. It's&mdash;your mother. You know,
Nancy, he loved your mother in a way that leaves a good
man broken to pieces when he loses the object of his love.
Every good thought he ever had was bound up in your
mother. And your mother was his strong support, and
literally his guiding star. You've lost your mother. You
know how you felt. Well, I can't tell you, but think,
try and think what it would be if you'd lost just every
hope in life, too&mdash;the same as he has."</p>

<p>"I'd&mdash;I'd want to die," the girl cried impulsively.</p>

<p>"Yes. So would anyone. So does he. Just as far

as the world's concerned he's dead now. You'll never
see him, or hear from him. Nor will anyone else&mdash;except
me. He'll never come into your life after this.
He'll never claim his legal guardianship of you, beyond
that document. To you he's dead, leaving you heir to
what is contained in that deed. He's just a poor devil of
a man hunted and haunted through the rest of his existence
by the memory of a love that was more than life
to him. Try and think better of him, Nancy, my dear.
He's got enough to bear. I think he deserves far better
than he's ever likely to get handed to him. I tell you
solemnly, my dear, whatever sins he may have committed,
and most of us have committed plenty," he added, with a
gentle smile, "he's done you no real hurt. And now he's
only doing that good by you I would expect from him."</p>

<p>Nancy sighed deeply, and it needed no words of hers
to tell the man of law how well he had fought his friend's
battle. A deep wave of childish pity had swept away
the last of a resentment which had seemed so bitter, so
implacable. It was the generous heart of the child,
shorn, for the moment, of its inheritance from her father.
Her even brows had puckered, and the man knew that
tears, real tears of sympathy, were not far off.</p>

<p>"Tell me," she said, in a low voice. "Tell me some
more."</p>

<p>But the man shook his head. "I can't tell you more,"
he said gently. "Where your stepfather is, or where he
will be to-morrow, I may not tell you. Even when your
mother was alive you were not permitted to know these
things. That was due to the 'circumstances' I told you
of. It just remains for me to tell you the contents of
that document. They're as generous as only your stepfather
knows how to make them. He's appointed me
your trustee. And he's settled on you a life annuity of
$10,000. There are a few simple conditions. You will
remain at college till your education is complete, and,

until you are twenty-one I shall have control of your
income. That is," he explained, "I shall see that you
don't handle it recklessly. During that time, subject
to my approval, you can make your home with whom
you like. After you've passed your twenty-first birthday
you are as free as air to go or come, to live where you
choose, and how you choose. And your income will be
forthcoming from this office&mdash;every quarter. Do you
understand all that, my dear? It's so very simple.
Your stepfather has gone to the limit to show you how
well he desires for you, and how free of his authority he
wants you to be. There is another generous act of his
that will be made clear to you when the time comes.
But that is for the future&mdash;not now. His last word to
me," he went on, picking up a letter, "when he sent me
the deed duly signed, was: 'Tell this little girl when you
hand her these things, it isn't my wish to trouble her
with an authority which can have little enough appeal
for her. Tell her that her mother was my whole world,
and it is my earnest desire that her daughter should
have all the good and comfort this world can bestow. If
ever she needs further help she can have it without question,
and that she only has to appeal to my friend and adviser,
Charles Nisson, for anything she requires.'"</p>

<p>The man laid the letter aside and looked up.</p>

<p>"That's the last paragraph of the last communication
I had from him. And they're not the words of a monstrous
tyrant who is utterly heartless, eh?"</p>

<p>The girl made no answer. Her emotion was too strong
for her. Two great tears rolled slowly down her beautiful
cheeks.</p>

<p>The lawyer rose from his chair. He came round the
desk and laid a gentle hand on the heaving shoulder,
while Nancy strove to wipe her tears away with a wholly
inadequate handkerchief.</p>

<p>"That's right, my dear," he said very gently. "Wipe

them away. There's no need to cry. Leslie's done all
a man in his peculiar position can do for you. You've
got the whole wide world before you, and everything you
can need for comfort&mdash;thanks to him. Now let's forget
about it all. Just take that paper back to school with you.
And maybe you'll write, or come and let me know what
you think about it. If you feel like making your home
with us, why, that way you'll just complete our happiness.
If you feel like going to your mother's sister, Anna
Scholes, I shan't refuse you. Anyway, think about it
all. That's my big talk and it's finished. Just get your
overcoat on, and we'll get right along home to food."</p>

</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_8"></a>
<h3>Chapter VI&mdash;Nathaniel Hellbeam</h3>


<p>The room was furnished with extreme modern luxury.
The man standing over against the window with his
broad back turned, somehow looked to be in perfect
keeping with the setting his personal tastes had inspired.
He was broad, squat, fat. His head and neck were set
low upon his shoulders, and the hair oil was obvious on
the longish dark hair which seemed to grow low down
under his shirt collar.</p>

<p>The other man, seated in one of the many easy chairs,
was in strong contrast. His was the familiar face of the
agent, Idepski, dark, keen, watchful. He was smoking
the cigarette to which he had helped himself from the
gold box standing near him on the ornate desk.</p>

<p>"You seem to have made a bad mess of things."</p>

<p>Nathaniel Hellbeam turned from the window and came
back to his desk with quick, short, energetic strides.</p>

<p>He presented a picture of inflamed wrath. His fleshy,
square face was flushed and almost purple. His small
eyes were hot with anger. They snapped as he launched

his harshly spoken verdict. His whole manner bristled
with merciless intolerance.</p>

<p>He was enormously fat, and breathed heavily through
clean shaven lips that protruded sensually. His age
was doubtful, but suggested something under middle
life. It was the gross bulk of the man that made it almost
impossible to estimate closely. The only real youth
about him was his dark, well oiled hair which possessed
not a sign of greying in it.</p>

<p>He flung himself into the wide chair which gaped to
receive him, and glared at the dark face of his visitor.</p>

<p>"What in the hell do I pay you for?" he cried brutally,
lapsing, in his anger, into that gutteral Teutonic accent
which it was his life's object to avoid. "A wild cat's
scheme it was I tell you from the first. You go to this
Sachigo with your men. You think to get this 'sharp'

asleep, or what? You find him wide awake waiting for
you to arrive. What then? He jumps quick. So quick
you can't think. You a prisoner are. You go where
he sends you. You live like a swine in the woods. You
are made to work for your food. And a year is gone.
A year! Serve you darn right. Oh, yes. Bah! You
quit. You understand? I pay you no more. You are
a fool, a blundering fool. I wash my hands with you."</p>

<p>Idepski sat still, patient, as once before he had sat
under the whip lash of a man's tongue. And he continued
smoking till the great banker's last word was spoken.</p>

<p>Then he stirred, and removed his cigarette from his
thin lips.</p>

<p>"That's all right, Mr. Hellbeam," he said coldly.
"It seems like you've a right to all you've said. It
seems, I said. But the 'fool' talk." He shook his
head. "My best enemies don't reckon me that&mdash;generally.
The game I'm playing has room enough for things
that look like blunders. I allow that. It doesn't matter.
You see, I know more of this feller Martin maybe than

you do. I guess he's a mighty big coward, except when
he's got the drop on a feller. I've given him the scare
of a lifetime, and I've unshipped him from his safe
anchorage on that darn Labrador coast. Do you know
what's happened? I'll tell you. He's quit Sachigo.
From what I can learn he's sold out his mill to that
uncouth hoodlum, Harker, who was sort of his partner,
and quit. Where? I don't know yet. Why has he
quit? Why, because he knows we've located his hiding,
and will get him if he remains. You reckon I've mussed
things up." He shook his head. "He was well-nigh safe
up there on Labrador&mdash;and I knew it. We had to get
him out of it. Well, I've got him out. He's bolted like
a gopher, and it's up to me to locate him. I shall locate
him. I'm glad he's quit that hellish country. I've had
a year of it, and it's put the fear of God into me. You
needn't worry. I'm quite ready to quit your pay. But
I'm going on with this thing, sure. You see, I owe him
quite a piece for myself&mdash;now. I've been through the
hell he intended me to go through when he sent me along
up to be held prisoner by that skunk, Ole Porson. I'm
going to pay him for that&mdash;good. I don't want your
pay&mdash;now. One day I'll hand that feller over to you&mdash;and
when you've doped him plenty&mdash;you'll have paid
me." He rose leisurely from his comfortable chair.
"May I take another of your good cigarettes?" he went
on, with a half smile in his cold eyes. "You see, I won't
get another, seeing I'm quitting you."</p>

<p>He deliberately helped himself without waiting for
permission, while his eyes dwelt on the gold box containing
them.</p>

<p>But the financier's mood had changed. The keen
mind was busy behind his narrow eyes. Perhaps Idepski
understood the man. Perhaps the coolness of the agent
appealed to the implacable nature of the Swede. Whatever
it was the hot eyes had cooled, and the fleshy cheeks

had returned to their normal pasty hue. He raised a
hand pointing.</p>

<p>"Sit down and smoke all you need," he said, in the
sharp, autocratic fashion that was his habit. "We aren't
through yet." Then, for a few moments, he regarded
the slim figure as it lay back once more in the armchair.
"Say," he began, abruptly, "you reckon to go on for&mdash;yourself?
Yes? You're a good hater."</p>

<p>He went on as the other inclined his head.</p>

<p>"I like a good hater. Yes. Well, just cut out all I
said. We'll go on. I guess you'll need to blunder some
before we get this swine. You're bound to. But I want
him. I want him bad. If it's good for you to go on for
yourself, that's good for me. There's a lifetime ahead
yet, and I don't care so I see him down&mdash;right down
where I need him. Maybe I won't get the money, but
we'll get him, and that'll do. Yes, cut out what I said,
and go ahead. Tell me about it."</p>

<p>Idepski displayed neither enthusiasm nor added
interest. He accepted the position with seeming indifference.
Hellbeam to him was just an employer. A
means to those ends which he had in view. If Hellbeam
turned him down it would mean a setback, but not
a disaster, and Idepski appraised setbacks at their
simple value, without exaggeration. Besides, he knew
that this Swede, powerful, wealthy as he was, could not
afford to do without him in this matter. His intolerant,
hectic temper mattered nothing at all. He paid for the
privilege of its display, and he paid well. So&mdash;</p>

<p>"There's nothing much to tell," the agent returned,
with a shrug. "I'm going to get him&mdash;that's all. See
here, Mr. Hellbeam," he went on after a pause, with a
sudden change to keen energy, "you're a mighty big
power in the financial world, and to be that I guess
you've had to be some judge of the other feller. That's
so. You most generally know when he's beat before

you begin. And when he squeals it don't come as a
surprise. Well, that's how it is with me, only it's a
bigger thing to me because it sometimes happens to mean
the difference between life and death. Say, when you
put up your bluff at a feller, and watch him square in the
eyes, and you see 'em flicker and shift, do you reckon
you've lit on the 'yellow streak,' that lies somewhere
in most folk? I guess so. Well, that's how I know
my man. I've seen it in this bum, Leslie Standing as
he calls himself now. And when I saw it I knew he was
beat, for all he'd the drop on me. Since then my
notion's proved itself. He's lit out. He's cut from his
gopher hole at Sachigo. An' when a gopher gets away
from his hole, the man with the gun has him dead set.
But say, that muss up you reckon I made doesn't look
that way when you know the things it's taught me.
While I was way up at that penitentiary camp on the
Beaver River I kept all my ears and eyes wide, and I
learned most of the things a feller's liable to learn in
this world when he acts that way. I learned something
of the notions lying back of this feller's work up there.
Say, he hadn't finished with you when he took that ten
millions out of you." An ironical smile lit the man's
dark eyes as he thrust home his retaliation for the financier's
insults. "Not by a lot," he went on, with a
smiling display of teeth that conveyed nothing pleasant.
"They've a slogan up there that means a whole heap,
and it comes from him, and runs through the whole
work going on, right down to the Chink camp cooks.
Guess that mill is only beginning. It's the ground work
of a mighty big notion. And the notion is to drive the
Skandinavians out of Canada's pulp trade, and very particularly
the Swedes, as represented by the interests of
Nathaniel Hellbeam. Guess you sit right here in New
York, but up there they've got you measured up to the
last pant's button."</p>


<p>"They that think?"</p>

<p>The financier's bloated cheeks purpled as he put his
clumsy interrogation.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes. This feller Standing reckons he's made a
big start, and there are mighty big plans out. When he
and that clownish partner of his, Harker, are through,
Sachigo'll be the biggest proposition in the way of groundwood
pulp in the world. They've forests such as you in
Skandinavia dream about when your digestion's feeling
good. They've a water power that leaves Niagara a
summer trickle. They've got it all with a sea journey of
less than eighteen hundred miles to Europe. But there's
more than that. When Sachigo's complete it's to be the
parent company of a mighty combine that's going to
take in all the mills of Canada outside Nathaniel Hellbeam's
group. And then&mdash;then, sir, the squeeze'll start
right in. And it isn't going to stop till the sponge&mdash;that's
Nathaniel Hellbeam&mdash;is wrung dry."</p>

<p>"You heard all this&mdash;when you were held prisoner and
working like a swine in Martin's forests?"</p>

<p>The smile in Hellbeam's eyes was no less ironical than
the agent's.</p>

<p>"When I was working like a swine."</p>

<p>"These lumber-jacks. They knew all that in Standing's
mind is?"</p>

<p>"No. But I learned it all."</p>

<p>"How?"</p>

<p>The demand was instant, and a surge of force lay
behind it.</p>

<p>"Because some I saw. Some I picked up from general
talk. And the rest I pieced together because it's my job
to think hard when the game's against me. But it don't
matter. You know that the things I've told you are
right. It's news to you, but you know it's right,
because you're thinking hard, and the game's against&mdash;you."</p>


<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>The financier's admission was the act of a man who has
no hesitation in looking facts in the face and acknowledging
them. Idepski's deductions were irrefutable, because
the Swede was a shrewd business man with a full
appreciation of the man who had lightened his finances
by ten million dollars.</p>

<p>For some moments the fleshy face was turned towards
the window which yielded the hum of busy traffic many
stories below them. His narrow eyes were earnestly
reflective, but there was no concern in them. To the waiting
man he was simply measuring the threat against him,
and probing its possibilities for mischief.</p>

<p>"Yet this fellow. He on the run is&mdash;Yes?"</p>

<p>The eyes were smiling as they came back again to
Idepski's face. The agent nodded, flinging his cigarette
end into the porcelain cuspidore beside the desk.</p>

<p>"Which makes me all the more sure of the game,"
he said confidently. "He's rattled. He's so scared to
death for himself, and for his purpose, he's getting out.
It's as clear as daylight to me. He feels he's plumb
against it if he stops around. He knows we've located
him. He knows what he's done to me. He knows all
he wants to know of you. Well, he reckons there's no
sort of chance for him at Sachigo. And if he stops there's
no sort of chance for this purpose of his. He reckons to
call off the hounds on his own trail, while the feller
Harker carries on the good work of squeezing the Swedes.
That's how I see it. And I guess I'm right. Remember
I had a year of hell up there to think in, and when I
finally got clear away I had two months' solitary chasing
of those woods to think in, and then, when I made the
coast, I had the trip down with the folks on the boat to
listen to. He's scared for his life, and of anything you
hope to hand him. But he's more scared for the purpose
that made him set up that mill at Sachigo."</p>


<p>Hellbeam leant back in his chair. His great paunch
protruded invitingly and he clasped his hands over it.</p>

<p>"Maybe you're right," he said, with an air intended to
conciliate. "Anyway you've picked up some pieces and
set them together so they make a fancy shape. But&mdash;it
isn't good. No. Here, I think, too. I see another, way
from you. Without this fellow Sachigo is&mdash;nothing.
See? I care nothing because of this Harker. No.
The other&mdash;that's different. Yes. He the brain has.
All this piece you make. He is capable of it. But he
is on the run. Good. I still sleep well while he runs.
Sachigo? Bah! It is nothing without Leslie Martin.
Now, go you. Hunt this man. Maybe your year of
the woods will help you," he said, with biting emphasis.
"You know the woods? Well, don't quit his trail. Get
him. Get him alive."</p>

<p>"Oh, I shall get him. Your urging ain't needed. I'll
get him as you say&mdash;alive. And he knows it."</p>

<p>Idepski's cold eyes hardened with a frigid hatred as
he spoke. He had only been paid for the work hitherto.
Now he was implacable.</p>

<p>"But it's Sachigo I mean to watch," he went on, after
a brief pause. "I mean to play in that direction. It's
the home burrow where you lay your traps once your
quarry's on the run."</p>

<p>Hellbeam nodded.</p>

<p>"That's good sense."</p>

<p>"Sure it is," retorted the agent. "I'm glad you see
it that way," he added with a smile under which the
financier grew restive once more.</p>

<p>"Yes. Well, see you get him. Money? It doesn't
matter. Get him! Get him!" he reiterated fiercely.
"You understand me? It doesn't matter how you get
him. I can deal with the rest."</p>

<p>Suddenly he raised a clenched fist, fat, and strong,
and white, and extended his thumb. He turned it

downwards and pressed its extremity on the gold
mounted blotting pad before him with a force that bent
the knuckle backwards. "Get him so I can crush him&mdash;like
that," he cried. "Get him alive. I want him alive.
See?"</p>

<p>"I see. I'll get him&mdash;sure. You needn't worry a
thing."</p>

<p>And as Walter Idepski rose to take his departure,
for all his nerve, he felt glad that the passion of this
Swede's hate was not directed against him.</p>
</div>
</div>



<hr class="doublepage">

<div>
<a name="toc_9"></a>
<h2>Part II&mdash;Eight Years Later</h2>



<div>
<a name="toc_10"></a>
<h3>Chapter I&mdash;Bull Sternford</h3>


<p>A great gathering thronged the heart of the clearing.
There were men of every shade of colour, men of well-nigh
every type. They stood about in a wide circle,
whose regularity remained definite even under the
stirring of fierce excitement. They had gathered for a
fight, a great fight between two creatures, full human
in shape and splendid manhood, but bestial in the method
of the battle demanded. It was a battle with muscles
of iron, and hearts that knew no mercy, and body and
mind tuned only to endure and conquer. It was a battle
that belonged to the savage out-world, acknowledging
only the vicious laws of "rough and tough."</p>

<p>The rough creatures stood voiceless and well-nigh
breathless. The combatants were well matched and redoubtable,
even in a community whose only deity was
physical might and courage and the skill of the wielded
axe. The lust of it all was burning fiercely in every
heart.</p>

<p>The sun poured out its flood of summer upon a world
of virgin forest. The sky was without blemish. A
dome of perfect azure roofed in the length and breadth
of Nature's kingdom. Nevertheless the fairness of the
summer day, with its ravishing accompaniment of soft,
mystery sounds from an unseen world and the lavish
beauty of shadowed woods were fit setting for the pulsing
of savage emotions. It was far out in the lost world of
Northern Quebec. It was far, far beyond the widest-flung
frontiers of civilisation. It was out there where

man soon learns to forget his birthright, and readily
yields to the animal in him.</p>

<p>It was a scene of mighty slaughter amongst the giants
of the forest. Hundreds sprawled in the path of man's
gleaming axe. Giants they were, hoary with age, and
gnarled with the sinews built up by Nature to resist her
fiercest storms. They lay there, in every direction, reaching
up with tattered arms outstretched, as though appealing
for the light, the warmth, and the sweetness of life
they would know no more.</p>

<p>Amidst this carnage a great camp was growing up.
There were huts completed. There were huts only in the
skeleton. They were dotted about in a fashion apparently
without order or purpose. Yet long before the falling of
the first snow, order would reign everywhere and man's
purpose would be achieved.</p>

<p>The bunkhouses, the stores, the offices, the stables, they
must all be ready before the coming of the "freeze-up."
Summer is the time of preparation. Winter is the season
when the lumber-jack's work must go forward without
cessation or break of any sort. Not even the excuse
of sickness can be accepted. There is no excuse. The
lumber-jack must work, or sink to the dregs of a life
that has already created in him a spirit of indifference to
the laws of God and man. So the life of the forest is hard
and fierce, and the battle of it all is long.</p>

<p>But the men who seek it are more than equal to the
task. They are of all sorts, and all races. They drift to
the forest from all ranks of life by reason of the spirit
driving them. They come from the universities of the
world. They come straight from the gates of the penitentiary.
They come from the land, the sea, the office.
They come from all countries, and they come for every
reason. The call of the forest is deep with significance.
Its appeal is profound. Its life is free, and shadowed, and
afar.</p>


<p>For long moments the clinch of the fighting men remained
unbroken. They lay there upon the ground locked
in a deadly embrace. A spasmodic jolt, a violent, muscular
heave. The result was changed position, while the clinch
remained unrelaxed. There were movements of gripping
hands. There were changes of position in the intertwined
legs clad in their hard cord trousers. The heavily-booted
feet stirred and stirred again in response to the impulse
of the searching brains of the fighters, and every slight
movement had deep meaning for the onlookers.</p>

<p>Yet none of these movements revealed the inspiration
of passion. They were calculated and full of purpose.
It was devilish purpose driving towards the objects of
the fight. The stirring fingers yearned to reach the eyes
of the adversary to blind him, and leave his organs of
vision gouged from their sockets. The bared, strong
teeth were only awaiting that dire chance to close upon
the enemy's flesh, whether ear, or nose, or throat. Then
the knee and foot. They were striving under ardent
will for that inhuman maiming which would leave the
victim crippled for life.</p>

<p>Each movement of the fighters was estimated by the
onlookers at its due worth. They understood it all, the
skill, the chance of it. Not one of them but had fought
just such a battle in his time, and not a few carried the
scars of it, and would continue to carry the scars of it
for the rest of their days.</p>

<p>The moments of quiescence yielded to a spasmodic
violence. There was a wild rolling, and the unlocking
of mighty, clinging legs. One dishevelled head was raised
threateningly. It remained poised for a fraction of time
over the upturned face of the man lying in a position
of disadvantage. Then it lunged downwards. And as
it descended, a sound like the clipping of teeth came
back to the taut strung senses of the onlookers. A sigh
escaped from a hundred throats.</p>


<p>"Bull missed it that time."</p>

<p>Abe Kristin whispered his comment. The two men
beside him had nothing to add at the moment. Their
eyes were intent for the next development.</p>

<p>Suddenly the fair-haired giant who had missed his
attack seemed to disengage himself from the under man's
desperate hold. It was impossible to ascertain the means
he employed. But he clearly released himself and one
hammer fist swung up. It crashed sickeningly down on
the upturned face, and a whistling breath escaped the
emotional Abe.</p>

<p>"Gee! He's takin' a chance! That ain't the play in
a 'rough and tough,'" he muttered.</p>

<p>"Nope. You're right, Abe," Luke Gats agreed without
turning. "He's crazy. Gee! It's a chance. But
he's maybe rattled. Bull's been fightin' over an hour."</p>

<p>"Here get it!" Tug Burke was pointing with a cant-hook
in his excitement. "Get it quick. See? He's&mdash;"</p>

<p>The man's excitement found reflection in the whole
concourse of onlookers. There was a furious movement
in the human body crushed on the ground beneath the
man they called Bull. Its knees came up under his adversary's
body with a terrific jolt. The purpose of maiming
was obvious.</p>

<p>"Gee! I'm glad."</p>

<p>Tug's relief found an echo in the sigh that escaped his
companions. The intended victim had promptly swung
his body clear and the threatened injury was averted.
But his retaliation was instant. His great open hand
spread over the man's face, smothering it; and it seemed
the sought-for goal had been reached.</p>

<p>"Gouge! Gouge!"</p>

<p>The cry roared in hoarse, excited tones from every
direction. Unanimity displayed the general feeling.
The man whose face had been smothered was Arden
Laval, the camp boss, the man they hated as only forest-men

can hate. The other was a giant youngster, not
long a member of the camp, the usual object for
victimisation by such a man as the French Canadian
boss.</p>

<p>The demand remained unsatisfied. The fingers remained
spread out over the man's eyes, but the foul act
was never perpetrated. The younger man's efforts were
directed towards a deeper, more significant purpose, and
perhaps less cruel. He could have blinded in a twinkling.
But he refrained. Instead, he pressed up mightily
with a fore-arm crooked under the back of the man's
neck, his smothering hand pressed down with all his
enormous strength.</p>

<p>"The darn fool! Why in hell don't he&mdash;?"</p>

<p>Abe was interrupted by the excited voice of the man
with the cant-hook.</p>

<p>"God A'mighty!" Tug cried. "Do you get it?
Gouge? It ain't good enough fer Master Bull. He's
playin' bigger. He's playin' fer dollars while we was
reck'nin' cents. Look! It'll crack sure! His gorl-darn
neck! He means&mdash;!"</p>

<p>"To kill!"</p>

<p>Luke Gat's jubilation was dreadful to witness. His
hard, be-whiskered features were alight with fiendish
joy. This youngster had gone beyond all expectations.
No less than the life of the greatest bully in the lumber
world would satisfy him.</p>

<p>"Say, the nerve! He'll break the life out o' the
skunk," he exulted. "The kid means crackin' his neck,
sure as God!"</p>

<p>"Ken he do it?" Tug had thrust forward.</p>

<p>"Laval ain't the feller he was," mused Abe. "He
shouldn't a let the boy get that holt. It's goin' back.
It certainly is."</p>

<p>The men stood hushed before the terrible significance
of what they beheld. In the abstract, a life-and-death

struggle meant little enough to them. Witnessing it, however,
violently stirred their deepest emotions. They hated
the camp boss, the libertine, drunkard, bully, Arden
Laval, who only held his position by reason of his fighting
powers. They would be infinitely pleased to witness
his end. All the more sure was their delight that it
should come at the hands of this pleasant-voiced young
giant, who had come amongst them out of the very lap
of civilisation. Later on they would laugh at the thought
of the redoubtable Laval in the hands of this "kid," as
they considered him. But for the moment they were
held enthralled by the excitement of it all.</p>

<p>The moments prolonged. The thrusting hand, and
the crushing arm were forcing, forcing slowly, in their
terrible strangle hold. The face of the camp boss was
hidden from the spectators under the smothering hand.
But the perilous angle at which his dark head was thrust
back was there for all to see. His struggles, in that
merciless hold, were becoming less violent. There was
despair in their impotence.</p>

<p>The man called Bull was fighting with no less desperation.
His youthful, resilient muscles were extended
to the last ounce of their power, and an active, steely-tempered
brain lay behind his every effort. The memory
of months of brutal injustice and bullying, the bitterness
of which had galled beyond endurance, supported this
last mighty effort. Yes, for all he was bred in the gentle
life of civilisation, for all ruthless cruelty had no place
in his normal temper, his one desire now was to kill, to
slay this brute-man who had made his life unendurable.</p>

<p>It was an awful moment. It was terrible even to
these hardy men of the forests. The spectacle of a slow,
deliberate killing was incomparable with the blood feuds
to which they were used. There were those whose nerves
prompted them to shout for haste. There were some
even who welcomed the prolonged agony of the victim.

But none shouted, none spoke or stirred. Furthermore,
not one pair of shining eyes revealed the quality of
mercy. Bull's right was his own. If he demanded death
it was his due. Certainly it was the due of the bully,
Laval.</p>

<p>On the far side of the circle a sudden commotion broke
up the tense expectancy of the onlookers. Every eye
responded, and the unanimity of the change of interest
suggested the desire for relief. The commotion continued.
There was some sort of struggle going on.
Then, in a moment, it ceased. A tall, lean, dark-clad
figure leapt into the arena and flung itself upon the
combatants.</p>

<p>The circle had re-formed. Again were eyes fastened
upon the point of fascination which had held them so
long. But now a buzz of talk hummed on the summer
air.</p>

<p>"What in hell!" demanded Luke, in the bitterness
of disappointment.</p>

<p>"Here, I'm&mdash;"</p>

<p>Tug Burke made a move to break into the arena.
But the powerful hand of Abe was fastened about one
of his arms in a grip of iron.</p>

<p>"Say, quit, kid!" he cried hoarsely.</p>

<p>The man's harsh tones were stirred out of their usual
quiet.</p>

<p>"Stop right here," he went on. "There's just one
feller on this earth has a right to butt in when Death's
flappin' his wings around. That's Father Adam. Maybe
you're feeling sick to think Laval's going to get clear
with his life. Maybe I am. Father Adam ain't buttin'

in ordinary. He's savin' that hothead kid the blood
of a killin' on his hands. Guess I'm glad."</p>

<p>The next moments were abounding with amazing
incident. It seemed as though a flying, priestly figure
had been absorbed in the life-and-death struggle. He

seemed to become part of it. Then, with kaleidoscopic
suddenness, the men lay apart, and the death strangle
hold of Bull Sternford was broken. And the magic of
it all lay in the fact that the stranger was standing over
the prone combatants, his dark, bearded face, and wide,
shining black eyes turned upon the living fury gazing
up out of the eyes of the man who had been robbed of
his prey.</p>

<p>"There's going to be no killing, Bull." Father Adam
spoke quietly, deliberately, but with cold decision.</p>

<p>There was no yielding in his pale, ascetic features.
One hand slipped quickly into a pocket of his short,
black, semi-clerical coat, as he allowed his eyes to glance
down at the still prostrate camp boss.</p>

<p>"And you, Laval," he cried, with more urgency, "get
out quick. Get right out to your shanty and stop there.
Later I'll come along and fix up your hurts."</p>

<p>Young Bull Sternford leapt to his feet. His youthful
figure towered. His handsome blue eyes were ablaze
with almost demoniac fury. His purpose was obvious.
A voiceless passion surged as he started to rush again
upon his victim.</p>

<p>But the priestly figure, with purpose no less, instantly
barred the way.</p>

<p>"Quit," he cried sharply. "What I say, goes."</p>

<p>Bull halted. He halted within a yard of the automatic
pistol whose muzzle was covering him. He stood for a
second staring stupidly. And something of his madness
seemed to pass out of his eyes. Then, in a moment,
his voice rang out harshly.</p>

<p>"Get away. Let me get at him. Oh, God, I'll smash
him! I'll&mdash;!"</p>

<p>"You'll quit right now!" Father Adam still barred
the way with the threatening gun. He raised the muzzle
the least shade. "There's this gun says you're not
going to have murder on your hands, boy; and there's

a man behind it knows how to make it stop your mad
attempt. That's better," he went on, as, even in his fury
the younger man drew back in face of the threat. "Say,
you've done enough, boy. You've done all you need.
He's deserved everything he's got, the same as most of us
deserve the bad times we get. You've licked him like the
good man you are. You've licked him without any filthy
maiming, or unnecessary cruelty. Now leave him his life.
He'll never trouble you again. Let it go at that."</p>

<p>The calm of the man, the gentleness of his tones were
irresistible. The fury of the youth died hard, but it so
lessened in face of the simple exhortation that it had
passed below the point where insanity rules.</p>

<p>Suddenly a great, bleeding hand was raised to his
mane of fair hair, and he smoothed it back off his forehead
helplessly.</p>

<p>"Why? Why?" he demanded. Then spasmodically:
"Why should&mdash;he&mdash;get away with it? He's handed
me a dog's life He's&mdash;"</p>

<p>He broke off. His emotions were overwhelming.</p>

<p>Father Adam's dark eyes never wavered. They
squarely held their grip on the stormy light shining in
the other's. Laval had not stirred. He still lay sprawled
on the ground. Quite abruptly the hand gripping the
automatic pistol was thrust into the pocket of the black
coat. When it was removed it was empty. The man
took a quick step towards the half-dazed Bull.</p>

<p>"Come along, boy," he said persuasively, taking him
by the arm. "Come right over to my shanty," he went
on. "You'll feel better in a while. You'll feel better
all ways, and glad you&mdash;didn't." Then he paused, holding
the man's unresisting arm. He looked down at
Laval who displayed belated signs of movement. "Get
up, Laval," he ordered, returning to a coldness that displayed
his inner feeling. "Get up, and&mdash;get out. Get
away right now, and thank God your neck's still whole."</p>


<p>He waited for the obedience he demanded, and waiting
he realised by the quiescence of the man beside him
that all danger had passed.</p>

<p>Laval staggered to his feet. He stood up, a giant
in the prime of early manhood, but bowed under the
weight of physical hurt, and the knowledge of his first
defeat. He stood for a moment as though uncertain.
Then he moved slowly towards the crowding onlookers,
finally passing through them on his way to his quarters
pursued by a hundred contemptuous, unpitying glances,
while busy tongues expressed regret at his escape. It
was the scowl of the wolf pack in its merciless regard
for a fallen leader.</p>

<p>Very different was the general attitude when Father
Adam led the victor away. Hard faces were a-grin.
The tongues that cursed the defeated camp boss hurled
jubilant laudations at the unresponsive youth, who
towered even amongst these great creatures. But for
the presence of Father Adam, who seemed to exercise
a miraculous restraining influence, these lumber-jacks
would have crowded in and forcibly borne their champion
to the suttler's store for those copious libations,
which, in their estimate, was the only fitting conclusion
to the scene they had witnessed. As it was they made
way. They stood aside in spontaneous and real respect,
and the two men passed on in silence leaving the crowd
to disperse to its labours.</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_11"></a>
<h3>Chapter II&mdash;Father Adam</h3>


<p>The hush of the forest was profound. For all the proximity
of the busy lumber camp its calm was unbroken.</p>

<p>It was a break in the endless canopy of foliage, a
narrow rift in the dark breadth of the shadowed woods.</p>


<p>It was one of those infinitesimal veins through which
flows the life-blood of the forest.</p>

<p>A tiny streamlet trickled its way over a bed of decayed
vegetation often meandering through a dense growth
of wiry reeds in a channel set well below the general
level. Banks of attenuated grass and rank foliage lined
its course, and the welcome sunlight poured down
upon its water in sharp contrast with the twilight of the
forest.</p>

<p>Clear of the crowding trees a rough shanty stood out
in the sunlight. It was a crazy affair constructed of
logs laterally laid and held in place by uprights, with
walls that looked to be just able to hold together while
suffering under the constant threat of collapse. The
place was roofed with a thatch of reeds taken from the
adjacent stream-bed, and its doorway was protected by
a sheet of tattered sacking. There was also a window
covered with cotton, and a length of iron stove-pipe
protruding through the thatch of the roof seemed to
threaten the whole place with fire at its first use.</p>

<p>Inside there was no attempt to better the impression.
There was no furnishing. A spread of blankets on a
waterproof sheet laid on a bed of reeds formed the bed
of its owner, with a canvas kit-bag stuffed with his
limited wardrobe serving as a pillow. There were
several upturned boxes to be used as seats, and a larger
box served the purpose of a table and supported a tiny
oil lamp. There was not even the usual wood stove
connected up to the protruding stove-pipe. A smouldering
fire was burning between two large sandstone blocks,
which, in turn, supported a cooking pot. An uncultured
Indian of the forests would have demanded greater
comfort for his resting moments.</p>

<p>But Father Adam had no concern for comfort of
body. He needed his blankets and his fire solely to
support life against the bitterness of the night air. For

the rest the barest, hardest food kept the fire of life
burning in his lean body.</p>

<p>Squatting on his upturned box he gazed out upon the
sunlit stream below him. His dark eyes were full
of a pensive calm. His body was inclining forward,
supported by arms folded across his knees. An unlit
pipe thrust in the corner of his mouth was the one
touch that defeated the efforts of his flowing hair and
dark beard to suggest a youthful hermit meditating in
the doorway of his retreat.</p>

<p>Bull Sternford was seated on another box at the
opposite side of the doorway. He, too, had a pipe
thrust between his strong jaws. But he was smoking.
Beyond the dressings applied to a few abrasions he bore
no signs of his recent battle. But there still burned a
curiously fierce light in his handsome blue eyes.</p>

<p>"You shouldn't have butted in, Father," he said, in
a tone which betrayed the emotion under which he was
still labouring. "You just shouldn't." Then with a
movement of irritation: "Oh, I'm not a feller yearning
for homicide. No. It's not that. You know Arden
Laval," he went on, his brows depressing. "Of course
you do. You must know him a whole heap better than
I do. Well? Say, I guess that feller hasn't a right to
walk this earth. He boasts the boys he's smashed the
life clean out of. He's killed more fool lumber-jacks
than you could count on the fingers of two hands. He
wanted my scalp to hang on his belt. That man's a
murderer before God. But he's beyond the recall of
law up here. And he stops around on the fringe looking
for the poor fool suckers who don't know better than
to get within his reach. Gee, it was tough! I'd a holt
on him I wouldn't get in a thousand years, and I'd
nearly got the life out of him. I'd stood for all his
dirt weeks on end. He made his set at me because I'm
green and college-bred. But he called me a 'son-of-a-bitch!'

Think of it! Oh, I can't rest with that hitting
my brain. It's no use. I'll have to break him. God,
I'll break him yet. And I'll see you aren't around when
I do it."</p>

<p>The man's voice had risen almost to a shout. His
bandaged hands clenched into fists like limbs of mutton.
He held them out at the man opposite, and in his agony
of rage, it gave the impression he was threatening.</p>

<p>Father Adam stirred. He reached down into the
box under him and picked up a pannikin. Then he
produced a flask from an inner pocket. He unscrewed
the top and poured out some of its contents. He held
it out to the other.</p>

<p>"Drink it," he said quietly.</p>

<p>The blue eyes searched the dark face before them.
In a moment excitement had begun to pass.</p>

<p>"What is it?" Bull demanded roughly.</p>

<p>"It's brandy, and there's dope in it."</p>

<p>"Dope?"</p>

<p>"Yes. Bromide. You'll feel better after you've
swallowed it. You see I want to make a big talk with
you. That's why I brought you here. That's why I
stopped you killing that feller&mdash;that, and other reasons.
But I can't talk with you acting like&mdash;like I'd guess
Arden Laval would act. Drink that right up. And
you needn't be scared of it. It'll just do you the good
you need."</p>

<p>Father Adam watched while the other took the pannikin.
He watched him raise it, and sniff suspiciously at
its contents. And a shadowy smile lit his dark eyes.</p>

<p>"It's as I said," he prompted. Then he added: "I'm
not a&mdash;Cæsar."</p>

<p>The youth glanced across at him, and for the first
time since his battle a smile broke through the angry
gleam of his eyes. He put the pannikin to his lips and
gulped down the contents.</p>


<p>Father Adam drew a deep sigh. It was curious how
this act of obedience and faith affected him. The weight
of his responsibility seemed suddenly to have become
enormous.</p>

<p>It was always the same. This man accepted him as
did every other lumber-jack throughout the forests of
Quebec. He was a father whose patient affection for
his lawless children was never failing, a man of healing,
with something of the gentleness of a woman. An
adviser and spiritual guide who never worried them,
and yet contrived, perhaps all unknown to themselves,
to leave them better men for their knowledge of him.
He came, and he departed. Whence he came and
whither he went no one enquired, no one seemed to know.
He just moved through the twilight forests like a
ghostly, beneficent shadow, supreme in his command
of their rugged hearts.</p>

<p>Bull set the pannikin on the ground beside him. His
smile had deepened.</p>

<p>"You needn't to tell me that, Father," he said, almost
humbly. "There isn't a feller back there in the camp,"
he added with a jerk of his head, "that would have
hesitated like me when you handed him your dope.
Thanks. Say, that darn stuff's made me feel easier."</p>

<p>"Good."</p>

<p>The missionary removed his empty pipe, and Bull
hastily dragged his pouch from a pocket in his buckskin
shirt. He held it out.</p>

<p>"Help yourself," he invited. And the other took it.
For a moment Bull looked on at the thoughtful manner
in which Father Adam filled his pipe. Then a curiosity
he could no longer restrain prompted him.</p>

<p>"This big talk," he said. "What's it about?"</p>

<p>The missionary's preoccupation vanished. His eyes
lit and he passed back the pouch.</p>

<p>"Thanks, boy," he said in his amiable way. "Guess

I'll need to smoke, too&mdash;you see our talk needs some
hard thinking. Pass me a stick from that fire."</p>

<p>Bull did as he was bid. And the missionary's eyes
were on the fair head of the man as he leant down over
the smouldering embers stewing his own meagre midday
meal.</p>

<p>Bull Sternford was a creature of vast stature and
muscular bulk. It was no wonder that the redoubtable
Laval had run up against defeat. The camp boss had
lived for twenty years the hard life of the forests. His
body was no less great than this man's. His experience
in physical battle was well-nigh unlimited. But so, too,
was his debauchery.</p>

<p>Bull Sternford was younger. He was clean and fresh
from one of the finest colleges of the world. He was an
athlete by training and nature. Then, too, his mentality
was of that amazing fighting quality which stirs youth
to go out and seek the world rather than vegetate in the
nursery of childhood. It was all there written in his
keen, blue eyes, in the set of his jaws of even white
teeth. It was all there in the muscular set of his great
neck, and in the poise of his handsome head, and in the
upright carriage of his breadth of shoulder. Even his
walk was a thing to mark him out from his fellows. It
was bold, perhaps even there was a suggestion of arrogance
in it. But it was only the result of the military
straightness of his body.</p>

<p>Little wonder, then, a man of Arden Laval's brutal
nature should mark him down as desired victim. This
man was "green." He was educated. He possessed a
spirit worth breaking. Later he would learn. Later he
would become a force in the calling of the woods. Now
he would be easy.</p>

<p>The brute had sought every opportunity to bait and
goad the man to his undoing. For months he had
"camped on his trail," and Bull had endured. Then

came that moment of the filthy epithet, and Bull's spirit
broke through the bonds of will that held it. The insult
had been hurled at the moment and at the spot where
the battle had been fought. Bull had flung himself
forthwith at the throat of the French Canadian almost
before the last syllable of the insult had passed the man's
lips. And the end of nearly a two hours' battle had been
the downfall of the bully, with the name of Bull Sternford
hailed as a fighting man in his place.</p>

<p>The firebrand was passed to the waiting missionary.
He sucked in the pleasant fumes of a lumberman's
tobacco. Then the stick was flung back to its place in
the fire.</p>

<p>Father Adam nursed one long leg, which he flung
across the other, while his wide, intelligent eyes gazed
squarely into the eyes of the man opposite.</p>

<p>"Tell me," he said. "What brought you into the life
of the woods? What left you quitting the things I can
see civilisation handed you? This is the life of the
wastrel, the fallen, the man who knows no better. It's
not for men starting out in possession of all those things&mdash;you
have."</p>

<p>Bull sat for a moment without replying. Father
Adam's "dope" had done its work. His passionate
moments had vanished like an ugly dream. His turbulent
spirit had attained peace. Suddenly he looked
up with a frank laugh.</p>

<p>"Now, why in hell should I tell you?"</p>

<p>It was an irresistible challenge. The missionary
nodded his approval.</p>

<p>"Yes. Why&mdash;in hell&mdash;should you?"</p>

<p>He, too, laughed. And his laugh miraculously lit
up his ascetic features.</p>

<p>Instantly Bull flung out one bandaged hand in a sweeping
gesture.</p>

<p>"Why shouldn't I&mdash;anyway?" he cried, with the

abandon of a man impatient of all subterfuge. "Guess
I ought to turn right around and ask who the devil you
are to look into my affairs? Who are you to assume
the right of inquisitor?" He shook his head. "But
I'm not going to. Now I'm sane again I know just
how much you did for me. I meant killing Laval. Oh,
yes, there wasn't a thing going to break my hold until
he was dead&mdash;dead. You got me in time to save me
from wrecking my whole life. And you got in at&mdash;the
risk of your own. If I'd killed him all the things and
purposes I've worried with since I left college would
have been just so much junk; and I'd have drifted into
the life of a bum lumber-jack without any sort of notion
beyond rye whiskey, and the camp women, and a well
swung axe. You saved me from that. You saved me
from myself. Well, you're real welcome to ask me any
old thing, and I'll hand you all the truth there is in me.
I'm an 'illegitimate.' I'm one of the world's friendless. I'm
a product of a wealthy man's licence and unscruple.
I'm an outcast amongst the world's honest born. But
it's no matter. I'm not on the squeal. Those who're
responsible for my being did their best to hand me the
things a man most needs. Mind, and body, and will.
Further, they gave me all that education, books, and
college can hand a feller. More than that, my father,
who seems to have had more honesty than you'd expect,
handed me a settlement of a hundred thousand dollars
the day I became twenty-one. I never knew him, and
I never knew my mother. The circumstances of my
birth were simply told me on my twenty-first birthday.
I know no more. And I care nothing to hunt out those
spectres that don't figger to hand a feller much comfort.
The rest is easy. I hope I'm a feller of some guts&mdash;"</p>

<p>Father Adam nodded, and his eyes lit.</p>

<p>"Sure," was all he commented.</p>

<p>"Anyway, I feel like it," Bull laughed. "When I

learned all these things I started right in to think. I
thought like hell. I said to myself something like this:
'There's nothing to hold me where I am. There's no
one around to care a curse. There's that feeling right
inside the pit of my stomach makes me feel I want to
make good. I want to build up around me all that my
birth has refused me. A name, a life circle, a power, a&mdash;anyway,
get right out and do things! Well, what was
I going to do? It needed thinking. Then I hit the
notion."</p>

<p>He laughed again. He was gazing in at himself
and laughing at the conceits he knew were real, and
strong, and vital.</p>

<p>"Say." He nodded at the prospect through the doorway.
"There it is. This country's beginning. We
don't know half it means to the world yet. Well, I
hadn't enough capital to play with, so I resolved right
away to start in and learn a trade from its first step to
its topmost rung, and to earn my keep right through.
Meanwhile my capital's lying invested against the time
I open out. I'm going to jump right into the groundwood
pulp business when the time comes. And out of
that I mean to build a name that folks won't easily forget.
Well, I guess you won't find much that's interesting
in all this. It don't sound anything particularly bright
or new. But for what it is it's my notion, and&mdash;I'm
going to put it through. That's why I'm here. I'm
learning my job from the bottom."</p>

<p>The decision and force of the man were remarkable.
The conciseness of his story, and his indifference to the
tragedy of his birth, indicated a level mind under
powerful control. And Father Adam knew he had
made no mistake.</p>

<p>"It's the best story I've heard in years," he replied,
a whimsical smile lighting his dark eyes.</p>

<p>"Is it?"</p>


<p>Bull's smile was no less whimsical.</p>

<p>"Yes. You've guts of iron, boy. And I've been
looking years for just such a man."</p>

<p>"That sounds&mdash;tough," Bull laughed, but he was
interested. "What's the job you want him for? Are
you yearning to hand out a killing? Is it a trip&mdash;a trip
to some waste space of God's earth that 'ud freeze up a
normal heart? Do you want a feller to beat the laws
of God and man? Guts of iron! It certainly sounds
tough, and I'm not sure you've found the feller you're
needing."</p>

<p>"I am."</p>

<p>Father Adam was no longer smiling. The gravity
of his expression gave emphasis to his words.</p>

<p>Bull was impressed. His laugh died out.</p>

<p>"I don't know I'm yearning," he said deliberately.
"Anyway I don't quit the track I've marked out. That
way there's nothing doing. It's a crank with me; I
can't quit a notion."</p>

<p>"You don't have to."</p>

<p>"No?"</p>

<p>They were regarding each other steadily.</p>

<p>"Here, it's not my way to beat around," the missionary
exclaimed suddenly. "When you find the thing you
need you've got to act quick and straight. Just listen
a while, while I make a talk. Ask all you need as I go
along. And when I've done I'd thank you for a straight
answer and quick. An answer that'll hold you, and
bind you the way your own notions do."</p>

<p>"That's talk."</p>

<p>Bull nodded appreciatively. The missionary let his
gaze wander to the pleasant sunlight through the doorway,
where the flies and mosquitoes were basking.</p>

<p>"There was a fellow who started up a groundwood
mill 'way out on the Labrador coast. He was bright
enough, and a mighty rich man. And he'd got a notion&mdash;a

big notion. Well, I know him. I know him intimately.
I don't know if he's a friend to me or not.
Sometimes I think he isn't. Anyway, that doesn't
matter to you. The thing that does matter is, he set
out to do something big. His notions were always big.
Maybe too big. This notion was no less than to drive
the Skandinavians out of the groundwood trade of this
country. He figured his great mill was to be the nucleus
of an all-Canadian and British combination, embracing
the entire groundwood industry of this country. It
was to be Canadian trade for Canada with the British
Empire."</p>

<p>Bull emitted a low whistle.</p>

<p>"An elegant slogan," he commented.</p>

<p>He shifted his position. In his interest his pipe had
gone out, and he leant forward on his upturned box.</p>

<p>"Yes," Father Adam went on. "And, like your
notion, it was something not easily shifted from his
mind. It was planned and figured to the last detail. It
was so planned it could not fail. So he thought. So
all concerned thought. You see, he had ten million
dollars capital of his own; and he was something of a
genius at figures and finance&mdash;his people reckoned. He
was a man of some purpose, and enthusiasm, and&mdash;something
else."</p>

<p>"Ah!"</p>

<p>Bull's alert brain was prompt to seize upon the reservation.
But denial was instant.</p>

<p>"No. It wasn't drink, or women, or any foolishness
of that sort," the missionary said. "The whole edifice
of his purpose came tumbling about his ears from a
totally unexpected cause. Something happened. Something
happened to the man himself. It was disaster&mdash;personal
disaster. And when it came a queer sort of
weakness tripped him, a weakness he had always
hitherto had strength to keep under, to stifle. His

courage failed him, and the bottom of his purpose fell
out like&mdash;that."</p>

<p>Father Adam clipped his fingers in the air and his
regretful eyes conveyed the rest. Then, after a moment,
he smiled.</p>

<p>"He'd no&mdash;iron guts," he said, with a sigh. "He had
no stomach for battle in face of this&mdash;this disaster that
hit him."</p>

<p>"It has no relation to his&mdash;undertaking?"</p>

<p>"None whatever. I know the whole thing. We were
'intimates.' I know his whole life story. It was a disaster
to shake any man."</p>

<p>The missionary sighed profoundly.</p>

<p>"Yes, I knew him intimately," he went on. "I
deplored his weakness. I censured it. Perhaps I went
far beyond any right of mine to condemn. I don't
know. I argued with him. I did all I could to support
him. You see, I appreciated the splendid notion of the
thing he contemplated. More than that, I knew it could
be carried out."</p>

<p>He shook his head.</p>

<p>"It was useless. This taint&mdash;this yellow streak&mdash;was
part of the man. He could no more help it than you
could help fighting to the death."</p>

<p>"Queer."</p>

<p>A sort of pitying contempt shone in the younger
man's eyes.</p>

<p>"Queer?" Father Adam nodded. "It was&mdash;crazy."</p>

<p>"It surely was."</p>

<p>The missionary turned back to the prospect beyond
the doorway. But it was only for a moment. He turned
again and went on with added urgency.</p>

<p>"But the scheme wasn't wholly to be abandoned. It
was&mdash;say, here was the crazy proposition he put up.
You see I was his most intimate friend. He said:
'The forests are wide. They're peopled with men of

our craft. There must be a hundred and more men
capable of doing this thing. Of putting it through.
Well, the forests must provide the man, or the idea
must die.' He said: 'We must find a man!' He said:

'You&mdash;you whose mission it is to roam the length
and breadth of these forests&mdash;you may find such a man.
If you do&mdash;when you do&mdash;if it's years hence&mdash;send
him along here, and there's ten million dollars waiting
for him, and all this great mill, and these timber limits
inexhaustible waiting for him to go right ahead. It
doesn't matter a thing who he is, or what he is, or
where he comes from, so long as he gets this idea&mdash;sticks
to it faithfully&mdash;and puts it through. I want nothing
out of it for myself. And the day he succeeds in
the great idea all that would have been mine shall be
his.'"</p>

<p>As Father Adam finished, he looked into the earnest,
wonder-filled eyes of the other.</p>

<p>"Well?" he demanded.</p>

<p>Bull cleared his throat.</p>

<p>"The mill? Where is it?" He demanded.</p>

<p>"Sachigo. Farewell Cove."</p>

<p>"Sachigo! Why it's&mdash;"</p>

<p>"The greatest groundwood mill in the world."</p>

<p>There was a note of pride and triumph in the missionary's
tone. But it passed unheeded. Bull was
struggling with recollection.</p>

<p>"This man? Wasn't it Leslie Standing who built it?
Didn't it break him or something? That's the story
going round. There was something&mdash;"</p>

<p>Father Adam shook his head.</p>

<p>"There's ten million dollars says it didn't. Ten
millions you can handle yourself."</p>

<p>"Gee!"</p>

<p>Bull drew a sharp breath. Strong, forceful as he was
the figure was overwhelming.</p>


<p>"This&mdash;all this you're saying&mdash;offering? It's all real,
true?" Bull demanded at last.</p>

<p>"All of it."</p>

<p>"You want me to go and take possession of Sachigo,
and ten&mdash;Say, where's the catch?"</p>

<p>"There's no 'catch'&mdash;anywhere."</p>

<p>The denial was cold. It was almost in the tone of
affronted dignity. The missionary had thrust his hand
in a pocket. Now he produced a large, sealed envelope.
Bull's eyes watched the movement, but bewilderment was
still apparent in them. Suddenly he raised a bandaged
hand, and smoothed back his hair.</p>

<p>Father Adam held out the sealed letter. It was
addressed to "Bat Harker," at Sachigo Mill.</p>

<p>"Here," he said quietly. "You're the man with iron
guts Leslie Standing wants for his purpose. Take this.
Go right off to Sachigo and take charge of the greatest
enterprise in the world's paper industry. You're looking
to make good. It's your set purpose to make good
in the groundwood industry. Opportunities don't come
twice in a lifetime. If you've the iron courage I believe,
you'll grab this chance. You'll grab it right away.
Will you? Can you do it? Have you the nerve?"</p>

<p>There was a taunt in the challenge. It was calculated.
There was something else. The missionary's dark eyes
were almost pleading.</p>

<p>Bull seized the letter. He almost snatched it.</p>

<p>"Will I do it? Can I do it? Have I the nerve?"
he cried, in a tone of fierce exulting. "If there's a feller
crazy enough to hand me ten million dollars and trust
me with a job&mdash;if it was as big as a war between nations&mdash;I'd
never squeal. Can I? Will I? Sure I will.
And time'll answer the other for you. Iron guts, eh! I
tell you in this thing they're chilled steel."</p>

<p>"Good!"</p>

<p>Father Adam was smiling. A great relief, a great

happiness stirred his pulses as he stood up and moved
over to the miserable fire with its burden of stewing
food.</p>

<p>"Now we'll eat," he said. And he stooped down and
stirred the contents of the pot.</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_12"></a>
<h3>Chapter III&mdash;Bull Learns Conditions</h3>


<p>The <em>Myra</em> ploughed her leisurely way up the cove.
There was dignity in the steadiness with which she glided
through the still waters. The cockleshell of the Atlantic
billows had become a thing of pride in the shelter of
Farewell Cove. Her predecessor, the <em>Lizzie</em>, had never
risen above her humble station.</p>

<p>Her decks were wide and clean. Her smoke-stack had
something purposeful in its proportions. The bridge
was set high and possessed a spacious chart house. She
had an air of importance not usual to the humble coasting
packet.</p>

<p>"Old man" Hardy was at his post now. One of his
officers occupied the starboard side of the bridge, while
he and another looked out over the port bow.</p>

<p>"It's a deep water channel," the skipper said, with all
a sailor's appreciation. "That's the merricle that makes
this place. It'ud take a ten-thousand tonner with
fathoms to spare right away up to the mooring berth.
Guess Nature meant Sachigo for a real port, but got
mussed fixing the climate."</p>

<p>Bull Sternford was leaning over the rail. For all
summer was at its height the thick pea-jacket he was
wearing was welcome enough. His keen eyes were
searching, and no detail of the prospect escaped them.
He was filled with something akin to amazement.</p>

<p>"It compares with the big harbours of the world," he

replied. "And I'd say it's not without advantages many
of the finest of 'em lack. Those headlands we passed
away back. Why, the Atlantic couldn't blow a storm
big enough to more than ripple the surface here inside."
He laughed. "What a place to fortify. Think of this
in war time, eh?"</p>

<p>The grizzled skipper grinned responsively.</p>

<p>"It's all you reckon," he said. "But she needs
humouring. You need to get this place in winter when
ice and snow make it tough. This cove freezes right
around its shores. You'd maybe lay off days to get
inside, only to find yourself snow or fog bound for
weeks on end. We make it because we have to with
mails. But you can't run cargo bottoms in winter.
It's a coasting master's job in snow time. It's a life
study. You can get in, and you can get out&mdash;if you've
nerve. If you're short that way you'll pile up sure as
hell."</p>

<p>He turned away to the chart room, and a moment
later the engine-room telegraph chimed his orders to
those below.</p>

<p>Bull was left with his busy thoughts.</p>

<p>It was a remarkable scene. The forest slopes came
right down almost to the water's edge on either hand.
They came down from heights that rose mountainously.
And there, all along the foreshore were dotted timber-built
habitations sufficient to shelter hundreds of workers.
Their quality was staunch and picturesque, and pointed
much of the climate rigour they were called upon to
endure. But they only formed a background to, perhaps,
the most wonderful sight of all. A road and
trolley car line skirted each foreshore, and the mind behind
the searching eyes was filled with admiration for
the skill and enterprise that had transplanted one of
civilisation's most advanced products here on the desperate
coast of Labrador. Many of the forest whispers

of Sachigo had been incredible. But this left the
onlooker ready to believe anything of it.</p>

<p>The mill, and the township surrounding it, were
already within view, a wide-scattered world of buildings,
occupying all the lower levels of the territory on both
sides of the mouth of the Beaver River before it rose
to the heights from which its water power fell.</p>

<p>Bull was amazed. And as he gazed, his wonder and
admiration were intensified a hundredfold by his self-interest.
This place was to be in his control, possibly
his possession if he made good. He thrust back the
fur cap pressed low on his forehead.</p>

<p>His thought leapt back on the instant to the man who
had sent him down to this Sachigo. Father Adam,
with his thin, ascetic features, his long, dark hair and
beard, his tall, spare figure. His patient kindliness
and sympathy, and yet with the will and force behind
it which could fling the muzzle of a gun into a man's
face and force obedience. He had sent him. Why?
Because&mdash;oh, it was all absurd, unreal. And yet here he
was on the steamer; and there ahead lay the wonders of
Sachigo. Well, time would prove the craziness of it all.</p>

<p>"Makes you wonder, eh?" The coasting skipper was
at his side again. "You know these folks needed big
nerve to set up this enterprise. It keeps me guessing
at the limits where man has to quit. I've spent my life
on this darn coast, an' never guessed to see the day
when trolley cars 'ud run on Labrador, and the working
folk 'ud sit around in their dandy houses, with electric
light making things comfortable for them, and electric
heat takin' the place of the cordwood stove it seemed
to me folk never could do without. Can you beat it?
No. You can't. Nor anyone else."</p>

<p>"Who is it? A corporation?" Bull asked, knowing
full well the answer. He wanted to hear, he wanted
to learn all that this man could tell him.</p>


<p>Hardy shook his head.</p>

<p>"Standing," he said. "That was the guy's name who
started it all up. But," he added thoughtfully, "I never
rightly knew which feller it was. If it was Standing,
or that tough hoboe feller who calls himself Bat Harker.
They never talk a heap. But since Leslie Standing
passed out o' things eight years back&mdash;the time I was
first handed command of this kettle&mdash;the mill's jumped
out of all notion. Those trolleys," he pointed at the
foreshore of the cove: "They started in to haul the
'hands' to their work only two years back. I'd say it's
Bat Harker. But he looks more like a longshore tough
than a&mdash;genius."</p>

<p>He shrugged expressively. Then he shook his head.</p>

<p>"No," he went on. "I don't know a thing but what
any guy can learn who comes along up this coast. I've
thought a heap. An', like you, I've ast questions all
the time. But you don't learn a thing of this enterprise
but the things you see. Bat Harker don't ever
talk." He laughed in quiet enjoyment. "He's most
like a clam mussed up in a cement bar'l. There don't
seem any clear reason either. The only thing queer to
me was Standing's 'get out.' There was talk then when
that happened along. But it was jest talk. Canteen
talk. Something sort of happened. No one seemed
rightly to know. They guessed Bat was a tough guy
who'd boosted him out&mdash;some way. Then I heard his
wife had quit and he was all broke up. Then they said
he'd made losses of millions on stock market gambles.
But the yarns don't fit. You see, the mill's gone right
ahead. The capital's there, sure. They've just built
and built. There's more than twice the 'hands' there
was eight years back. And get a look at the 'bottoms'

loading at the wharves. No. Say, when I came aboard
the <em>Myra</em> and they scrapped the <em>Lizzie</em>, I never guessed
to get a full cargo. Well, I can load right down to the

water line for this place alone all the time. No.
Sachigo's a mighty big fixture in the trade of this coast.
It's a swell proposition for us sea folk. It keeps our
propellers moving all the time. They're bright folk,
sure."</p>

<p>The old seaman laughed and moved off again to his
telegraphs. The business of running in to the quayside
was beginning in earnest.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>The hawsers creaked and strained at the bollards.
The vessel yawed. Then she settled at her berth. The
engine-room telegraph chimed its final order, and the
vessel's busy heart came to rest. Instantly activity
reigned upon the deck, and the discharge of cargo was
in full swing.</p>

<p>Bull Sternford was one of the first to pass down the
gangway. Clad in the pleasant tweeds of civilisation,
part hidden under a close-buttoned pea-jacket, he bulked
enormously. His more than six feet of height was lost
against his massive breadth of shoulder. Then, too,
his keen face under a beaver cap, and his shapely head
with its mane of hair, were things to deny his body that
attention it might otherwise have attracted.</p>

<p>For all that, at least one pair of critical eyes lost no
detail of his personality. Bat Harker was unobtrusively
standing amongst the piled bales of groundwood that
stacked the wharf from end to end. There was nothing
about him to single him out from those who stood on
the quay. The rough clothing of his original calling
was very dear to him, and he clung to it tenaciously.
He seemed to have aged not one whit in the added eight
years. His iron-grey hair was just as thick and colourful
as before. There was no added line in his hard
face. His girth was no less and no more. And his
eyes, penetrating, steady, had the same spirit shining
in them.</p>


<p>He had laboured something desperately in the past
eight years. With the passing of Leslie Standing from
the life of Sachigo he had realized a terrible loss. His
loss had more than embarrassed him. There was even
a moment when it shook his purpose. But with him
Sachigo was a religion, and his faith saved him. For
a while, in both letter and spirit, he obeyed his orders,
and Sachigo stood still. Then his philosophy carried
the day. It was his dictum that no one could stand
still on Labrador without freezing to death. He saw
the application of it to his beloved mill. It must be
"forward" or decay. So he scrapped his original orders,
and drove with all his force.</p>

<p>Bull stared about him for the fascination of his
journey up the cove was still on him. His pre-occupation
left him watching the hurried, orderly movement
going on about him.</p>

<p>"That all your baggage?"</p>

<p>The demand was harsh, and Bull swung round with
a start. He was gazing down into the upturned face of
Bat Harker, who was pointing at the suit case he was
carrying.</p>

<p>"Guess I've a trunk back there in the hold somewhere,"
Bull replied indifferently, taking his interrogator
for a quayside porter.</p>

<p>"That's all right. I'll have one of the boys tote it
up. Best come right along. It's quite a piece up to the
office. You've a letter for me?"</p>

<p>"I've a letter for Mr. Bat Harker."</p>

<p>The doubt in Bull's tone set a genuine grin in the
other's eyes.</p>

<p>"Sure. That's me. Bat Harker. Maybe you don't
guess I look it. Don't worry. Just pass it over."</p>

<p>Bull groped in an inner pocket, surprise affording
him some amusement. His interest in Sachigo had
abruptly focussed itself on this man.</p>


<p>"I'm kind of sorry," he said. "I surely took you for
some sort of&mdash;porter."</p>

<p>Bat laughed outright, and glanced down at his work-stained
clothing.</p>

<p>"Wal, that ain't new," he said. Then his eyes resumed
their keen regard. "We don't need to wait
around though. The skitters are mighty thick down
here. Sachigo's gettin' a special breed I kind o' hate.
That letter, an'&mdash;we'll get along."</p>

<p>Bull drew out Father Adam's letter and waited while
the other tore it open. Bat glanced at the contents and
jumped to the signature. Then he thrust out a gnarled
and powerful hand.</p>

<p>"Shake," he cried. And there could be no doubting
his good will. "Glad to have you around, Mr. Bull
Sternford."</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Bull Sternford was seated in the luxurious chair that
had once known Leslie Standing. His pea-jacket was
removed and his cap was gone. The room was warm,
and the sun beyond the window was radiant. Beyond
the desk Bat was seated, where his wandering gaze
could drift to the one object of which it never tired.
He was at the window which looked out upon the mill
below.</p>

<p>He was reading Father Adam's letter. Sternford was
silently regarding his squat figure. He was waiting
and wondering, speculating as to the hard-faced, uncultured
creature who had built up all the amazing details
that made up an industrial city in a territory that was
outlawed by Nature.</p>

<p>Bat thrust the letter away and looked up.</p>

<p>"Father Adam didn't write that letter for you? He
just handed it out to you to bring along?"</p>

<p>"That's how," Bull nodded.</p>


<p>"Sure." Bat's tone became reflective. "He must
have wrote that letter years, and held it against the time
he located you. He's queer."</p>

<p>Bull laughed.</p>

<p>"Maybe he is," he said, "I don't know about that.
But he's one hell of a good man," he went on warmly.
"Do you know him? But of course you do. Say, he's
just father and mother to every darn lumber-jack that
haunts the forests of Quebec, and it don't worry him if
his children are hellhound or honest. There's that to
him sets me just crazy. I'd like to see his thin, tired face,
always smiling." He stirred. And the warmth died
abruptly out of his manner. "Say, you knew me&mdash;at
the wharf?"</p>

<p>"Sure. I knew you before you came along. We've
a wireless out on the headland."</p>

<p>"I see. Father Adam warned you I was coming. He
told you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"The whole darn yarn. Sure."</p>

<p>Bull laughed grimly.</p>

<p>"That he guessed to shoot me to small meat if I didn't
do as he said?"</p>

<p>"If you didn't cut out homicide from your notions of&mdash;sport."</p>

<p>"Yes. It was tough," Bull regretted. "But I'm glad&mdash;now."</p>

<p>"Yep. Guess any straight sort of feller would feel
that way&mdash;after."</p>

<p>The lumberman's regret was unnoticed by the other.</p>

<p>Suddenly Bull leant forward in his chair. A smile,
half whimsical, half incredulous, lit his eyes. He thrust
his elbows on the desk and supported his face in his hands.</p>

<p>"It just beats hell!" he cried. "It certainly does. Oh,
I'm awake all right. Sure, I am. One time I wasn't
sure. Two months back I was lying around a lousy
summer camp getting ready to take a hand in the winter

cut for the Skandinavia Corporation. I was within
two seconds of breaking a man's life&mdash;the rotten camp
boss. And now? Why, now I'm sitting around in dandy
tweeds in the boss chair of a swell office, with a crazy
notion back of my head I'm here to beat the game with
the greatest groundwood mill in the world, and ten
million dollars capital behind me. Maybe there's folks
wouldn't guess I'm awake, but I allow I am. But the
whole thing sets me thinking of the fairy stories I used
to read when I was a kid, and never could see the horse
sense in wasting time over."</p>

<p>Bat helped himself to a chew from a fragment of plug
tobacco.</p>

<p>"Here, listen," Bull went on, after the briefest pause.
"It's my 'show down.' I don't understand a thing. I'm
mostly a kid from college with a yearning for fight.
So far I've learned some of the things the forest can
teach the feller who wants to learn. They're the rough
things. And I like rough things. I've some grip on
groundwood. And the making of groundwood's the
main object of my life. That, and the notion of licking
hell out of the other feller. That's me, and those are the
things made Father Adam send me along down to
Sachigo. Well, it's up to you." He spread out his hands,
"Where do I stand? How do I stand? And why in
the name of all that's crazy am I sitting in this boss chair&mdash;right
now?"</p>

<p>Bat swung one trunk-like leg across the other. His
movement suggested an easing of mind and a measure
of enjoyment. He pointed at the window and nodded
in its direction.</p>

<p>"Quite a place," he said, in a tone and with a pride
that had no relation to the other's demands. "Makes
you feel man ain't the bum sort of inseck in the scheme
of things some highbrows ain't happy not tellin' you.
There's folks who guess it's Nature the proposition

that matters. It's her does it all, an' keeps on doin' it
all the time. But Nature's most like one mighty foolish,
extravagant female. That sort o' woman who don't
care but to please the notion of the moment. And when
that's done, goes right on to please the next. Wal, anyway
I guess she's got her uses if it's only to hand
chances to the guy that's lookin' on. Take a look right
down there below," he went on. "That's the truck the
guy lookin' on has sweppen up in Nature's trail. It's
taken most of fifteen years collectin' it. We've had to
push that broom hard. And now I guess you're going
to boost your weight behind it too. There's other things
to collect, and that's what we want from you. You got
nerve. You got big muscle, and education, too. Well,
you'll handle the biggest sweeper of us all. Does it
scare you?"</p>

<p>"Not a thing." Bull was smiling confidently.</p>

<p>Bat chuckled. His eyes were sparkling as he ruthlessly
masticated his tobacco. This man pleased him
mightily.</p>

<p>"That's all right," he said. Then he went on after a
silent moment while he gazed thoughtfully out of the
window. "It's right here," he exclaimed. "Here's a mill,
a swell mill that don't lack for a thing to make it well-nigh
perfect. I'll tell you about it. Its capacity. Its
present limit is six thousand tons dry weight groundwood
pulp to the week. That's runnin' full. There's a hundred
and twenty grinders feeding a hundred and eighty
sheetin' machines. And they're figgered to use up fifty-five
thousand horse power of the five hundred thousand
we got harnessed on this great little old river that
falls off the highlands. That power is ours winter an'

summer. It don't matter a shuck the 'freeze up.' It's
there for us all the darn time. Then we've forest limits
to hand us the cordage for that output that could give us
three times what we're needing for a thousand years.

Labour? We got it plenty. And later, by closing in
our system of foresting, I figger to cut out present costs
on a sight bigger output. The plans for all that are fixed
in my head. Then we come to the market for our stuff,
an' I guess that's the syrup in the pie. The world's
market's waitin' on us. It's ours before we start. Why?
Our power don't cost us one cent a unit. We're able to
hand our folks a standard of living through the nature
of things that leaves wages easy. The river's wide, and
full, and it's <em>our own</em>. Then our sea passage to Europe's
just eighteen hundred miles instead of three thousand.
An' these things mean our costs leave us cutting right
under other folks, and Skandinavia beat. There it is," he
cried, with a wide gesture of his knotted hands. "It's
pie!"</p>

<p>Something of the lumberman's enthusiasm found reflection
in Sternford's eyes.</p>

<p>"But Nature's handed us a lemon in the basket of
oranges," Bat went on, with a shake of his head. "It's
that woman in her again. Y'see, she gives us just four
months in the year to get our stuff out. Oh, she don't
freeze the cove right up. No. That's the tough of it.
The channel's mostly open. But storm, and fog, and ice,
beats the ocean-going skipper's power to navigate it
with any sort o' safety. The headlands are desperate
narrow, and&mdash;well, there it is. We've four months in the
year to get our stuff out. It's a sum. Figger it yourself.
Set us goin' full. Six thousand tons in the week. What
is it? Three hundred thousand in the year. How
many trips at ten thousand tons? Or put the average
tonnage lower. Say eight thousand. Forty trips. Four
months. A vessel making two trips on an average turn
round. We need a fleet of twenty 'bottoms,' to do it
in the time. And they'll need to be our own. You can't
help yourself to the world's market, and fix prices, and
all the while fight for shipping in the open market. See?"</p>


<p>"Sure&mdash;I see."</p>

<p>Bat nodded approval.</p>

<p>"When we get that the rest can go through. Meanwhile
there's sixty grinders idle, which leaves us workin'
half capacity. As it stands it's a dandy enterprise.
We're making a swell balance sheet. But profit ain't the
whole purpose. There's the rest."</p>

<p>The super lumber-jack turned again to the window
with that fascination that was almost pathetic.</p>

<p>"And the rest?"</p>

<p>Bull Sternford urged the other sharply, and Bat turned
at once.</p>

<p>"Canada's groundwood for the Canadian, inside the
Empire," he shot at him.</p>

<p>The other nodded.</p>

<p>"The world's market for the country that can and
should supply it," he replied.</p>

<p>"The smashing of the darn Skandinavian ring," cried
Bat, his deep-set eyes alight.</p>

<p>"And drive them&mdash;back over the sea."</p>

<p>Bat suddenly leant across the table.</p>

<p>"That's it, boy," he cried. "That's it! Hellbeam
and all his gang. The Skandinavia Corporation. Smash

'em! Drive 'em to Hell! It ain't profit. It's the trade.
The A'mighty made Canada an' built the Canadian. He
set him right here to help himself to the things He gave
him. It's being filched by these foreigners&mdash;his birthright.
They're fat on it. Did we fight the world war
for that? Not by a darn sight. We fought to hold a
place on the map for ourselves. And that's a proposition
we've all got to get our back teeth into."</p>

<p>"It sure is."</p>

<p>The mill manager sat back in his chair and chewed
vigorously.</p>

<p>"That's it," he said. "How?" he went on. "Combination.
Finance&mdash;and the interest of the little, great

old country across the water. It's all planned and laid
out by the feller that started up this proposition. It's
scheduled for you. Guess you'll find the last word of
it writ out in the locked book in this desk. It's clear
and straight for the feller with the nerve. That's you.
Wal?"</p>

<p>Bat was watching&mdash;searching. He was looking for
that flicker of an eyelid he had learned to dread in the
past. But he failed to discover it. The wide, clear eyes
of the younger man returned his regard unwaveringly.
The uncultured lumberman had stirred a responsive enthusiasm,
and somehow the project no longer seemed the
crazy thing it had once appeared to Bull Sternford.</p>

<p>"Guess my back teeth have got it," he said, with a
smile. "You needn't worry I'll let go."</p>

<p>Bat drew a deep breath. He stood up and spat his
mangled chew into the cuspidore.</p>

<p>"I'm glad. I'm real glad," he cried. "I'm a heap
more glad you told me those words without askin' the
other things you need to know. But you got to know
'em right away. Say, the day that fixes up the things
we been talkin' sees you with me and another masters of
this mill an' all it means. And while you're playin'

your hand there's one big fat salary for you to draw.
This house and office is yours, an' me an' the mill's ready
to do all we know all the time, just the way you need it.
Down in Abercrombie there's the attorney, Charles
Nisson, who's got the outfit of papers that you're goin'
to sign. And when you seen him, why you'll get busy.
Shake, boy," he cried, thrusting out one knotted hand.
"Father Adam sent you, and I don't guess he's made any
mistake."</p>

<p>Bull had risen, and his height left him towering over
the man across the table.</p>

<p>"Now for the mill," he cried, as their hands fell apart.
"The <em>Myra</em> sails sundown to-morrow and I need to get a

swift look around before then. Say, you folk have kind
of taken me on a chance&mdash;well, that's all right. I'm
glad."</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_13"></a>

<h3>Chapter IV&mdash;Drawing The Net</h3>


<p>Nathaniel Hellbeam was contemplating the spiral of
smoke rising from his long cigar. He was dreaming
pleasantly. He was dreaming of those successful manipulations
of finance it was his purpose to achieve. He had
lunched, so his dream was of the things which most appealed.</p>

<p>In the midst of his reflections the drub of the muffled
telephone beat its insistent tattoo. His dream vanished,
and his senses became alert. He leant forward in his
chair and picked up the receiver.</p>

<p>"Yes," he said shortly. And it sounded more like the
Teutonic, "Ja!"</p>

<p>Putting up the receiver again he leant his clumsy
body back in his chair. His small eyes no longer contained
their dreaming light. They were turned expectantly
upon the polished mahogany door.</p>

<p>The door swung silently open.</p>

<p>"Mr. Idepski!" The announcement was made in a
carefully modulated tone.</p>

<p>The agent passed into the great man's presence, slim,
dark, confident. Then the door closed without a sound.</p>

<p>"Well?"</p>

<p>There was no cordiality in the greeting. That was
not Hellbeam's way with a paid agent.</p>

<p>Idepski walked across to the chair always waiting to
receive a visitor and sat down.</p>

<p>"May I sit?" he inquired coolly, after the operation
had been performed.</p>


<p>Hellbeam nodded.</p>

<p>"Well?" he repeated.</p>

<p>The agent laid his hat on the ornate desk, and removed
his gloves with care and deliberation.</p>

<p>"I'm just back from Sachigo," he said.</p>

<p>"Hah!"</p>

<p>The financier settled himself more comfortably in his
chair, and returned his cigar to his gross mouth.</p>

<p>"Tell me," he demanded.</p>

<p>"Easy. Things are moving our way."</p>

<p>The dark eyes glanced over the table for the gold
cigarette box that always stood there.</p>

<p>"Help yourself," the banker ordered rather than invited.</p>

<p>Idepski needed no second bidding.</p>

<p>"You got all my code messages?" he asked. "Good,"
as the Swede nodded. "Then you know the position
of the mill. Say, that feller Harker needs a sort of
apology from me&mdash;also from you. The mill's a wonder.
And he's the guy that's fixed it that way. You haven't
a thing in Skandinavia comparable. I'd say you haven't
a feller on your side capable of touching the fringe of
that tough's genius for organisation. It's him. Not
Martin&mdash;I mean Standing."</p>

<p>"And Standing?"</p>

<p>But Idepski was not to be deflected from his purpose.</p>

<p>"That's all right," he said easily. "I'm coming to
him presently. I gave you, at times, the whole length
and breadth, and size, and capacity of the Sachigo of to-day.
You got all that stuff. But I've saved up the plum.
There's a new man come into it. His name's Sternford&mdash;Bull
Sternford. Guess it's him I need to tell you about
before I pass on to the other. It's taken me a while to
locate all I needed. And I guess I had luck or I wouldn't
have got it all yet."</p>

<p>For once the man's smile reached his eyes.</p>


<p>"What's his position&mdash;in Sachigo?" Hellbeam demanded.</p>

<p>"Right on top of the business side of it."</p>

<p>"A financial man?"</p>

<p>The banker's interest was obviously stirred. But
Idepski shook his dark head.</p>

<p>"That's the queer of it," he said. "He's a youngster
straight out of the forest with no sort of record except
as a pretty tough fighting proposition. Here, let me
hand it to you in my own way, and I'll answer any sort of
question after. I got men chasing up the forest camps.
You know that. Well, I get their reports right here in
this city at my office. They're read carefully, and anything
that looks good is coded, and sent on to me
wherever I am. Well, right after I located this feller,
Sternford, coming into Sachigo, I got word of some stuff
reported from one of your own camps way out north-west
of Lake St. Anac. Guess it's about the farthest
north in that direction, and it's cut off from any other
camp by a hundred miles. On the face of it the stuff
didn't seem to need more than a single thought. It was
to say my man was quitting the camp. He'd sifted it
right through, but there wasn't a 'jack' in the camp with
any sort of story worth wasting paper on. There wasn't
a trace of our man that way, and he proposed drawing
another cover. At the end of his report was one of those
notes these boys never seem able to resist mixing up with
their official work. It told me of one of those scraps
that happened in the camps, and he seemed mighty struck
by it. It was between the camp boss, Arden Laval, and a
kid called Sternford. Say, when I read that name I
jumped. I felt like handing my feller promotion right
away. Well, his story was good anyway. It seems this
camp boss is about the biggest bluff in the scrap way
known to that country. The kid licked him. They
fought nearly two hours, 'rough and tough.' And the

kid would have killed his man, but for the interference of
a missionary feller called Father Adam. He broke 'em
loose with a gun, and when he got 'em loose he took the
kid right away so he shouldn't hand out the homicide he
reckoned to. This report was more than two months old
when I got it. Anyway I got it after a feller called Bull
Sternford, a queer name by the way, had jumped in on
the Sachigo proposition."</p>

<p>The agent flung away his cigarette and helped himself
afresh.</p>

<p>"Well," he went on, smiling, "I guess it didn't take
me thinking five seconds. I set the wires humming
asking a description of this fighting kid. I got it. It
was my man. The feller at Sachigo. Well?"</p>

<p>Idepski's smiling interrogation was full of satisfaction.</p>

<p>"Go on." The watchful eyes of the financier seemed
to have narrowed.</p>

<p>"Now, by what chance does this feller, Bull Sternford,
come straight from one hell of a scrap in a far-off
camp belonging to Skandinavia to run the business end
of Sachigo? What happened after that fool missionary
got him away? And&mdash;"</p>

<p>Idepski broke off, pondering. He flicked his cigarette
ash without regard for the carpet.</p>

<p>Hellbeam stirred in his chair impatiently. His lips
seemed to become more prominent. His small eyes
seemed to become smaller.</p>

<p>"You ask that, yes? You?" he snorted. "A child
may answer that thing. You think? Oh, yes, you
think." The hand supporting his cigar made a gesture
that implied everything disparaging. "Our man&mdash;this
Martin&mdash;has gone out of Sachigo because&mdash;of you? I
tell you, no! Does a man give up the money, the big
plan he makes, at the sight of an&mdash;agent? He took
you in his hand and sent you to the swine life of the
forest where he could have crushed you like that." He

gripped the empty air. "Then he goes&mdash;where? You
say he fears and quits. What does he fear? You?"
The man shook his head till his cheeks were shaken by
the violence of his movement. "He goes somewhere.
But he does not quit. That is clear. Oh, yes. The mill
goes on. It grows and prospers. The man Harker remains.
Where comes the money for Sachigo to grow?
Trade? Yes, some. But not all. I know these things.
The mill goes on&mdash;the same as with Martin there. So
Martin does not quit. He&mdash;just goes. Then who sets
this Bull Sternford in the mill? Why? He says, 'This
man can do the things I need.' Well? Say quick to
your man, 'Do not leave this camp of Skandinavia.' Martin
is there, or near by. He must know this Father
Adam, too. He must be in touch with him. Maybe he
watches the Skandinavia work. Maybe he plays his
game so. Maybe he goes from Sachigo for that reason.
Yes?"</p>

<p>The financier's undisguised contempt left the agent
apparently undisturbed.</p>

<p>"That's the simple horse sense of it," Idepski retorted
promptly. "I get all that. But you're wrong when
you say, Martin's playing any other game than lying low
because of one hell of a scare. I know him. You think
you know him because you can't get away from judging
a man from your end. However, that don't matter
a shuck. I've told that man of mine to stop around.
Don't worry. I told him that right away. I told him
to watch this missionary." He shook his head. "Nothing
doing. The missionary has quit. As I said, I'm
right back from Sachigo. I didn't come back just to
hand you this stuff. I'm on my way up to this camp
of yours. We've been hunting this guy eight years&mdash;blind.
Now there's a streak of daylight. I'm going for
that streak myself. Anyway, it's liable to be pleasanter
work than lumbering in the booms at Sachigo, and wondering

when that feller Bat Harker, was going to locate
me through a lumber-jack's outfit. And while I'm up
there I mean to learn all I can of this Father Adam. I
don't look for much that way. He's just a missioner
that every feller in the forest's got a good word for, and
anyway, it don't seem to me the feller who jumped in
on you, and touched your bank roll is the sort to pass
his time handlin' out tracts to the bums of the forest. I
came in on my way to pass you these things. I go north
again to-night. I'll be away quite a while, and, shut off
up there, you'll not be likely to get word easy. But
you'll hear things when I've got anything to hand you."</p>

<p>A sardonic light crept into Hellbeam's eyes as he
listened to the final assurance.</p>

<p>"So," he ejaculated with a nod.</p>

<p>The agent rose to go.</p>

<p>"Meanwhile," he said, leaning over the desk, "it
might be well for you to get a grip on the fact that
Sachigo's going right on. It's the greatest groundwood
proposition in the world. I know enough of Harker to
realise his capacity to make it do just what he needs.
And as for that other&mdash;this Sternford kid&mdash;why, I gather
he's a pretty live wire that's set there for a reason. The
slogan up there's much what it was, only the words are
changed."</p>

<p>Hellbeam sucked his cigar and removed it from his
lips.</p>

<p>"Changed? How?" he demanded, without suspicion.</p>

<p>"It was 'Canadian trade for the Canadians,'" Idepski
said, his dark eyes snapping maliciously. "It's more
personal since the fighting kid came along. It reminds
me of the German slogans of the war. It's 'To hell with
the Swedes, we'll drive 'em <em>into</em> the sea.'"</p>

<p>The financier nodded. His armour was impenetrable.</p>

<p>"The Germans said much," he said.</p>

<p>"That's all right, these folks aren't Germans," came

the prompt retort, as Idepski picked up his hat and
gloves.</p>

<p>"No." Hellbeam remained seated. It was not his
way to speed a departing visitor. "I'm glad. Oh, yes."
He smiled into the other's face, and his meaning was
obvious. "You go to this camp. You find this missionary.
That's work for you. The other&mdash;" his
eyes dropped to the papers on the desk before him&mdash;"this
mill, this Sachigo is for me. It is much nearer
to the sea than the Skandinavia. Oh, yes."</p>

</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_14"></a>
<h3>Chapter V&mdash;The Progress Of Nancy</h3>


<p>The girl reached out a hand in response to the ring of
the telephone. It was slim and white; and her finger
nails displayed that care which suggests a healthy regard
for the niceties of a woman's life.</p>

<p>"Hullo! Yes?"</p>

<p>She remained silently intent upon the rapidly spoken
message coming down to her over the wire. Her deep,
hazel eyes were soberly regarding the blotting pad,
upon which an idle pencil was describing a number of
meaningless diagrams.</p>

<p>"Yes," she replied, after a while. "Oh, yes. All
reports are in. I've gone through them all, and my
summary is being prepared now. They're a pretty bad
story. Yes. What's that? How? Oh, yes. Some
of the camps are in pretty bad shape, I'd say. Output's
fallen badly. Output! Yes. All sorts of reasons and&mdash;" she
laughed, "&mdash;to me, none quite satisfactory. I
think I've my finger on the real trouble, and fancy I've
seen all this coming quite a while back. Very well. I'll
be right up. Yes, I'll bring my rough notes if the summary
isn't ready."</p>


<p>Nancy McDonald thrust the receiver back in its place
and sat for a moment gazing at it. She knew she had
committed herself. She had intended to. She knew
that she had reached one of the important milestones
in her career. In her youth, in the springtime energy
abounding in her, she meant to pit her opinion against
the considered policy of those who formed the management
of the great Skandinavia Corporation she served.
She understood her temerity. A surge of nervous anticipation
thrilled her. But she was resolved. Her
ambition was great, and her youthful courage was no
less.</p>

<p>The brazen clack of typewriters beyond the glass
partitions of her little private office left her unaffected.
It was incessant. She would have missed it had it not
been there. She would have lost that sense of rush
which the tuneless chorus of modern commercialism
inspired. And, to a woman of her temperament, that
would have been a very real loss.</p>

<p>The great offices of the Skandinavia Corporation, in
the heart of the city of Quebec, with their machine-like
precision of life, their soulless method, their passionless
progress towards the purpose of their organisation,
meant the open road towards the fulfilment of her desires
for independence and achievement.</p>

<p>All the promise of her earlier youth had been abundantly
fulfilled. Tall, gracious of figure, her beauty had
a charm and dignity which owed almost as much to
mentality as it did to physical form. Yet, for all she
had already passed her twenty-fourth birthday, she was
amazingly innocent of those things which are counted
as the governing factors of a woman's life. Certainly
she knew and loved the Titian hue of her wealth of hair;
her mirror was constantly telling her of the hazel depths
of her wide, intelligent eyes, with their fringes of dark,
curling, Celtic lashes. Then the almost classic moulding

of her features. She could not escape realising these
things. But they meant no more to her than the fact
that her nose was not awry, and her lips were not misshapen,
and her even, white teeth were perfectly
competent for their proper function.</p>

<p>She was a happy blending of soul and mentality.
Heredity seemed to have done its best for her. The
Gaelic fire and the brilliance and irresponsibility of her
misguided father seemed to have been balanced and
tempered by the gentle woman soul of her mother. And
through the eyes of both she gazed out upon the world,
inspired and supported by a tireless nervous energy.</p>

<p>Since the memorable day of her interview with her
appointed trustee, Charles Nisson, her development had
been rapid. The events which had suddenly been flung
into her life at the interview seemed to have unloosed a
hundred latent, unguessed emotions in her child heart,
and translated her at once into a thinking, high-spirited
woman.</p>

<p>She honestly strove to banish bitterness against the
man who had deprived her of that mother love which
had been her childhood's treasure, but always a shadow
of it remained to colour her thought, and influence her
impulse. She had studied the deed of settlement as
she had promised. She had studied it coldly, dispassionately.
She had looked upon it as a mere document aimed
to benefit her, without regard for her feelings for the
man who had made it. She had thought over it at night
when passion was less to be controlled. She had consulted
those she had been bidden to consult, and had
listened to, and had weighed their kindly advice. And
when all was done she took her own decision as she was
bound to do. It was a decision that had no relation to
reason, only to passionate impulse.</p>

<p>She would not accept the things the deed offered her.
She would not accept this reparation so coldly held out.

She would not live a leisured, vegetable life, with no
greater ambition than to marry and bear children. The
simple prospect of marriage and motherhood could never
satisfy in itself. That would be a happy incident, but
not the whole, and acceptance of that deed would surely
have robbed her of the rest.</p>

<p>There were times when she felt the disabilities of her
sex. She knew she was deprived of the physical strength
which the battle of life seemed to demand. But to her
the world was wide, and big, and, in her girl's imagination,
teeming with appealing adventure. The world
alone could not satisfy her.</p>

<p>Once her decision was taken all the kindly efforts of
her mentors at Marypoint were rallied in her support.
They had advised out of their wisdom, but acted from
their hearts. And the day on which the principal of
the college notified her that the Skandinavia Corporation
of Quebec had signified its willingness to absorb her
into its service as typist and stenographer, at one hundred
dollars per month, was the happiest she had known
since her well-loved mother had been taken out of her
life.</p>

<p>Now, after three years of unwearying effort, there
was still no shadow to mar her happiness, or temper
her enthusiasm. On the contrary, there was much to
stimulate both. In that brief period she had succeeded
almost beyond her dreams. Was she not already the
trusted, confidential secretary to the ruling power in
the great offices of the Skandinavia Corporation? Had
she not been taken out of the ranks of the many capable
stenographers, and been given a private office, a doubled
salary, and work to do which left her wide scope for
the play of those gifts with which she was so liberally
endowed? Yes. All these things had been showered
upon her in three years. She was a figure of authority
in the great establishment. And furthermore, the man

she served&mdash;this man, Elas Peterman&mdash;had hinted, and
even definitely talked of, further rapid promotion.</p>

<p>She had worked hard for it all. Oh, yes. She had
worked morning, noon, and night. When other girls
had been content to study fashions and styles, and
chatter "beaus" and husbands, she had given herself
up to the study of the wood-pulp trade, and the world's
market of the material she was interested in. She had
saturated herself with the whole scheme, and purpose,
and methods of her employers, till, as Peterman himself
had once told her in admiration at her grasp of the business,
she knew as much of the trade as he did himself.
And even after that her mirror, that oracle of a
woman's life, failed to yield her the real truth it is always
ready to tell to its devotees.</p>

<p>The pre-occupation suddenly passed out of the girl's
eyes. She stirred. Then she stood up and collected a
number of papers into a small leather attaché case. A
moment later she pressed the bell push on the desk.</p>

<p>Her summons was promptly answered by a slim
figured girl, with fair hair, and "jumpered" in the latest
style.</p>

<p>"I shall be away a while. See to the 'phone, Miss
Webster," Nancy said, in a tone of quiet but definite
authority. "I shall be with Mr. Peterman. Don't ring
me unless it's something important. That summary.
Is it ready?"</p>

<p>"It's being checked right now."</p>

<p>"Well, speed them up. You can send it up directly
it's through. Mr. Peterman is needing it."</p>

<p>Nancy passed out of the room. Her discipline was
strict. Sometimes it approached severity. But she
understood its necessity for obtaining results. Her
orders would be carried out.</p>


<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Elas Peterman set the 'phone back in its place. His
dark eyes were smiling. They were shining, too, in a
curious, not altogether wholesome fashion. He had
just finished talking to Nancy McDonald, and he was
thinking of the vision of red hair, of the serious hazel
eyes gazing out of their setting of fair, almost transparent
complexion.</p>

<p>He took up his pen to continue the letter he had been
writing. But he added no word. The girl he had been
speaking with still occupied his thoughts to the exclusion
of all else.</p>

<p>He was a good-looking man, clean cut and youthful.
His profile was finely chiselled. But his Teutonic origin
was clearly marked. It was in the straight square back
of his head. It was in the prominent, heavily, rounded
chin, and the squareness of his lower jaw. Furthermore,
the high, mathematical forehead was quite unmistakable.
There was power, force, in the personality of the man.
But there was something else. It lay in his mouth, in
his eyes. The former was gross, and definite sensuality
looked out of the latter.</p>

<p>As the door opened to admit Nancy his pen promptly
descended on his paper. But he did not write. He
looked up with a smile.</p>

<p>"Come right in, my dear," he said cordially, with the
patronising familiarity of a man conscious of his power.
"Just sit right down while I finish this letter." Then he
added gratuitously, "It's a rude letter to a feller I've no
use for; and I don't guess to rob myself of the pleasure
of passing it plenty to him&mdash;in my own handwriting."</p>

<p>Nancy smiled as she took the chair beside the desk
which was usually assigned to her in her intercourse
with her chief.</p>

<p>"I wish I felt that way writing a bad letter," she said.
"But I don't. It just makes me madder with folks, and
I go right on thinking things, and&mdash;and&mdash;it worries."</p>

<p>Elas Peterman shook his head.</p>

<p>"Guess you'll get over that, my dear," he said easily.
"Sure you will. You're just a dandy-minded kid,
learning the things of life. You feel good most all the
time. That's how it is. You want to laff and see
things happy all around you. Later you'll get so you
see the other feller mostly thinks of himself, and don't
care a hoot for the folks sitting around. Then you'll
feel different; and you'll tell folks you don't like the
things you feel about them."</p>

<p>He went on writing, smiling at his own cynicism.</p>

<p>Nancy leant back in her chair. His words left her
unaffected. She was used to him. But, for a moment,
she contemplated the dark head, supported on his hand,
without any warmth of regard.</p>

<p>After awhile she glanced away, her gaze wandering
over the luxurious furnishings of the room. And it
occurred to her to wonder how much, if any, of the
excellent taste of the decorations owed inception to the
man at the desk. No. Not much. The cheque-book
and the decorator's artist must have been responsible.
This grossly Teutonic creature with his cynical, commercial
mind, was something of an anachronism, and
could never have inspired the perfect harmony of the
palatial offices of his Corporation. It was rather a pity.
He had been exceedingly good to her. She would have
liked to think that he was the genius of the whole structure
of the Skandinavia, even to the decorations of the
office. But it was impossible.</p>

<p>The man blotted and folded his letter. He enclosed
and sealed it. He even addressed it himself.</p>

<p>"I'm kind of sorry I had to break in on you while
you were fixing those reports," he said, in his friendliest
fashion. "But, you see, I'm just through with the
Board, and we took a bunch of decisions that need
handling right away. Tell me," he went on, an ironical

light creeping into his smiling eyes, "you reckon you've
set your finger on the real trouble with our dropping
output. I want to know about it because the Board
and I can't be sure we've located it right."</p>

<p>The sarcasm hurt. It was not intended to. Elas
Peterman had no desire in the world to hurt this girl.
A cleverer man would have avoided it. But this man
had no refinement of thought or feeling. Cynicism and
sarcasm were his substitutes for a humour he did not
possess.</p>

<p>Nancy's cheeks flushed hotly. But she stifled her
feelings. She was confident of herself, and despite the
manner of the challenge, she knew the moment of her
great opportunity had come.</p>

<p>With a quick movement she crossed her knees and
leant forward. She smiled in response.</p>

<p>"Yet, it's easy," she said boldly, with bland retaliation.
"The reports are not good. And the trouble stands out
clear as daylight. I guess a big scale contour map is
the key to it. We've 'hand-weeded' the Shagaunty
Valley. It's picked bare to the bone. The folks have
cleared the forests right away to the higher slopes of
the river. We're moving farther and farther away from
the river highway. Well, that's all right in its way.
Ordinarily that would just mean our light railways are
extending farther, and a few cents more are added to
our transport costs. Owing to our concentration of
organisation that wouldn't signify. No. It's Nature,
it's the forest itself turning us down. And the map, and
the reports show that. The camps are right out on the
plateau surrounding the valley, which is unprotected
from winter storms. The close, luxurious growth of
the valley we have been accustomed to is gone. The
standing cordage of lumber is no less, only in bulk,
girth. The trees are mostly less than half the girth.
The result? Why, they have to work farther out. Each

camp cuts over four times the area. Instead of a proportion
of, say, two trees in five, it's about one in, say,
ten. It looks like a simple sum. I should say we've
lumbered that valley at least one season too long."</p>

<p>The man's smile had passed. There was no longer
derision in his keen eyes. He had invited this girl's
talk for the sake of hearing it. Now he was caught in
admiration of her clear perception.</p>

<p>"Do the reports bear out those facts?"</p>

<p>His question was sharp, and Nancy realised she had
done well.</p>

<p>She shook her head.</p>

<p>"No. They do just the thing you'd expect them to
do," she said. "They make every sort of excuse that
couldn't possibly account for the drop. And avoid the
real cause which their writers are perfectly aware of."
She shrugged her pretty shoulders. "You wouldn't
expect it otherwise. You want to remember those reports
are written by bosses who're more interested in
their own comfort than in the affairs of the Skandinavia."</p>

<p>"How?"</p>

<p>Again the girl's expressive shrug.</p>

<p>"To quit the Shagaunty and break new ground means
the break up of those amenities and comforts they've
accumulated in years. It means work, real hard work,
and discomfort for at least two seasons. You see, we
need to get into the skin of these folk. They can keep
the booms full from these forests, and the kick only
comes when the grinders get to work. Output falls
automatically with the girth of the lumber sent down.
It's a close calculation; but on the year it means a lot.
I learned that from Mr. Osbert, at the mills on the
Shagaunty. Well, so long as the booms are kept full,
the camp bosses are satisfied. There's a limit below
which the girth of logs may not go. They watch that
limit, and are careful not to go below it. Well, our big

output has been made up always, not by the minimum
logs, but the maximum to which we have been hitherto
accustomed. These boys know all about that; but they're
satisfied with such bulk as doesn't fall below the minimum.
And when asked, suggest fire, storm and sickness,
anything rather than the real cause which drops our
output. They'll not willingly face the discomfort and
added work of opening a new territory. There's just
one decision needed."</p>

<p>"What's that?"</p>

<p>The girl laughed. It was a low, pleasant, happy laugh.
She felt glad. Her chief was serious. He was in deadly
earnest, and it represented her revenge for his sarcasm.</p>

<p>"We've five other rivers running down to the lake.
The Shagaunty isn't even the largest. Well, these boys
will have to be shaken out of their dream. We ought to
quit the Shagaunty right away and make a break for
fresh 'limits.' It's simple."</p>

<p>The man had no responsive smile. He shook his head.</p>

<p>"That's what it isn't, my dear," he said.</p>

<p>For the time the girl's beauty, her personality were
quite forgotten. Peterman was absorbed.</p>

<p>"It means the complete dislocation of our forest
organisation," he went on. "Here, I'll tell you something.
We've done a very great thing in the past. And
it's been easy. Years ago we decided by concentration
of all our forest work on a limited area we could cut
costs to the lowest. That way we could jump in on the
market cheaper than all the rest. Our forest limits were
the finest in Canada. We had standing stuff practically
inexhaustible, and of a size almost unheard of. What
was the result? Why, one by one we've absorbed competitors
at our own price till the Skandinavia stands
head and shoulders above the world's groundwood
industry. That's all right. That's fine," he went on,
after a pause. "But like most easy trails, you're liable

to keep on 'em longer than is good for you. We haven't
had to worry a thing up to now. You see, we'd stifled
competition, and we'd paid a steady thirty per cent
dividend. Which left our Board in an unholy state of
dope. I've tried to wake 'em. Oh, yes. I tried when
that guy started up his outfit on Labrador. The Sachigo
outfit. Then he seemed to fade away, and I couldn't
rouse 'em again." He shook his head&mdash;"Nothing doing.
Well, for something like fifteen years those guys of
Sachigo have been doing and working; and now, to-day,
they've jumped into the market with both feet. I
haven't the full measure of things yet. But the play's
a big thing. They're out for the game we've been playing.
Say, they're combining every old mill we've left
over. All the derelicts and moth-bounds. Their hands
are out grabbing all over the country. Well, that
wouldn't scare me worth a cent, only they've never let up
in fifteen years, and there's talk about big British finance
getting behind 'em."</p>

<p>The man broke off. His serious eyes remained steadily
regarding the girl's interested face.</p>

<p>"You reckon this change is easy," he went on again.
"I guess it would be easy if these folk hadn't jumped
into the market. That makes all the difference. While
we're changing they're busy. Their stuff's coming down
in thousands of tons. And it's <em>better</em> groundwood than
ours. If we change over we're going to leave the market
short and these folk will get big contracts. You're right.
We've been working the Shagaunty too long. But it's
been by three or four seasons. Not one. The time's
coming, if it hasn't already come, when we've got to
fight these folks and smash 'em; or get right out of
business."</p>

<p>Something of the girl's joy had passed in face of the
man's statement.</p>

<p>"There's been talk of these Sachigo folk in the trade,"

she said thoughtfully, "but I didn't know it was as big
as you say. Of course&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Sure you didn't. You haven't had to handle our
stuff on the market." The man laughed. And something
of his seriousness passed. "But you're a bright
kid. And the Skandinavia's looking for bright kids
all the time. It needs 'em to counter a doped Board. It's
taken you five minutes to locate a trouble the Board's
taken years to realise. And you've been talking one of
the bunch of decisions we've taken. I mean quitting
the Shagaunty. We didn't have your argument, but we
had the 'drop.' So the decision was taken. We've got
to move like hell. Sachigo has our measure, and it's
going to be a big fight. How'd you fancy a trip up
country? I mean up the Shagaunty?"</p>

<p>There was a change in the man's voice and manner as
he put his demand. He was leaning forward in his
chair. A hot light had suddenly leapt into his eyes,
which left them shining unwholesomely. Nancy was
startled at his words. And his attitude shocked her not
a little out of her self-satisfaction.</p>

<p>"I don't know&mdash;. How do you mean?" she demanded
awkwardly.</p>

<p>The man realised her astonishment and laughed.
Then he reached out, and his hand patted the rounded
shoulder nearest him. It was a touch that lingered
unnecessarily, and the girl stirred restlessly under it.</p>

<p>"Why, it's the chance of a life&mdash;for you," he said
boisterously. "You'll go right up through the camps.
You'll take your notions with you and investigate. I'll
hand you a written commission, and the folk'll lay their

'hands' down for you to see. When you've seen it all
you'll get right back here, and I'll set you before the
Board to tell your story. I don't need to tell a bright
girl like you what that means to you. You'll get one
dandy summer trip, and I'll lose one dandy secretary.

But I'm not kicking. No. You see, Nancy, I'm out to
help you all you need. Well?"</p>

<p>It was crude, clumsy. It was all so blatantly vulgar.
It was not the thing he said. It was the manner of it
and all that which was lying unspoken behind.</p>

<p>For the first time Nancy experienced a curious uncertainty
in dealing with him. But here was real
opportunity. She had dreamed of such. And she must
take it. The touch of the man's hand upon her shoulder
had disturbed her. But she smiled her gratitude at him.</p>

<p>"It's too good," she exclaimed, with apparent impulse.
"It's just too good of you. Will I go? Why, yes.
Surely. And I'll make good for you. I believe it's the
best thing. Someone to go who'll bring back a dead
right story. I'd be real glad."</p>

<p>"That's bully!" The man beamed as he leant back
in his chair more than satisfied with himself. "But I
don't fancy losing my dandy secretary," he went on.
"No, sir. I'm going to hate this summer bad. I surely
am. Still, there's next winter. Winter's not too bad
with us. And a feller needs consolation in winter.
There's theatres, and ice parties, and dances, and things.
And I guess when the Board's fixed a big jump up for
you, you'll feel like getting around some. Well, I'm
mostly vacant. A feller can't live all the time at home
with his wife and kids. I guess I could show you Quebec
at night better than most&mdash;"</p>

<p>The telephone saved Nancy the rest of the man's
rendering of his account and she breathed deeply her
relief. But the interruption was by no means welcome
to the man. And his irritation was promptly displayed
by the vindictive "Well?" he flung at the unyielding
receiver.</p>

<p>"Oh! What's that? Who? Hellbeam? Oh. Sure.
Yes. Send him right up. Don't keep him waiting.
Right up now. Yes."</p>


<p>He thrust up the instrument and sat back in his chair.</p>

<p>"Curse the man!"</p>

<p>Nancy had risen from her chair at the mention of
Hellbeam's name. She was glad enough of the excuse.
She understood Hellbeam was the great outstanding
figure in the concern of the Skandinavia. His was the
one personality that dwarfed everybody. He was the
moving power of the whole concern.</p>

<p>"You'll let me know later?" she said. "I mean, just
when I'm to start out. I'm ready when you like. I'll
just go and see why those reports have not been sent up."</p>

<p>"Oh, don't worry with the reports. You've told me
the things that matter."</p>

<p>The man's irritation was as swift as it was violent.
But it passed as quickly as it came. He laughed.</p>

<p>"That's all right, my dear. Be off now. I'll let you
know about things this afternoon."</p>

<p>Nancy gladly accepted her dismissal. She wanted to
think. She wanted to get things into their proper focus.
As she closed the door behind her her beautiful eyes had
no joy in them. She had realised two things as a result of
her interview. The opportunity she had looked forward
to had materialised, and she had seized it with both
hands. But the goodness of Elas Peterman to herself
possessed none of that disinterested kindliness she had
hitherto believed. Furthermore, there was dawning
upon her that which her mirror should have told her
long ago. She was beginning to understand that her
work, her capacity, her application, counted far less in
the favour of her chief than did those things with which
nature had equipped her. She was shocked out of her
youthful dream. And it left her so troubled, that, had
she not been passing down the carpeted corridor of the
Skandinavia offices, she would have burst into a flood
of tears.</p>


<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>It was a different Elas Peterman who confronted the
squat figure of Nathaniel Hellbeam. The master in the
younger man was completely submerged. He possessed
all the Teutonic capacity for self-abnegation in the
presence of the power it is necessary to woo. There
was only one master when the great financier was present.
Elas Peterman knew that his part was to listen and obey
with just that humility which he would have demanded
had the position been reversed.</p>

<p>Another type than Hellbeam's would have despised
the attitude. But the financier had no scruple. Nature
had denied him qualities for inspiring affectionate regard,
or even respect. But she had bestowed on him a
lust for power, and a great vanity, and these he satisfied
to the uttermost.</p>

<p>The financier drove straight to the object of his visit.</p>

<p>"I come for an important purpose," he said, in his
guttural fashion. "There must be a special Board
assemble. Skandinavia will buy the mill on Labrador.
The Sachigo mill. I come on the night train, which is
the worst thing I can think to do, to say this thing. If
we do not buy this mill, then&mdash;" He broke off with
an expressive gesture.</p>

<p>Elas nodded. He was startled, but his powers of dissimulation
were profound.</p>

<p>"I understand," he said. "They have been approached?"</p>

<p>Hellbeam stirred his bulk in the chair Nancy had so
recently occupied. It was a movement of irritation.</p>

<p>"That is for you. You represent Skandinavia. I&mdash;I
say this thing. I the money find."</p>

<p>The face of Peterman was a study. His eyes were
serious, his manner calmly considering. Amazement
was struggling with a desire to laugh outright in the
face of this grossly insolent money power.</p>

<p>"Nothing could suit us better, sir," he said, deferentially.
"They've been handing us more trouble than I

fancy talking about. And they look like handing us still
more. These people have grown slowly, but very
deliberately. There's something very like genius in their
management. And seemingly they possess unlimited
capital or credit. I guess I know something of their
contemplated manoeuvres. They're assembling all the
free mills outside our ring. I see a great big scrap
coming. May I ask the price you're considering?"</p>

<p>Hellbeam produced a gold cigar case. A greater man
would have been content with a certain modesty of
appointment. His case was comparable in vulgarity
with the size of his cigars. He thrust the pierced end
of the cigar between his gross lips and spoke with the
huge thing lolling.</p>

<p>"It does not matter. I say buy."</p>

<p>The tone, the snapping of the man's eyes forbade
further probing in this direction. He lit his cigar.</p>

<p>"It will need careful handling," ventured Peterman.</p>

<p>Hellbeam snorted.</p>

<p>"It careful handling always needs. Eh?"</p>

<p>"Surely. I was thinking."</p>

<p>"So. You will think. Then you will act. You will
communicate forthwith. See? You listen. I buy this
Sachigo, yes. The price matters nothing. There is a
reason. This fight. It is not that. Who is the head?
I would know. I fancy this man to meet. He is what
you call&mdash;bright. So."</p>

<p>Elas shook his head-</p>

<p>"There are two men in it we recognise. A man named
Harker and another called Sternford&mdash;Bull Sternford.
We know little of either. You see, it's kind of far away.
Anyway, between them they're pretty&mdash;bright. I don't
think they built the mill. I'm sure that's so. It was
a man called Standing. But he seems to have gone out
of active management. I might start by writing them
and feel the way."</p>


<p>"Ach no!" Hellbeam shook his head in violent protest.
"You write&mdash;no. You have your confidential
man, yes? You send him. I give you the outline of
terms. I give you alternative terms. Big terms. He
will go. He will talk. He will hear. Then we will
later come to terms. All men will sell&mdash;on terms.
Your man. Where is he? I must see him. Then the
Board. It meets. I will address it. I show them how
this thing will serve."</p>

<p>"That's all right, sir," Elas was smiling. "You
couldn't offer the Board a more welcome proposition
than the purchase of Sachigo just now. We're changing
our forest organisation right now, and that means temporary
delays and drop in output. Sachigo's our worry
while we're doing it. But with your permission I won't
send a man up there. I think," he added deliberately,
"I'd like to send a&mdash;woman."</p>

<p>Hellbeam's face was a study. His little eyes opened
to their widest extent. His heavy lips parted, and he
snatched his cigar into the safety of his white fingers.</p>

<p>"A&mdash;woman&mdash;for this thing? You crazy are!"</p>

<p>There was no restraint or pretence of restraint. The
other's smile was more confident than might have been
expected before such an intolerant outburst.</p>

<p>"Guess a woman has her limitations, sir. Maybe this
one hasn't a wide experience. But she's clever. She's
loyal to us, and she's got that which counts a whole heap
when it comes to getting a man on her side. You reckon
to buy Sachigo. If you send a man to deal he'll get
short shrift. If there's anyone to put through this deal
for Skandinavia it's the woman I'm thinking of. And
she'll put it through because she's the woman she is, and
not because of any talents. Your pardon, sir, if
I speak frankly. But from all I know of Sachigo, if
you&mdash;perhaps the king of financiers on this continent&mdash;went
to these folk and offered them double what their

enterprise is worth, I guess they'd chase you out of
Labrador so quick you wouldn't have time to think the
blasphemy suitable to the occasion."</p>

<p>Peterman's explanation caught the humour of his
countryman. The bulk of the visitor shook under a
suppressed laugh.</p>

<p>"Well," he retorted, "I do not go. This woman. A
good-looker, eh? She is pleasant&mdash;to men? Where is
she? Who is she?"</p>

<p>"She's my secretary, sir." Elas jumped at the change
of his visitor's humour. "She's not much more than a
kid. But she's quite a 'looker,' I'll send for her, if
you'll permit me. She's getting some reports for me.
I'll ask her to bring them up. You can see her then,
sir, and, if you'll forgive me, I won't present her to
you. If I do she'll guess something, and it's best she
knows nothing of this contemplated deal&mdash;as regards
you."</p>

<p>For a moment the banker made no reply. He sat, an
adipose mass, breathing heavily, and sucking at his cigar.
Then quite suddenly, he nodded.</p>

<p>"Send for her," he said sharply.</p>

<p>Elas reached the telephone and rang down.</p>

<p>"Hello! That you? Oh, will you step up a moment,
Miss McDonald? Yes. Are they ready? Good. That's
just what I want. Please. All of them."</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Nancy knocked at the door and stepped into the room.
She was carrying a large typescript of many pages. It
represented many days and evenings of concentrated
labour. It had been a labour not so much of love as of
ambition. It was an exhaustive summary of the position
of the Skandinavia's forestry in the Shagaunty Valley.</p>

<p>She missed the squat figure in the chair she usually
occupied. She saw nothing of the stare of the narrow

eyes concentrated upon her. She saw only the tall figure
of Peterman, standing waiting for her beyond his
desk in such a position that, to reach him, she must
pass herself in review before the devouring gaze of the
great banker.</p>

<p>She walked briskly towards him, her short skirt yielding
the seductive rustle of the silk beneath it. Her
movements were beyond words in grace. Her tall figure,
so beautifully proportioned, and so daintily rounded,
displayed the becoming coat-frock she usually wore in
business to absolute perfection.</p>

<p>The banker's searching eyes realised all this to the
last detail. He realised much more. For his was the
regard that sought beneath the surface of things. It was
that regard which every wholesome, good woman resents.
But ultimately it was the girl's face and hair
that held him. The rare beauty of the latter's colour
sent a surge of appreciation running through his sensual
veins. And the perfect beauty, and delicate charm of
her pretty features, stirred him no less. Only her eyes,
those pretty, confident, intelligent, hazel depths he
missed. But he waited.</p>

<p>"These are the papers, Mr. Peterman."</p>

<p>Nancy held out the typescript to the waiting man
whose eyes had none of the smiling welcome they would
have had in Hellbeam's absence.</p>

<p>"Thank you." Elas glanced down at the neatly bound
script.</p>

<p>"It's all complete?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes. It's the whole story. It's in tabloid form.
You will be able to take the whole close in half an hour."</p>

<p>A rough clearing of the throat interrupted her, and
Nancy discovered the banker beside the desk. In something
of a hurry she promptly turned to depart. But
Elas claimed her.</p>

<p>"Will you come to me after lunch?" he said pleasantly.</p>


<p>"I want to go into the details of that trip I explained
to you. You must get away as soon as possible."</p>

<p>"Directly after lunch?"</p>

<p>"Yes. Say three o'clock."</p>

<p>"Very well."</p>

<p>The girl again turned to go, but the banker anticipated
her. As she reached the door he stood beside it,
and opened it for her to pass out. He was holding
something in his hand. It was an exquisitely formed
gold fountain-pen.</p>

<p>"This yours is, I think," he said heavily, while his
eyes searched those depths of hazel he had missed before.</p>

<p>The girl smiled as she gazed at the beautiful pen.
She shook her head.</p>

<p>"No," she said. "I never possessed anything so
beautiful in my life."</p>

<p>"But you drop it as you come, I think, yes?" The
man's eyes were levelled at her devouringly. Quick as
thought he turned to Elas watching the scene. "Is it
yours? I see it on the carpet, yes?"</p>

<p>The manager was prompt to take his cue.</p>

<p>"It's not mine," he said. "It must be yours, Miss
McDonald. If it isn't I guess you'd best have it till we
find its owner."</p>

<p>The girl smiled from one to the other.</p>

<p>"Thanks ever so much," she said, with frank pleasure.
"I'll keep it till we find the owner. It's a lovely thing."</p>

<p>She took the glittering pen from the fleshy fingers
holding it. And just for an instant her hand encountered
the banker's. It was only for an instant, however. A
moment later the door was closed carefully behind her by
the man who had thought Elas crazy to employ a woman.</p>

<p>"Well?"</p>

<p>Elas Peterman was seated behind his desk again. His
challenging smile was directed at the heavily breathing
figure of the banker who had hurried back to his chair.</p>


<p>The great man laughed. It was a curious, unpleasant
laugh. His heavy cheeks were flushed, and his eyes glittered
curiously.</p>

<p>"You're a judge, Elas, my boy," he exclaimed, with
clumsy geniality. "Oh, yes. But you are a young man.
There is power in that young woman's eyes." He
laughed again. "Oh, no, I think of the young woman.
It not her capability is. See you look to your place in
Skandinavia. Let her go. She may not buy this Sachigo
as I think to buy it. She will buy the men we would
drive from our path."</p>

</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_15"></a>
<h3>Chapter VI&mdash;The Lonely Figure</h3>


<p>The girl was leaning against the storm-ripped bole of
a fallen tree. The great figure of her companion was
silhouetted against the brilliant sky-line. He was contemplating
the distance at the brink of a sheer-cut ravine,
which dropped away at his feet to giddying depths.</p>

<p>Nancy gazed out beyond him. For the moment he
held no interest for her. She only had eyes for the
splendid picture of Nature. They were on high ground,
a great shoulder lifted them clear above their surroundings.
Far as the eye could see was a lustreless green
world of unbroken forest. It seemed to have neither
beginning nor end. To the girl's imagination there could
be no break in it until the eternal snows of the Arctic
were reached.</p>

<p>The breadth of it all was a little overwhelming. Nancy
was gazing upon just one portion of the Skandinavia's
untouched forest limits, and somehow it left her with a
feeling of protest.</p>

<p>She pointed with one gauntleted hand, stirred to an
impulse she could not deny.</p>


<p>"It's too beautiful," she said. "It isn't fair: it's not
right. To think it's all ours, and we have the right to
destroy it."</p>

<p>The man turned. He gazed back at this unusual
vision of a beautiful, well-gowned woman in the heart
of the forests. He grinned ironically, this great, rough-bearded
creature, in hard cord clothing, and with his
well-worn fur cap pressed low over his lank hair that
reached well-nigh to his shoulders.</p>

<p>"Why not?" he demanded roughly. "Oh, yes. It's
Skandinavia's, every mile of it. An' I guess there's
hundreds an' hundreds of 'em. Ain't that what Canada's
forests are for? To feed us the stuff we're needin'?
But you don't need to worry any. We ain't cuttin' that
stuff for years. Guess the waterways out there are
mostly a mean outfit that wouldn't raft a bunch of
lucifers. We need to wait permanent railroad for
haulage."</p>

<p>Nancy accepted the statement without reply. It was
impossible to stir a man like Arden Laval to any sort
of sympathy. He was hardened, crude, first, last and
all the time. He was big and brutal. His limbs were
like to the trees his men were accustomed to fell, and his
hands reminded her of the hind limbs of the mutton.
She felt he had a mind that matched his physical
development.</p>

<p>Nancy McDonald was nearing the end of her third
month of forest travel. The Shagaunty valley lay behind
her, desolated by the fierce axe of the men who
lived by their slaughter. She had seen it all. She had
studied the re-afforestation which followed on the heels
of the axemen. And the seeming puerility of this effort
to salve the wounds inflicted upon Nature had filled her
with pitying contempt.</p>

<p>She knew the whole process of the forest industry by
heart now. It fascinated her. Oh, yes. It was picturesque,

it was real, vital. The men on the river driving
down to the booms had stirred her greatest admiration.
These supermen with their muscles of iron, with the
hearts of lions, and the tongues and habits of beasts
of the forest. But they were men, wonderful men for
all their savage crudity. So, too, with the transporters
and freighters handling sixty-foot logs as though dealing
with matchwood. But above all, and before all, the
axemen made their appeal.</p>

<p>There was nothing comparable with the rough skill
of these creatures, She had watched the flash and
swing of the axe, with its edge like the finest razor. She
had seen the standing muscles like whipcord writhing
under sunburnt flesh as they served the lethal weapon.
She had noted every blow, how it was calculated to a
hair's-breadth, and fell without waste of one single ounce
of power. And then the amazing result. The fallen
tree stretched out on the exact spot and in the exact
direction ready for the hauliers to bear straight away
to the final transport station.</p>

<p>The summer days had been filled with vital interest.
And at night, weary in body, Nancy still had time, lying
in the amply, if crudely blanketed bed provided for her
in some lumber-built shanty, to contemplate the lives of
this strangely assorted race. She knew the pay of the
forest men, from the haulier to the princely axeman and
river-jack. She had seen their food, and their dwelling
accommodation. She had heard such details as were possible
of telling of their recreations, and had guessed
the rest. And for all her admiration of their manhood
she pitied, in her woman's way, and felt shame for the
slavery of it all.</p>

<p>Oh, yes. She had no illusions. She was not weakly
sentimental. She looked at it all with wide-open eyes.
It was a well-paid animal life. It was a life of eating
well, of sleeping well, of gambling, and drinking, and

licence. But it was a life of such labour that only perfect
physical creatures could face.</p>

<p>She felt that these folks were wage slaves in the crudest
meaning of the words. There was nothing for them
beyond their daily life, which was wholly animal. Of
spirituality there was none. Of future there was none.
Their leisure was given over to their pastimes, while
ahead the future lay always threatening. Stiffening
muscles, disease, age. The king of them all in his youth,
in age would be abandoned and driven forth, weary in
body, aching in limbs, a derelict in the ranks of the world's
labour.</p>

<p>She was gravely impressed by the things she saw, by
the men she met.</p>

<p>Her summer had been an education which had stirred
feelings and sympathies almost unguessed. It was the
father, she could scarcely remember, making himself
known to her. For all the ambitions firing her, the long,
fascinating days in the forests of the Shagaunty had
taught her of the existence of an "underdog," who, in
himself, was the foundation upon which the personal
ambition of the more fortunate was achieved. Without
him to support the whole edifice of civilisation must
crash to the ground, and life would go back again to the
bosom of that Nature from which it sprang.</p>

<p>Her realisation inspired her with an added desire. It
was a desire coming straight from an honest, unsophisticated
heart. She registered a vow that whithersoever
her ambitions might lead her, she would always remember
the "underdog," and work for his betterment and greater
happiness.</p>

<p>"So you can only cut the stuff here within reach of
our light haulage system?" Nancy demanded at last.
"The rest's gone. The real big stuff, I mean, down below
in the valley. We're just driven to the plateau where the
cut looks to me more like one in twenty than any better?"</p>


<p>Arden Laval left his position at the brink of the ravine.
He came back to the girl in her modish costume that
seemed so out of place beside the rough clothing that
Covered his body.</p>

<p>"Why, I guess that's so," he said. "Still, it's a deal
better than one in twenty." He laughed. "Sure. If
it wasn't the darn booms 'ud need to go hungry."</p>

<p>The man's French temperament left him more than
appreciative of the beauty he beheld. But he was
wondering. He was searching his shrewd mind for the
real explanation of Nancy's presence in these forests. To
him it was amazing that the Skandinavia should send
this girl, this good-looker, on a journey through their
forests alone. He would willingly have asked the question.
But he remembered her written commission,
signed by Elas Peterman. So he was left with no alternative
but to yield the utmost respect.</p>

<p>"Y'see, mam," he went on easily. "I guess I could
talk quite a piece on this thing, but maybe you won't
fancy my dope. Skandinavia's been badly spoilt by the
cut in the Shagaunty Valley. You've seen it all. Guess
you've come right through. Well, that being so, you'll
understand the Shagaunty cut's been far above average.
Now we're down to average. That's all. That's how
the Skandinavia's been spoilt."</p>

<p>He thrust his cap back from his forehead. It was a
movement of irritation. Then he produced a plug of
tobacco from his hip-pocket, and bit off a chew.</p>

<p>"I've been twenty odd years lumbering," he went on
a moment later. "I've lumbered most every forest in
Ontario and Quebec. "There ain't more'n one bunch of
plums like the Shagaunty. Mostly the forest's full of
the sort of stuff we're handling here. These forests are
average and I'd like to say to the Skandinavia, 'you've
got to figger results on the average.' We're cutting down
to the minimum because we've got to, to feed the booms

right. Well, that's goin' on if I know my job. There's
patch stuff better. I daresay there's new ground on
our limits liable to hand us Shagaunty stuff. But that's
just as I say, patch stuff, an' not average. If they want
Shagaunty quality right through let 'em get out and
get limits up on Labrador. I reckon there's a hundred
years cutting up there that 'ud leave Shagaunty a bunch
of weed grass. They say the folks out on the coast are
worried to death there's so much stuff, an' so big, an'

good, an' soft, an' long-fibred. The jacks out that way
are up to the neck in a hell of a good time, sure. I get it
they've time to sleep half the year, it's so easy. Well,
it ain't that way here. We've no time singing hymns
around this lay-out. It's hell, here, keeping the darn
booms fed. Speakin' for my outfit I'd say they're a pretty
bright lot of boys. What a feller can do they can do, I
guess. But there are times I get mighty sick chasing to
get even the minimum. An' it's all the time kick. The
Skandinavia seems to have got a grouch about now you
couldn't beat with a tank of rye whisky. You've seen
it all as far as I can show you, mam, and I'd be glad to
know if you're satisfied I've done the things you want.
If I have, and you feel good about it, I'd be thankful if
you'd report the way we're workin' this camp. And if
you've a spare moment to talk other things, you might
say that the boys of my camp are mighty hard put to get
the stuff, and they're as tough a gang of jacks as ever
heard tell of the dog's life of the forest."</p>

<p>The man spoke with the fluency of real protest. He
somehow felt he was on his defence in the presence of
this woman representative of his employers. This girl
was not there enduring the discomforts of the forests for
amusement. She came with authority, and she seemed
to possess great understanding. Arden Laval knew his
own value. His record was one of long service with his
company. Furthermore, his outfit was trusted with the

pioneering work of the forest where judgment and enterprise,
and great experience were needed. He felt it was
the moment to talk, and to talk straight to this woman
with the red hair who had invaded his domain. So he
gave full rope to his feelings.</p>

<p>It was some moments before the girl replied, and the
man waited expectantly. He was studying the far-off
gaze of the pretty hazel eyes, and wondering at the
thought moving behind them. At length Nancy withdrew
her gaze from the forest.</p>

<p>"I shall certainly report the things I've seen," she said
with a smile that found prompt response in the man's
dark eyes. "You've certainly done your best to show
me, and tell me, the exact position. I shall make a point
of reporting all that. Yes, I've seen it all, thank you very
much."</p>

<p>Then her smile suddenly vanished. The shrewd gaze
of commercial interest replaced it.</p>

<p>"But these Labrador folk?" she demanded. "Is that
stuff just&mdash;hearsay?"</p>

<p>The man shook his head. He was feeling easier.</p>

<p>"It's God's truth, mam." He spat out a stream of
tobacco juice. "I know them forests. Say," his eyes
had lost their smile, "I don't guess I figger to know the
business side of things, I don't calculate to know if the
folks on Labrador work with, or against the Skandinavia.
But I do know that if they're up against us they've got
us plumb beat before we start. They got the sort of
lumber the jacks dream about when they got their bellies
full on a Saturday night, and they're going to wake up to
find it Sunday mornin'. I'm just a lumberman, and if I
hadn't fifteen years' record with the Skandinavia, and
wasn't pouching two hundred and fifty bucks, and what
I can make besides, a month, why, it 'ud be me for the
coast where you can jamb the rivers in a three months'

cut, and souse rye the rest of the year till the bugs look as

big as mountains. Guess it's the summer rose garden of
the lumber-jack, for all it's under snow eight months in
the year, when you can't tell your guts from an iceflow,
and the skitters, in summer, mostly reach the size of a
gasoline tank. It's a dog's life, mam, lumberin' anywhere.
But they're lap-dogs out that way."</p>

<p>The man's words brought the return of the girl's smile.
"Yes, I spose it's&mdash;tough," she observed thoughtfully.
Then quite suddenly she spread out her hands.
"Oh, yes," she exclaimed, with a sudden vehemence,
"it's worse than tough. It's hopeless. Utterly hopeless.
I've seen it. I've watched it. I had to. I couldn't
escape it. It's so desperately patent. But it's not the
life as these folk live it. It's the future I'm thinking of.
It's middle life and old age. These boys. They're wonders&mdash;now.
How long does it last, and then&mdash;what
happens? I'm here on business, hard business. But I
guess this thing's got hold of me so I can't sometimes sleep
at nights. Tell me about them."</p>

<p>Arden Laval, one of the hardest specimens of the
lumber boss, turned away. His understanding of women
was built up out of intimacy with the poor creatures
who peopled the camps he knew. This girl's burst of
feeling only stirred him to a cynical humour.</p>

<p>"Mam," he said, with a grin that was almost hateful,
"if I was to start in to hand you the life history of a
lumber-jack you'd feel like throwing up your kind heart,
and any other old thing you hadn't use for in your
stummick. But I guess I can say right here, a lumber-jack's
a most disgustin' sort of vermin who hasn't more
right than a louse to figger in your reckonin'. I guess he
was born wrong, and he'll mostly die as he was born.
And meanwhile he's lived a life that's mostly dirt, and
no account anyway. There's a few things we ask of a
lumber-jack, and if he fulfils 'em right he can go right
on living. When he can't fulfil 'em, why, it's up to him

to hit the trail for the pay box, an' get out. Guess you
feel good when you see a boy swingin' an axe, or handlin'

a peavy. Sure. That sort of thing don't come your
way often. Neither does it come your way to see the
rest. He's mostly a sink of filth in mind and body, and
if he ain't all that at the start he gets it quick. He's a
waster of God's pure air, and is mostly in his right surroundings
when the forest does its best to hide him
up from the eyes of the rest of the world. Guess he's the
best man I know&mdash;dead."</p>

<p>For all his grin Arden Laval was in deadly earnest.
Nancy stared at the broad back he had turned on her
with his final word. And her indignation surged.</p>

<p>"I don't believe it," she cried. "I can't believe it.
You're just talking out of years of experience of a life
you've probably learned to hate. Man, if that's your
opinion of your fellows, then it's you who ought never
to leave the forest you claim does its best to hide up folk
from the eyes of the rest of the world. You're a camp
boss. You're our head man in these forests. You're
trusted, and we know your skill. Well, it seems to me
you've a duty that goes further than just feeding the
booms right. You've a moral duty towards these men
you condemn. You can help them. It should surely
be your pride to lift them out of the desperate mire you
claim they are floundering in. I'll not believe you mean
it all."</p>

<p>The man turned away as a black-clothed figure
emerged from the trees, and came to a stand at the brink
of the ravine some hundred and more yards to the east
of them. Nancy, too, beheld the lonely figure and she,
too, became interested in its movements.</p>

<p>The lumber boss laughed shortly, roughly, and raised
an arm, pointing as he turned a grinning face to the girl.</p>

<p>"See him, there?" he cried. "Say, mam, with all
respect, I'd say to you, if you're feeling the way you

talk, and look to get the sort of stuff you'd maybe fancy
hearing, that's the guy you need to open out to. As
you say, I'm the head camp-boss on the Skandinavia's
limits. I've had nigh twenty years an' more experience
of the lumber-jack. An' I'm tellin' you the things any
camp-boss speakin' truth'll tell you. That's all, I
don't hate the boys. I don't pity 'em. But I don't
love 'em. They're just part of a machine to cut lumber,
and it don't matter a hoot in hell to me what they are,
or who they are, or what becomes of 'em. I ain't shepherdin'

souls like that guy. It ain't in me, anyway. I
just got to make good so that some day I ken quit these
cursed forests and live easy the way I'd fancy. When
that time comes maybe I'll change. Maybe I'll feel like
that guy standin' doping over that spread of forest scene.
I don't know. And just now I don't care&mdash;a curse."</p>

<p>But Nancy was no longer listening. The lonely, black-coated
figure Laval had pointed out absorbed all her
interest. His allusion to the man's calling had created
in her an irresistible desire.</p>

<p>"Who is he? That man?" she demanded abruptly.</p>

<p>Laval laughed.</p>

<p>"Why, Father Adam," he replied. There was a curious
softening in his harsh voice, which brought the girl's
eyes swiftly back to him.</p>

<p>"Father Adam? A priest?" she questioned.</p>

<p>Laval shook his head. He had turned again, regarding
the stranger. His face was hidden from the searching
eyes of the girl.</p>

<p>"I just can't rightly say," he demurred. "Maybe
he is, an' maybe he ain't. But," he added reflectively
"he's just one hell of a good man. Makes me laff sometimes.
Sometimes it makes me want to cry like a kid
when I think of the things he's up against. He's out for
the boys. He's out to hand 'em dope to make 'em better.
Oh, it ain't Sunday School dope. No. He's the kind o'

missioner who does things. He don't tell 'em they're a
bum lot o' toughs who oughter to be in penitentiary. But
he makes 'em feel that way&mdash;the way he acts. He's
just a lone creature, sort of livin' in twilight, who comes
along, an' we don't know when he's comin'. He passes
out like a shadow in the forests, an' we don't see him
again till he fancies. He's after the boys the whole darn
time. It don't matter if they're sick in body or mind.
He helps 'em the way he knows. An', mam, they just
love him to death. There's just one man in these forests
I wouldn't dare blaspheme, if I felt like it&mdash;which I
don't. No, mam, my life wouldn't be worth a two
seconds buy if I blasphemed&mdash;Father Adam. He's one
of God's good men, an' I'd be mighty thankful to be like
him&mdash;some. Gee, and I owe him a piece myself."</p>

<p>"How?"</p>

<p>Nancy's interest was consuming.</p>

<p>"Why, only he jumped in once when I was being
scrapped to death. He jumped right in, when he looked
like gettin' killed for it. And," he laughed cynically, "he
gave me a few more years of the dog's life of the forest."</p>

<p>The girl moved away from her support.</p>

<p>"I want to thank you, Mr. Laval, for the trouble
you've taken, and the time you've given up to me." The
hazel eyes were smiling up into the man's hard face. "I
don't agree with some of the things you've just been
telling me; I should hate to, anyway. I don't even believe
you feel the way you say about your men. Still,
that's no account in the matters I came about. The
things I've got to say when I get back are all to your
credit. I'm going over now to talk to&mdash;Father Adam.
And you needn't come along with me. You see, you've
fired my curiosity. Yes, I want to hear the stuff I fancy
about the&mdash;boys. So I'll go and talk to your&mdash;shepherd
of souls. Good-bye."</p>


<p>Nancy's eyes were bright and smiling as she gazed up
into the lean, ascetic face of the man in the black, semi-clerical
coat. His garments were worn and almost
threadbare. At close quarters she realised an even
deeper interest in the man whose presence had wrought
such a magical change in the harsh tones of the camp-boss.
He was in the heyday of middle life, surely. His
hair was long and black. His beard was of a similar hue,
and it covered his mouth and chin in a long, but patchy
mass. His eyes were keen but gentle. They, too, were
very dark, and the whole cast of his pale face was curiously
reminiscent.</p>

<p>"I just had to come along over, sir," she said. "I
was with Mr. Laval, and he told me of the work&mdash;the
great work you do in these camps. Maybe you'll forgive
me intruding. But you see, I've come from our headquarters
on business, and the folk of these camps interest
me. I kind of feel the life the boys live around these
forests is a pretty mean life. There's nothing much to
it but work. And it seems to me that those employing
them ought to be made to realise they've a greater responsibility
than just handing them out a wage for work
done. So when I saw you come out of the forest and
stand here, and Mr. Laval told me about you, I made
up my mind right away to come along and&mdash;speak to
you. My name's McDonald&mdash;Nancy McDonald."</p>

<p>It was all a little hasty, a little timidly spoken. The
dark eyes thoughtfully regarding the wonder of red hair
under the close fitting hat were disconcerting, for all
there was cordiality in their depths.</p>

<p>At Nancy's mention of her name, Father Adam instantly
averted his gaze, and dropped the hand which
he had taken possession of in greeting. It was almost
as if the pronouncement had caused him to start. But
the change, the movement, were unobserved by the girl.</p>

<p>"And you are&mdash;Father Adam?" she asked.</p>


<p>The man's gaze came quickly back.</p>

<p>"That's how I'm known. It&mdash;was kind of you to come
along over."</p>

<p>In a moment all the girl's timidity was gone. If the
man had been startled when she had announced her name,
he displayed perfect ease now.</p>

<p>"Do you know," Nancy went on, with a happy laugh,
"I almost got mad with Laval for his cynicism at the
expense of the poor boys who work under his orders.
But I think I understand him. He's a product of a life
that moulds in pretty harsh form. He doesn't mean
half he says."</p>

<p>"I'd say few of us do&mdash;when we let our feelings go."
Father Adam smiled back into the eyes which seemed to
hold him fascinated. "You see, Laval's much what we
all are. He's got a tough job to put through, and he
does his utmost. He's a big man, a brave man, a&mdash;yes,
perhaps&mdash;a harsh man. But he couldn't do his job as
he's paid to do it if he weren't all those things." He
shook his head. "No, I guess we can't play with fire
long without getting a heap of scars." He shrugged.
"But after all I suppose it's just&mdash;life. We've got to
eat, and we want to live. We don't need to judge too
harshly."</p>

<p>"No. That's how I feel about the boys&mdash;he so condemned."</p>

<p>The girl turned away gazing pensively over the forest.
Father Adam was free to regard her without restraint.
With her turning the whole expression of his eyes had
changed. Incredulous amazement had replaced his smiling
ease.</p>

<p>"Would you care to come along through the woods
to my shanty, Miss McDonald?" he said, almost diffidently,
at last. "Maybe I've a cup of coffee there. And
I'd say coffee's the most welcome thing on earth in these
forests. It's a pretty humble shanty but, if you feel like

talking things, why, I guess we can sit around there
awhile."</p>

<p>The girl snatched at the invitation.</p>

<p>"I was just hoping you'd say something that way,"
she laughed readily. "I'd give worlds for a cup of coffee,
and I guess the folks in the forests of Quebec know more
about coffee in half a second than we city folk know in a
year. Which way?"</p>

<p>"It's only a few yards. You'd best follow me."</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>The girl stood amazed. She was even horrified. She
was gazing in through the opening of the merest shelter,
a shelter built of green boughs with roof and sides of
interlaced foliage. True it was densely interlaced, but
no sort of distorted imagination could have translated
the result into anything but a shelter. Habitation was
out of the question. She stared at the primitive, less
than aboriginal home, of the priestly man. She stared
round her at the undergrowth upon which were spread
his brown coarse blankets airing. She looked down at
the smouldering fire between two granite stones upon
which a tin of coffee was simmering and emitting its
pleasant aroma upon the woodland air. It was too crude,
too utterly lacking in comfort and even the bare necessites
of existence.</p>

<p>The man emerged from the interior bearing two
enamelled tin cups. He realised the amazement with
which Nancy was regarding his home, and shook his head
with a pleasant laugh as he indicated two upturned boxes
beside the fire.</p>

<p>"You'd best sit, and I'll tell you about it," he said.
"It's not exactly a swell hotel, is it? But it's sufficient."</p>

<p>The girl silently took her seat on one of the boxes.
Father Adam took the other. Then he poured out two
cups of coffee, and passed a tin of preserved milk across

to the girl. There was a spoon in it. After that he produced
a small tin of sugar and offered that.</p>

<p>You see, it's all I need," he said, in simple explanation.
"When the rain comes I mostly get wet, except
at nights when I get under my rubber sheet. But, anyway,
there's plenty of sun to dry me. Oh, winter's different.
I cut out a dug-out then, and burrow like the
rest of the forest creatures. But, you see, this thing
suits me well. I'm never long in one place. I've been
here two weeks, and I pull out to-morrow."</p>

<p>"You pull out? Where to?"</p>

<p>"Why, I just pass on to some other camp. The boys
are pretty widely scattered in these forests. You'd never
guess the distances I sometimes make. Even Labrador.
But it doesn't much matter. I've a good smattering of
physic, and the boys are always getting hurt one way and
another. I'd hate to feel I couldn't go to them wherever
they are. Maybe if I built a better house I'd not want
to leave it. It would be hard getting on the move. You
see, I get their call any old time. Maybe it comes along on
the forest breezes," he said whimsically. "Then I have
to be quick to locate it, and read it right."</p>

<p>The girl had helped herself to milk and sugar, and
sipped the steaming coffee. But she was listening with
all her ears and thinking feverishly. This strange creature,
with his deprecating manner, and smiling, sane
eyes, filled her with a sense of shame at his utter selflessness.</p>

<p>She nodded.</p>

<p>"You mean they&mdash;always want help?"</p>

<p>"Sure. Same as we all do."</p>

<p>Father Adam sipped his coffee appreciatively.</p>

<p>"But tell me," he said. "It's kind of new the Skandinavia
sending a woman along up here. It's your first
trip?"</p>

<p>Nancy set her cup down.</p>


<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>"They're a great firm," Father Adam went on, reflectively.
"I mean the&mdash;extent of their operations."</p>

<p>Nancy smiled.</p>

<p>"I like the distinction. Yes, they're big. You don't
like their&mdash;methods?"</p>

<p>It was the man's turn for a smiling retort.</p>

<p>"Their methods?" he shook his head. "I don't know,
I guess they pay well. And their boys are no worse
treated than in other camps. They employ thousands.
And that's all to the good."</p>

<p>"But you don't like them," Nancy persisted. "I can
hear it in your voice. It's in your smile. Few people
like the Skandinavia," she added regretfully.</p>

<p>"Do you?"</p>

<p>Like a shot the challenge came, and Nancy found herself
replying almost before she was aware of it.</p>

<p>"Yes. Why shouldn't I? They've been good to
me. More than good, when those who had a right to
be completely deserted me. No. I mustn't say just
that," she hurried on in some contrition. "They provided
for me, but cut me out of their lives. Maybe you
won't understand what that means to a girl. It meant
so much to me that I wouldn't accept their charity. I
wouldn't accept a thing. I'd make my own way with
the small powers Providence handed me. So I went to
the Skandinavia who have only shown me the best of
kindness. Well, I'm frankly out for the Skandinavia
and all their schemes and methods in consequence. It's
not for me to look into the things that make folks hate
them. That's theirs. My loyalty and gratitude are all
for them for the thing they've done for me. Isn't that
right?"</p>

<p>"Surely," the man concurred. "But your coffee. It's
getting cold," he added.</p>

<p>Nancy hastily picked up her cup.</p>


<p>"Why am I telling you all this?" she laughed. "We
were going to talk of the&mdash;boys."</p>

<p>"We surely were." Father Adam laughed responsively.
"But personal interest I guess doesn't figure to
be denied for long. We sort of get the notion we can
shut it out. But we can't. We try to guess there's other
things. Things more important. Things that matter a
whole lot more." He shook his head. "It's no use.
There aren't. I guess it doesn't matter where we look.
Self's pushing out at every angle, and won't be denied.
It would be hypocrisy to deny it, wouldn't it? It's the
biggest thing in life. It's the whole thing."</p>

<p>"And it's such a pity," Nancy agreed slyly. "Just
think," she went on, "I've got a hundred notions for
the good of the world. These boys for instance. I'd
like to make their lives what they ought to be. Full of
comfort and security and&mdash;and everything to make it
worth while. Instead of that my first and whole concern
is to make good for Nancy McDonald. To do all
those things for her. It's dreadful when you think of it,
isn't it?" She sighed. "I want to do good to the&mdash;the
'underdog,' and all the time I'm planning for myself.
I want to fight all the time for those who hold opportunity
out to me. It doesn't really matter to me why the
Skandinavia is disliked. They give me opportunity. I
reckon they've been good to me. So I'm their slave to
fight for them, and work for them, whatever their
methods. Yes. It's too bad," she laughed frankly. "I
can't deny it. I'd like to, but&mdash;I can't."</p>

<p>"No."</p>

<p>Father Adam set down his empty cup, and sat with
his arms resting on his parted knees. His hands were
clasped.</p>

<p>"You remind me of someone," he said, in his simple
disarming fashion. "Queerly enough it's a man. A
strong, hard, kindly, good-natured man. I found him

without a thought but to make good. And I knew he
would make good. Then it came my way to show him
how. I offered him a notion. The notion was fine.
Oh, yes&mdash;though I say it. It was the sort of thing if it
were carried to success would hand the fellow working it
down to posterity as one of his country's benefactors.
The notion appealed to him. It stirred something in
him, and set fire to his enthusiasm. He jumped for it.
Why? Was it the thought of doing a great act for his
country? Was it for that something that was all good
stirring in him? No. I guess it was because he was a
strong, physical, and spiritual, and mental force concentrated
on big things, primarily inspired by Self. Personal
achievement. It seems to me the good man always
does what's real and worth while in the way of helping
himself."</p>

<p>"Yes. I think I understand." The girl nodded. "And
this strong physical, and spiritual, and mental force?
Have I heard of him? Is he known? Has he achieved?"</p>

<p>"He's carrying on. Oh, yes." Father Adam paused.
Then he went on quickly. "You don't know him yet.
But I think you will. He's out on the coast of Labrador.
He's driving his great purpose with all his force through
the agency of a groundwood mill that would fill your
Skandinavia folk with envy and alarm if they saw it.
He's master of forests such as would break your heart
when compared with these of your Skandinavia. His
name's Sternford. Bull Sternford, of Sachigo."</p>

<p>At the mention of Sachigo, Nancy's eyes widened.
Then she laughed. It was a laugh of real amusement.</p>

<p>"Why, that's queer. It's&mdash;I'm going right on there
from here. I'm going to meet this very man, Sternford.
They tell me I've just time to get there and pull out
again for home before winter freezes them up solid.
So he is this great man, with this great&mdash;notion. Tell
me, what is he like?"</p>


<p>"Oh, he's a big, strong man, as ready to laugh as to
fight."</p>

<p>Father Adam smiled, and stooped over the fire to
push the attenuated sticks of it together.</p>

<p>"May I ask why you're going to Sachigo?" he asked,
without looking up.</p>

<p>Just for a moment Nancy hesitated. Then she
laughed happily.</p>

<p>"I don't see why you shouldn't," she cried. "There's
no secret. Skandinavia intends to buy him, or crush
him."</p>

<p>The man sat up.</p>

<p>"And you&mdash;a girl&mdash;are the emissary?"</p>

<p>Incredulity robbed the man of the even calmness of'
his manner.</p>

<p>"Yes. Why not?"</p>

<p>The challenge in the girls's eyes was unmistakable.</p>

<p>"You won't buy him," Father Adam said quietly.
"And you certainly won't crush him."</p>

<p>"Because I'm a girl?"</p>

<p>"Oh, no. I was thinking of the Skandinavia." The
man shook his head. "If I'm a judge of men, the crushing
will be done from the other end of the line."</p>

<p>"This man will crush Skandinavia?"</p>

<p>The idea that Skandinavia could be crushed was quite
unthinkable to Nancy. It was the great monopoly of the
country. It was&mdash;but she felt that this lonely creature
could have no real understanding of the power of her
people.</p>

<p>"Surely," he returned quietly. "But that," he added,
with a return of his pleasant smile, "is just the notion
of one man. I should say it's no real account. Yes, you
go there. You see this man. The battle of your people
with him matters little. It will be good for you to see
him. It&mdash;may help you. Who can tell? He's a white
man, and a fighter. He's honest and clean. It's&mdash;in

the meeting of kindred spirits that the great events of
life are brought about. It should be good for you both."</p>

<p>"I wonder?" Nancy rose from her chair.</p>

<p>The man rose also.</p>

<p>"I think so," he said, very decidedly.</p>

<p>The girl laughed.</p>

<p>"I hope so. But&mdash;" She held out her hand. "Thank
you, Father," she said. "I'll never be able to think of
the things I'm set on achieving without remembering
our talk&mdash;and the man I met in the forest. I wish&mdash;but
what's the use? I've got to make good. I must.
I must go on, and&mdash;do the thing I see. Good-bye."</p>

<p>Father Adam was holding the small gauntleted hand,
and he seemed loth to release it. His eyes were very
gentle, very earnest.</p>

<p>"Don't worry to remember, child. Don't ever think
about&mdash;this time. It won't help you. You've set your
goal. Make it. You will do the good things you fancy
to do, though maybe not the way you think them. It
seems to me that 'good' mostly has its own way all the
time. You can't drive it. And the best of it is I don't
think there's a human creature so bad in this world,
but that in some way God's work has been furthered
through his life. Good-bye."</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>For some moments the lonely figure stood gazing down
the woodland aisles. The deep, shining light of a great
hope was in his eyes. A wonderful tender smile had
dispersed the shadows of his ascetic face. At length,
as the girl's figure became completely swallowed up in
the twilight of it all, he turned away and passed into the
foliage shelter which was his home.</p>

<p>He was squatting on his box, and the small canvas
bag containing his belongings was open beside him. Its
contents were strewn about. He was writing a long

letter. There was several pages of it. When he had
finished he read it over carefully. Then he carefully
folded it and placed it in an envelope, and addressed it.
It was addressed:</p>

<p style="text-align: right">MR. BULL STERNFORD,</p>
<p style="text-align: right">Sachigo, Farewell Cove,</p>
<p style="text-align: right">Labrador.</p>

</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_16"></a>
<h3>Chapter VII&mdash;The Skandinavia Moves</h3>


<p>Bat gazed up at the wooded ridge. They were standing
in the marshy bottom of a natural hollow amidst a
sparse scattering of pine and attenuated spruce. Beyond
the ridge lay the waters of the cove. And to the
left the broad waters of the river mouth flowed by. It
was a desolate, damp spot, but its significance to the two
men studying it was profound.</p>

<p>Skert Lawton, the chief engineer of Sachigo, tall,
loose-limbed, raw-boned, watched his superior with somewhat
mournful, unsmiling eyes. There was something
of deadly earnest in his regard, something anxious.
But that was always his way. Bat had once said of
him: "Skert Lawton's one hell of a good boy. But I
won't get no comfort in the grave if I ain't ever see him
grin." There was not the smallest sign of a smile in
him now.</p>

<p>"It's one big notion," Bat said, at last. Then he
added doubtfully. "It comes mighty nigh being too big."</p>

<p>Lawton emitted a curious sound like a snort. It was
mainly, however, an ejaculation of violent impatience.
Bat turned with a twinkling grin, surveying the queer
figure. His engineer was always a source of the profoundest

interest for him. Just now, in his hard, rough
clothing, he might have been a lumber-jack, or casual
labourer. Anything, in fact, rather than the college-bred,
brilliant engineer he really was.</p>

<p>Bat's doubt had been carefully calculated. He knew
his man. And just now as he awaited the explosion he
looked for, his thoughts went back to a scene he had
once had with a half drunken machine-minder whom
he had had to pay off. The man had epitomised the chief
engineer's qualities and character, as those who encountered
his authority understood them, in a few lurid,
illuminating phrases. "You know," he had said, "that
guy ain't a man. No, sir. He's the mush-fed image
of a penitentiary boss. I guess he'd set the grease box
of a driving shaft hot with a look. His temper 'ud burn
holes in sheet iron. As for work&mdash;work? Holy Mackinaw!
I've worked hired man to a French Canuk mossback
which don't leave a feller the playtime of a nigger
slave, but that hell-hired Scotch machine boss sets me
yearnin' for that mossback's wage like a bull-pup chasin'

offal. I tell you right here if that guy don't quit his notions
there'll be murder done. Bloody murder! An' it's a
God's sure thing when that happens he'll freeze to death
in hell. It don't rile me a thing to be told the things he
guesses my mother was. Maybe that's a matter of
opinion, and, anyway, she's mixin' with a crop of
angels who don't figger to have no truck with Scotch
machine bosses. I guess a sight of his flea-bitten features
'ud set 'em seein' things so they wouldn't rec'nise their
harps from frypans, and they'd moult feathers till you
wouldn't know it from a snowfall on Labrador. But when
he mixes his notions of my ma with 'lazy'! Lazy! Lazy!
Gee! Why, if I signed in a half hour late from that
bum suttler's canteen, I guess it was only the time it took
me digestin' two quarts of the gut-wash they hand out
there in the hope you won't know it from beer. No,

sir, 'lazy son-of-a-bitch' from that guy is the talk no
decent citizen with a bunch of guts is goin' to stand
for."</p>

<p>Skert Lawton was known for a red-hot "burner," a
"nigger driver." No doubt he was all this in addition to
his brilliant attainments as an engineer. But the methods
he applied to others he applied to himself. And the
whole of him, brain and body, was for the enterprise
they were all engaged in. Bat had intended to goad
the demon of obstinate energy which possessed the man,
and he succeeded.</p>

<p>Skert flung out his hand in a comprehensive gesture.</p>

<p>"Hell!" he cried. "That's no sort of talk anyway.
I've been weeks on this thing. And I've got it to the
last fraction. Big notion? Of course it is. Aren't
we mostly concerned with big notions? Here, what are
you asking? An inland boom with capacity for anything
over a million cords. Well? It's damn ridiculous
talking the size of the notion. This hollow is fixed right.
Its bed is ten feet below the bed of the river. It's surrounded
with a natural ridge on all sides a hundred and
fifty feet high. There's a quarter mile below the hollow
and the river bank, and the new mill extensions are just
to the east of this ridge. It's well-nigh child's play.
Nature's fixed it that way. Two cuttings, and a race-way
on the river. We flood this. Feed it full of lumber in
the summer with surplus from the cut and you've got
that reserve for winter, so you can keep every darn
machine grinding its guts out. What's the use talking?
Big notion? Of course it is. We're out for big notions
all the time. That's the whole proposition. Well?"</p>

<p>Bat grinned at the heated disgust in the man's tone.</p>

<p>"Sounds like eatin' pie," he retorted aggravatingly.
"The cost? The labour? Time? You got those
things?"</p>

<p>"It's right up at your office now." Skert's eyes

widened in surprise at such a question. "It's not my
way to play around."</p>

<p>"No." Bat's eyes refused seriousness.</p>

<p>"Oh, psha! This is no sort of time chewing these
details. It's figgered to the last second, the last man,
the last cent. I brought you to see things. Well, you've
seen things. And if you're satisfied we'll quit right
away. I've no spare play time."</p>

<p>There was no pretence of patience in Skert Lawton.
He had looked for appreciation and only found doubt. He
moved off.</p>

<p>Bat had done the thing intended. He had no intention
of hurting the man. He understood the driving
power of the mood he had stirred.</p>

<p>They moved off together.</p>

<p>"That's all right, Skert," he said kindly. "You've
done one big thing. An' it's the thing Bull and I
want&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Then why in hell didn't you say it instead of talking&mdash;notions?"</p>

<p>For all the sharpness of his retort, Skert was mollified.
Bat shook his head and a shrewd light twinkled in his
eyes.</p>

<p>"You're a pretty bright boy, Skert," he said. "But
you're brightest when you're riled."</p>

<p>They had gained the river bank where booms lined
the shore, and scores of men were rafting. They had left
the water-logged hollow behind them, and debouched
on the busy world of the mill. Ahead lay the new extensions
where the saws were shrieking the song of their
labours upon the feed for the rumbling grinders. It
was a township of buildings of all sizes crowding about
the great central machine house.</p>

<p>They crossed the light footbridge over the "cut in"
from the river, and moved along down the main highway
of the northern shore.</p>


<p>Both were pre-occupied. The engineer was listening
to the note of his beloved machinery. Bat was concerned
with any and every movement going on within
the range of his vision. They walked briskly, the lean
engineer setting a pace that kept the other stumping
hurriedly beside him.</p>

<p>Abreast of the mill they approached a new-looking,
long, low building. It was single storied and lumber
built, with a succession of many windows down its
length. The hour was noon. And men were hurrying
towards its entrance from every direction.</p>

<p>Bat watched interestedly.</p>

<p>"They seem mighty keen for their new playground,"
he said at last, with a quick nod in the direction of the
recreation house.</p>

<p>The engineer came out of his dream. His mournful
eyes turned in the direction indicated and devoured the
scene. Then he glanced down at the squat figure stumping
beside him.</p>

<p>"Guess that's so. But not the way you figgered when
you got that fool notion of handing 'em a playhouse,"
he said roughly. "If you pass a hog a feather bed, it's
a sure thing he'll work out the best way to muss it quick."</p>

<p>"How? I don't get you?"</p>

<p>There was no humour in Bat's eyes now.</p>

<p>"They call it a 'Chapel'," Skert said dryly. "They've
surely got preachers, but they don't talk religion. Maybe
that's sort of new to you, here. It isn't across the water
where I come from. Guess you think those boys are
racing out to get a game of checkers, or billiards, or cards,
or some other fool play you reckoned to hand 'em to
make 'em feel good." He shook his head. "They're not.
They've turned their 'Chapel' into a sort of parliament.
Every dinner hour there's a feller, different fellers most
all the time, gets up and hands 'em out an address. It's
short, but red hot. The afternoon shift in the mill is

given up to brightening up their fool brains on it. And
when evening comes along, and they've their bellies full
of supper and beer, they get along to the 'Chapel' and
they debate the address, handing out opinions and notions
just as bellies guide 'em."</p>

<p>"And the addresses. What are they mostly? On
the work? The trade they're working at?"</p>

<p>A world of pity looked out of Skert's eyes as he surveyed
the man he believed to be the greatest organiser
the mill industry had ever seen. He shook his head.</p>

<p>"Work? Not on your life! Socialism, Communism&mdash;Revolution!"</p>

<p>Bat spat out a stream of tobacco juice. He was startled.</p>

<p>"But I ain't heard tell of any sort of unrest gettin'

busy. We're payin' big money. It's bigger than the
market. They got&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Best talk to Sternford when you get back up there
to your office. He's got the boys sized right up to the
last hair of their stupid heads. But I'll hand you something
I've reckoned to hand you a while back, only I
wanted to be sure. There's nothing of this truck about
the 'hands' of the old mill. It's the new hands you've
been collecting from the forests. We've grown by two
thousand hands in the past year or so. And they're so
darn mixed I wouldn't fancy trying to sort 'em. They
come from all parts. The world's been talking revolution
since ever these buzzy-headed Muscovites reckoned
to start in grabbing the world's goods for themselves.
Well, it's a hell of a long piece here to Labrador, but
it's found its way, and the mutton-brained fools who're
supposed to play around that shanty you handed 'em
are recreating themselves talking about it in there. Here,
come right over to that window. It's open."</p>

<p>Perhaps Skert was enjoying himself. Certainly his
mournful eyes were less mournful as he led his chief
over to the open window. Bat had had his innings with

him. He was planning the game and hitting hard in
his turn.</p>

<p>"The enemy of the world, of more particularly the
worker is the&mdash;CAPITALIST!"</p>

<p>The words were hurled from the platform of the
recreation room at the heads of the listening throng
below and reached the open window just as Lawton and
his chief came up to it. There was applause following
this profound announcement, and Skert turned on his
companion.</p>

<p>"Well?" he demanded, in a tone of biting triumph.</p>

<p>They had reached the window at the psychological
moment. Nothing could have suited his purpose better.</p>

<p>Bat turned away abruptly. It was as if some fierce
emotion made it impossible for him to remain another
second. His heavy brows depressed, and his deep-set eyes
narrowed to gimlet holes. Skert pursued him. Once clear
of the window, and beyond earshot, Bat flung his reply
with all the passionate force of his fighting nature.</p>

<p>"The lousy swine!" he cried. "I'll close that place
sure as&mdash;hell."</p>

<p>Skert shook his head as they walked on.</p>

<p>"No, you won't," he said. "Guess you aren't crazy.
You'll talk this over with Sternford. And when you've
talked it some, you'll keep that place running, and let
them talk. It's best that way. But I've got tab of most
of the speakers, and I've located where they come from.
Most of them have sometime worked for the Skandinavia.
Maybe that's the reason of their talk. Maybe
even Skandinavia's glad they're talking that way here
on Labrador. I don't know. But&mdash;well, I'll have to quit
you here. They're setting up the two big new machines,
and it don't do leaving them long. So long. Anything
else you need to know about that recreation room, why,
I guess I can hand it to you."</p>


<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Bull Sternford laid the telegram aside while a shadowy
smile hovered about his firm lips. Then he settled himself
back in his chair, and gave himself up to the thoughtful
contemplation of the brilliant sunlight, and the perfect,
steely azure of the sky beyond the window opposite him.</p>

<p>The change in the man was almost magical. The
hot-headed, determined, fighting lumber-jack whom
Father Adam had rescued from furious homicide had
hidden himself under something deeper than the veneer
which the modest suit of conventional life provides. It
was the subtle change that comes from within which had
transformed him. It was in his eyes. In the set of his
jaws. It was in the man's whole poise. His resources
of spiritual power; his mental force; his virility of
personality. All these things were concentrated. They
were no longer sprawling, groping, seeking the great
purpose of his life as they had been in the lumber camp
of the Skandinavia.</p>

<p>A feeling akin to triumph filled the man's heart as he
gazed out upon the pleasant light of Labrador's late
summer day. In something like twelve months he had
thrust leagues along the road he meant to travel. And
his progress had been of a whirlwind nature. It had
been work, desperate, strenuous work. It had been the
double labour of intensive study combined with the necessary
progress in the schemes laid down for the future
of Sachigo. It had only been possible to a man of his
amazing faculties, combined with the fact that Bat
Harker and the mournful Skert Lawton had left him
free from the clogging detail of the mill organisation and
routine.</p>

<p>In twelve months he had crystallised the dreams and
projects of his predecessor in the chair he was now
occupying. In twelve months he had built up the shell
of the great combination of groundwood and paper mills
which was to have such far-reaching effect upon the paper

trade of the world. And now, ahead of him was spread
out the sea of finance upon which he must next embark.
He felt that already giant's work had been done. But
his yearning could never be satisfied by a mere measure
of completion. He must embrace it all, complete it all.</p>

<p>Already he seemed to have lived with bankers and
financial specialists, but he felt it was only the beginning
of that which he had yet to do. He was unappalled.
He was more than confident. He had discovered unguessed
faculties for finance in himself. He had surprised
himself as well as those others with whom he had
come in contact. They had discovered in him all that
which Father Adam had been so prompt to realise. They
had found in him a young, untrained mind, untrained in
their own calling, whose natural aptitude was amazing,
and whose courage and confidence were beyond words.
But greatest of all was the perception he displayed. They
realised he never required the telling of more than half
the story. Intuition and inspiration completed it for
him without the labour of their words. The result of
those twelve months was there for all to see. The
lumberman had been translated into a hard, fighting,
business man.</p>

<p>The train of the man's thought was broken by the
unceremonious entry of Bat Harker. Bull turned. One
swift glance into the grizzled face warned him his
associate's mood was by no means easy. He, like everyone
who came into contact with Bat, had learned to
appreciate the volcanic fires burning under the lumberman's
exterior.</p>

<p>Bull promptly fended any storm that might possibly
be brewing. He held up his telegram and his eyes were
smiling.</p>

<p>"The Skandinavia's on the move," he cried. And
Bat recognised the battle note in the tone.</p>

<p>"How?"</p>


<p>Bull flung the message across the desk.</p>

<p>"The Skandinavia's representative is arriving on the
<em>Myra</em>," he said. Then he added, "Elas Peterman
says so."</p>

<p>"What for?"</p>

<p>Bat had picked up the message and stood reading it.</p>

<p>The other searched amongst his papers.</p>

<p>"I kind of forgot putting you wise before," he said.
"There were two letters came along a week back. One
was from Elas Peterman, of the Skandinavia folk, and
the other from Father Adam. That message was
'phoned on from the headland. The letters didn't just
concern a deal, so I set 'em aside. This message is
different."</p>

<p>For the moment the affairs down at the recreation
room were forgotten, and Bat contented himself with
the interest of the moment.</p>

<p>"How?" he demanded again in his sharp way.</p>

<p>Bull laughed.</p>

<p>"Here," he cried, holding out the letters he had found.
"I best pass you these. That's from Peterman. There's
not much written, but a deal lies under the writing.
You'll see he asks permission for a representative of the
Skandinavia to wait on us. I wirelessed back, 'I'd just
love to death meeting him.' By the same mail came
Father Adam's yarn. An' I guess that's where the soup
thickens. He says some woman's coming along from the
Skandinavia folk. He guesses they're going to put up
some proposition that looks like butting in on the plans
laid out for Sachigo. But that don't seem to worry him
a thing. I guess his letter wasn't written to hand us
warning. He seems concerned for the woman. You'll see.
He asks me to treat her gently. Firmly, yes. But also,

'very, very gently.' He says, 'you see, she's a woman'."</p>

<p>Bull waited while the other perused both letters. Then,
as Bat looked up questioningly, he went on:</p>


<p>"That telegram got here half an hour back," he said.
Then he shrugged. "The woman's on the <em>Myra</em>, and the
vessel's been sighted off the headland. She'll be along
in two hours."</p>

<p>"And what're you doin' about it?"</p>

<p>Bat's eyes were searching. Perhaps Father Adam's
letter had told him something it had failed to tell the
other.</p>

<p>"I'll see her right away," Bull laughed. "If she
feels like stopping around and getting a sight of the
things we're doin' she's welcome. She can put up at
the visitor's house. It 'ud do me good for her to pass
the news on to the folk she comes from."</p>

<p>But Bat's manner had none of the light confidence of
the other. Bitter hatred of the Skandinavia was deeply
ingrained in him. He shook his head.</p>

<p>"Keep 'em guessin'," he said. "It'll worry 'em&mdash;that
way."</p>

<p>Then he passed the letters back, and dropped into the
chair that was always his.</p>

<p>"But this woman," he went on, in obvious puzzlement.
"It's&mdash;it's kind of new, I guess. Then there's
Father Adam's message. That don't hand us much."</p>

<p>Bull's lightness passed.</p>

<p>"No," he said, "that message is queer. He knows
about it. Yet he hasn't given her name or said a thing.
Say&mdash;I like that phrase though. What is it? He says,
'treat her very, very gently&mdash;you see, she's a woman.'
That's Father Adam right thro'&mdash;sure. But&mdash;well it's a
pity he don't say more."</p>

<p>Bat nodded.</p>

<p>"You'll go along down an' meet her?"</p>

<p>"No." Bull shook his head decidedly. "You will."</p>

<p>Bat's eyes twinkled with a better humour than they had
hitherto displayed.</p>

<p>"Why&mdash;me?"</p>


<p>"She comes from the Skandinavia. Guess Skandinavia
would fancy me meeting their representative at the quay&mdash;quite
a lot."</p>

<p>The argument met with Bat's entire approval. He
pulled out a silver timepiece and consulted it.</p>

<p>"That's all right," he said, "I'll quit you in ha'f an
hour. Say&mdash;I'm kind of guessin' there's other representatives
of the Skandinavia around. I didn't guess ther'

was much to Sachigo that I wasn't wise to. But that
boy, Skert Lawton, showed me a play I hadn't a notion
about. It's that darn play shanty I set up for the boys.
I feel that mad about it I got a notion closing it right
down. It worried me startin' it. It worries me more
now. You see, I guess it's come of me lappin' up the
ha'f-baked notions you find wrote in the news-sheets.
Folks seem to be guessin' the worker needs somethin'
more than his wage. They guess he's gotten some sort
of queer soul needin' things he can't pay for. I allow I
hadn't seen it that way myself. It mostly seemed to me a
hell of a good wage and a full belly was mostly the need
of a lumber-jack, and a dead sure thing all he deserved.
But I fell for the news-sheet dope, an' set up that cursed
recreation shanty. Now we're goin' to git trouble."</p>

<p>"How?"</p>

<p>Bull's ejaculation was sharp.</p>

<p>"They hold meetings there. They dope out Capital and
Labour stuff there, instead of pushing games at each other.
Guess they got the bug of politics an' are scratching
themselves bad. It ain't the old Labrador guys, Skert
says. It's mostly new hands passin' their stuff on. Skert
reckons we got a whole heap of the Skandinavia 'throw-outs,'

around here now. That don't say Skandinavia's
workin' monkey tricks. Though they might be. You
see, this sort of dope's been talked most everywhere,
except on Labrador, years now. I guess we need to go
through the bunch with a louse comb. But maybe the

mischief's done. I'm dead crazy to shut that darn place
down."</p>

<p>"Don't!" Bull was emphatic. "Shut it down and
you'll make it a thousand times worse. No, sir. Let
'em shout. Let 'em blow off any old steam they need.
Just sit tight. If it's the usual hot air there's nothing
much coming of it up here on Labrador. There's this
to remember. We're a thousand miles of hell's own
winter, and a pretty tough sea, from the politicians who
spend their lives befooling a crowd of unthinking muttons.
Pay 'em well, and feed 'em well, and they've the horse
sense to know there ain't no electric stoves out in the
Labrador forests in winter. That way we don't need
to worry. If it's the Skandinavia tricks it's different.
They'll play the game to the finish. It don't signify a
curse if you close down the recreation shanty or not.
We've got to meet it as a competition, and fight it the way
we'd fight any other."</p>

<p>Bat's eyes snapped.</p>

<p>"That's the kind of dope Skert Lawton's handed me,"
he protested.</p>

<p>"And Skert's a wise guy," came the prompt retort.</p>

<p>Quite suddenly Bat flung out his gnarled hands.</p>

<p>"Hell!" he cried violently. "Have we got to sit
around like mush-men, while the rats are chawin' our
vitals. Fifteen or sixteen year I've handled this lay-out
without a growl I couldn't kick plumb out o' the feller
who made it. Now&mdash;now, because of a fool play I made,
I've got to set the kid gloves on my hands, sayin' 'thank
you,' while the boys git up and plug me between the
eyes. No, sir. It ain't my way. It's me for the shot
gun in the stern of the gopher all the time. It's me to
mush up the features of any hoboe who don't know
better than to grin when I'm throwin' the hot air. I
can't stand for the politics of labour where I hand out
the wage. A man's a man to me, not one darn slobber

of policy. I'm goin' to jump in on that talk. And
when I'm thro'&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You'll get all the trouble in the world plumb on your
neck." Bull's fine eyes were alight with humour. He
revelled in the fighting spirit of the older man. "Here,
Bat," he cried, "I'm a fool kid beside you. I don't
begin to know my job when I think of you. But I'm
up sides with all the politics games. Politics are ideals,
notions. They haven't real horse sense within a mile.
They're just the fool thoughts of folk who haven't better
to do than sit around and think, and talk, an' see how
they can make other folk conform to the things they
think. That's all right. It's human nature in its biggest
conceit, or it's another way of helping themselves
without pushing a shovel. It don't matter which it is.
But what I want to impress on you is, it's the biggest
thing in life. It's the whole thing in life. Get a notion
and think it hard enough, and talk it hard enough, and
you'll hypnotise a hundred brains bigger than your own,
and sweep the crowd with you. You'll even hypnotise
yourself into believing the truth of a thing your better
sense knows isn't true, never was true, an' couldn't be
true anyway. And when you're fixed that way you'll
die for your notion. Oh, a politician ain't yearning for
any old grave. He wouldn't get an audience there.
Politicians 'ud hate to die worse than a condemned man.
But that's the queer of it; he'd die rather than give up a
notion he's built up. He'd hate to death to push a blue
pencil through it and&mdash;try again. All of which means,
bar the doors of this recreation room parliament, and
you'll start up a hundred such parliaments, and worse,
throughout your enterprise here on Labrador, and you'll
finish by wrecking the whole blessed concern."</p>

<p>If Bull looked for yielding he was disappointed. But
he appreciated the twinkle that had crept into the lumberman's
stern eyes. The answer he received was a curiously

expressive grunt as the man took out his timepiece
and consulted it. When he saw him rise abruptly
from his chair, Bull felt that if his talk had not had the
effect he desired it had not been wholly wasted.</p>

<p>"Guess I'll git goin'," Bat said shortly. Then he
glanced out of the window, where he could plainly see
the stream of the <em>Myra's</em> smoke as she came down the
cove. "I'll bring your lady friend right up. Maybe
she'll fancy the dope, which I 'low you can hand out
good an' plenty."</p>

<p>With this parting shot he hurried from the room, and
Bull fancied he detected the sound of a chuckle as the
man departed.</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_17"></a>
<h3>Chapter VIII&mdash;An Affair Of Outposts</h3>


<p>The business of making fast the vessel had no interest
for Nancy McDonald. The thing that was about her,
the thing that had leapt at her out of the haze hanging
over the waters of Farewell Cove, as the <em>Myra</em> steamed
to her haven, pre-occupied her to the exclusion of everything
else. Her feelings were something of those of the
explorer suddenly coming upon a new, unguessed world.</p>

<p>"Old Man" Hardy was at her side, waiting for the
adjustment of the gangway. He was quietly observing
her with a sense of enjoyment at the obvious surprise
and interest she displayed. Besides, her beauty charmed
him for all his years. And then had she not been entrusted
to his especial care by those people who held
powerful influence in all concerning the coastal trade upon
which he was engaged?</p>

<p>Sachigo was not only a mill. It was a&mdash;city. This
was the sum of Nancy's astonishing discovery. And the
picture of it held her fascinated. She commented little,

she had questioned little of the old skipper at her elbow.
The thing she saw was too overwhelming. Besides,
reticence was impressed upon her by the nature of her
visit.</p>

<p>"It's a mighty elegant place," the seaman said at last.</p>

<p>The girl nodded. Then she smiled.</p>

<p>"I've seen trolley cars on the seashore. I've seen
electric standards for lighting. What am I to see next
on&mdash;Labrador?" she asked.</p>

<p>Captain Hardy laughed.</p>

<p>"You've to see the folks who've done it all," he replied.
"And&mdash;there's one of 'em."</p>

<p>He indicated the squat figure of Bat Harker leaning
against some bales piled on the quay. Nancy turned in
that direction.</p>

<p>She discovered the rough-clad, almost uncouth figure
of Bat. She noted his moving jaws as he chewed vigorously.
She saw that a short stubble of beard was growing
on a normally clean-shaven face, and that the man's
clothing might have been the clothing of any labourer.
But the iron cast of his face left her with sudden qualms.
It was so hard. To her imagination it suggested complete
failure for her mission.</p>

<p>"Is he the&mdash;owner? Is he&mdash;Mr. Sternford?" Her
questions came in a hushed tone that was almost awed.</p>

<p>"No. That's Bat&mdash;Bat Harker. He's mill-boss."</p>

<p>"I see." There was relief in Nancy's tone. But it
passed as the seaman continued.</p>

<p>"Maybe he's waiting for you though. Are they wise
you're coming along? You don't see Bat around this
quay without he's lookin' for some folk to come along
on the <em>Myra</em>."</p>

<p>The gangway clattered out on to the quay, and the
man moved toward it.</p>

<p>We best get ashore," he said. "You see, mam, my
orders are to pass you over to the folks waiting for

you. That'll be&mdash;Bat. He'll pass you on to Sternford.
I take it you'll sleep aboard to-night. Your stateroom's
booked that way. We sail to-morrow sundown, which
will give you plenty time looking around if you fancy
that way. I allow Sachigo's worth it. One day it'll be
a big city, if I'm a judge. Will you step this way?"</p>

<p>The seaman's deference was obvious. But Nancy
remained oblivious to it. To her it was just kindliness,
and she was more than grateful. But his final remark
about Sachigo left her pathetically disquieted. For the
first time in her life she doubted the all-powerful position
of the people to whom she had sold her services.</p>

<p>"Yes, thanks," she returned, smiling to disguise her
feelings. Then she added, "I'm glad we don't sail till
to-morrow evening. You see, I couldn't leave&mdash;this,
without a big look around."</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>The ship-master had hurried away.</p>

<p>Bat's deep-set eyes were steadily regarding the beautiful
face before him. He was gazing into the hazel depths
of Nancy's eyes without a sign. He had noted everything
as the girl had come down the gangway. The
height, the graceful carriage in the long plucked-beaver
coat which terminated just above the trim ankles in their
silken, almost transparent, hose. Not even at Captain
Hardy's pronouncement of her name had he yielded a
sign. And yet&mdash;</p>

<p>"Miss&mdash;Nancy McDonald?"</p>

<p>Bat's tone had lost its usual roughness. His mind had
leapt back over many years to a time when he had been
concerned for that name in a way that had stirred him to
great warmth. He smiled. It was a baffling, somewhat
derisive smile.</p>

<p>"You're the lady representing the&mdash;Skandinavia?"
he added.</p>


<p>"Why, yes," Nancy cried, "and I feel I want to thank
you for the privilege of obtaining even an outside view
of your wonderful, wonderful place here."</p>

<p>Bat raked thoughtfully at the stubble on his chin.</p>

<p>"If you feel that way, Miss, it'll hand me pleasure to
show you and tell you about things," he said. "You
come right out of what the folks around here like to call
the enemy camp, but it don't matter a little bit. Not
a little bit. The whole of Sachigo's standin' wide open
for you to walk through." Then he dashed his hand
across his face to clear the voracious mosquitoes. "But
if we stop around here mor'n ha'f another minute, the
memory you'll mostly carry away with you from Labrador'll
be skitters&mdash;an' nothing much else. Will you
come right along up to Mr. Sternford's office? It's quite
a piece up the hill, which helps to keep it clear of skitters
an' things?"</p>

<p>Nancy laughed. Her early impression of the super-lumberjack
had passed. The man's smile was beyond
words in its kindliness. His deep, twinkling eyes were
full of appeal.</p>

<p>"Why, surely," she assented. "If you'll show me the
way I'll be glad. The flies and things are certainly thick,
and as I intend leaving Sachigo with happy memories,
well&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Come right along. I'm here for just that purpose."</p>

<p>As they made their way up the woodland trail they
talked together with an easy intimacy. Nancy was
young. She was full of the joy of life, full of real enthusiasm.
And this rough creature with his ready smile
appealed to her. His frank, open way was something
so far removed from that which prevailed under the
Skandinavia's rule.</p>

<p>For Bat, the walk up from the quayside was one of the
many milestones in his chequered life. He talked readily.
He listened, too. But under it all his thought was busy.

The mystery of Father Adam's letter was no longer a
mystery. He understood. But he was also puzzled.
How had this thing come about? How had Father
Adam learned of this visit? How had this girl become
representative of the Skandinavia? A hundred questions
flashed through his mind, for none of which he could find
a satisfactory answer. But he smiled to himself as he
thought of that last line in Father Adam's letter. "Treat
her gently&mdash;firmly, yes&mdash;but very gently. You see, she's
a&mdash;woman."</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>It was a moment likely to live with both in the years
to come. For Nancy it was at least the final stage of
her apprenticeship, the passing of the portal beyond
which opened out the world she so completely desired to
take her place in. Did it not mean the moment of
shouldering the great burden of responsibility she had
so steadfastly trained herself to bear? For Bull Sternford
it had no such meaning. His powers had long
since been tested. As a meeting with the representative
of a rival enterprise it was merely an incident in the life
to which he had become completely accustomed. Its significance
lay in quite another direction.</p>

<p>Bat had taken his departure. He had witnessed the
meeting of Nancy with this protégé Father Adam had
sent him from the dark world of the forests. And his
witness of it had been with twinkling eyes, and the happy
sense of an amusement he had never looked to discover in
the presence of a representative of the Skandinavia. In
an unexpressed fashion he realised he was gazing upon
something in the nature of a stage play.</p>

<p>He had found Bull transformed. The office suit was
gone. The man's hair was carefully brushed. He even
suspected the liberal use of soap and water. And then,
too, the heavy, rough boots had given place to shining
patent leather. The youth and human nature of it

pleased him. So he had departed to the workshops below
with a voiceless chuckle, and a greater appreciation
of the inevitability of the things of life.</p>

<p>Apart from Nancy's appreciation of that meeting,
the woman in her sought to appraise the man she beheld.
Her impression was far deeper than she knew. The
height and muscular girth she beheld left her with a
feeling that she was gazing upon one of the pictures
her school-girl mind had created for the great men of
Greek and Roman history. The clean-shaven, clear-cut
face, with its fine eyes and broad brow, its purposeful
mouth; these were details that had to be there, and
were there. And somehow, as she realised them, and
the sense of the man's power and personality forced
itself upon her, her original confidence still further
lessened, and she wondered not a little anxiously as to
the outcome of this interview she had sought.</p>

<p>As for the man, his eyes had calmly smiled his spoken
greeting. His handshake had been conventionally firm.
But behind the mask of it all was one great surge of
feeling. The vision of a beautiful, fur-coated figure, with
the peeping lure of pretty ankles, the warm cap pressed
low on the girl's head as though endeavouring to hide
up the radiant framing of the sweetest, most beautiful
face he felt he had ever seen, dealt all his preconceived
purpose for the interview one final, smashing blow.</p>

<p>"I'm real glad to welcome you to Sachigo," he had
begun. Then in a moment, the conventional gave place
to the man in him. "But say," he added with a pleasant
laugh, "we've a big piece of talk to make. You best let
me help you remove that coat. The stove we always
need to keep going here on Labrador makes this shanty
hot as&mdash;very hot."</p>

<p>The manner of it sent convention, caution, business
pose, scattering to the winds. The girl laughed and
yielded.</p>


<p>"Why, thanks," she said readily. "I'm glad you
reckon we're to make a big talk. You see," she added
slyly, "I've been looking out of the window, and there's
quite a drop below. Up to now I felt my fur might&mdash;be
useful."</p>

<p>Bull laughed as he laid the coat aside. He had drawn
up a comfortable lounging chair which Nancy was prompt
to accept. For himself he stood at the window.</p>

<p>"Why, yes." He smiled. "I'd say it's a wise general
who looks to his retreat before the encounter. I'd sort
of half forgotten you come from the&mdash;Skandinavia."</p>

<p>"But I hadn't."</p>

<p>"No."</p>

<p>They both laughed. Nancy leant back in her chair.
Her pose was all unconscious. She had toiled hard to
keep pace with the sturdy gait of Bat in the ascent from
the quay. Now she was glad of the ease the chair
afforded.</p>

<p>"Why did you say that?" Nancy asked a moment later.</p>

<p>Bull spread out his great hands.</p>

<p>"The Skandinavia don't usually let folks forget they're
behind them."</p>

<p>"Now that's just too bad. It&mdash;it isn't generous," the
girl said half seriously.</p>

<p>"Isn't it?"</p>

<p>Bull left the window and took the chair that was
usually Bat's. He set it so that he could feast his eyes
on the beauty he found so irresistible.</p>

<p>"You see," he went on, "I've got a right to say that
all the same. It's not the&mdash;the challenge of a&mdash;what'll
I say&mdash;competitor? I once had the honour of drawing
a few bucks a month on the paysheets of the Skandinavia.
And folks reckoned, and I guess I was amongst 'em, that
Skandinavia said to its people: 'Make good or&mdash;beat it.'
That being so it makes it a sure thing they're not liable
to leave you forgetting who's behind you."</p>

<p>His smile had gone. He was simply serious. This
man had worked for her people, and Nancy felt he was
entitled to his opinion.</p>

<p>"That's going to make my talk harder," she said. "I'm
sorry. But there," she went on. "It doesn't really matter,
does it? Anyway I want to tell you right away of the
craze the sight of your splendid Sachigo has started buzzing
in my head. Say, Mr. Sternford, it beats anything I
ever dreamed, and I want to say that there's no one in the
Skandinavia, from Mr. Peterman downwards, has the
littlest notion of it. It's not a mill. It's a world of real,
civilised enterprise. And it's set here where you'd look
for the roughest of forest life. I just had no idea."</p>

<p>It was all said spontaneously. And the pleasure it gave
was obvious in the man's eyes. He nodded.</p>

<p>"Yes," he said. "The construction of this mill, here
on Labrador, isn't short of genius by a yard. And the
genius of it lies where you won't guess."</p>

<p>Nancy's pretty eyes were mildly searching.</p>

<p>"You're the head of Sachigo," she suggested.</p>

<p>Bull's eyes lit.</p>

<p>"Sure," he cried, "an' I'm mighty proud that's so.
But I'm not the genius of this great mill. No. That
grizzled, tough old lumberman who toted you along up
from the quayside is the brain of this organisation. He's
a&mdash;wonder. There's times I want to laff when I think of
it. There's times I'm most ready to cry. You see, you
don't know that great feller. I'm just beginning to guess
I do. He's a heart as big as a house, and the manner to
scare a 'hold-up.' He's the grit of a reg'ment of soldiers
and the mutton softness of a kid girl. He's the brain of
a Solomon, and the illiteracy of a one day school kid.
He's all those things, and he's the biggest proposition in
men I've ever heard tell about. It's kind of tough. Don't
you feel that way? He'll suck a pint of tobacco juice in
the day, and blaspheme till your ears get on edge. And

while your folks are guessing he'll put through a proposition
that 'ud leave ha'f the world gasping."</p>

<p>Nancy stirred. This man's whole-hearted appreciation
of another was something rather fine in her simple
philosophy. The last thing she had contemplated in
approaching the head of a rival enterprise was such talk
as this. But somehow it seemed to fit the man. Somehow
as she noted the squarely gazing eyes, and the power
in every line of his features, she realised that whatever
lines he chose to talk on, nothing could change the decision
lying behind it all. She liked him all the better for
that, and found herself drawing comparison between him
and Elas Peterman to the latter's detriment.</p>

<p>"I like that," she cried impulsively. Then the colour
rose in her cheeks at the thought of her temerity. "I
guess he's all you say. Maybe some day I'll hear his
side of things. I'd like to. You see&mdash;I felt I'd known
him years when he brought me in here. Maybe you won't
understand what that implies."</p>

<p>"I think I do."</p>

<p>Bull stood up from his chair and passed round his desk.</p>

<p>"Here, say, Miss McDonald," he went on, in his keen
fashion. "You come from Skandinavia. And I guess
you come on a pretty stiff proposition. It's going to be
difficult for you to hand it me. Maybe you're young in
the game. Well, it doesn't matter a thing. Now we're
going to start right in talking that proposition, and I'm
going to help you. But before that starts I just want to
say this. You, I guess, are going right back on the <em>Myra</em>
and she sails to-morrow, sundown. That means you'll
stay a night in Sachigo&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I'm stopping on the vessel. It's all fixed."</p>

<p>Bull sat down at his desk.</p>

<p>"I'm kind of glad," he said, with a shade of relief.
"It isn't that you aren't welcome to all the old hospitality
Sachigo can hand you. You're just more than welcome.

But Bat hasn't built his swell hotel yet," he laughed.
"And as for us here, why, we 'batch' it. There isn't
a thing in skirts around this place, only a Chink cook,
a half-breed secretary, and a clerk or two, and a bum sort
of decrepit lumber-jack who does my chores. So you
see I'm&mdash;kind of relieved. Anyway you sleeping on the

<em>Myra</em> makes it easy. Now there's a mighty big conceit
to me, and it's all for this mill in our country's wilderness.
And I just can't let you quit to-morrow night
without showing you all it means. You've simply got
to see the thing that's going to make the whole world's
groundwood trade holler before we're through. You're
my prisoner until you've seen the things I'm going to
show you. Is it anyway agreeable?"</p>

<p>Nancy smiled delightedly.</p>

<p>"You couldn't drive me out of Sachigo till I've peeked
into all your secrets down there," she said.</p>

<p>Bull leant forward with his arms outspread across the
desk.</p>

<p>"Great!" he cried. "And," he added, "you shall see
them all. The things I can't show you Bat will. And if
I'm a judge that old rascal'll be tickled to death handing
his dope out to you. But&mdash;let's get to business."</p>

<p>Nancy sat up. In a moment all ease was banished.
She knew the great moment had come when she must
prove herself to those who had entrusted her with her
mission.</p>

<p>"Yes," she said, almost hurriedly. "I don't know the
word Mr. Peterman sent you. And anyway it doesn't
matter. I must put things my way. You are a great
enterprise here. We are a great enterprise. It looks to
us a pretty tough clash is bound to come between us in
the near future, and&mdash;there should be no necessity for it.
There's room&mdash;plenty of room&mdash;for both of us in our
trade&mdash;"</p>

<p>She paused. The keen eyes of Bull were closely

observing. He realised her attitude. Her words and tone
were almost mechanical, as though she had schooled herself
and rehearsed her lesson. And her voice was not
quite steady. He jumped in with the swift impulse of a
man whose rivalry could not withstand that sign of a
beautiful girl's distress.</p>

<p>"Here," he cried, with that command so natural to
him. "Just don't say another word. Let me talk. I
guess I can tell you the things it's up to you to hand
me. It'll save you a deal, and it'll hand me a chance to
blow off the hot air that's mostly my way. This is the
position. Peterman's wise to the things doing right here.
The Skandinavia's up against years of cutting on the
Shagaunty. The Shagaunty's played right out. You
folks have got to open new stuff. It's my job to know all
this. Very well. As I said, Peterman's at last got wise
to us. He knows we look like flooding the market, and
jumping right in on him. So&mdash;you're a mighty wealthy
corporation&mdash;he figures to recognise us, and embrace us&mdash;with
a business arrangement. That so?"</p>

<p>"Yes. A business arrangement."</p>

<p>The girl's relief was almost pathetic. Bull smiled.</p>

<p>"That's so. A business arrangement. Should I
entertain one, eh? That's the question you're right here
to ask. And you want to take back my answer." He
paused. "Well, you're going to take back my answer.
And I kind of feel it's the answer you'll like taking back.
Say, Miss McDonald, I'm only a youngster, myself, but
I guess I know what it means to set out on a work hoping
and yearning to make good. Will it make good for you
to go back to Elas Peterman and say the feller at Sachigo
is coming right along down by the <em>Myra</em> to-morrow, and
would be pleased to death to talk this proposition right out
in the offices of the Skandinavia? Will it?"</p>

<p>Nancy's eyes lit. Their hazel depths were wells of
thankfulness.</p>


<p>"Why, surely," she said. "You mean you're going
to sail to-morrow?"</p>

<p>Bull laughed and his laugh was infectious. The girl
was smiling her delight.</p>

<p>"That's so. I need to cross the Atlantic. I wasn't
going till the <em>Myra's</em> next trip. I'll go to-morrow an'

stop over in Quebec to see your people. It just means
hurrying my choreman packing my stuff while I show
you around to-morrow. That kind of fixes things, and
if you'll hand me that pleasure I'd just love to show you
around some this afternoon. There's a heap to see, and
I don't fancy you missing any of it." He passed round
the desk, and picked up the girl's coat and held it out
invitingly. "Will you come right along?"</p>

<p>There was no denying him. Nancy looked up into
his smiling eyes. She felt there was a lot she wanted
to say, ought to say, on the business matter in hand.
But it was impossible. And in her heart she was thankful.</p>

<p>"Why, I'd just love to," she said, and stood up from
her chair.</p>

<p>Very tenderly, very carefully the man's hands helped
her into her coat. And somehow Nancy was very glad
the hands were big, and strong, and&mdash;yes&mdash;clumsy.</p>

</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_18"></a>
<h3>Chapter IX&mdash;On The Open Sea</h3>


<p>The <em>Myra</em> laboured heavily. With every rise and fall
of her high bows a whipping spray lashed the faces of
those on deck. The bitter north-easterly gale churned the
ocean into a white fury, and the sky was a-race with
leaden masses of cloud. There was no break anywhere.
Sky and sea alike were fiercely threatening, and the wind
howled through the vessel's top gear.</p>

<p>Bull Sternford had been sharing the storm with the

sturdy skipper on the bridge. He had been listening to
the old man's talk of fierce experience on the coast of
Labrador. It had all been interesting to the landsman
in view of the present storm, but at last he could no
longer endure the exposure of the shelterless bridge.</p>

<p>"It's me for the deck and a sheltered corner," he finally
declared, preparing to pass down the iron "companion."</p>

<p>And the Captain grinned.</p>

<p>"I don't blame you," he bellowed in the shriek of the
gale. "But I guess I'd as lief have it this way. It's
better than a flat sea an' fog, which is mostly the alternative
this time o' year. The Atlantic don't offer much
choice about now. She's like a shrew woman. Her
smile ain't ever easy. An' when you get it you've most
always got to pay good. She can blow herself sick with
this homeward bound breeze for all I care."</p>

<p>"That's all right," Bull shouted back at him. "Guess
you've lost your sense of the ease of things working this
coast so long. It 'ud be me for the flat sea and fog all
the time. I like my chances taken standing square on
two feet. So long."</p>

<p>He passed below, beating his hands for warmth. And
as he went he glanced back at the sturdy, oil-skinned
figure clinging to the rail of the bridge. The man's far-off
gaze was fixed on the storm-swept sky, reading every
sign with the intimate knowledge of long years of experience.
It was a reassuring figure that must have put heart
into the veriest weakling. But Bull Sternford needed no
such support. In matters of life and death he was without
emotion.</p>

<p>He scrambled his way to the leeward side of the
engines where a certain warmth and shelter was to be had,
and where a number of hardly tested deck chairs were
securely lashed. It was the resting place of those few
beset passengers who could endure no longer the indifferent,
odorous accommodation of the <em>Myra's</em> saloon.

Only one chair was occupied. For the rest the deck was
completely deserted.</p>

<p>Bull's first glance at the solitary passenger was sufficient.
The gleam of red hair under the fur cap told him
all he wanted to know, and he groped his way along the
slippery deck, and deposited his bulk safely into the chair
beside Nancy McDonald.</p>

<p>"Say," he cried, with a cheerful grin, as he struggled
with his rug, "this sort of thing's just about calculated
to leave a feller feeling sympathy with the boy who hasn't
more sense than to spend his time trying to climb outside
more Rye whisky than he was built to hold. It makes
you wonder at the fool thing that lies back of it all. I
mean the fuss going on out yonder."</p>

<p>Nancy smiled round from amidst her furs.</p>

<p>"It does seem like useless mischief," she agreed readily.
Then she laughed outright. "But to see you crawling
along the deck just now, grabbing any old thing for support,
and often missing it, was a sight to leave one wondering
how much dignity owes to personality, and how
much to environment. Guess environment's an easy win."</p>

<p>"Did I look so darn foolish?"</p>

<p>Bull's eyes were smiling, and Nancy laughed again.</p>

<p>"Just about as foolish as that fellow with the Rye
whisky you were talking about."</p>

<p>The man settled himself comfortably.</p>

<p>"That's tough. And I guess I was doing my best,
too. Say," he went on with a laugh, "just look at those
flapping sea-gulls, or whatever they are out there. Makes
you wonder to see 'em racing along over this fool waste
of water. Look at 'em fighting, struggling, and using up
a whole heap of good energy to keep level with this old
tub. You know they've only to turn away westward to
find land and shelter where they could build nests and
make things mighty comfortable for themselves. I
don't get it. You know it seems to me Nature got in

a bad muss handing out ordinary sense. I'd say She
never heard of a card index. Maybe Her bookkeeper
was a drunken guy who didn't know a ledger from a
scrap book. Now if She'd engaged you an' me to keep tab
of things for Her, we'd have done a deal better. Those
poor blamed sea-gulls, or whatever they are, would have
been squatting around on elegant beds of moulted feathers,
laid out on steam-heat radiators, feeding on oyster cocktails
and things, and handing out the instructive dope of a
highbrow politician working up a press reputation, and
learning their kids the decent habits of folk who're yearning
to keep out of penitentiary as long as the police'll
let 'em. No. It's no use. Nature got busy. Look at the
result. Those fool birds'll follow us till they're tired, in
the hope that some guy'll dump the contents of the <em>Myra's</em>

swill barrel their way. Then they'll have one disgusting
orgy on the things other folks don't fancy, and start right
in to fly again to ease their digestions. It's a crazy game
anyway. And it leaves me with a mighty big slump in
Nature's stock."</p>

<p>Nancy listened delightedly to the man's pleasant
fooling.</p>

<p>"It's worse than that," she cried, falling in with his
humour. "Look at some of them taking a rest, swimming
about in that terribly cold water. Ugh! No, if
we'd fixed their sense we'd have made it so they'd have
had enough to get on dry land, like any other reasonable
folk yearning for a rest."</p>

<p>The man studied the girl's pretty profile, and a great
sense of regret stirred him that the Skandinavia had been
able to buy her services. What a perfect creature to
have been supported by in the work he was engaged on.</p>

<p>"That sounds good," he said. "Reasonable folks!"
He shook his head. "Nature again. Guess we're all
reasonable till we're found out. No. Even the greatest
men and women on earth are fools at heart, you know."</p>


<p>The girl sat up as the vessel lurched more heavily and
flung their chairs forward, straining dangerously.</p>

<p>"How?" she questioned, glancing down anxiously at
the moorings of her chair.</p>

<p>"They're safe&mdash;so far," Bull reassured her. Then he
leant back again, and produced and lit a cigar. "Guess
I'll smoke," he said. "Maybe that'll help me tell you&mdash;'how.'"</p>

<p>The girl watched him light his cigar and her eyes were
full of laughter.</p>

<p>"It's a real pity women can't sit themselves behind a
cigar," she said at last, with a pretence of regret. "It's
the wisest looking thing a man does. A cigarette kind
of makes him seem pleasantly undependable. A pipe
makes you feel he's full of just everyday notions. But a
cigar! My! It sort of dazzles me when I see a man
with a big cigar. I feel like a lowgrade earthworm,
don't you know. Say," she cried, with an indescribable
gesture of her gloved hands, "he handles that cigar, he
sort of fondles it. He cocks it. He depresses it. He
rolls it across his lips to the opposite corner of his mouth,
and finally blows a thin, thoughtful stream of smoke
gently between his pursed lips. And that stream is
immeasurable in its suggestion of wise thought and keen
calculation. I'd say a man's cigar is his best disguise."</p>

<p>Bull nodded.</p>

<p>"That's fine," he cried. "But you've forgotten the
other feller. The man who 'chews.'"</p>

<p>Nancy laughed happily.</p>

<p>"Easy," she cried promptly. "When he of the bulged
cheek gets around just watch your defences. He's
mostly tough. He's on the jump, and hasn't much
fancy for the decencies of life. The harder he chews
the more he's figgering up his adversary. And when he
spits, get your weapons ready. When the chewing man
succeeds in life I guess he's dangerous. And it's because

his force and character have generally lifted him from
the bottom of things."</p>

<p>Bull shook his head in mock despair.</p>

<p>Nancy settled herself back in her chair.</p>

<p>"That's fixed it. Guess you'll need to tell <em>me</em> 'how.'"</p>

<p>"No, sir," she cried. "You can't go back. 'The greatest
men and women in the world are fools at heart.'

That's what you said."</p>

<p>"Yes. I seem to remember."</p>

<p>The man stirred and sat up. He folded the rug more
closely about his feet. Then he turned with a whimsical
smile in his eyes.</p>

<p>"Well?" he cried. "And isn't it so? What do we
work, and fight, and hate for? What do we spend our
lives worrying to beat the other feller for? Why do we
set our noses into other folks' affairs and worry them to
death to think, and act, and feel the way we do? And
all the while it don't matter a thing. Of course we're
fools. We'll hand over when the time comes, and the
old world'll roll on, and it's not been shifted a hair's-breadth
for our having lived, in spite of the obituaries
the news-sheets hand out like a Sunday School mam at
prize time. Say, here, it's no use fooling ourselves.
Life's one great big thing that don't take shape by reason
of our acts. What's the civilisation we love to pat ourselves
on the back for? I'll tell you. It's just a thing
we've invented, like&mdash;wireless telegraphy, or soap, or
steam-heat; and it hands us a cloak to cover up the evil
that man and woman'll never quit doing. Before we
made civilisation a feller got up on to his hind legs and
hit the other feller over the head with a club; and if he
was hungry he used him as a lunch. Now we don't do
that. We break him for his dollars and leave him and
his poor wife and kids hungry, while we buy a lunch with
the stuff we beat out of him. Why do we work? For
one of two elegant notions. It's either to fill ourselves up

with the things we've dreamt about when appetite was
sharp set, and hate to death when we get, or it's to satisfy
a conceit that leaves us hoping and believing the rest of
the world'll hand us an epitaph like it handed no other
feller since ever it got to be a habit burying up the garbage
death produces. Why do we fight and hate?
Because we're poor darn fools that don't know better,
and don't know the easy thing life would be without
those things. And as for settin' our noses into the affairs
of other folk, that's mostly disease. But it isn't all. No,
sir. There's more to it than that," he laughed. "If it
was just disease it wouldn't matter a lot, but it isn't.
There isn't a fool man or woman born into this world
that doesn't reckon he or she can put right the fool
notions and acts of other fools. And when the other
feller persuades them the game's not the one-sided racket
they guessed it was, then they get mad, and start groping
and scheming how to boost their notions on to a world
that's spent a whole heap of time fixing things, mostly
foolish, to its own mighty good satisfaction. I say right
here we're fools if we aren't crooks, which is the exception.
There's a dandy world around us full of sun to
warm us and food to eat, and birds to sing to us, and
flowers and things to make us feel good. If we needed
more I guess Providence would have handed it out. But
it didn't. And so we got busy with our own notions till
we've turned God's elegant creation into a home for crazes
and cranks. I could almost fancy the Archangels hovering
around, like those silly sea-gulls, with a bunch of
straight-jackets to wrap about us when we jump the limit
they figger we've a right to. Fools, yes? Why, I guess
so&mdash;sure."</p>

<p>Nancy breathed a deep sigh.</p>

<p>"My, but that's a big say."</p>

<p>Then she broke into a laugh which found prompt
response in the other. It was cut short, however. A

sea thundered against the staunch side of the vessel and
left her staggering. The girl's eyes became seriously
anxious. The straining chairs held, and presently the
deck swung up to a comparative level.</p>

<p>"I had visions of the&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Scuppers?" Bull laughed. "Yes. That sea's one of
the elegant things Providence handed out for our
happiness."</p>

<p>Nancy nodded.</p>

<p>"So man built things like the <em>Myra</em>, which, of course,
was&mdash;foolish?"</p>

<p>"An' set out sailing around in a winter storm off
Labrador, instead of basking in a pleasant tropical sun,
which hasn't any&mdash;sense."</p>

<p>Bull chuckled.</p>

<p>"All because two mighty fine enterprises reckoned
they'd common interests which were jeopardised by rivalry,
which was also&mdash;foolishly?"</p>

<p>Bull's cigar ash tumbled into his lap.</p>

<p>"But not ha'f so foolish as the notion that a girl has to
suffer the worries and dangers of one hell of a trip on the
worst sea that God ever made to try and square the
things between them."</p>

<p>Nancy shook her head.</p>

<p>"I can't grant that," she cried quickly.</p>

<p>"No?"</p>

<p>"I mean&mdash;oh, psha! Don't you see, or does your
cynical philosophy blind you? We're fools, maybe.
The things Providence sends us aren't the things we've
got a notion for. Maybe we know better than Providence,
and can't find happiness in the things it's handed us.
What then? As you say, we start right in chasing
happiness in the way we fancy. It seems to me the only
real happiness in life is in doing. Ease, wealth, love,
all the things folk talk and write about are just dreams of
happiness that aren't real. Work, achievement, even if

it's wrong-headed&mdash;that's life; that's happiness. That's
why I'd say there's nothing foolish in a girl putting up
with dangers and discomforts to bring two enterprises to
an understanding, calculated to promote a greater achievement
for both. It's my little notion of snatching a bunch
of happiness for myself."</p>

<p>There was no laughter in Nancy's eyes now. They
were quite serious. Her words were alive with vehemence.
Bull was watching her intently, probing, in his searching
way, the depths which her hazel eyes hinted at. The
things she said pleased him. Her tone thrilled him. He
wanted more.</p>

<p>"I wonder," he said, as he rolled the cigar across his
lips in the way Nancy had laughingly pointed. "You
reckon it's handed you happiness&mdash;this thing?"</p>

<p>The girl was stirred.</p>

<p>"Surely," she cried. "Later, when things get fixed
up between the Skandinavia and Sachigo, I'll get a focus
of my little share in the business of it&mdash;the achievement.
Then I'll get warm all through with a glow of happiness
because I&mdash;helped it along."</p>

<p>Bull nodded as he watched the rising colour in the
perfect cheeks. The girl was very, very beautiful.</p>

<p>"Yes, I suppose you will," he said. Then he went on
provocatively. "But do you guess it's always so? I
mean that always happens? Isn't it to do with temperament?
Now, take the forest-jacks. Do you guess they
feel happiness in a tree dropped right? Do you guess
there's happiness for the poor fool who don't know better
than to spend his days in a forest risking his life boosting
logs on the river jamb? Do you guess there's any sort
of old joy for the feller turned adrift, when he's getting
old in the tooth, and there's no room for him on the pay
roll of the camp, in the thought that he <em>was</em> the best
axeman the forest ever bred? It seems like a crazy sort
of happiness that way. Happiness in achievement's great

while the achieving's going on. But at the finish we get
right back to Nature. And when that time comes Nature
doesn't do much to help us out."</p>

<p>Nancy sat up.</p>

<p>"What are you doing? That great Sachigo!" she
demanded challengingly. "You're building, building one
magnificent enterprise. Is there happiness in it for you?"</p>

<p>"Sure," Bull admitted frankly. "Oh, yes. But I've
no illusions," he said. "I don't go back on the things
I said. Nature as she dopes out life couldn't hand me a
hundredth part of the happiness I get that way. But
when I'm through, like that lumber-jack who's struck
off the pay roll, how's it going to be with me? A trained
mind without the bodily ability to thrust on in the game
of life. It'll be hell&mdash;just hell. The one hope is to die
in harness. Like the forest-jack who drowns under the
logs on the river, or who gets up against the other feller's
knife in a drunken scrap. That way lies happiness.
The rest is a sort of passing dream with the years of old
age for regret."</p>

<p>The girl spread out her hands.</p>

<p>"I can't believe you feel that way," she cried, with
something very like distress. "Oh, if I had your power,
your ability. Why, I'd say there's no end to the things
you could achieve, not only now, but right through, right
through that time when you're old in body, but still
strong in brain. A limited goal for achievement isn't
the notion in my foolish head. Why, if I'd only the
strength to knit socks for the folks who need them,
there'd still be happiness and to spare. But let's keep to
our own ground. The forest-jack. I guess you're one
big man who employs thousands. What of those boys
when they're struck off the&mdash;pay roll. Is there nothing
to be achieved that way&mdash;nothing to last you to your
last living moment? Think of their needs. Think of
the happiness you could hand yourself in handing them

comfort and happiness when they're&mdash;through. It's a
thing I've promised myself, if luck ever hands me the
chance. You've got the pity of their lives. Your words
tell that. Well?"</p>

<p>The man had forgotten the storm. He had forgotten
everything but the charm of the girl's hot enthusiasm.
And the picture of superlative beauty she made in her
animation.</p>

<p>He shook his head.</p>

<p>"It's a bully notion," he demurred, "but it's not for
me. No. You see, I'm just a tough sort of man who's big
for a scrap. I haven't patience or sympathy for the feller
who don't feel the same. You've seen the forest boys?"</p>

<p>"I've been through the Shagaunty."</p>

<p>"Ah!"</p>

<p>Bull Sternford's ejaculation was sharp. The problem
of Father Adam's letter was partially solved.</p>

<p>"Well, I guess you're a woman," he went on. "And
I'd like to say right here a woman's sympathy is just
about the best thing on this old earth. That's why I'd
like to cry like a kid when I see it going out to the things
that haven't any sort of excuse for getting it. It's good
to hear you talk for those boys. It isn't they deserve it,
but&mdash;as I said, you're a woman. Talk it all you fancy,
but leave it at talk. Don't let it get a holt. Don't
waste one moment of your hard earned happiness on

'em. I was a forest-jack. I know 'em. I know it&mdash;the
life. And if you knew the thing I know you wouldn't
harden all up as you listen to the things I'm saying:&mdash;"</p>

<p>"But&mdash;"</p>

<p>Bull flung his cigar away with vicious force.</p>

<p>"Let me say this thing out," he went on. "There's
a man in the forest I know, every jack knows. He's a
feller who sort of lives in the twilight. You see, he sort
of comes and goes; and no one knows a thing about him,
except he haunts the forests like a shadow. Well, he's

settin' the notion you feel into practice&mdash;in a way. He's
out for the boys. To help 'em, physically, spiritually,
the whole time. They love him. We all love him to
death. Well, ask him how far he gets. Maybe he'd tell
you, and I guess his story 'ud break the heart of a stone
image. He'll tell you&mdash;and he speaks the truth&mdash;there
isn't a thing to be done but heal 'em, and feed 'em, and
just help 'em how you can. The rest's a dream. You
see, these jacks come from nowhere particular. They
take to the forests because it's far off; and it's dark, and
covers most things up. And they go nowhere particular,
except it's to the hell waiting on most of us if we don't
live life the way that's intended for us. No. Quit
worrying for the forest-jack. Maybe life's going to hand
you all sorts of queer feelings as you go along. And the
good heart that sees suffering and injustice is going to
ache mighty bad. The forest wasn't built for daylight,
and the folks living there don't fancy it. And there isn't
a broom big enough in the world to clean up the muck
you'll find there."</p>

<p>"You're talking of Father Adam?"</p>

<p>Nancy's interest had redoubled. It had instantly
centred itself on the man she had met in the Shagaunty
forests. The lumber-jacks were forgotten.</p>

<p>"Yes." Bull nodded. "Do you know him?" There
was eagerness in his question.</p>

<p>"I met him on the Shagaunty."</p>

<p>The man had produced a fresh cigar. But the renewed
heavy rolling of the vessel delayed its lighting. Nancy
gazed out to sea in some concern.</p>

<p>"It's getting worse," she said.</p>

<p>Bull struck a match and covered it with both hands.</p>

<p>"It seems that way," he replied indifferently. Then
after a moment he looked up. His cigar was alight.
"He's a great fellow&mdash;Father Adam," he said reflectively.</p>

<p>"He's just&mdash;splendid."</p>


<p>The girl's enthusiasm told Bull something of the thing
he wanted to know.</p>

<p>"Yes," he said. "He's the best man I know. The
world doesn't mean a thing to him. Why he's there I
don't know, and I guess it's not my business anyway.
But if God's mercy's to be handed to any human creature
it seems to me it won't come amiss&mdash;Say!"</p>

<p>He broke off, startled. He sat up with a jump. A
great gust of wind broke down upon the vessel. It came
with a shriek that rose in a fierce crescendo. His startled
eyes were riveted upon a new development in the sky.
An inky cloud bank was sweeping down upon them out
of the north-east, and the wind seemed to roar its way out
of its very heart.</p>

<p>The vessel heeled over. Again the wind tore at the
creaking gear. It was a moment of breathless suspense
for those seated helplessly looking on. Then something
crashed. A vast sea beat on the quarter and deluged
the decks, and the chairs were torn from their moorings.</p>

<p>Bull Sternford was sprawling in the race of water.
Nancy, too, was hurled floundering in the scuppers.
They were flung and beaten, crashing about in the
swirling sea that swept over the vessel's submerged
rail.</p>

<p>Bull struggled furiously. Every muscle was straining
with the effort of it. A fierce anxiety was in his eyes as
he fought his way foot by foot towards the saloon companion.
The handicap was terrible. There was practically
no foothold, for the vessel was riding at an angle
of something like forty-five degrees. Then, too, he had
but one hand with which to help himself along. The
other was supporting the dead-weight of the body of
the unconscious girl.</p>

<p>At last, breathless and nearly beaten, he reached his
goal and clutched desperately at the door-casing of the

companion. He staggered within. And as he did so
relief found expression in one fierce exclamation.</p>

<p>"Hell!" he cried. And clambered down, bearing
his unconscious burden into the safety of the vessel's
interior.</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_19"></a>
<h3>Chapter X&mdash;In Quebec</h3>


<p>It was the final stage of her journey. Nancy was on her
way up from the docks, where she had left the staunch
<em>Myra</em> discharging her cargo.</p>

<p>It was that triumphant return to which she had always
looked forward, for which she had hoped and prayed.
Her work was completed. It had been crowned with
greater success than she had dared to believe possible.
Yet her triumph somehow found her unelated, even a
shade depressed.</p>

<p>A belated sense of humour battled with her mood.
There were moments when she wanted to laugh at
herself. There were others when she had no such desire.
So she sat gazing out of the limousine window, as though
all her interest were in the drab houses lining the way,
and the heavy-coated pedestrians moving along the sidewalks
of the narrow streets through which they were
passing.</p>

<p>It was winter all right, for all no snow had as yet
fallen, and the girl felt glad that it was so. It suited
her mood.</p>

<p>Once or twice she took a sidelong glance at the man
seated beside her; but Bull Sternford's mood was no
less reticent than her own. Once she encountered the
glance of his eyes, and it was just as the vehicle bumped
heavily over the badly paved road.</p>


<p>"We can do better in the way of roads up at Sachigo,"
he said with a belated smile.</p>

<p>"You surely can," Nancy admitted readily. "The
roads down here in the old town are terrible. This old
city of ours could fill pages of history. It's got beauties,
too, you couldn't find anywhere else in the world. But
it seems to need most of the things a city needs to make
it the place we folk reckon it is."</p>

<p>She went on at random.</p>

<p>"Do you always keep an automobile in Quebec?" she
asked.</p>

<p>Bull shook his head.</p>

<p>"Hired," he said.</p>

<p>"I see."</p>

<p>Bull's eyes twinkled.</p>

<p>"Yes," he went on, "when I make this old city it's
with the purpose of driving twenty-four hours work into
twelve. An automobile helps that way."</p>

<p>"And you're wasting all this time driving me up to
my apartments?" Nancy smiled. "I'm more indebted
than I guessed."</p>

<p>The man's denial was instant.</p>

<p>"No," he said. "Your apartments are about two
blocks from the Château. But tell me, when'll you be
through making your report to Peterman?"</p>

<p>Nancy's depression passed. She was caught again
in the interest of everything.</p>

<p>"Why, to-day&mdash;surely," she said. "You see, I want
to get word to you right away."</p>

<p>Bull nodded.</p>

<p>"That's fine," he said. "It's not my way leaving
things lying around either. I'll be on the jump to get
through before sailing time to that little old country
across the water. But tell me. That report. After
it's in you'll have made all the good you reckon to? And
then you, personally, cut right out of this thing?"</p>


<p>His manner gave no indication of the thing in his
mind.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes," Nancy replied happily. "You see, I've
bearded you&mdash;only you've no beard&mdash;in your fierce den
up in Sachigo. And I've&mdash;and you've come right down
here to Quebec with me to discuss with my people the
thing they want to discuss with you. They didn't
think I&mdash;they didn't hope that. Maybe I've done better
than they expected. Why, when I hand the news to Mr.
Peterman he'll&mdash;he'll&mdash;oh, I'm just dying to see his face
when I tell him."</p>

<p>"You&mdash;haven't wired him already?"</p>

<p>"No. The news was too good to send by wire."</p>

<p>For a moment the man contemplated the simple radiant
creature beside him. She was so transparently happy.
And the sight of her happiness satisfied him.</p>

<p>"It'll&mdash;astonish him, eh?"</p>

<p>"Astonish him?" Nancy laughed. "That doesn't
say a thing. I shouldn't wonder if he refused to believe
me."</p>

<p>"And you'll get&mdash;promotion? Promotion&mdash;in Skandinavia?"</p>

<p>The girl's eyes sobered on the instant.</p>

<p>"Surely. Why not?"</p>

<p>"Yes. Why not?"</p>

<p>Just for a moment Nancy hesitated. Then her
challenge came incisively.</p>

<p>"What do you mean?"</p>

<p>But the man smilingly shook his head.</p>

<p>"You want promotion under Peterman&mdash;in the
Skandinavia?"</p>

<p>Nancy's eyes widened.</p>

<p>"Why shouldn't I? The Skandinavia's everything to
me. It ought to be everything. Isn't that so? Now, I
wonder what you mean?" she went on, after the briefest
pause. "Are you talking that way just because you are

a rival concern?" She shook her head. "That's no
affair of mine. But wait while I tell you. Try and
think yourself a young girl without folks that count,
with a pretty tough world laid out in front of her, and
with a healthy desire to dress, and eat the same as any
other girl of her age. She's given a chance in life to
make good, to gather round her all those things she
needs, by&mdash;the Skandinavia. Well, how would you feel?
Wouldn't you want that&mdash;promotion? Yes. I want it.
I want it with all my heart. The Skandinavia gave me my
first start. They've been very, very good to me. I've
big room in my heart for them. Their work's my work all
the time. I've nothing but gratitude for Mr. Peterman."</p>

<p>"Yes." Bull's smile had passed. He was thinking of
Nancy's feeling of gratitude towards the Swede&mdash;Peterman.</p>

<p>He turned away, and the grey wintry daylight beyond
the window seemed to absorb him. He was possessed
by a mad desire to fling prudence to the winds and then
and there point out the wrong he felt she was committing
against the country that had bred her in spending her
life in the service of these foreigners. But he knew he
must refrain. It was not the moment. And somehow he
felt she was not the girl to listen patiently to such ethics
as he preached when their force was directed against
those who claimed her whole loyalty and gratitude.</p>

<p>To Nancy it seemed as though some shadow had arisen
between them. She was a little troubled at the thing
she had said. But somehow she had no desire to withdraw
a single word of it.</p>

<p>The car had passed out of the old part of the city.
And Nancy realised it was ascending the great hill where
the Château Hotel looked out over the old citadel and
the wide waters of the busy St. Lawrence river. In a
few minutes the happy companionship of the past few
days would be only a memory.</p>


<p>It was only a little way to her apartments now. Such
a very little way. Yes. The porter would be there. He
would take her trunks and baggage, and then her door
would close behind her, and&mdash;She remembered that
moment at which she had awakened to consciousness in
this man's strong arms in the poor little saloon of the
storm-beaten <em>Myra</em>. She remembered the embracing
strength of them, and the way she had thrilled under
their pressure. It had been all very wonderful.</p>

<p>"Say!"</p>

<p>Bull Sternford had turned back from the window. He
was smiling again.</p>

<p>"Yes?" The girl was all eager attention.</p>

<p>"I was wondering," Bull went on. "Maybe you'll'

fancy hearing how things are fixed after I see Peterman?"</p>

<p>"I'll be ever so glad. There's the 'phone. You can
get me most any time after business hours. I don't go
out much. I&mdash;"</p>

<p>Nancy broke off to glance out of the window. The
automobile had slowed.</p>

<p>"Why, we're at my place," she cried. And the man
fancied he detected disappointment in her tone.</p>

<p>The car stopped before the apartment house, and Bull
hurled himself at the litter of the girl's belongings strewn
about their feet. A few moments later they were standing
together on the sidewalk surrounded by the baggage.</p>

<p>Bull gazed up at the building.</p>

<p>"You live here?" he asked at random.</p>

<p>Nancy nodded.</p>

<p>"Yes. It isn't much. But some day, maybe, I'll be
able to afford a swell apartment with&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Sure you will," Bull agreed, as they passed up the steps
to the entrance doors. "But meanwhile I mostly need
your 'phone number of this," he added with a laugh.</p>

<p>The baggage was left to the porter's care, and they
stood together in the hallway. Bull's youthful stature

was overshadowing for all Nancy was tall. Somehow
the girl was glad of it. She liked his height, and the
breadth of his great shoulders, and the power of limbs
his tweed suit was powerless to disguise.</p>

<p>She moved across to the porter's office and wrote down
her 'phone number while the man looked on. But he
only had eyes for the girl herself. At that moment her
telephone number was the last thing he desired to think
about.</p>

<p>She stood up and offered him the paper.</p>

<p>"You won't forget it that way," she said, with a smile.</p>

<p>"No."</p>

<p>Bull glanced down at it. Then he looked again into
the smiling eyes.</p>

<p>"Thanks," he said. "I'll ring up." Then he held out
a hand. "So long."</p>

<p>He was gone. The glass door had swung to behind him.
Nancy watched him pass into the waiting automobile,
and responded to his final wave of the hand. Then she
turned to the porter, and her smile had completely
vanished.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Nathaniel Hellbeam stood up. He had been seated
at Elas Peterman's desk studying the papers which his
managing director had set out for his perusal. His gross
body hung over the table for a moment as he reached
towards his hat. He took his gloves from inside it and
commenced to put them on.</p>

<p>"The <em>Myra</em>? You say she is in?" he asked in his
guttural fashion. "This girl? This girl who is to buy
up this&mdash;this Sachigo man," he laughed. "Is she
arrived?"</p>

<p>The man's eyes were alight with unpleasant derision.
Peterman gave no heed. The man's arrogance was all
too familiar to him.</p>


<p>"I've not heard&mdash;yet," he said. "She should be."</p>

<p>"You not have heard&mdash;yet?" The challenge was superlatively
offensive. "You a beautiful secretary have. You
lose her for weeks&mdash;months. Yet you do not know of her
return&mdash;yet? Sho! You are not the man for this beautiful
secretary. She for me is&mdash;yes? Hah!"</p>

<p>Peterman smiled as was his duty.</p>

<p>"I shall be glad to get her back," he said quietly. "But
I haven't heard from her at all. And&mdash;well, she's not the
sort of woman to bombard with telegrams. She's out on
a difficult job and I felt it best to leave her to it. I shall
hear when she's ready, I guess she'll be right along in to
tell me personally. Maybe&mdash;"</p>

<p>He broke off and picked up the telephone whose buzzer
was rattling impatiently on the desk.</p>

<p>"Hullo!" he said softly. "Oh, yes. Oh, how are you?
So glad you've got back. What sort of passage did&mdash;oh,
bad, eh? Well, well; I'm sorry. Oh, you're a good
sailor. That's fine. Right away? You'll be over right
away? Wouldn't you like to rest awhile? All right, I
see. Yes, surely I'll be glad. I just thought&mdash;oh, not at
all. You see, if you were a man I wouldn't be concerned
at all. Yes, come right along whenever you choose. Eh?
Successful? You have been? Why, that's just fine. Well,
I'm dying to hear your news. Splendid. I shall be here.
G'bye."</p>

<p>Peterman set the 'phone down. His smiling eyes
challenged those of the man who a moment before had
derided him.</p>

<p>"Well?"</p>

<p>Hellbeam's impatience was without scruple at any time.</p>

<p>"She's got back all right, and she's succeeded far better
than you hoped. Better than she hoped herself. But&mdash;no
better than I expected."</p>

<p>The other's eyes snapped under the quiet satisfaction of
the man's reply.</p>


<p>"Ah, she has. Does she say&mdash;yes?"</p>

<p>Elas shook his dark head.</p>

<p>"No. She's coming right over to tell me the whole
story."</p>

<p>"Now?"</p>

<p>"In a while."</p>

<p>Elas Peterman knew his position to the last fraction
when dealing with Nathaniel Hellbeam. He knew it was
for him to obey, almost without question. But somehow,
for the moment, his Teutonic self-abnegation had become
obscured. He was yielding nothing in the matter of this
woman to anyone. Not even to Nathaniel Hellbeam whom
he regarded almost as the master of his destiny.</p>

<p>Perhaps the gross nature of the financier possessed a
certain sympathy. Perhaps even there was a lurking sense
of honour in him, where a woman, whom he regarded as
another man's property, was concerned. Again it may
simply have been that he understood the other's reticence,
and it suited him for the moment to restrain his grosser
inclinations. He laughed. And it was not an hilarious
effort.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes," he said. "You will see her first. That is as
it should be. Later, we both will talk with her. Well&mdash;good
luck my friend."</p>

<p>Hellbeam thrust his hat on his great head and strutted
his way across to the door.</p>

<p>"These people must be bought. Or&mdash;" he said,
pausing before passing out&mdash;</p>

<p>"Smashed!"</p>

<p>Hellbeam nodded.</p>

<p>"It suits me better to&mdash;buy."</p>

<p>"Yes. You want to come into touch with&mdash;the owner."</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>The gross figure disappeared through the doorway.</p>

<p>Peterman did not return to his desk. He crossed to
the window and stood gazing out of it. His hands were

thrust deep into his pockets. And his fingers moved
nervously, rattling the contents of them. He was a goodly
specimen of manhood. He was tall, and squarely erect,
and carried himself with that military bearing which
seems to belong to all the races of Teutonic origin. It was
only in the study of the man's face that exception could be
taken. Just now there was none to observe and he was
free from all restraint.</p>

<p>His dark eyes were smiling, for his thoughts were
streaming along the channel that most appealed. He was
thinking of the beauty of the girl who was about to return
to him, and it seemed to him a pity she was so simply
honest, so very young in the world as he understood it.
Then her ambition. It was&mdash;but he was rather glad of her
ambition. Ambition might prove his best friend in the
end. In his philosophy an ambitious woman could have no
scruple. Anyway it seemed to him that ambition pitted
against scruple was an easy winner. He could play on that,
and he felt he knew how to play on it, and was in a position
to do so. She had come back to him successful. He
wondered how successful.</p>

<p>He moved from the window and passed over to the
desk, where he picked up his 'phone and asked for a
number.</p>

<p>"Hullo! Oh, that Bennetts? Oh, yes. This is Peterman&mdash;Elas
Peterman speaking. Did you send that fruit,
and the flowers I ordered to the address I gave you? Yes?
Oh, you did? They were there before eleven o'clock.
Good. Thanks&mdash;"</p>

<p>He set the 'phone down and turned away. But in a
moment he was recalled. It was a message from downstairs.
Nancy McDonald wished to see him.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Peterman was leaning back in his chair. Nancy was
occupying the chair beside the desk which had not known
her for several months.</p>


<p>It was a moment of stirring emotions. For the girl
it was that moment to which she had so long looked
forward. To her it seemed she was about to vindicate
this man's confidence in her, and offer him an adequate
return such as her gratitude desired to make. And deep
down in her heart, where the flame of ambition steadily
burned, she felt she had earned the promised reward, all
of it.</p>

<p>The man was concerned with none of these things. He
was not even concerned for the girl's completed mission.
It was Nancy herself. It was the charming face with its
halo of red hair, and the delightful figure so rounded, so
full of warmth and charm, which concerned him.</p>

<p>He had no scruple as he feasted his eyes upon her. He
did nothing to disguise his admiration, and Nancy, full of
her news and the thrilling joy of her success, saw nothing
of that which a less absorbed woman, a more experienced
woman, must unfailingly have observed.</p>

<p>"You've a big story for me," Peterman said, with a
light laugh. "Have you completed an option on&mdash;Sachigo?
You look well. You're looking fine. Travelling
in Labrador seems to have done you good."</p>

<p>Nancy's smiling eyes were alight with delight.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes," she said. "It's done me good. But then
I've had a success I didn't reckon on. Maybe it's made all
the difference. It was a real tough journey. I'm not sure
you'd have seen me back at all if it hadn't been for Mr.
Sternford."</p>

<p>"How?"</p>

<p>The man's smiling eyes had changed. Their dark
depths were full of sharp enquiry. Nancy read only
anxiety.</p>

<p>"Why, we were sitting on deck, and it was storming.
It was just terrible. We lurched heavily and shipped a
great sea. Our chairs were flung into the scuppers by the
rush of water, and I&mdash;why, I guess I was beaten unconscious

and drowning when he got hold of me. He just
fought his way to safety. I didn't know about it till I
was safe down in the saloon. I woke up then, and he was
carrying me&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Sternford?"</p>

<p>The change in the man's eyes had deepened. Then his
smile came back to them. But that, too, was different.
It was curiously fixed and hard.</p>

<p>"You've gone a bit too fast for me," he said. "I don't
get things right. Sternford, the man running Sachigo
was with you on the <em>Myra</em>? He's here&mdash;in Quebec?"</p>

<p>It was Nancy's great moment.</p>

<p>"Yes," she said, with a restraint that failed to disguise
her feelings. "He's come down to discuss a business
arrangement between the Skandinavia and his enterprise.
That's what you wanted&mdash;isn't it?"</p>

<p>The man leant forward in his chair. He set his elbows
on the desk and supported his chin in both hands. His
smile was still there, and his eyes were steadily regarding
her. But they expressed none of the surprise and delight
Nancy looked for. They were smiling as he literally forced
them to smile.</p>

<p>"You brought him down with you&mdash;to meet us?" he
asked slowly.</p>

<p>The girl nodded.</p>

<p>"You did your work so well that he entertained the
notion sufficiently to come along down&mdash;with you?"</p>

<p>"I&mdash;I&mdash;he's come down for that purpose."</p>

<p>The man's eyes were searching.</p>

<p>"Where is he?"</p>

<p>"At the Chateau. He's waiting to hear from you for
an appointment."</p>

<p>Peterman flung himself back in his chair with a great
laugh. Nancy missed the mirthless tone of it.</p>

<p>"Say, my dear," he cried at last. "How did you do it?
How in&mdash;You're just as bright and smart as I reckoned.

You've done one big thing and I guess you've earned
all the Skandinavia can hand you. But&mdash;"</p>

<p>He broke off, and his gaze drifted away from the face
with its vivid halo. The wintry daylight beyond the
window claimed him, and Nancy waited.</p>

<p>"How did you persuade him to ship down on the <em>Myra</em>
with you?" he asked, after a moment's thought.</p>

<p>"I didn't persuade him. He volunteered."</p>

<p>"Volunteered?"</p>

<p>"Yes. He was coming down on her next trip. You
see, he's making England right away. He guessed he'd
come along down with me instead. He seemed keen set
to discuss this thing with you."</p>

<p>"I see. Keen set, eh? Keen set to talk with me?"</p>

<p>The man shook his head. It was not denial. It was
the questioning of something left unspoken.</p>

<p>The girl became anxious. Somehow a sense of disappointment
was stirring.</p>

<p>"Is there anything wrong?" she asked at last, as the
man remained silent.</p>

<p>Peterman shook his head again.</p>

<p>"Not a thing, my dear," he said. "No. You've done
everything. You couldn't have done more if&mdash;if you'd
been the most experienced woman schemer in big business.
You went up to prepare the ground for our business.
Well, you prepared it in a way I'd never have guessed.
You've brought this hard business head, Bull Sternford,
right down out of his fortress to meet us on our business
proposition. Guess only you could have done that." He
laughed. "And this man saved your life, eh? And he
carried you in his arms to&mdash;safety. Say he was lucky.
That's something any man would be crazy to do. Well,
well, I&mdash;"</p>

<p>He rose from his chair and passed round to the window
where he stood with back turned. Nancy's gaze followed
him. For all his praise she was disturbed.</p>


<p>The man at the window saw nothing of that upon which
he gazed. His eyes were unsmiling now that the girl
could no longer observe them. They were the eyes of a
man of unbridled jealous fury. They were burning with
an insensate hatred for the man who had hitherto been
only a stranger rival in business.</p>

<p>Oh, he understood. Was it likely that this Bull Sternford
was going to yield for a business proposition in this
fashion at the request of a formidable rival? Was he
going to change all his plans at the bidding of the Skandinavia,
and seize the first boat to come and tell them he was
prepared to fall for any plans they might design to beat
him? Not likely. No. It was the girl he had fallen for.
He had changed his plans for her, and for his nerve he had
reaped a harvest such as he, Peterman, had never reaped.
He had held this beautiful creature in his arms, this innocent,
red-haired child, whom he, Peterman, had marked
down for his own. For how long? And she was all
unconscious. Oh, it was maddening, infuriating.
And&mdash;</p>

<p>Suddenly he came back to the desk. Nancy was relieved
as she beheld the familiar smiling kindness in his
eyes.</p>

<p>"Well, my dear. I can't tell you how delighted I am to
get you back," he said, pausing at her side. "My work's
not been by any means satisfactory with you away.
There's just no one suits me in this house like you. But
the thing I'm most glad about is your success. That's
been wonderful. I felt you would make good, but I didn't
know how good. Now I'm going to ring this fellow up and
fix things to see him. Meanwhile you get your big report
of the camps ready for the Board. Then, when you're
ready, I'm going to let them see you, and hear it all from
you first hand, and I'm going to get them to give you the
head of the forestry department right here. It'll be a
mighty jump, but&mdash;well&mdash;"</p>


<p>Nancy was on her feet and her eyes were shining a
gratitude which words could never express. Impulsively
she held out a hand in ardent thanks.</p>

<p>"Why, say&mdash;" she began.</p>

<p>The man had seized the delicate tapering fingers and
held them warmly in the palms of both of his.</p>

<p>"Now just don't say a thing," he said. "I know. I
know just how you feel, and the things you want to say.
But don't. You've earned the best, and I'm going to see
you get it. I'm going to lose a smart secretary, but I
don't care if I make one good little friend. Now, Nancy,
what about to-night? I think we ought to celebrate your
triumphant return with a little dinner up at the Chateau.
What say? Will you&mdash;honour me? Eight o'clock. Thank
goodness we're not a dry country yet, and it's still possible
to enjoy our successful moments properly. Will
you?"</p>

<p>Nancy longed to withdraw the hand the man still held.
It was curious. Every word he said expressed just those
things and tributes which her girlish vanity had desired.
There was not a word in all of it to give offence. But
for the second time she experienced a sense of trouble
which her woman's instinct prompted, and a feeling akin
to panic stirred. But she resisted it, as she knew she
must, and her mind was quite made up.</p>

<p>"You're&mdash;very kind," she said, with all the earnestness
she could summon, and with a gentleness that was intended
to disarm. "But I'm so very&mdash;very tired. You
don't know what it was like on the <em>Myra</em>. We were battered
and beaten almost to death. I feel as if I needed sleep
for a week."</p>

<p>The man released her hand lingeringly. His disappointment
was intense, but he smiled.</p>

<p>"Why, sure," he said, "if you feel that way. I hadn't
thought."</p>

<p>Then he turned abruptly back to his desk. "That's all

right. Guess we'll leave it. You go right home and get
your rest."</p>

<p>For a moment Nancy hesitated. She was fearful of
giving offence. She felt the man's disappointment in his
tone, and in the manner of his turning away. But she
dared not yield to his request. Suddenly she remembered,
and all hesitation passed.</p>

<p>"I&mdash;I just want to thank you for your kind thought
sending me those flowers and fruit," she exclaimed. "I
wanted to thank you before, but I was too excited with
my news. I&mdash;"</p>

<p>The man cut her short.</p>

<p>"That's all right, my dear," he said. Then he nodded
and deliberately turned to his work. "I'm glad. Now&mdash;just
run right along home and&mdash;rest."</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_20"></a>
<h3>Chapter XI&mdash;Drawn Swords</h3>


<p>The palatial halls and public rooms of the hotel were
crowded. Everywhere was the hum of voices, which
penetrated even to the intended quiet of the writing rooms.
Every now and then the monotony of it all was broken by
the high-pitched, youthful voices of the messenger boys
seeking out their victims.</p>

<p>Bull Sternford was at work. Within an hour of his
arrival he was plunged in the affairs connected with the
great business organisation he projected. The earlier date
of his visit to Quebec had necessitated considerable changes
in plans already prepared. He had entailed for himself
endless added work for the pleasure of the companionship
of a beautiful girl on the journey down the coast, and
begrudged no detail of it. Just now he was writing to a
number of important people, bankers and financial men,
re-arranging appointments to suit his change of plans.</p>


<p>There was something tremendously purposeful in the
poise of the man's body as he sat at one of the many
writing tables scattered about the smoking lounge. There
were few passers-by who did not glance a second time in
his direction with that curiosity which is unfailing in
human nature at sight of an unusual specimen of their
kind.</p>

<p>Twice a name was called by a uniformed boy in that
unintelligible fashion which seems to be the habit of his
species. The boy hovered round. Then he came up
behind the chair on which Bull was seated and hurled
his final challenge.</p>

<p>"Sternford, sir?" he asked curtly.</p>

<p>His victim turned.</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>"Wanted on the 'phone, sir."</p>

<p>The boy was gone on the run. He had hunted his
quarry down. There were still fresh victories to be
achieved.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Bull was at the 'phone, and his eyes were smiling at
an insurance advertisement set up for the edification and
interest of those whose use of the instrument prevented
their escape.</p>

<p>"Yes. Oh, yes. Got in this morning. What's that?
Oh, pretty rough. Yes. It's a bad sea most all the
time. Why, that's good of you, Mr. Peterman." His
smile broadened. "Yes. You sent an excellent ambassador.
A charming girl. Well, there's no time like
the present. Yes. I've lunched. I'm just through with
my mail. Four o'clock would suit me admirably. Why
sure I'd like to. All right. G'bye."</p>

<p>He stood for a moment after replacing the receiver.
Then, becoming aware of another wanting to use the
instrument, he moved away.</p>

<p>Returning to the smoking lounge he finished off his

correspondence and took possession of one of the couches
and lit a cigar.</p>

<p>For a time the hang-over of business pre-occupied him.
But it was not for long. His whole thought swiftly
became absorbed in Nancy McDonald, with her wonderful
halo of vivid hair. It had been the same during the
whole of his journey down from Sachigo, in fact, from
the moment he had first set eyes on her when she entered
his office on that memorable day of her visit. She pre-occupied
all his leisure.</p>

<p>He had thought deeply on the meaning of her visit
to him, and his thought had had little to do with the
mission she had come upon. Swift decision had dealt
with that. No, it was the girl herself who claimed him.</p>

<p>He understood the sheer design of the Skandinavia in
sending so perfect a creature to him. That was easy.
It only helped to prove their desire&mdash;their urgent desire&mdash;to
free themselves from the threat of his competition.
But he wondered at their selection.</p>

<p>Somehow he felt that the Skandinavia should have
chosen, if their choice fell upon a woman, a clever, brilliant,
unscrupulous creature who knew her every asset,
and was capable of playing every one of them in the
game of commercial warfare. Instead of that they had
sent Nancy, with her sweetly beautiful face and perfect
hair, to be their unthinking tool. He realised her simplicity,
her splendid loyalty to those she served. He
knew she was without design or subterfuge. She was
just the most beautiful, desirable creature he had ever
beheld in his life.</p>

<p>He told himself it was all wrong. This wonderful
child should never have been sent on such a journey, on
such an errand. She was fit only for the shelter of a
happy home life, protection from every roughness, every
taint with which the sordid world of commerce could
besmirch her. His chivalry was stirred to its depths,

and the wrong of it all, as he saw it, only the more surely
deepened his purpose for his dealings with an unscrupulous
rival who could commit so egregious an outrage.</p>

<p>Bull Sternford's existence, until now had always been
a joyous heart-whole striving which had no more in it
than the calmly conceived ideals of a heart undisturbed
by sexual emotions. Now&mdash;now that had been completely
changed. Perhaps he was not yet wholly aware of the
thing that had come to him. He saw a woman, a perfect
creature who had come to him out of the forest world in
which his whole life was bound up, and a passionate
excitement had taken possession of him. There could
be no denial of that. But so far the full measure of his
feelings had not revealed itself. All he wanted was to
think of nothing and nobody just now, but this girl who
had stirred him so deeply. So he stretched himself out
on the well-sprung couch and yielded to the delight of
it all.</p>

<p>But the hour he had been free to dispose of thus was
swiftly used up with his pleasant dreaming. And it was
with a feeling of real irritation that he finally flung away
his cigar and bestirred himself. His irritation did not
last long, however, and his consolation was found in the
fact that Elas Peterman was awaiting him, and Elas
Peterman was the man who had so outrageously offended
against his ideas of chivalry.</p>

<p>He stood up and brushed the fallen cigar ash from his
clothing. His one desire now was to get through with
the business once and for all, to do the thing that should
leave Nancy McDonald with the reward of her labours.
Yes, he wanted to do that. Afterwards&mdash;well, he must
leave the "afterwards" to itself.</p>

<p>He hurried away in search of his heavy winter overcoat.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Elas Peterman looked up as the door opened to admit
his visitor. His first impression startled him not a little.</p>


<p>It was the first time he had encountered the man from
Sachigo.</p>

<p>Bull moved into the room with that large ease which
big men so often display. And he paused and frankly
gripped the carefully manicured hand Peterman held
out to him.</p>

<p>"I'm real glad to meet you, Mr. Peterman," he said
quietly. Then he dropped into the chair set for him,
while his eyes responded unsmilingly to the measuring
gaze of the other.</p>

<p>"It's queer we've never met before," Bull said, leaning
back in his chair.</p>

<p>Peterman laughed. He pushed a large box of cigars
close to the visitor's hand.</p>

<p>"It's mostly that way with the high command in&mdash;war,"
he said easily. "The opposing generals don't meet except
at the&mdash;peace table. Those are Bolivars. Try one?"</p>

<p>Bull helped himself with a laugh that was about as
real as the other's.</p>

<p>"The pipe of&mdash;peace, eh?" he said.</p>

<p>"That's how I hope," Peterman replied.</p>

<p>Bull nodded as he lit his cigar.</p>

<p>"Most of us hope for peace, and do our best to
aggravate war. That so?"</p>

<p>"It's damn fool human nature."</p>

<p>Peterman sat back in his chair, and laughed a little
boisterously. Then he turned to the window while Bull
silently consulted the white ash of his cigar.</p>

<p>"You're projecting a big thing in pulp," the Swede
said a moment later. "You figger to split the Canadian
pulp trade into two opposing camps. The Skandinavia
and the Labrador enterprises. It means one great, big
prolonged battle in which one or the other is to be beaten.
Guess it's liable to be a battle in which the public'll get
temporary benefit, while we&mdash;who fight it&mdash;look like
losing all along the line. It seems a pity, eh?"</p>


<p>"War's a tough proposition, anyway," Bull replied
slowly. "Its only excuse is it's Nature's way of wiping
out the fool mistakes and crimes human nature spends
most of its time committing. If two sets of criminals
set out to grab, it's odds they'll do hurt to each other,
and end by leaving the world easier when they're completely
despoiled."</p>

<p>Peterman laughed.</p>

<p>"Sure," he said. "And these fool criminals? Is there
need for them to fall out?"</p>

<p>"None."</p>

<p>"That's how we of the Skandinavia feel. That's the
notion always in my mind. Say&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Yep?"</p>

<p>Bull's eyes were squarely gazing. Their clear depths
looked straight into the dark eyes of the man at the desk.
Their regard was intense. It was almost disconcerting.</p>

<p>"What's the proposition?" he went on. And his firm
lips closed over the last word and contrived to transform
the simple question into a definite challenge.</p>

<p>Peterman stirred uneasily. At that moment he beheld
more clearly than ever the picture of this man with his
great arms about the body of the woman he coveted,
and feeling lent sharpness to his tone.</p>

<p>"What's the price you set on your enterprise up at
Labrador?" he said.</p>

<p>Bull removed his cigar. He emitted a pensive stream
of smoke. His eyes were again pre-occupied with the
white ash, so firm and clean on its tip. Then quite
suddenly he looked up.</p>

<p>"If you'll tell me the price you set on the whole of
the Skandinavia, I'll talk."</p>

<p>"What d'you mean?"</p>

<p>The Swede had less command of his feelings than the
other. He had never learnt the methods of the forest
as Bull had learned them.</p>


<p>"Why, I can't set a price on Sachigo till I know the
price you set on the Skandinavia," Bull's eyes were smiling.
"You see I should need to double it for&mdash;Sachigo."</p>

<p>The man from Labrador had driven home to the quick,
and the Teutonic vanity of the Swede was instantly
aflame. Peterman had committed the one offence which
the younger man could not forgive. He had dared, in
his vanity, to believe that the situation between them
was a question of price.</p>

<p>"I didn't invite you here to sell you&mdash;the Skandinavia,"
Peterman blustered, giving way to anger he could not
restrain.</p>

<p>"No. And I didn't accept your invitation for the
purpose of selling&mdash;Sachigo. If there's any buying and
selling going on you'd best understand quite clearly I
am the buyer."</p>

<p>There was a dangerous light in Bull's eyes levelled so
steadily on the angry face of the Swede.</p>

<p>"Then&mdash;it's war?"</p>

<p>Bull shrugged at the challenge.</p>

<p>"I'm quite indifferent," he said coldly.</p>

<p>There was a moment of tense silence. Then the Swede
smiled.</p>

<p>"You're ready then to let the fool public benefit at
your expense?"</p>

<p>"No." A smile of real humor flashed in Bull's eyes.
"At yours."</p>

<p>"You mean&mdash;you think to&mdash;smash us?"</p>

<p>"Just as sure as the sun'll rise to-morrow. Just as
sure as Providence set up forest and water powers on
Labrador such as you've never dreamed of since you
forgot your boyhood. Just as sure as your Shagaunty's
played out and you need to start in on fresh limits you
aren't sure of yet. Just as sure as they're going to cost
you a heap more than when you were busy treating the

fortune that Shagaunty handed you like the worst fool-head
spendthrift who ever broke a bank at the gambling
tables."</p>

<p>Bull rose abruptly from his chair.</p>

<p>"I'm obliged for this interview, Mr. Peterman," he
went on. "It's suited me. That's why I came along
down in a hurry. You're fortunate in that lady representative.
Her tact and persuasion left me feeling you
had a real proposition that was worth considering. I
guess she'll go a long way for you, and if there's any
live person can help your ship along, she's that live
person. But you can't buy me, and you can't smash me.
I mean that. You see, I know your position. It's my
job to know the position of any possible competitor, and
naturally I know yours. Your Shagaunty's run dry, and,
well, I don't need to tell you all that means to you."
He dropped the stump of his cigar into an ash tray.
"That's a good cigar," he went on with a derisive smile.
"Thanks. Good-bye."</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Bull was at the telephone again. He was again smiling
at the insurance advertisement. But now his smile
was of a different quality. It was full of delighted
anticipation.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes," he was saying. "I spent quite a pleasant
ha'f hour with him. I enjoyed it immensely. Yes. He
seems to be the man to run an enterprise like yours. He
certainly has both initiative and confidence. A little
hasty in judgment, I think. But&mdash;yes, I'd like to tell
you all about it. What are you doing this evening?
Oh, resting. I suppose you eat while resting. Yes. It's
necessary, isn't it? Anyway I find it so. Eh? Oh,
yes. You see, I've a big frame to support. Will you
help me to support it this evening? I mean dinner here?
Will you? Oh, that's fine. I'd love to tell you about

it all. Fine. Right. Eight o'clock then. I'll go and
arrange it all now. It shall be a very special dinner, I
promise you. Good-bye."</p>

<p>He put up the receiver and turned away. His smile
remained, and it had no relation to anything but his
delight that Nancy McDonald had consented to dine with
him.</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_21"></a>
<h3>Chapter XII&mdash;At The Chateau</h3>

<p>Nancy was standing before the mirror which occupied
the whole length of the door of the dress-closet with
which her modest bedroom had been provided by a
thoughtful architect.</p>

<p>She was studying the results of her preparations. She
was to dine with Bull Sternford, the man who had caught
and held her interest for all she knew that they belonged
to camps that were sternly opposed to each other. She
wanted to look her best, whatever that best might be,
and she was haunted by a fear that her best could never
rank in its due place amongst the superlatives.</p>

<p>However, she had arrayed herself in her newest and
smartest party frock. She had spent hours, she believed,
on her unruly masses of hair, and furthermore, she had
assiduously applied herself to obliterating the weather
stain which the fierce journey from Labrador had inflicted
upon the beautiful oval of her cheeks. Now, at
last, the final touches had been given, and she was
critically surveying the result.</p>

<p>The longer she studied her reflection the deeper grew
the discontent in her pretty, hazel eyes. It was the
same old reflection, she told herself. It was a bit tricked
out; a bit less real. It was a tiresome thing which gave
her no satisfaction at all. There was the red hair that

looked so very red. There were the eyes, which, at
times, she was convinced were really green. There was
the stupid nose that always seemed to her to occupy too
much of her face. And as for her cheeks, the wind and
sea had left them looking more healthy, but&mdash;She
sighed and hurriedly turned away. She felt that mirrors
were an invention calculated to upset the conceit of any
girl.</p>

<p>She moved quickly round the little room. Her gloves,
her wrap. She picked them up. The gloves she was
painfully aware had already been cleaned twice, and her
cloak had no greater merits than the modest-priced frock
which had strained her limited bank roll. Then she
consulted the clock on her bureau, and, picked up her
scent-spray. This was the last, the final touch she could
not resist.</p>

<p>In the midst of using it she set it down with a feeling
of sudden panic.</p>

<p>She had remembered. She stood staring down at the
dressing table with a light of trouble in her eyes. The
whole incident had been forgotten till that moment. She
remembered she had refused to dine with Elas Peterman
that night on a plea of weariness, and without a
thought had unhesitatingly accepted the invitation of the
man whom the Skandinavia had marked down for its
victim.</p>

<p>For some seconds the enormity of the thing she had
done overwhelmed her. Then a belated humour came
to her rescue and a shadowy smile drove the trouble
from her eyes.</p>

<p>Suppose&mdash;but no. Her chief would be dining at home,
as was his habit. Then, anyway, there could be no
harm. She was concerned in this thing. She had a
right. She even told herself it was imperative she should
know what had transpired at the interview she had
brought about. Besides, was there not the possibility of

certain rougnnesses occurring between the two men which
it might be within her power to smooth down? That
was surely so. She had no right to miss any opportunity
of furthering the ends of her own people.</p>

<p>Then she laughed outright. Oh, it was excuse. She
knew. She was looking forward to the evening. Of
course she was. Then, just as suddenly all desire to
laugh expired. Why? Why was she looking forward
to dining with Bull Sternford?</p>

<p>Bull! What a quaint name. She had thought of it
before. She had thought of it at the time when the
lonely missionary of the forest had told her of him.</p>

<p>Swiftly her thought passed on to her meeting with the
man himself. She remembered her nervousness when
she had first looked into his big, wholesome face, with
its clear, searching eyes. Yes, she had realised then the
truth of Father Adam's description. He would as soon
fight as laugh. There could be no doubt of it.</p>

<p>And then those days on the <em>Myra</em>. She recalled their
talk of the sea-gulls, and of the men of the forests, and
she remembered the almost brutal contempt for them he
had so downrightly expressed. Then the moment of
disaster to herself. It was he who had saved her, he
who had fought for her, although he had been in little
better case himself.</p>

<p>What was it they had told her? He must be bought
or smashed. She wondered if they realised the man
they were dealing with. She wondered what they would
have felt and thought if they had listened to the confident
assurance of Father Adam. If they had listened
to Bull Sternford himself, and learned to know him as
she had already learned to know him. The Skandinavia
was powerful, but was it powerful enough to deal as
they desired with this man who was as ready to fight as
to laugh?</p>

<p>She shook her head. And it was a negative movement

she was unaware of. Well, anyway, the game had begun,
and she was in it. Her duty was clear enough. And
meanwhile she would miss no opportunity to pull her
whole weight for her side, even when she knew that was
not the whole thought in her mind.</p>

<p>But somehow there were things she regretted when
she remembered the fight ahead. She regretted the
moment when this man had saved her from almost
certain death against the iron stanchions and sides of
the <em>Myra</em>. She regretted his fine eyes, and he had
fine eyes which looked so squarely out of their setting.
Then, too, he had been so kindly concerned that she
should achieve the mission upon which she had embarked.
It would have been so easy and even exacting had he
been a man of less generous impulse. A man whom she
could have thoroughly disliked. But he was the reverse
of all those things which make it a joy to hurt. He
was&mdash;</p>

<p>She pulled herself up and seized the pretty beaded
vanity bag lying ready to her hand. Then the telephone
rang.</p>

<p>It was the cab which the porter had ordered, and she
hastily switched off the lights.</p>

<p>On the way down in the elevator her train of thought
persisted. And long before she reached the Chateau, a
feeling that she was playing something of the part of
Delilah took hold of her and depressed her.</p>

<p>But she was determined. Whatever happened her
service and loyalty was in support of her early benefactors,
and no act of hers should betray them.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>The scene was pleasantly seductive. There was no
doubt or anxiety in Nancy McDonald's mind now. How
should there be? She was young. She was beautiful.
The man with whom she was dining was remarkable

amongst the well-dressed throng that filled the great
dining-room. Then the dinner had been carefully considered.</p>

<p>But it was the delightful surroundings, the little excitement
of it all that left the girl's thought care-free.
The shaded table lights. The wonderful flowers. The
dark panelling of the great room constructed and designed
in imitation of an old French Chateau. Then the throng
of beautifully gowned women, and the men who purposed
an evening of enjoyment. The soft music of the
distant string band and&mdash;oh, it was all dashed with a
touch of Babylonic splendour with due regard for the
decorum required by modern civilisation, and Nancy was
sufficiently young and unused to delight in every moment
of it.</p>

<p>The first excitement of it all had spent itself, and
laughing comment had given place to those things with
which the girl was most concerned.</p>

<p>"Folks can't accuse us of dilatoriness," she said. "Let's
see. Why, we made land this morning after every sort
of a bad passage, battered and worn, and in less than
how many hours?&mdash;eight?&mdash;nine?&mdash;" she laughed.
"Why, I guess a sewing bee wouldn't have got through
their preliminary talk in that time."</p>

<p>"No." Bull too was in the mood for laughter. "A
sewing bee's mighty well named. There's a big buzz
mostly all the time, and the tally of work only needs
to be figgered when the season closes. We've settled up
the future of two enterprises liable to cut big ice in
this country's history in record time."</p>

<p>"You've settled with Mr. Peterman?"</p>

<p>"Roughly."</p>

<p>The man's eyes were shining with a smile of keen
enjoyment.</p>

<p>Nancy experienced a thrill of added excitement as she
disposed of her last oyster.</p>


<p>"I haven't a right to butt in asking too many questions,"
she suggested.</p>

<p>Bull tasted his wine and thoughtfully set his glass
down. Then he looked across at the eager face alight
with every question woman's curiosity and interest could
inspire. He smiled into it. And somehow his smile
was very, very gentle.</p>

<p>"That's pretty well why we're here now though," he
said. "You can just ask all you fancy to know, and
I'll tell you. But maybe I can save you worry by telling
you first."</p>

<p>"Why, yes," Nancy said eagerly. "You see, I'm only
a secretary. I'm not one of the heads of the Skandinavia.
I sort of feel this is high policy which doesn't
really concern me. You're sure you feel like telling me?
Was Mr. Peterman&mdash;friendly?"</p>

<p>"As amiable as a tame&mdash;shark."</p>

<p>"That's pretty fierce."</p>

<p>Bull shook his head.</p>

<p>"It's just a way of putting it. Y'see even a tame
shark don't get over a lifetime habit of swallowing most
things that come his way. Peterman figures to swallow
me&mdash;whole."</p>

<p>Nancy's eyes widened. But the man's tone had been
undisturbed. There was a contented smile in his eyes,
and an atmosphere of unruffled confidence about him that
was rather inspiring. The girl felt its influence.</p>

<p>"You mean he figures to have you join up with the
Skandinavia?"</p>

<p>Bull shook his head as the waiter set the next course
on the table.</p>

<p>"No. He guesses the Skandinavia can buy me."</p>

<p>"I&mdash;see."</p>

<p>Nancy waited. She remembered this man was as
ready to fight as to laugh. Somehow she scented the
battle in him now, for all the ease in his manner.</p>


<p>"I told him it couldn't. I pointed out if there was
any buying to be done I figgered to do it."</p>

<p>"You mean you would buy up&mdash;the Skandinavia?"</p>

<p>Bull's smile deepened. The girl's incredulity amused
him. He understood. To her the Skandinavia Corporation
was the beginning and end of all things. In her eyes
it was the last word in power and influence and wealth.
She knew nothing beyond&mdash;the Skandinavia. A man in
her place would have received prompt and biting retort.
But she was a girl, and Bull was young, and strong, and
at the beginning of a great manhood. He shook his head.</p>

<p>"Well, not just that," he said. "But say, let's get it
right. How'd a woman feel if she'd an elegant baby
child, thoroughbred from the crown of his dandy bald
head to the pretty pink soles of his feet? Just a small
bit of her, of her own creation. Then along comes some
big, swell woman, who's only been able to raise a no
account, sickly kid, an' wants to buy up the first mother's
bit of sheer love. Wouldn't she hear the sort of things
a woman of that sort ought to? Wouldn't she get hell
raised with her?"</p>

<p>"But the Skandinavia's no&mdash;sickly kid."</p>

<p>The girl's eyes were challenging. There was warmth,
too, in her retort. His words had stirred her as he
intended them to stir her.</p>

<p>"You think that?" he said. "You think that they
have the right to demand my&mdash;child? You approve?
That was your desire when you came to me&mdash;that
they should buy me up?"</p>

<p>Bull's smile still remained. There was no shadow of
change in it. But his questions came in headlong
succession.</p>

<p>Just for an instant a feeling of helplessness surged
through the girl's heart. Then it passed, leaving her quite
firm and decided. She looked squarely into the smiling
eyes, and hers were unsmiling but earnestly honest.</p>


<p>"My approval isn't of any concern. I knew that was
the Skandinavia's purpose when I came to you."</p>

<p>"And you called it a business arrangement?"</p>

<p>"No. You did."</p>

<p>The man broke into a laugh. It was a laugh of sheer
amusement.</p>

<p>"That's so," he said. "You were going to hand me
the story of your mission, and I&mdash;and I butted in and
told it to you&mdash;myself."</p>

<p>The girl nodded.</p>

<p>"You were very good to me," she said. "You saw I
was going to flounder, and you took pity on me."</p>

<p>Bull's denial was prompt.</p>

<p>"I just short-circuited things. That's all," he said.
Then he laughed again. "And I'm going to do it again
right now. Here, I want you to hear things the way they
seem to me. You think the Skandinavia's no sickly kid.
Well, I tell you it is. Anyway, in this thing. Peterman
wants to buy me. Why? Don't you know? I think
you do. The Skandinavia's got a mighty bad scare right
now. The Shagaunty's played out. And I'm jumping
the market. For the practical purposes of the moment
the Skandinavia's mighty sick. So Peterman and his
friends reckon to buy me. You're wise to it all?"</p>

<p>Bull's eyes were levelled squarely at the girl's. There
was a challenge in them. But there was no roughness.
It was his purpose to arrive at the full measure of the
girl's feelings and attitude, so far as this effort on the
part of his rivals was concerned.</p>

<p>Nancy was swift to understand. In an ordinary way
her reply would have been prompt. There would have
been no hesitation. But, somehow, there was reluctance
in her now. She made no attempt to analyse her feelings.
All she knew was that this man had a great appeal for
her. He was so big, he was so strongly direct and fearless.
Then, too, his manner was so very gentle, and his

expressive eyes so kindly smiling, while all the while
she felt the fierce resentment against her people going
on behind them.</p>

<p>After a moment decision came to her rescue. She was
of the opposing camp. She could not, and would not,
pretend. It was clear that war lay ahead, and her position
must be that of an honest enemy.</p>

<p>"Yes," she said simply. "I think I know all there is
to know about the position."</p>

<p>She hesitated again. Then she went on in a fashion
that displayed the effort her words were costing.</p>

<p>"We're out to buy you or break you, and I shall play
the part they assign me in the game. Oh, I've nothing
to hide. I've no excuse to make. You will fight your
battle, and we shall fight ours. Maybe we shall learn to
hate each other in the course of it. I don't know. Yet
there's nothing personal in the fight. That's the queer
thing in commercial warfare, isn't it? I'd be glad for
our two concerns to run right along side by side. But
they can't. They just can't. And, as I understand,
one or the other's got to go right to the wall before we're
through. Can't all this be saved? Must all this sort of&mdash;bloodshed&mdash;go
on? We're two great enterprises, and,
combined, we'd be just that much greater. Together
we'd rule the whole world's markets and dictate our own
terms. And then, and then&mdash;"</p>

<p>"We'd be doing the thing I'm out to stop&mdash;if it costs
me all I have or am in this world."</p>

<p>For a moment the man's eyes forgot to smile, and
Nancy was permitted to gaze on the great, absorbing
purpose his manner had hitherto held concealed. She
was startled at the passionate denial, and robbed of all
desire to reply.</p>

<p>"Here!" Bull set his elbows on the table and supported
his chin on his hands. "Get this. Get it good,
and all the time. I wouldn't work with the Skandinavia

for all the dollars this country's presses could print.
I'm not going to hand you the reason. Some day, maybe
when your folks have smashed me, or I've smashed
them, I'll tell you about it. But I tell you this now,
there's no sort of business arrangement I ever figgered
to enter into with Elas Peterman, and there's no sort
of thing in God's world ever could, or would, induce
me to come to any terms of his."</p>

<p>Then his manner changed again, and his passionate
moment became lost in a great laugh.</p>

<p>"Maybe you'll want to know why I changed my plans
so easily, and came along down in a hurry to see Peterman.
Why I seemed ready to fall for his proposition.
Well, I guess I won't hand you the reason of that, either.
I'd like to, but I won't." He shook his head and his
laugh had gone again. "Anyway, it served my purpose,
and Peterman knows just how things stand&mdash;and are
going to stand&mdash;between us."</p>

<p>"Then it's war? Ruthless, implacable&mdash;war?" There
was awe in the girl's tone and her lips were dry. She
sipped her wine quickly to moisten them, and set the
glass down with a hand that was not quite steady. Bull
saw the signs of distress.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, it's war all right," he said quietly. "Maybe
it's ruthless, implacable. But it's part of the game.
Don't worry a thing. You're in the enemy lines. You've
got your duty. So far you've done your duty; and you've
made good, and will get the reward you need. Well,
go right on doing that duty, and there isn't a just
creature on God's earth that'll have right to blame
you. I won't blame you. Go right on; and when
it's all through, I'll be ready to sit here with you
again, and talk and laugh over it, as we've been
doing&mdash;"</p>

<p>He broke off. A frightened look had leapt into Nancy's
eyes. She was no longer attending to him. She was

watching the tall, squarely military figure of a man
moving down one of the aisles between the softly lit
tables. The man's dark eyes were searching over the
room, as he followed the head waiter conducting him to
the table that had been reserved for him. Bull turned
and followed the direction of the girl's gaze. And as he
did so he encountered the cold, unsmiling glance of the
other man's eyes. It was only for an instant. Then
he turned back to the girl.</p>

<p>"Friend Peterman," he said.</p>

<p>Nancy made a pretence of eating.</p>

<p>"Yes," she said, without raising her eyes.</p>

<p>Nancy's emotion was painfully obvious. Bull realised
it. She was afraid. Why? A swift thought flashed
through the man's mind, to be followed by a feeling
such as he had never known before. Hitherto Elas
Peterman had represented only a sufficiently worthy
adversary who must be encountered and defeated. Now,
all in a moment, that was changed into something fiercer,
more furiously human and abiding.</p>

<p>"Does it matter?" he asked very quietly.</p>

<p>Nancy looked up from her plate. There was a flicker
of a smile in the eyes that a moment before had expressed
only apprehension. She shook her head.</p>

<p>"I don't know&mdash;yet," she said. Her smile deepened.
"You see, I refused to dine with him here to-night. I
excused myself on a plea of weariness. I really did want
rest. But&mdash;well, I didn't want to dine with him, anyway.
He's seen me&mdash;with you."</p>

<p>"Do you often dine with him?"</p>

<p>The man had no smile in response, and his question
came swiftly.</p>

<p>"I've never dined with him."</p>

<p>Bull sat back. His eyes were smiling.</p>

<p>"Well, I guess the answer's easy. You're here fighting
for the Skandinavia. And I'd say you've been doing it

mighty well. Maybe Peterman'll feel sore, but he'll see
it that way after&mdash;awhile."</p>

</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_22"></a>
<h3>Chapter XIII&mdash;Deepening Waters</h3>


<p>Nancy thought long and earnestly over her breakfast.
She thought deeply as she proceeded to her office. Even
the business of again taking up the thread of her work
failed to absorb her.</p>

<p>Apprehension disturbed, and a certain sense of guilt
weighed upon her. The vision of the tall figure of Elas
Peterman as it moved down the dining-room at the
Chateau remained with her. She had caught the glance
of his dark eyes. She knew he had recognised her; and
there had been neither smile nor recognition in the swift
exchange that had passed between them.</p>

<p>So she answered the usual morning summons of her
chief without any pleasant anticipation. She expected a
bad time, and strove to prepare herself for it.</p>

<p>But alarm vanished the moment she ushered herself
into the man's presence. He was not at his desk poring
over his littered correspondence. She found him standing
before his favourite window, gazing out reflectively
upon the grey light of the early winter day. He turned
at the sound of her entry, and his smile of greeting lacked
nothing of its usual cordiality.</p>

<p>Had she observed him a moment before it must have
been different. But she had been spared all sight of the
mood that had driven him to abandon urgent correspondence
in favour of the drab outlook beyond the window.
It was a bad expression. It was the expression
of a man of fierce cruelty. It was not an expression of
open, hot anger, which flares up, passes, and is forgotten
like the fury of a summer storm. It was rather the slowly

banking clouds of winter, piling up for a climax that
should be devastating. And through it all he had smiled,
smiled with angry eyes that seemed to grow colder and
harder every moment.</p>

<p>Nancy knew little of the world, and less of men and
women. It could not have been otherwise. Vital with
a youthful optimism and strong purpose, she had devoted
herself to work to the exclusion of everything else. And
before that there had only been the scrupulous care of
the good matrons of Marypoint. A wider experience, a
maturer mind would have yielded her doubt as she beheld
the man's smiling greeting now. She would have
reminded herself of her offence, and understood its
enormity in the eyes of a man. She would have had
a better appreciation of her own attractions, and would
have long since understood this man's regard for her.</p>

<p>As it was she snatched at the relief his smile inspired.</p>

<p>The man laughingly shook his head as the girl
approached.</p>

<p>"Nancy, my dear, I hope Mr. Bull Sternford gave you
as good a dinner as I would have given you, and&mdash;as
good a time generally. You look well rested, anyway."</p>

<p>There was a sting in the words that all the man's care
could not quite shut out. But the tone was of intended
good-nature. In a moment Nancy was explaining.</p>

<p>"Oh, I know you must think me terribly mean," she
cried impulsively. "You must think I was just lying to
you when you asked me to dine yesterday. But it wasn't
so. It surely wasn't. May I tell you about it?"</p>

<p>The man came back to his desk, and indicated the
empty chair beside it.</p>

<p>"Sure, if you feel that way," he said, dropping
into his seat while Nancy took hers. "But I'm not
angry. Truth I'm not." For a moment he gazed
smilingly into the girl's troubled eyes. "Here," he
went on. "I'll tell you just how I think. Maybe you

won't figger it flattering, but it's just plain truth. Now
I'm a married man and you're a young girl. Well, the
Chateau isn't the sort of place for you and me to be seen
together in. I didn't think of it when I asked you. I
just wanted to hand you a good time for the good work
you've done. Sort of prize for a good girl, eh? I hadn't
another thought about it. And when you refused me,
and I thought it over, I was kind of glad&mdash;I might have
compromised you, and I certainly would have compromised
myself. You get that? You understand me?
Of course you do. That's what I like. You're so darn
sensible. Now you tell me&mdash;if you fancy to?"</p>

<p>Nancy sighed her relief. Her last cloud had passed
away.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes," she began at once. "I do want to tell
you. You see I think it's all-important."</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>The man's smile was unchanged. But there was a
dryness in his monosyllable that only Nancy could have
missed.</p>

<p>"Mr. Sternford 'phoned me after his interview with
you."</p>

<p>"He had your 'phone number?"</p>

<p>"Surely, I gave him that before he left me after
driving up from the docks."</p>

<p>"I see. Of course. You drove up together after landing.
I forgot."</p>

<p>Nancy laughed.</p>

<p>"I don't think I told you," she said. "But it doesn't
matter, anyway. Yes, he drove me up. And the whole
of this affair was so interesting I just had to hear the
result of the interview with you. So I told him my 'phone
number. Well, right after he'd seen you he rang me up.
He told me he couldn't speak over the 'phone the things
that passed, and asked me to dine. I just had to fall
for that. You see, this thing meant so much to me.

It was the first big thing I'd handled, and&mdash;and I was so
crazy to make good for you. So I promised. And it
wasn't till after it was all fixed I realised the mean way
I'd acted. You'll forgive me, won't you, Mr. Peterman?
I just hadn't a notion to be mean, and I was all tired to
death. But I had to hear about the things you'd fixed."</p>

<p>"And you heard?"</p>

<p>The man was leaning on the desk with one hand supporting
his head. Not one shadow of condemnation or
resentment was permitted in voice or look. And the
girl was completely disarmed. But her smile died out
and a swift apprehension, that had no relation to herself,
replaced it. In a moment her mind had gone back to
the declaration of war which was to involve the two
enterprises.</p>

<p>"Yes. He told me."</p>

<p>"And&mdash;?"</p>

<p>"Oh, it's all wrong. It's all foolish, and wrong, and
just terrible," she broke in impulsively. Then she became
calmly thoughtful, and her even brows drew together
in an effort to straighten out the things she wanted
to say. She shook her head. "I'm sure he can be
handled," she went on deliberately. "Oh, yes. In spite
of the things they say of him."</p>

<p>"What's that?"</p>

<p>"Why he's as ready to fight as to laugh."</p>

<p>"Who says that?"</p>

<p>"That's the way they speak of him."</p>

<p>"Who speaks that way?"</p>

<p>Nancy laughed.</p>

<p>"It was just a queer sort of missionary who told me.
I met him when I was at Arden Laval's camp. A man
they call Father Adam."</p>

<p>Peterman nodded.</p>

<p>"And you guess he can be handled?"</p>

<p>"I think so." Nancy spread out her hands. "Oh,

it's not for me to talk this way to you, Mr. Peterman,
but&mdash;but&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Go on." The man was patiently reassuring as the
girl hesitated. "It's good to hear you talk. And then
it was you who got him to listen to our proposal at all."</p>

<p>The compliment had prompt effect. The girl's cheeks
flushed, and a light of something approaching delight
shone in the hazel depths of her eyes.</p>

<p>"I don't know," she cried. "But it seems to me he's
sort of reasonable. He's kind of full of ideals and that
sort of notion. He's out for a big purpose and all that.
But I don't believe he'd turn down any business arrangement
that would hand him the thing he wants&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Business arrangement?" Peterman sat up. The
laugh accompanying his words was full of amiable
derision. He shook his head. "If he won't sell he's got
to be smashed. That's the only business arrangement that
suits us. We're far too big for compromise. No, my
dear. He won't sell. He asked to buy us. He&mdash;this
darn fool man from Sachigo. He thinks to buy the
Skandinavia like he's buying up all the mills he can lay
hands on. But he bit off a chunk when he handed that
stuff to me. He's as ready to fight as to laugh. Well,
I guess he's going to get all the fight he needs. He'll
get it plenty."</p>

<p>"Then you mean to&mdash;smash him?"</p>

<p>"Just as sure as it's started to snow right now," the
man exclaimed, pointing at the window.</p>

<p>Nancy's gaze followed the pointing finger. But it was
not the snow she was thinking of. It was the man whom
she beheld staggering under the tremendous weight of
the Skandinavia's might. She felt pity for him. And
incautiously she permitted Elas Peterman to realise her
pity.</p>

<p>"Can't anything be done?" she ventured gently.
"Have you handled him? I mean&mdash;Oh, I'm sure he's

reasonable. Can't the offer be made&mdash;more suitable?
More&mdash;?"</p>

<p>Peterman's eyes suddenly hardened.</p>

<p>"What do you mean? I haven't handled him right?
I've blundered? I&mdash;" He laughed without any mirth.
"See here, Nancy, my dear, you're a bright girl, but don't
hand me your worry for this darn fool. You're kind of
tender-hearted. You guess it's a pretty tough thing to
see a good-looker boy go down in a big commercial fight.
That's because you're a woman. This sort of thing's
part of business. It's harsher, more ruthless than even
war on the battlefield with guns, and bombs, and stinking
gas. We're going to fight this thing just that way.
There's no mercy for Mr. Bull Sternford. He'll get all
I can hand him just the way I know best how to hand it.
And the tougher I can make it the better it'll please me.
See? Now you just run right along and see to those
things that are going to make you big in the Skandinavia,
and don't give a thought for the feller who's handed me
stuff I don't stand for in any man. There's liable to be
big work for you in this fight, and I'd say you'll make
as good in fight as in peace. You've got my goodwill
anyway, my dear, just for all it's worth. That's all."</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>The door had closed behind the girl. Elas Peterman
was on his feet pacing the thickly carpeted floor. There
was no longer any attempt at disguise. A surge of
jealous fury was raging through his hot heart and drove
him mercilessly.</p>

<p>The picture of Nancy, radiantly beautiful, seated at
dinner with Bull Sternford had lit a fire of bitter hatred
in his Teutonic heart. So he paced the room and permitted
the fierce tide to flood the channels of sanity and
set them awash with the ready evil of his impulse.</p>

<p>From the first moment of the girl's story of her

successful effort with this man, Sternford, this vaunting
rival, Peterman had been bitterly stirred. The
man's change of plans at her bidding he had understood
on the instant. The man from Labrador had not changed
his plans at the bidding of the Skandinavia. It was the
girl who had induced him. It was she who had attracted
him. Then the boat trip, and the girl's confession of his
having, perhaps, saved her life. What had preceded
that incident? What had followed it? And when Elas
Peterman asked himself such questions it was simple
for him to find the answer. He had seen Sternford, and
had judged the position. He knew what would have
happened had he been in this man's place. Sternford
wasn't the man to throw away such chances, either. He
had fallen for the girl, and she doubtless had&mdash;The
picture he had witnessed at the Chateau had left him
without any doubt. The driving up together from the
docks, the telephone. Sternford had taken her to her
apartment. Oh, it was all as clear as daylight. Then
the girl's pity for the man who was to feel the weight of
the Skandinavia's wrathful might. She had said he was
reasonable. She had hinted that he, Peterman, had
blundered. There was only one reasonable interpretation
to the position. And it did not leave him guessing for
one single moment.</p>

<p>Once he passed a fleshy hand up over his forehead and
brushed back his dark hair. Once he came to a pause
before his window and stood gazing out at the falling
snow with hot eyes. No such fury of jealousy had ever
entered into his life before. Never had he dreamed
before of the tremendous hold this girl had obtained
upon him. His claim on her had all seemed so natural,
so easy. He had looked upon her as property that was
indisputably his. He might have learned something from
his feelings when he had paraded her before Hellbeam.
But he had not done so. Now he knew. Now he knew

the whole measure of them. And the bitterness of his
awakening was maddening.</p>

<p>Well, Bull Sternford should get away with no play of
that sort at his expense. He warned himself that he was
no simple fool to be played with. And if Nancy wanted
the man&mdash; But he broke away from under the lash of
impotent fury, and turned to a channel of thought which
was bound to serve a nature such as his in his present
mood.</p>

<p>He returned to his desk and flung himself into the
chair. And after a while his mind settled itself to the
task his mood demanded. He sat staring straight ahead
of him, and presently the heat passed out of his eyes, and
they grew cold, and hard. Later, they began to smile
again&mdash;but it was a smile of cruelty, of evil purpose. It
was a smile more unrelenting in its cruelty than any
frown could have expressed.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>For the first time Nancy's eyes were open to the things
of life as they really were. She had tasted a certain
bitterness in the early days of her girlhood. But up till
now the world had seemed something of a rose garden
in which it was a delight to labour. Up till now she had
seen no reverse to the picture of life as youth had painted
it for her. Now, however, it was borne in upon her
that there was a reverse, a reverse that was ugly and
painfully distressing. It was this declaration of war
between her own people and the man from Labrador.</p>

<p>She lay in her bed that night thinking, thinking, and
without any desire for sleep. Strive as she would to
search the position out logically, to estimate the true
meaning of it all, to fathom the chances of this war, and
to grasp the necessity for it, all these efforts only resulted
in a tangle of thought revolving about the picture of a
youthful man of vast stature, with eyes that were always
clear-searching or smiling, and with a head of hair that

reminded her of a lion's mane. And as she gazed upon
this mental picture there were moments when it seemed
to her there was grave trouble in the clear depths which
so appealed to her. The smile in her eyes seemed to fade
out, to be replaced by a look that seemed to express
the hurtful knowledge of a man disheartened, defeated,
crushed. They were in rival camps. They were at war.
Each desired victory. And yet the sight she beheld, the
signs of defeat she discovered in the man's eyes gave
her no joy, no satisfaction.</p>

<p>She felt that the battle could end only one way. The
might of the Skandinavia was too great for anything
but its complete victory. She was sure, quite sure. Oh,
yes. And she knew she would not have it otherwise.
But the pity of it. This creature of splendid manhood.
To think that he must go down&mdash;smashed. That was
the word they used&mdash;smashed.</p>

<p>How she hated the word. The big soul of him with
his ready kindliness. Oh, it was a pity. It was a distracting
thought. And why should it be? For the life
of her she could see no need. A little yielding on his
part. Just a shade less iron stubbornness. The whole
thing could have been avoided she was sure. The olive
branch had been held out by the Skandinavia. But he
had deliberately refused it.</p>

<p>No. He had made himself their enemy. Then surely
there could be no complaint at the disaster that would
overtake him. He was clearly to blame. So why let
the contemplation of it distract her?</p>

<p>She strove a hundred times to dismiss the whole thing
from her mind. She courted sleep in every conceivable
way. But it was all useless. The man's fine eyes and
great body haunted her. They pursued her to her last
waking thought. And, at last, she fell asleep, thinking of
the strong supporting arms that had held her safe from
the fury of Atlantic waves.</p>
</div>



<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_23"></a>
<h3>Chapter XIV&mdash;The Planning Of Campaign</h3>


<p>Nathaniel Hellbeam sat ominously calm and unruffled
while Elas Peterman told of his meeting with Bull Sternford.
He gave no sign whatever. There was just the
flicker of a smile of appreciation of Bull's effrontery
when he heard of his response to Peterman's invitation
to sell. That alone of the whole story seemed to afford
him interest. For the rest, it had only been the sort of
thing he expected.</p>

<p>He waited until the other had finished. Then he
stirred in his chair. It was an expression of relief that
his long, silent sitting had ended.</p>

<p>"So," he said. "We do not buy him. No. We
smash him."</p>

<p>There was obvious satisfaction that the more peaceful
process was to be set aside.</p>

<p>He sat blinking at his subordinate in the fashion of a
man who is thinking hard, and has no interest in the
object upon which he is gazing.</p>

<p>"It is as I think&mdash;all the time," he said at last. "That
is all right. I make no cry out. It is easy to fight. I
would fight always with an enemy. It is good. Now
my friend, you have acted so. You bring the man from
Sachigo to tell you to go to hell. Eh? Well you have
thought much? You have planned for the fight? How
is it you make this fight?"</p>

<p>Elas was standing before the desk. He had, yielded
his place to this man who was master of the Skandinavia.
Now he looked down at the square-headed creature with
his gross, squat body. It was a figure and face bristling
with venom and purpose; and somehow he was conscious
of a sudden lack of his usual assurance.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes," he replied thoughtfully. "I've planned&mdash;sure.

But I guess I'm in the dark a bit. It's going to
cost a deal. It's not going to be easy. You were ready
to buy. It was not necessarily to be the Skandinavia
who bought. Well, are you&mdash;going to vote the credit
for this fight?" He smiled uncertainly. "And to what
extent?"</p>

<p>"The limit. Go on."</p>

<p>Peterman nodded.</p>

<p>"There's no commercial enterprise that can stand idleness.
His work must stop. His&mdash;"</p>

<p>"That is the A.B.C. of it."</p>

<p>There was sharp impatience in the financier's biting
tone.</p>

<p>"Just so. It is the A.B.C. of it."</p>

<p>Hellbeam set back in his chair. He clasped his hands
across his stomach.</p>

<p>"I will tell you," he said, a wicked smile lighting his
deep-set eyes, his cheeks rounding themselves in his
satisfaction. "His work will stop. His mill is far
away. There is no protection from attack except that
which he can set up himself. He is going away. He will
have eighteen hundred miles of water between him and
his mill. It should be easy with a good plan and all the
money. Listen.</p>

<p>"His work must stop. How? There are ways. His
mill may burn. His forests may burn. His men may
revolt. They may refuse to work for him. All, or any
of these things may serve. There are men at all times
ready to carry out these things. You can tell them, or
you need not, the way they must act." He shook his
head. "You say to them his work must stop; and you
pay them more than he can pay them. So his work will
stop. That is so? Yes? Very well. There is ha'f a
million dollars that will pay for his work to stop. I say
that."</p>

<p>Peterman was startled. He had not been prepared for

so sweeping a proposal. He had understood that the
man had been prepared to stand at almost nothing in
his desire to achieve some end, the nature of which still
remained somewhat obscure to him. For all his own
lack of scruple in his dealings with those who offended,
the calm, fiendish purpose of this man shocked him not
a little.</p>

<p>He took the chair usually occupied by his visitors.</p>

<p>"You will pay ha'f a million dollars for this thing?"
he demanded, to re-assure himself.</p>

<p>Self-satisfaction looked out of the eyes of the man
behind the desk.</p>

<p>"More&mdash;if necessary."</p>

<p>"By God! You must hate this boy, Sternford."</p>

<p>Peterman's feelings had broken from under his control.</p>

<p>"Sternford? Psha! It is not Sternford. No."</p>

<p>The smile had gone from Hellbeam's eyes. They were
fiercely burning. They were the hot, passionate eyes of
a man obsessed, of a man possessed of a monomania.
Peterman, watching, beheld the sudden change in him.
He shrank before the insanity he had so deeply probed.</p>

<p>Hellbeam sat forward in his chair. His forearms were
resting on the desk, and his hands were clenched so that
the finger-nails almost cut into the flesh of their palms.
His massive face was flushed, and the coarse veins at
his temples stood out like cords.</p>

<p>"Here, I tell you," he cried gutturally, returning in his
fury to the native Teuton in him. "Can you hate&mdash;yes?
Have you known hate? Eh? No. You the white liver
have. You cannot hate. It is not in you. Oh, no. It
is for me. Yes. It has been so for years. And I tell
you it is the only thing in life. Woman? No. I have
known them. They mean little. They are a pleasure that
passes. Money? What is it when you play the market
as you choose? The day comes when you can help
yourself. And you no longer desire so to do. Hate?

That lives. That feeds on body and brain. That consumes
till there is only a dead carcase left. Ah! Hate
is for the lifetime. It can leave all those others as nothing.
In it there is joy, despair, all the time, every hour of life."</p>

<p>He held up one hand and opened his fingers. Then
he slowly closed them with a curious expressive movement
of ruthless destruction.</p>

<p>"You hate and you think. You see your vengeance in
operation. You see him there in your hand; and you
see the blood sweat as you squeeze and crush out the
life that has offended. Man, it is a joy that never leaves
you till you accomplish this thing. Then, after, you
have the memory. And while you think, even though
he is dead, smashed in your grip, he still suffers as you
think. Oh, yes."</p>

<p>"And you hate&mdash;that way?"</p>

<p>A feeling of sudden fear had taken possession of
Peterman. This gross, squat man had become something
terrible to him.</p>

<p>"Ja!"</p>

<p>The Teuton leapt in the furious emphasis hurled.</p>

<p>"Oh, ja! I hate. I tell you of it."</p>

<p>The man with the insane eyes picked up a pen. He
turned it about in his fingers. Then, suddenly, but
slowly, the fingers began to break it. The wood split
under their pressure, and the pieces littered the table.
He gazed at them for a moment. Then one hand clenched
and came down with a crash on the blotting pad. Then
he sat back in his chair again, with his cruel eyes gazing
straight out at the window opposite.</p>

<p>"It is years now. Oh, yes." A deep breath escaped
from between the man's coarse lips. "I ruled the markets.
I ruled them so that they obeyed me. I was the money
power of this continent. I did as I chose. So I thought.
Then he came. This man. He did not disturb me. Oh,
no. I slept good all the time. Then I woke. I woke

to find I was beaten of ten million dollars; and that Wall
Street, the markets of the world, were laughing that this
schoolmaster, this fool Scotsman from over the water,
had picked my pocket while I slept. It was not the money.
It was the laugh. And he got away. Oh, yes. I tell
it now. The market knew of it then. They laughed.
How they laughed. So I sat and thought. I had all.
There was nothing more to have. And then I learned to
hate."</p>

<p>The narrowed eyes came back to the face of the man
beside the desk. There was a sharp intake of breath.</p>

<p>"This mill, this Sachigo, was built out of my money.
And the man who built it was the man who robbed me
while I slept."</p>

<p>A world of fierce bitterness lay in the final words, and
the man listening realised the enormity of the offence, as
this man saw it. But he was left puzzled.</p>

<p>"But you would have&mdash;bought this Sachigo?" he said,
said.</p>

<p>Hellbeam's eyes were again turned to the window.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes," he said. "I would have bought. It would
bring me to meet this man. It is that I ask. That only.
My hands would close upon him. And I would see the
blood sweat of his heart ooze under them."</p>

<p>Hellbeam had finished. Peterman understood that.
The passion had passed out of his eyes and the veins of
his forehead were no longer distended. He remained
gazing at the window.</p>

<p>For some moments the younger man made no attempt
to intrude further. He had little desire to, anyway.
Without scruple himself, he still found little pleasure in
probing the heart of this man, who was so powerful in
his own destiny. That which he had witnessed had
served only to show him the delicacy of his own position.
He knew that the story had been told for one reason only.
It was to convince him, for the sake of his own wellbeing

in the Skandinavia, that he must make no mistake
in the warfare he must wage against the people of Sachigo.
It was for him to wage the battle with every faculty that
was in him; and any failure of his would mean disaster
for himself. This was no commercial warfare. It was
the insane purpose of a monomaniac.</p>

<p>In those silent moments Elas Peterman thought with a
rapidity inspired by the urgency he felt to be driving
him. And the fertility of his imagination served him
unfailingly. Oh yes. Necessity was driving. But so,
too, was his own personal feelings. He saw in the position
that this man had revealed an advantage to himself
he had never looked for. With the necessary money
forthcoming, and no directors to concern himself with,
literally a free hand, he could employ a power which, in
these days of unrest and hatred between capital and
labour, would be well-nigh overwhelming. The morality
of it, the ultimate consequence of it mattered nothing.
The smashing of Sachigo would mean the smashing of
Bull Sternford. And he saw a way whereby the smashing
of Bull Sternford could be achieved through&mdash;</p>

<p>His mind focused itself, as it was bound to do, upon
this thing as it affected his own desires. He, too, was a
passionate hater, for all Hellbeam's denial. His thought
leapt at once to Nancy McDonald and the man who had
thrust himself between him and his desires. Whatever
insane hatred lay behind Hellbeam's purpose, it was not
one whit more insensate than Elas Peterman's feelings
against the man who had come down from Sachigo at
Nancy's bidding.</p>

<p>Suddenly he looked up and glanced at the man occupying
the chair that was his. Hellbeam was still gazing
at the window, pre-occupied with his own thoughts.</p>

<p>"You can leave this thing in my hands, sir," he said.
"Our organisation has been working steadily to undermine
the Sachigo people for months past. That has

always been part of our policy. I'd say the whole thing's
going to fit very well. You say, if necessary, you'll find
half a million dollars for the business. We shan't need
a tithe of that. However, it's well to know it. And
none of it needs to worry our directors. I'll set about it
right away&mdash;in my own fashion&mdash;and I'll promise you a
quick result. We'll smash these folk all right. But how
it's to hand you the man you need I'm not wise&mdash;"</p>

<p>"No." Hellbeam's eyes were certainly derisive as they
turned back from the window. "This man, Martin,
will show himself when he sees the&mdash;destruction. My
people will do the rest."</p>

<p>"Unless he leaves it&mdash;to Sternford. They tell us this
man would as soon fight as laugh. That's how Miss
McDonald said the missionary, Father Adam, told her."</p>

<p>"Father Adam?" The derision in the financier's eyes
had deepened. "That's the man that other fool talks of."</p>

<p>Peterman shrugged. The sting in the financier's words
stirred him to resentment.</p>

<p>"I don't know about that. Anyway&mdash;"</p>

<p>"How is it you say? Get busy. Yes."</p>

<p>Hellbeam rose stiffly from his seat and picked up his
hat. He was quite untouched by the other's change
of tone.</p>

<p>"Do it how you please. Break that mill. I care nothing
for the means. Smash 'em, and leave the rest to
me. And when you that have done you can do the thing
you please. You will have my good will. I say that.
Now I go."</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Peterman picked up the 'phone the moment the door
had closed behind the one man in all the world he really
feared, and at the other end of it Nancy took the message
summoning her to his presence. The man spoke with
unusual urgency. But his tone was pleasant, and more

than conciliatory. He wanted her at once. She could
leave her reports. She could leave everything. He had
some news for her of the pleasantest nature. Oh, yes.
He had determined big things for her. She had earned
them all. But a thing had happened whereby there
need be no limit to her advancement if she would take
the chance of a big work offered her. Would she kindly
come up right away.</p>

<p>Nancy listened to this message with a stirring of heart.
What was the great work that was to place no limit on
her advancement? It was a feeling rather than a thought.
For a moment she stood in her glass-partitioned office
after she had received the message and a smile of great
happiness lit her eyes.</p>

<p>She was desperately earnest with a singleness of purpose
which had in it something of the recklessness of the
father before her. She was a child in all else. A wide
vision of achievement was spread out before her. She
could see nothing beyond. She could see nothing to give
her pause, nothing even to bestir a belated caution.
So she left her office for the interview Peterman had
demanded without suspicion, and with a heart and mind
ready to plunge her headlong into any labours which
the Skandinavia demanded of her.</p>

<p>She had completely forgotten, in that moment of
exultation, the squarely military figure that had passed
down the dining-room of the Chateau, and the coldly
unsmiling eyes with which it had regarded her as she sat
with her companion over their memorable meal.</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_24"></a>
<h3>Chapter XV&mdash;The Sailing Of The <em>Empress</em></h3>


<p>Bull Sternford was reading over the telegram he had
just written. Its phraseology was curious. But it expressed

the things he wanted to say, and he knew it would
be understood by the man to whom it was addressed.</p>

<div class="display">
<p>"HARKER, SACHIGO, LABRADOR.</p>

<p>"Sailing to-morrow. War. Pass mill through hair sieve.
Clear all refuse. Watch fireguard. Look around. Plums
otherwise ripe. Return earliest date.</p>

<p style="text-align: right">"BULL."</p>
</div>

<p>He smiled as he looked up from his reading. An
acquaintance passed through the hall of the hotel. He
nodded to him. Then the smile died out of his eyes, and
it was like the passing of a gleam of sunshine. He passed
the message across the counter to the attendant and paid
for it.</p>

<p>War! It was only an added development in the course
of the ceaseless work of life. The thought of it disturbed
him not one whit. It was the element in which he thrived.
But for all that his mood had lost much of its usual
equanimity.</p>

<p>For two weeks he had applied himself assiduously to
the work upon which he was engaged. He had travelled
hundreds of miles to the other capital cities of the country
in pursuit of his affairs. He had worked in that express
fashion which was characteristic of him. But under it
all, through it all, a depressing disappointment hung like
a shadow over every successful effort he put forth. The
memory of an evening at the Chateau haunted him.
The vision of smiling hazel eyes and a radiant crowning
of vivid hair filled every moment of his waking dreaming.
He had not seen or heard of Nancy McDonald since that
first night in Quebec.</p>

<p>To-morrow he sailed for England. The thought of it
afforded him none of the satisfaction with which he had
always looked forward to that journey. Yet it meant
no less to him now. On the contrary. It really meant
more. It meant that his work was marching forward

to the great completion which was to crown his labours,
and the work of those others who had conceived the
task.</p>

<p>It should have been a wonderful moment for him. The
house of Leader and Company of London had thrown
its doors open to him in welcome. Sir Frank Leader with
his millions, his shipping, his great power, and the confidence
which his name inspired in British commercial
circles, would not fail. The prospect lying ahead, for
all the threatened war, should have stirred him to a keen
enthusiasm that achievement was within his grasp. But
none of these emotions were stirring.</p>

<p>He felt if he could only see Nancy McDonald, that perfect
creature with her amazing beauty and splendid
courage, just to exchange a few words, just to receive
her smiling "bon voyage," and even to hear her laughing
declaration of her frank enmity, why&mdash;it would&mdash;But
there was no chance now&mdash;none at all. He sailed to-morrow.</p>

<p>He had dreamed a wonderful dream since first he had
beheld the charming fur-clad figure enter his office at
Sachigo. He had realised, even in those first moments,
the impish act of Fate. Nancy McDonald was the one
woman in the world who could mean life&mdash;real life to
him, and they were definitely arrayed against each other
in the battle for commercial supremacy in which they
were both engaged.</p>

<p>But Fate's act had only added to his desire. The
whole thing had appealed to his combative instinct. It
had left him feeling there was not alone the storming of
the Skandinavia's stronghold to be achieved. There was
also a captive, a fair, innocent captive held bound and
prisoned within the citadel for him to set free. He
wanted Nancy as he wanted nothing else in the world.
Sachigo? Canada for the Canadians? These things
were cold, meaningless words. He only thought of the

dawning of the day that should see Nancy his wife, his
everything in life.</p>

<p>He betook himself out on to the Terraces overlooking
the slowly freezing waterway of the great St. Lawrence
river. It was keenly cold, and the white carpet of
winter's first snow remained unmelted on the ground.
But the sun was shining, and the crisp air was sparkling,
and the terraces were filled with fur-clad folk who, like
himself, had found leisure for a half hour of one of the
finest views in the world.</p>

<p>He paced leisurely down the great promenade towards
the old Citadel with all its memories of great men, and
the old time Buccaneers who had made history about
its walls. He gazed upon it and wondered. Were they
such bad old days? Were the men who lived in those
times great men? Were they scoundrelly Buccaneers?
Were their scruples and morals any more lax than those
of to-day? Were they any different from those who
walked under the shadow of the old walls? They were
the questions doubtless asked a thousand times in as
many minutes by those who paused to think as they
contemplated this fine old landmark.</p>

<p>Bull found his own prompt answers. There was no
difference, he told himself. The men and women of to-day
were doing the same things, enduring the same emotions,
fighting the same battles, living and loving, and hating
and dying, just as life had ordained from the beginning
of time. And as he stood there he wondered how long
this round of human effort and passion must continue.
How long this&mdash;</p>

<p>"Why, I hadn't an idea you were so interested in our
old history as to be wasting precious time out here in
the snow, Mr. Sternford."</p>

<p>The challenge was full of pleasant, even delighted
greeting. And Bull snatched his cigar from his lips and
bared his head.</p>


<p>It was the voice he had longed to hear for many days.
And it rang with an added charm in his delighted ears.
He had turned on the instant, and stood smiling down
into eyes that had never ceased from their haunting.</p>

<p>He shook his head.</p>

<p>"If you'll believe me I wasn't wasting time," he said.
"I came out here for a very definite purpose. I've done
the thing I hoped. Do you know I guessed I'd have to
sail to-morrow without seeing you again?"</p>

<p>Nancy's eyes sobered. And without their smile Bull
thought he detected a cloud of trouble in them.</p>

<p>"I didn't know you were sailing to-morrow," she said.
"It's just a chance I couldn't help that let me meet you
now."</p>

<p>"You mean you avoided me&mdash;deliberately?"</p>

<p>Bull's smile had passed. But there was no umbrage
in his manner. The girl's appeal for him was never so
great as at that moment. She had never been more beautiful
to him. He had first seen her in that same long
fur coat, and had gazed into her pretty eyes under the
same fur cap. He was glad she was so clad now. To his
mind no other costume could have so much charm for
him.</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>The simple downrightness of the admission might have
disconcerted another. But its honesty and lack of subterfuge
only pleased the man.</p>

<p>"That's what I thought. It's this business standing
between your folk and me?"</p>

<p>Nancy nodded.</p>

<p>"Yes. We are enemies."</p>

<p>"That's so," Bull agreed. "That's the pity of it. If
you were on my side&mdash;"</p>

<p>"But I'm not. No." Nancy's denial was almost sharp.
It certainly was hurried. "I'm kind of glad I've seen
you, though," she went on. "I've had it in mind I wanted

to say things to you." A smile came back to her eyes.
"You see, there are enemies and enemies. There's the
enemy you can regard well. There's the enemy you can
hate and despise. Well, I just want to say we're enemies
who don't need to hate and despise&mdash;yet. I don't know
how things'll be later. Maybe you'll learn to hate me
good before we're through. But that's as maybe. I'm
going to do my work for all I know for my folks. I'm
going to be in this fight right up to my neck. I've been
warned that way. Well, that being so, I'm going to fight
without looking for quarter, and I shall give none. That
sounds tough, doesn't it? But I mean it. And I wanted
to say it before things start. I'm glad I've had the chance&mdash;against
my notions of things."</p>

<p>Bull laughed. He was in the mood to laugh&mdash;now.</p>

<p>"It sounds fine. Say&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Are you laughing at me?"</p>

<p>"There isn't a thing further from my thoughts."
Bull's denial was sincere and prompt. "I'm glad you
happened along. I'm glad you said those things. Fight
this war&mdash;as I shall&mdash;with all that's in you. It don't
matter a thing if you're right or wrong. Fight it square
and hard for your folk, and there isn't a right man or
woman, but who'll respect you, and think the better of
you for it. A good fight's no crime when you're convinced
you're right."</p>

<p>The girl drew a deep breath, and, to the man, it seemed
in the nature of relief. A great anxiety for her stirred
him.</p>

<p>"I'm glad you said that," she said. Then she gazed
reflectively up at the old ramparts. "No. It's no
crime to fight when you're convinced. Besides it's right,
too, to fight for your side at any time. That's how I see
it. You'll fight for yours&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Any old how." Bull's eyes were deeply regarding.
They were very gentle. "Here," he went on, "fight has

a clear, definite meaning for me. I fight to win. I'll
stop at nothing. It's always a game of 'rough and
tough' with me. Gouge, chew, and all the rest of it.
Frankly, there's a devil inside me, when it's fight. I want
you to know this, so your scruples needn't worry you."</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>Nancy's gaze was turned seawards.</p>

<p>"And you sail&mdash;to-morrow? When do you return?"
she asked a moment later.</p>

<p>Bull smilingly shook his head.</p>

<p>"We are at war," he said.</p>

<p>The girl's eyes came back. She, too, smiled.</p>

<p>"I forgot." Then she added: "You go by the <em>Empress</em>?"</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>They had both contrived to make it difficult. The
barrier was growing. Both realised it, and Nancy was
stirred more than she knew. She had seen this man
and hurried over to him. She had purposely denied him
for two weeks, but the sight of him on the promenade had
been irresistible. Now&mdash;now she hardly knew what to
say; and yet there were a hundred things struggling in
her mind to find expression. She was paralysed by the
memory of the recent interview she had had with her
employers&mdash;the great financial head of her house included&mdash;wherein
she had learned all that the coming war
meant personally to herself. She would have given worlds
at that moment to have been able to blot out that memory.
But she had no power to do so. It loomed almost tragically
in its significance in the presence of this man.</p>

<p>Bull found it no less difficult. He had striven to make
things easy for her. He had no second thought. And
now he realised the thing he had done. His words had
only served to fling an irrevocable challenge, and thus,
finally and definitely, made the longed-for approach between
them impossible.</p>


<p>He drew a deep breath.</p>

<p>"Yes. I sail on the <em>Empress</em>."</p>

<p>"And you are glad&mdash;of course?"</p>

<p>Bull laughed.</p>

<p>"Some ways."</p>

<p>"You mean&mdash;?"</p>

<p>"Why, I shouldn't be sailing if things weren't going
my way," he said. Then he turned about and his movement
was an invitation. "But let's quit it," he said.
"Let's forget&mdash;for the moment. You don't know what
this meeting has meant to me. I wanted to see you, if
only to say 'good-bye.' I thought I wasn't going to."</p>

<p>They moved down the promenade together.</p>

<p>Nancy did her best. They talked of everything but
the impending war, and the meaning of it. But the
barrier had grown out of all proportion. And a great
unease tugged at the heart of each. At length, as they
came back towards the hotel, Nancy felt it impossible to
go on. And with downright truth she said so.</p>

<p>"It must be 'good-bye'&mdash;now," she said. "This is all
unreal. It must be so. We're at war. We shall be at
each other's throats presently. Well, I just can't pretend.
I don't want to think about it. I hate to remember
it. But it's there in my mind the whole time; and it
worries so I don't know the things I'm saying. It's best
to say 'good-bye' and 'bon voyage' right here. And
whatever the future has for us I just mean that."</p>

<p>She held out her hand. It was bare, and soft, and
warm, as the man took possession of it.</p>

<p>"I feel that way, too," he said. "But&mdash;" he broke
off and shook his head. "No. It's no use. You've the
right notion of this. Until this war's fought out there
is nothing else for it. You'll go right back to your
camp and I'll go to mine. And we'll both work out how
we can best beat the other. But let's make a compact.
We'll do the thing we know to hurt the other side the

most we can. If need be we'll neither show the other
mercy. And we'll promise each to take our med'cine as
it comes, and cut out the personal hate and resentment
it's likely to try and inspire. We'll be fighting machines
without soul or feeling till peace comes. Then we'll be
just as we are now&mdash;friends. Can you do it? I can."</p>

<p>For all the feeling of the moment Nancy laughed.</p>

<p>"It sounds crazy," she exclaimed.</p>

<p>"It is crazy. But so is the whole thing."</p>

<p>"Yes. Oh, it surely is. It's worst than crazy."
Passion rang in the girl's voice. Then the hazel depths
smiled and set the man's pulses hammering afresh.
"But I'll make that compact, and I'll keep it. Yes.
Now, 'good-bye,' and a happy and pleasant trip."</p>

<p>Their hands fell apart. Bull had held that hand, so
soft and warm and appealing to him, till he dared hold
it no longer.</p>

<p>"Thanks," he said. "Good-bye. I can set out with
a good heart&mdash;now."</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>It was again the luncheon hour. It was also the hour
at which the <em>Empress</em> was scheduled to sail. Nancy was
again on the Terrace. But now she was standing on the
edge of the promenade&mdash;alone. She was gazing down
at the grey waters of the great river, searching with
eager eyes, and listening for the "hoot" of the vessel's
siren. This was the last departure the <em>Empress</em> would
make from Quebec for the season. By the time she
returned across the ocean the ice would deny her
approach, and she would make port farther seawards.</p>

<p>Nancy had come there in her leisure just out of simple
interest, she told herself. The man was nothing to her.
Oh, no. She felt a certain regret that they were at war.
She felt a certain pity that it was necessary that so brave
a man's hopes must be crushed and all his plans broken,

but that was all. She told herself these things very
deliberately.</p>

<p>And so she had hurried over her mid-day meal, lest
she should miss the sight of the <em>Empress</em> steaming out,
with Bull Sternford aboard.</p>

<p>The day was cold and grey. There was snow in the
heavy clouds, and the north wind was bitter. But it
mattered nothing. Waiting there the girl's feet in their
overshoes grew cold. Her hands were cold. Even her
slim, graceful body under its outer covering of fur was
none too warm. But her whole interest was absorbed and
she remained so till the appointed time.</p>

<p>Oh, yes. It was simply interest in the departure of
the vessel that held her. Just the same, as it was simply
interest that stirred her heart and set it a-flutter, as the
sound of the ship's siren came up to her from below. And
surely it was only a 'God-speed' to the departing
vessel that was conveyed in the fluttering handkerchief
she held out and waved, as the graceful giant passed out
into the distant mid-channel.</p>

</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_25"></a>
<h3>Chapter XVI&mdash;On Board The <em>Empress</em></h3>


<p>It was the second day out and the passengers on the
<em>Empress</em> had already settled down to their week's trip.</p>

<p>The sea was calm, with just that pleasant, lazy swell
which the Atlantic never really loses. The decks were
thronged with a happy company of men and women
determined not to lose one single moment of the bodily
ease which the clemency of the weather vouchsafed to
them.</p>

<p>Bull Sternford was amongst them. Engulfed in a
heavy fur overcoat, he stood lounging against the lee rail

of the wide promenade deck, contemplating the oily
swell of the waters. His great stature was somewhat
magnified by his voluminous coat, with its deep, upturned
storm-collar. There was that about him to
attract considerable attention. But he remained unconscious
of it, and his aloofness was by no means studied.</p>

<p>Deep emotion was stirring. A man of iron nerve and
purpose, a man of cool deliberation under the harshest
circumstances, just now Bull was afflicted like the veriest
weakling with alternating hope and doubt, and something
approaching indecision. The youth in him was
plunged in that agony of desire which maddens with
delight and drives headlong to despair. His whole
horizon of life had changed. Old scenes, old dreams, had
been suddenly blotted out. And in their place was the
wonderful vision of a girl with vivid hair and gentle eyes.
Nancy&mdash;Nancy McDonald. The name was always with
him now, unspoken, unwhispered even; but occupying
every waking thought.</p>

<p>It was a time of reckless resolve, of hot-headed
planning. He knew in his sober moments how almost
impossible was the position. But these were not sober
moments. He told himself, in his headlong way, that if
Nancy was chained in the heart of Hell he would seek
her out, and claim her. She should be his even though
every infernal power were arrayed against him. His eyes
were alight with a fierce smile, as he contemplated the
grey waters. It was a smile of conscious strength, of
reckless purpose. Well, he was ready. He was&mdash;</p>

<p>"Guess we'll git this sort of stuff all the way."</p>

<p>Bull started and swung around. A fur-coated man with
a dark close-cropped beard was leaning over the rail
beside him. He was expensively clad. His astrachan
collar was turned up about his neck to shut out something
of the biting winter air; and a cap of similar fur was
pressed low down over his dark head. Bull noted the

man's appearance, and his reply was promptly
forthcoming.</p>

<p>"Maybe," he admitted without interest.</p>

<p>"Sure we will. It's always that way with the
<em>Empress's</em> last trip of the season from Quebec. I most
generally make it for that reason. Your first trip?"</p>

<p>"No."</p>

<p>"It's my nineteenth. You see," the stranger went on,
"I can't spare summer time. I'm too full gettin' orders
out. I'm in the lumber business. It's only with the
freeze up I can quit my mills. Have a cigar?"</p>

<p>Bull had no alternative. The man was there to talk,
and his desire to do so was frankly displayed.</p>

<p>"I won't smoke, thanks," Bull replied without offense.
"It's too near dinner."</p>

<p>"Dinner? There's a ha'f hour to the dressing bugle."
The stranger returned the elaborate case stuffed full of
large, expensive cigars to his pocket, and drew out a gold
cigarette case instead. "Still I don't blame you a thing.
Cigars? Me for a cigarette all the time. I don't guess
any feller ever heard tell of tobacco, till he'd inhaled a
good, plain Virginia Cigarette."</p>

<p>Bull looked on while the man wasted half-a-dozen
matches lighting his beloved cigarette. He was not
without interest. There was a slightly Jewish caste
about his face which was frankly smiling, and lit with
shrewd, twinkling dark eyes. He conveyed, too, somewhat
blatantly, an atmosphere of abounding prosperity.</p>

<p>Bull laughed as the cigarette was finally lighted.</p>

<p>"That's better," he said. "Now&mdash;you can inhale."</p>

<p>"Sure I can." The man's smile was full of amiability.
"Inhale anything. Say, up in the camps I've inhaled
tea-leaves rolled in cracker paper before now. Ever hit
a lumber camp?"</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>


<p>"But not out West? British Columbia?"</p>

<p>"No. Only Quebec."</p>

<p>The stranger shook his head disparagingly.</p>

<p>"Quebec! Psha! Quebec ain't a thing. It ain't a
circumstance," he said complacently. "No, sir. The
West. That's the place for lumbering. B.C. West of
the Rockies. Man, it's the world's greatest proposition.
The place you can spend a lifetime cutting ninety foot
baulks, and lose track of where you cut. Quebec's
mostly small stuff," he went on contemptuously, "pulp-wood
an' that." He shook his head. "It's no place for
capital. And, anyway, the Frenchies have got the whole
darn place taped out. Oh, they're wise&mdash;the Frenchies.
If a feller's lookin' to get ahead of 'em he needs to stake
out the Arctic, where you'd freeze the ears of a brass
image. The Frenchies got it all. The only big stuff lies
on Labrador, anyway. I know. I prospected. No, it's
me for the big hills, West. The big hills and the big
waterways that 'ud leave Quebec rivers looking like a
leak in a bone dry bar'l. My name's Aylin P. Cantor,
Vancouver, B.C. Maybe you know the name?"</p>

<p>Bull shook his head.</p>

<p>"I'm not&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, it don't matter," interjected Mr. Cantor. "You
see, the West's one hell of a long way&mdash;west. I just
didn't get your&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, my name's Sternford."</p>

<p>Mr. Cantor's face beamed.</p>

<p>"Why I'm glad to know you, Mr. Sternford," he
exclaimed. Then a quick, enquiring upward glance of
his shrewd eyes suggested recollection. "But say&mdash;you
ain't Sternford of Labrador? The groundwood outfit
up at&mdash;up at&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Sachigo?"</p>

<p>"That's it, sure. Guess I'd lost the name a moment."</p>

<p>Bull nodded amusedly.</p>


<p>"Yes. That's where I hail from. And, as you say,
there's big stuff up there, too."</p>

<p>"Big? Why I'd say. Well, now! That's fine!
I've heard tell big yarns of Labrador. It's just great
meeting&mdash;"</p>

<p>The man broke off at the sound of the first blast of the
dressing bugle.</p>

<p>"Why, it's later than I guessed," he said. "Anyway,
you'll take a cocktail with me? This vessel's good and
wet, thanks be to Providence, and the high seas being
peopled with fish instead of cranks. I hadn't a notion
I was goin' to run into a real lumberman on this trip.
It's done me a power of good."</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Aylin P. Cantor was a diverting creature for all his
appearance of ostentatious prosperity. Good fortune
had undoubtedly been his, and his whole being seemed
to have become absorbed in the trade which had so
generously treated him. Before the cocktail was consumed
Bull had listened to a long story of British
Columbia, and forests of incomparable extent. He had
also learned that a country estate, miles in extent, outside
the city of Vancouver, and the luxuries associated
with the multi-millionaire had fallen to the lot of Aylin
P. Cantor. But somehow there was no offence in it all.
The man was just a bubbling fount of enthusiasm and
delight that this was so. He simply had to talk of it.</p>

<p>But the acquaintance was not to terminate over a
cocktail. Shipboard offers few avenues of escape to the
man seeking to avoid another. So it came that Bull
found himself sipping a brandy, reputed to be one hundred
years old, over his coffee after dinner, while Aylin P.
Cantor told him the story of how it came into his
possession at something far below its market value.</p>

<p>Later, again, while the auction pool was being sold, he
found himself ensconced on a lounge in a far corner of

the smokeroom beside his fellow craftsman, still listening
chiefly, and absorbing fact and anecdote pertaining to a
successful lumberman's life. And it was nearly eleven
o'clock, and the pool had been sold, and the bulk of the
occupants of the smoking-room were contemplating their
last rubber of Auction Bridge, when the busy-minded
westerner consented to abandon his particular venue for
a brief contemplation of the despised East.</p>

<p>"Oh, I guess there's money in your territory, too," he
condescended at last. "I ain't a word to say against
the stuff I've heard tell of Labrador. But you're froze
up more'n ha'f the year. That's your trouble."</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>Bull nodded over the latter portion of his third cigar
which Mr. Cantor had not permitted him to escape.</p>

<p>"Sure," the man laughed. "Oh, the stuff's there.
I know that. But Labrador needs a mighty big nerve to
exploit. I heard it all from a feller I met when I was
prospecting Quebec. You see, I had the notion of playing
a million dollars in the Quebec forests once. But I
weakened. I kind of fancied my chance against the
Frenchies didn't amount to cold water on a red hot cookstove.
I cut it out and hunted my own patch, West,
again. But I guess I'd have fallen for the stories of
Labrador, if it hadn't been for the feller who put me
wise."</p>

<p>"Who was that?" Bull had lost interest, but the
man invited the enquiry.</p>

<p>"Oh, a sort of missionary crank," Cantor returned
indifferently. "You know the sort. We got 'em out
West, too. They hound the boys around, chasin' them
heavenwards by a through route they guess they know
about." He laughed. "But the boys bein' just boys,
the round up don't ever seem to make good; and that
through trip looks most like a bum sort of freight in the
wash-out season. Outside his missioner business I guess

the guy was pretty wise, though. And his knowledge
of the lumber play left me without a word. He knew it
all&mdash;an' I guess he told it to me."</p>

<p>Bull laughed. But the laugh was inspired by the
thought that there could be found in the world a man who
could leave Aylin P. Cantor without a word on the
subject of lumber.</p>

<p>"I'd like to make a guess at that feller," he said.
"There's just one man I know who's a missionary in
Quebec who knows anything about Labrador. Did he
call himself, 'Father Adam?'"</p>

<p>"That's the thing he did."</p>

<p>"Ah, I thought so." Bull's smile had passed.
"Where did you meet him?" he went on after a
moment.</p>

<p>"On the Shagaunty. The Skandinavia Corporation
territory. He told me he'd just come along through
from Labrador."</p>

<p>"Oh, yes?"</p>

<p>Mr. Cantor laughed.</p>

<p>"Why he took me to his crazy shanty and handed me
coffee. And he talked. My, how he talked."</p>

<p>"Did he know you were&mdash;prospecting?"</p>

<p>There was no lack of interest in Bull now. His steady
eyes were alight, as he watched the stewards moving
amongst the tables, setting the place straight for the
night.</p>

<p>"Yes. I told him."</p>

<p>Cantor's dark eyes were questioning. As Bull
remained silent he went on.</p>

<p>"Why? Is he interested for the Skandinavia to keep
folk out?"</p>

<p>Bull shook his head.</p>

<p>"No. It isn't that. He's a queer feller. No, I'd
say he's got just one concern in life. It's the boys.
But you're right, he knows the whole thing&mdash;the whole

game of lumbering in Eastern Canada. And if he told
you and warned you, I'd say it was for your good as
he saw it. No. He's no axe to grind, and though you
found him on the Skandinavia's territory, I don't think
he likes them. I'm sure he doesn't. Still, he's not concerned
for any employer. He just comes and goes
handing out his dope to the boys, and&mdash;You know the
forest-jacks. They're a mighty tough proposition. Well,
it's said they feel about Father Adam so if a hair of his
head was hurt they'd get the feller who did it, and they'd
cut the liver out of him, and pass what was left feed for
the coyotes."</p>

<p>Mr. Cantor nodded.</p>

<p>"Yes, I sort of gathered something of that from the
folks I hit up against. It seems queer a feller devoting
his life to bumming through the forests and seekin' shelter
where you couldn't find shelter from a summer
dew. He's got no fixed home. Maybe he's sort of
crazed."</p>

<p>Bull was prompt in his denial.</p>

<p>"Saner than you or me," he said. "You know I'd want
to smile if I didn't know the man. But I know him,
and&mdash;but there we all owe him a deal, we forest men.
And maybe I owe him more than anyone."</p>

<p>"How's that?"</p>

<p>Mr. Cantor's question came sharply. Even Bull,
tired as he was, noted the keenly incisive tone of it.
He turned, and his steady eyes regarded the dark face of
the lumberman speculatively. Then he smiled, and
picked up his glass and drained the remains of his whisky
and soda.</p>

<p>"Why, he's more power for peace with the lumber-jacks
of Quebec than if he was their trade leader," he
said, setting his empty glass down on the table. "We
employers owe him there's never any sort of trouble with
the boys."</p>


<p>"I see." Mr. Cantor gazed out across the nearly
empty room, and a shadowy smile haunted his eyes.
"And if there was trouble? Could you locate him in
time?"</p>

<p>"We shouldn't need to. He'd be there."</p>

<p>The lumberman stirred, and persisted with curious
interest.</p>

<p>"But he must have a place where you folks can get
him? This coming and going. It's fine&mdash;but&mdash;"</p>

<p>Bull stood up and stretched himself.</p>

<p>"Oh, he's got a home, all right. It's the forests."</p>

<p>Mr. Cantor threw up his hands and laughed.</p>

<p>"Who is he, anyway? A sort of Wandering Jew?
A ghost? A spook? That sort of thing beats me.
He's got to be one of the two things. He's either a crank&mdash;you
say he ain't&mdash;or he's dodging daylight."</p>

<p>But Bull had had enough. Deep in his heart was a
feeling that no man had any right to pry into the life
of Father Adam. Father Adam had changed the whole
course of his life. It was Father Adam who had made
possible everything he was to-day&mdash;even his association
with Nancy McDonald. He shook his head unsmilingly.</p>

<p>Father Adam's one good man," he said. "And I
wouldn't recommend anyone to hand out anything to the
contrary within hearing of the men of the Quebec forests.
Good-night."</p>

<p>He strode away. And Mr. Cantor followed him,
slight and bediamonded in his evening clothes. And
somehow the dark eyes gazing on the broad back of
the man from Labrador had none of the twinkling
shrewdness the other had originally observed in them.
They were quite cold and very hard. And there was that
in them which suggested the annoyance inspired by a long
evening of effort that had ended in complete failure.</p>

<p>The man's dark, foreign-looking features had lost
every semblance of their recent good-natured enthusiasm.</p>
</div>



<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_26"></a>
<h3>Chapter XVII&mdash;The Lonely Figure Again</h3>


<p>The laden sled stood ready for the moment of starting
on the day's long run. Five train dogs, lean, powerful
huskies, crouched down upon the snow. They gave no
sign beyond the alertness of their pose and the watchfulness
of their furtive eyes. Their haunches were
tucked under them. And their long, wolfish muzzles,
so indicative of their parentage, were pressed down
between great, outstretched forepaws.</p>

<p>The man studied every detail of his outfit. He knew
the chances, the desperate nature of the long winter
trail. He had no desire to increase the hardship of it
all by any act of carelessness.</p>

<p>Behind him lay the mockery of a camping ground.
It was a minute, isolated bluff of stunted, windswept
trees, set in a white, wide wilderness of barren land.
Perhaps there was some half a hundred of them. But
that was all. They had served, but only by reason
that their shelter had satisfied habit, which, even in the
men of the long trail, will not be denied.</p>

<p>He turned away. Everything was to his satisfaction.
So his tall, fur-clad figure passed in amongst the dwarf
trees.</p>

<p>The dogs remained crouching, their fierce eyes gazing
out over the desolate expanse of winter's playground.
It lay at a great altitude, several thousands of feet
above the level of the sea. The sky was drab. It was
bitter with threat. It was unrelieved by any break in
the menacing winter cloud. It was a snow sky which
only refrained from releasing its burden by reason of the
high, top wind that drove the heavy masses relentlessly.
The earthly prospect was no more inviting. It was
wide, and flat, and devoid of vegetation. There were

no hills anywhere, and the skyline was just a vanishing
point similar to the horizon of the open sea. One vast,
wide field of snow and ice spread out in every direction,
and made desolation complete.</p>

<p>When the man re-appeared he was armed with a
sturdy "gee-pole," and at his belt was coiled a heavy-thonged,
short-stocked driving whip.</p>

<p>Without a word he thrust the pole under the front of
the sled runners, and a sharp command broke from his
lips. The effect was instantaneous. Each dog sprang
at his "tug." The man heaved on his pole. There
was a moment of straining, then the holding ice gave
up its grip, and the sled shot forward.</p>

<p>The man stood for a moment beating his mitted hands.
Then he took his place on the sled, buried his legs and
feet under the heavy seal robes set ready, and so the
long-waited command to "mush" was hurled at the
waiting beasts.</p>

<p>The dogs leapt at their work and the sled swept forward
with a rush. A blinding flurry of snow dust rose
in its wake, enveloping it, and the dogs raced on, yelping
with the joy of activity. Their great muscles were
aquiver with the eager spirit which is bred of the wild.
And so they would continue to run, for their load was
light, and the heavy-thonged whip was playing in skilful
hands, and they knew, and feared, and obeyed its
constant threat.</p>

<p>The way lay across the frozen bosom of a great lake,
no less than an inland sea, and a hundred miles must be
travelled before night, or the snow, overtook them. It
was a hard run. But it must be accomplished. Failure?
But failure must not be considered. No man could
contemplate failure and face the winter trail in the
barren desolation of the lofty interior of Labrador's untracked
wild.</p>

<p>The austerity of the country was well-nigh overwhelming.

The nakedness of it all suggested a skeleton world
robbed of everything that could make existence possible.
It suggested a world that was sick, and aged, and too unfruitful
to harbour aught but the fierce elemental storms
of the northern winter. And the cold of it ate into the
bones of the lonely figure passing through the great
silence like a ghost.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>The night was deathly still. A thermometer would
have registered something colder than sixty degrees
below zero. Not a breath of wind stirred. The only
sound that came was the doleful note of a prowling wolf
in the forest belt near by, and the booming protest of
the trees against the bitterness of winter.</p>

<p>The sky was ablaze with a myriad jewels in a velvet
setting. And a cold wealth of aurora lit the northern
heavens. Camp had been pitched well wide of the nearby
forests, and three men sat crouching over the fire. There
was little enough to differentiate between them. They
were white men, and all were clad, from their heads
to the soles of their seal hide moccasins, in heavy furs.
The dark outlines of two sleds showed up a few yards
away, but the dogs, themselves, were not visible. Weary
with their day's run they had betaken themselves to
their nightly snow burrows to dream over past battles,
past labours.</p>

<p>The men were talking earnestly in the low, slow tones
which the silence of the forests seems to inspire. Three
pairs of bare hands were outheld to the welcome blaze
of the fire. Three pairs of clear gazing eyes searched
the heart of it. None were smoking. It would have
been a burden to keep the pipe stem from freezing even in
the vicinity of the fire, and none of them were in any
mood to accept any added burden.</p>

<p>A blue-eyed, beardless youth shifted his gaze to the
dark face directly opposite him beyond the fire.</p>


<p>"Oh, we got that guy&mdash;good," he said. There was
laughter in his eyes but not in his tone. "We got him
plumb at the game. He was chock full of kerosene and
tinder, and he'd fired the patch in several places. We were
on it quick. We beat the fire in seconds. As for him,
why, I guess his Ma's going to forget him right away.
Leastways I hope so. He went out like the snuff of a
lucifer, and his body's likely handed plenty feed to any
wolf straying around."</p>

<p>The dark man across the fire nodded.</p>

<p>"Did he hand a squeal before&mdash;he went?"</p>

<p>"Not a word. Hadn't time. Peter here didn't ast a
thing either."</p>

<p>The youth laughed softly, and the man called Peter
took up the story.</p>

<p>"Tain't no use arguin' with a feller loaded with kerosene
in these forests," he said, in a low grumbling way. Then
he reached down and snatched a brand from the fire and
flung it out on the snow. His action was followed
swiftly by a wolfish howl of dismay. Then he again
turned his grizzled, whiskered face to the dark man beyond
the fire. "You see, Father, it's our job keeping
these forests from fire, an' it ain't easy. It don't much
concern us who's out to fire 'em. That's for other
folks. The feller with kerosene in these forests is goin'

to get the stuff we ken hand him. That's all. Bob an'
me got our own way fer actin'."</p>

<p>Bob laughed</p>

<p>"We sure have," he said. "But we don't allers
pull it off. No. We've had ten fires on our range in
two weeks. We've beat the fires, but we ain't smashed
the 'bugs' that set 'em."</p>

<p>"Would they be all one feller? The feller that got
it?" The dark man's eyes were serious. His tone
was troubled.</p>

<p>Peter shook his head.</p>


<p>"No, sir. There's more'n one, sure. An' from the
things I've heerd tell from the boys on the neighbourin'
ranges it's happening all along through our limits. They
tell me there's queer things doin' an' no one seems to
locate the meaning right."</p>

<p>"What sort of things?"</p>

<p>The dark man spoke sharply. Peter's reply came after
profound deliberation.</p>

<p>"Oh, things," he said. Then he thrust a gnarled
brown hand up under his fur hood, and scratched his
head. "There's our forest 'phones. They're bein'
cut. It's the same everywhere. There's most always
things to break 'em happenin', but a break aint a cut.
No. They're cut. Who's cuttin' 'em, and why? Fire-bugs.
It ain't grouchy jacks. No. I've heerd the
jacks are on the buck in parts, but that ain't their play.
There ain't a jack who'd see these forests afire, or do a
thing to help that way. You see, it's their living, it's
their whole life. We got so we can't depend a thing on
the 'phones. An' cut our forests 'phones and we're
gropin' like blind men."</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>The leaping flames were dropping, and Bob moved
out to the store of fuel. He returned laden, and packed
the wood carefully to give the maximum blaze. Then
he squatted again, and again his hands were thrust out
to the warmth which meant luxury.</p>

<p>Peter had no more to add. His grey eyes searched
the heart of the fire as he reflected on the things which
were agitating his mind.</p>

<p>"I want to get word down, but I can't depend on
the 'phones," he said presently. "If they ain't cut I
can't tell who's gettin' the message anyway. Maybe
the wires are bein' tapped."</p>

<p>The man across the fire nodded.</p>

<p>"I'm going down," he said.</p>


<p>"I'm glad." Peter's acknowledgment came with an
air of relief. "I'll hand you a written report before you
pull out."</p>

<p>"It's best that way."</p>

<p>The fire was leaping again. Its beneficent warmth was
very pleasant. Bob turned his eyes skyward.</p>

<p>"You'll get a good trip, Father," he said. "That
snow's cleared out of the sky. It 'ud ha' been hell if it
had caught you out on the lake."</p>

<p>"Yes. I wouldn't have made here. I wouldn't have
made anywhere if that had happened." The dark man
laughed.</p>

<p>Peter shook his head.</p>

<p>"No. You took a big chance."</p>

<p>"I had to."</p>

<p>"So?"</p>

<p>"Yes. I had to get through. There's a big piece of
trouble coming."</p>

<p>"To do with these fires?"</p>

<p>"I guess so."</p>

<p>"I see."</p>

<p>Peter's comment was full of understanding. After
awhile the other looked up.</p>

<p>"Guess I need a big sleep," he said. "I've got to
pull out with daylight. Anything you want besides
that written report passed on down?"</p>

<p>Peter shook his head and sat on awhile blinking silently
at the firelight. Then the dark man scrambled to his
feet. He stood for a moment, very tall, very bulky in
his fur clothing, and nodded down at the others.</p>

<p>"So long," he said. And he moved off to his sleeping
bag which was laid out to receive his tired body.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>The man stood just within the shelter of the twilit
forests. He was a powerful creature of sturdy build,
hall-marked with the forest craft which was his life. He

was clad in tough buckskin from head to foot. Even
his hands, which he frequently beat in a desire for
warmth, were similarly clad. His weatherbeaten face
was hard set, and his eyes were narrowed to confront
the merciless snow fog which the rage of the blizzard
outside hurled at him.</p>

<p>The cold was almost unendurable even here in the
wooded shelter. Outside, where the storm raged unrestrainedly
over its fierce playground, only blind hopelessness
prevailed.</p>

<p>There was nothing to be done. He could only wait.</p>

<p>He could only wait, and hope, or abandon his vigil,
and return to his camp which was far back in the heart
of the forests. Away out there, somewhere lost in the
blinding fog of the blizzard, which had only sprung up
within the last hour, a lonely fellow creature was making
for the shelter in which he stood. He was driving headlong
towards him. Oh, yes. He knew that. He had
seen the moving outfit far off, several miles away, over
the snowy plains, before the storm had arisen. Now&mdash;where
was he? He could not tell. He could not even
guess at what might have happened. Blinded, freezing,
weary, how long could the lonely traveller endure and
retain any sense of direction?</p>

<p>To the forest man the position was well-nigh tragic.
Had he not experience of the terror of a northern blizzard?
Had he not many a time had to grope his way
along a life-line lest the slightest deviation in direction
should carry him out into the storm to perish of cold,
blinded and lost?" Oh, yes. This understanding was
the alphabet of his life.</p>

<p>As he stood there watching and wiping the snow from
his eyes, he reminded himself not only of his own
experience but of every story of disaster in a blizzard he
had ever listened to. And so he saw no hope for the poor
wretch he had seen struggling to make the shelter.</p>


<p>But he could not bring himself to abandon his post.
How could he with a fellow creature out there in peril?
Besides, there was other reason, although it needed none.
He had urgent news for this man, news which must be
imparted without delay, news which his employers must
hear at the earliest possible moment.</p>

<p>His trouble grew as he waited. He searched his mind
for anything calculated to aid the doomed traveller. He
could find nothing. He thought to call out, to burst his
lungs in a series of shouts on the chance of being heard in
the chaos of the storm. But he realised the uselessness
of it all, and abandoned the impulse. No puny human
voice could hope to make impression on the din of the
elemental battle being fought out on the plain. No.
His only service must be to stand there beating life into
his numbing hands, ready to act on the instant should
opportunity serve.</p>

<p>He was eaten up by anxiety, and so took no cognisance
of time. He had forgotten the passing of daylight.
Therefore sudden realisation flung him into headlong
panic. The forest about him was growing dark. The
snow fog outside had changed to a deeper hue. Night
was coming on. The man in the storm was beyond all
aid, human or otherwise.</p>

<p>The impulse of the moment was irresistible. He
moved. He passed out from behind the long limbs of
his leafless shelter. He went at a run shouting with
all the power of his lungs. Again and again his prolonged
cry went up. And with each effort he waited
listening, listening, only to receive the mocking reply
of the howling storm. But he persisted. He persisted
for the simple human reason that his desire outran his
power to serve. And in the end exhaustion forced him
to abandon his hopeless task.</p>

<p>It was then the miracle happened. Far away, it
seemed, a sound like the faintest echo of his own voice

came back to him, but it came from a direction all utterly
unexpected. For a moment he hesitated, bewildered,
uncertain. Then he sent up another shout, and waited
listening. Yes. There it was. Again came the faintly
echoing cry through the trees. It came not from the
open battle ground of the storm, but from the shelter of
the forests somewhere away to the north of him.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>A tall, fur-clad figure stood nearby to the sled
which was already partly unloaded. A yard or two
away a fire had been kindled, and it blazed comfortingly
in the growing dusk of the forest. It was the moment
when the forest man came up somewhat breathlessly
and flung out a mitted hand in greeting.</p>

<p>"I guessed you were makin' your last run for shelter,
Father," he cried. "I just hadn't a hope you'd make
through that storm. You beat it&mdash;fine."</p>

<p>The tall man nodded. His dark eyes were smiling a
cordiality no less than the other's.</p>

<p>"I guessed that way, too," he said quietly. "Then
I didn't." He shrugged his fur-clad shoulders. "No.
It's not a northern trail that's going to see the end of me.
But it's your yarn I need to hear. How is it?"</p>

<p>"Bad."</p>

<p>The two men looked squarely into each others eyes,
and the gravity of the forest man was intense. The man
who had just come out of the storm was no less serious,
but presently he turned away, and for a second his gaze
rested on the group of sprawling dogs. The beasts looked
utterly spent as they blinked at the fire which they were
never permitted to approach. He indicated the fire.</p>

<p>"Let's sit," he said. "It's cold&mdash;damnably cold."</p>

<p>The other needed no second invitation. They both
moved back to the fire and squatted over it, and the
forest man pointed at the dogs.</p>


<p>"Beat?" he said.</p>

<p>"Yes. But they hauled me through. They're a great
outfit. I fed 'em right away and now they need rest.
They'll be ready for the trail again by morning. Anyway
I can't delay."</p>

<p>"No. You've got to get through quick."</p>

<p>Both were holding outspread hands to the fire. Both
were luxuriating in the friendly warmth.</p>

<p>"Well?" The tall man turned his head so that his
dark eyes searched the other's face again. "You'd best
tell it me, Jean. If the storm lets up I pull out with
daylight. I've come through every camp, and this is the
last. Maybe I know the stuff you've got to tell. It's
been the same most all the way."</p>

<p>Jean looked up from the heart of the fire.</p>

<p>"Trouble?" he enquired.</p>

<p>"Every sort." The tall man's eyes were smiling.
"There's jacks quitting and pulling out, and nobody
seems to know how they're getting, seeing it's winter.
Others are going slow. There's others grumbling for
things you never heard tell of before. There's fire-bugs
at work, and the forest 'phones are being cut or otherwise
tampered with all the time. We've lost hundreds of
acres by fire already."</p>

<p>"My yarn's the same." Jean nodded and turned back
to the fire. "Say," he went on, "have you heard of the
things going on? The thing that's happening?"</p>

<p>"You mean the outfit working it?"</p>

<p>"Yes. It's a political labour gang. Leastways that's
the talk of 'em. They call 'em 'Bolshies,' whatever
that means. They're chasing these forests through.
They make the camps by night, and get hold of the boys
right away. They throw a hurricane of hot air at them,
preachin' the sort of dope that sets those darn fools lyin'
around when they need to be makin' the winter cut.
And when they're through, and started the bug the

way they want it, they pull out right away before the daylight
comes. We never get a chance at 'em. Our boys
are all plumb on the buck. I was just crazy for you to
come along, Father. Guess you're the one man to fix
the boys right. An' when I see you caught up in that
darn storm&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I'll do the thing I know," the dark man replied.
"I've been doing it right along. But it's not enough.
That's why I'm chasing down to the coast. We've got
to lay this spook that worries the boys at night. It's no
Bolshie outfit." He shook his head. "Anyway if it is
it's got another thing behind it. It's the Skandinavia."</p>

<p>He sat on for a few minutes in silence. He squatted
there, hugging his knees. He was weary. He was
weary almost to death with the incessant travel that
had already occupied him weeks.</p>

<p>Quite abruptly his hands parted and he stood up.
Jean followed his movements with anxious eyes.</p>

<p>"You goin' down to talk to the boys?" he asked at
last.</p>

<p>The man nodded.</p>

<p>"Yes. Right away. I'll do all I know."</p>

<p>"They'll listen to you."</p>

<p>The other smiled.</p>

<p>"Yes. Till the spook comes back."</p>

<p>Jean brushed the icicles from about his eyes.</p>

<p>"That's just it," he said. "An' meanwhile the cut's
right plumb down. If this thing don't quit the mill's
going to starve when the ice breaks. I've lost nigh
three weeks' full cut already. It's&mdash;it's hell!"</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>The dark man moved away, and Jean sat on over
the fire. But his troubled eyes watched the curious
figure as it passed over to its outfit. He saw the man
stoop over the litter of his goods. He saw him disentangle
some garment from the rest. When he came

back the furs he had been clad in were either abandoned
or hidden under fresh raiment. The man towered an
awesome figure in the firelight. He was clad in black
from head to foot, and his garment possessed the flowing
skirts of a priest.</p>

<p>"I'm going right down to the boys now," he said.
"You best stop around here. Just have an eye to the
dogs. It's best you not being with me."</p>

<p>Jean nodded. He understood. Accompanied by the
camp boss this man's influence with the boys would have
been seriously affected. Alone he was well-nigh all
powerful.</p>

<p>"Good," he said. "For God's sake do what you can,
Father," he cried. "I'll stop right here till you get back.
So long."</p>

</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_27"></a>
<h3>Chapter XVIII&mdash;Bull Sternford'S Vision Of Success</h3>


<p>"I'd say it's best story I've listened to since&mdash;since&mdash;Say,
those fellers are pretty big. They surely are."</p>

<p>Bat Harker stirred. He shifted his feet on the rail
of the stove, where the heavy leather soles of his boots
were beginning to burn.</p>

<p>Bull's shining eyes were raised to his.</p>

<p>"Big?" he echoed. "I tell you that feller, Leader,
has the widest vision of any man I know."</p>

<p>He leant back in his chair and imitated his companion's
luxurious attitude. And so they sat silent, each
regarding the thing between them from his own angle.</p>

<p>It was the night of Bull's return from his journey to
England. He had completed the final stage only that
afternoon. He had travelled overland from the south
headland, where he had been forced to disembark from
the <em>Myra</em> under stress of weather. It was storming

outside now, one of those fierce wind storms of Labrador's
winter, liable to blow for days or only for a few
hours.</p>

<p>He and Harker were closeted together in the warm
comfort of the office on the hill. Here, without fear of
interruption, in the soft lamplight, lounging at their ease,
they were free to talk of those things so dear to them, and
upon which hung the destiny of their enterprise.</p>

<p>Winter was more than half spent. Christmas and
New Year were already seasons which only helped to
swell the store of memory. Labrador was frozen to
the bone, and would remain so. But there were still
two months and more of snow and ice, and storm, to be
endured before the flies and mosquitoes did their best
to make life unendurable.</p>

<p>Bull's return home had been a time of great looking
forward. Life to him had become full of every alluring
possibility. He saw the approaching fulfilment of his
hopes and aims. The contemplation of the pending
war with the Skandinavia only afforded his fighting
instincts satisfaction. Then there was that other.
That great, new sensation which stirred him so deeply&mdash;Nancy
McDonald. So he had returned home full of
enthusiasm and ready to tackle any and every problem
that presented itself.</p>

<p>He had just completed the telling of the story he had
brought back with him. It was a story of success that
had stirred even the cast-iron emotions of Bat Harker.
Nor had it lost anything in the telling, for Bull was more
deeply moved than he knew.</p>

<p>The recounting of his dealings in London with the man,
Sir Frank Leader, had been coloured by the enthusiasm
with which the Englishman had inspired him. Sir Frank
Leader was known as the uncrowned king of the world's
pulp-wood trade. But Bull felt, and declared, that the
appellation did not come within measurable distance

of expressing the man's real genius. Then there were
those others: Stanton Brothers, and Lord Downtree,
and the virile, youthful creature, Ray Birchall. All of
them were strong pillars of support for the ruling genius
of the house of Leader &amp; Company. But it was the
man himself, the head of it, who claimed all Bull's admiration
for his intensity of national spirit, and the
wide generosity of his enterprise.</p>

<p>The story he had had to tell was simple in its completeness.
Before setting out on his journey he had
spent months in preparation of the ground by means of
voluminous correspondence and documentary evidence.
It was a preparation that left it only necessary to convince
through personal appeal on his arrival in London.
This had been achieved in the broad fashion that appealed
to the men he encountered. His "hand" had been
laid down. Every card of it was offered for their closest
scrutiny, even to the baring of the last reservation which
his intimate knowledge of the merciless climate of
Labrador might have inspired.</p>

<p>The appeal of this method had been instant to Sir Frank
Leader. And the appeal had been as much the man
himself as the thing he offered. The result of it all
was Bull's early return home with the man's whole
organisation fathering his enterprise, and with a guarantee
of his incomparable fleet of freighters being flung into
the pool. Leader had swept up the whole proposition
into his widely embracing arms, and taken it to himself.
Subject to Ray Birchall's ultimate report, after personal
inspection on the spot of the properties involved, the
flotation was to be launched for some seventy million
dollars, and thus the consummation of Sachigo's original
inspiration would be achieved.</p>

<p>Bat had listened to the story almost without comment.
He had missed nothing of it. Neither had he
failed to observe the man telling it. The story itself

was all so tremendous, so far removed from the work
that pre-occupied him that he had little desire to probe
deeper into it. But the success of it all stirred him. Oh,
yes. It had stirred him deeply, and his mind had immediately
flown to that other who had laboured for just
this achievement and had staggered under the burden of
it all.</p>

<p>Bull removed his pipe and gazed across the stove.</p>

<p>"And now for your news, Bat," he said, like a man
anticipating a pleasant continuation of his own good
news.</p>

<p>Bat shook his head decidedly.</p>

<p>"No," he said, in his brusque fashion. "Not to-night,
boy. Guess I ain't got a thing to tell to match your
stuff. We just carried on, and we've worked big. We're
in good shape for the darn scrap with the Skandinavia
you told me about. Guess I'll hand you my stuff to-morrow,
when I'm goin' to show you things. This
night's your night&mdash;sure."</p>

<p>His twinkling eyes were full of kindly regard, for all
the brusqueness of his denial. And Bull smiled back
his content.</p>

<p>"Well, it's your 'hand' Bat," he said easily. "You'll
play it your way."</p>

<p>His eyes turned to the comforting stove again, as the
howl of the storm outside shook the framing of the house.</p>

<p>Presently the other raised a pair of smiling eyes.</p>

<p>"You know, boy," the lumberman said, ejecting a
worn-out chew of tobacco, "all this means one mighty
big thing your way. You see, you got life before you.
Maybe I've years to run, too. But it ain't the same.
No," he shook his grizzled head, "you can't never
make nuthin' of me but a lumber-boss. You'll never
be a thing but a college-bred fighter all your life. There's
a third share in this thing for both of us. Well, that's
goin' to be one a' mighty pile. I was wonderin'. Shall

you quit? Shall you cut right out with the boodle?
What'll you do?"</p>

<p>Bull sat up and laughed. And his answer came on the
instant.</p>

<p>"Why, marry," he said.</p>

<p>Bat nodded.</p>

<p>"That's queer," he said. "I guessed you'd answer
that way."</p>

<p>"Why?"</p>

<p>Bat folded his arms across his broad chest.</p>

<p>"You're young," he replied.</p>

<p>Bull laughed again.</p>

<p>"Better say it," he cried. "An' darn foolish."</p>

<p>"No, I hadn't that in mind. No, Bull. If I had your
years I guess I'd feel that way, too. I wonder&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You're guessing to know who I'd marry, eh?"
Bull's pipe was knocked out into the cuspidore. Then he
sat up again and his eyes were full of reckless delight.
"Here," he cried, "I guess it's mostly school-kids who
shout the things they reckon to do&mdash;or a fool man. It
doesn't matter. Maybe I'm both. Anyway, I'm just
crazy for&mdash;for&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Red hair, an'&mdash;an' a pair of mighty pretty eyes?"</p>

<p>"Sure."</p>

<p>Bat nodded. A deep satisfaction stirred him.</p>

<p>"I reckoned that way, ever since&mdash; Say, I'm glad."</p>

<p>But Bull's mood had sobered.</p>

<p>"She's in the enemy camp though," he demurred.</p>

<p>"It'll hand you another scrap&mdash;haulin' her out."</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>Bat rose from his chair and stretched his trunk-like
body.</p>

<p>"Well," he said, "it's me for the blankets." Then
he emitted a deep-throated chuckle. "You get at it,
boy," he went on. "An' if you're needin' any help I
can pass, why, count on it. If you mean marryin'

I'd sooner see you hook up team with that red-haired
gal than anything in the world I ever set two eyes on.
Guess I'll hand you my stuff in the morning if the storm
quits."</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>The dynamos were revolving at terrific speed. There
were some eighteen in all, and their dull roar was racking
upon ears unused. Bat was regarding them without
enthusiasm. All he knew was the thing they represented.
Skert Lawton had told him. They represented the
harnessing of five hundred thousand horse power of the
Beaver River water. The engineer had assured him,
in his unsmiling fashion, that he had secured enough
power to supply the whole Province of Quebec with
electricity. All of which, in Bat's estimation, seemed to
be an unnecessary feat.</p>

<p>Bull was gazing in frank wonder on the engineer's
completed work. It was his first sight of it. The place
had been long in building. But the sight of it in full
running, the sense of enormous power, the thought and
labour this new power-house represented, filled him
with nothing but admiration for the author of it all.</p>

<p>Bat hailed one of the electricians serving the machines.</p>

<p>"Where's Mr. Lawton?" he shouted.</p>

<p>"He went out. He ain't here," the man shouted back.</p>

<p>Bat regarded the man for a moment without favour.
Then he turned away. He beckoned Bull to follow,
and moved over to the sound-proof door which shut off
the engineer's office. They passed to the quiet beyond
it.</p>

<p>It was quite a small room without any elaborate pretensions.
There was a desk supporting a drawing
board, with a chair set before it. There was also a
rocker-chair which accommodated the lean body of
Skert Lawton at such infrequent moments as it desired
repose. Beyond that there was little enough furniture.

The place was mainly bare boards and bare walls. Bat
sat himself at the desk and left Bull the rocker-chair.</p>

<p>"I'd fixed it so Skert was to meet us here," he said.
"All this is his stuff. I couldn't tell you an' amp from
a buck louse."</p>

<p>Bull nodded.</p>

<p>"That's all right," he said. "Maybe he's held up down
at the mill. He'll get&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Held up&mdash;nuthin'!"</p>

<p>The lumberman was angry. But his anger was not
at the failure of his arrangements. Back of his head he
was wondering at the thing that claimed the engineer.
He felt that only real urgency would have kept him
from his appointment. And he knew that urgency just
now had a more or less ugly meaning.</p>

<p>"Lawton's a pretty bright boy&mdash;" Bull began. But the
other caught him up roughly.</p>

<p>"Bright? That don't say a thing," Bat cried. "Guess
he's a whole darn engineering college rolled into the worst
shape of the ghost of a man it's been my misfortune ever
to locate. He's a highbrow of an elegant natur'. He
calls this thing 'co-ordination,' which is another way of
sayin' he's beat nigh a hundred thousand dollars out of
our bank roll to hand us more power than we could use
if we took in Broadway, New York, at night. But it's
elegant plannin' and looks good to me. Your folks over
the water'll maybe see things in it, too. It's them blast
furnaces we set up for him last year made this play possible.
Them, and the swell outfit of machine shops he
squeezed us for. He figgers to raise all sorts of hell
around. An' his latest notion's to build every darn machine
from rough-castin' to a shackle pin, so we don't
have to worry with the world outside. He's got a long
view of things. But&mdash;"</p>

<p>He pulled out his timepiece, and the clouds of volcanic
anger swept down again upon his rugged brow.

But it was given no play. The door of the office was
thrust open, and the lean figure of the engineer, clad in
greasy overalls, came hurriedly into the room.</p>

<p>Bat challenged him on the instant.</p>

<p>"What's the trouble, boy?" he demanded in his uncompromising
fashion.</p>

<p>"Trouble?" Skert's eyes were wide, and his tone was
savage. "That's just it. I reckoned to show Sternford
all this stuff," he went on, indicating the machine hall with
a jerk of his head. "But we'll have to let it pass. Say,"
he glanced from one to the other, his expression developing
to something like white fury. "They started. It's
business this time. I got a message up they were stopping
the grinders. It's the 'heads' gave the order. Oh, they're
all in it. They got a meeting on in that darn recreation
parliament place of theirs, and every mother's son on the
machines was called to it. They've shut down! You get
that? There isn't even a greaser left at the machines.
It's set me with a feeling I'm plumb crazy. I've been
down, and they're right there crowding out that hall.
And&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I guessed something that way," Bat interrupted with
ominous calm. He turned to Bull, who was closely regarding
his lieutenants.</p>

<p>"It's mutiny first and then a sheer strike," he said.
"Here, listen. I'll hand you just what's happenin'.
There's been Bolshie agitators workin' the boys months,
and I guess they got a holt on 'em good. It started with
us openin' the new mill on this north shore. We were
forced to collect our labour just where we could. An'
they got in like the miser'ble rats they are. Gee! It
makes me hot&mdash;hot as hell! The leaders of this thing
ain't workers. I don't guess they done a day's work
with anything but their yahoo mouths in their dirty lives.
They're part of the crowd that's paid from Europe to
get around and heave up this blazin' world of ours just

anyway they know. The only thing I don't get is their
coming along here, which is outside most all the rest of
the world. If Labrador can hand 'em loot I'd like to
know the sort it is. And it's just loot they're out for.
If I'm a judge there's one hell of a scrap comin,' and
if we're beat it looks like leaving Sachigo a thing
forgotten."</p>

<p>Bull stood up. He laughed without the least mirth.</p>

<p>"It's the Skandinavia," he said decidedly. "War's
begun. I'm going right down to that meeting."</p>

<p>Bat leapt to his feet.</p>

<p>"No," he said. "This is for Skert an' me&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Is it?"</p>

<p>Bull brushed his protest aside almost fiercely. Then
he turned as the door opened and a small man hurried in.
The fellow snatched his cap from his head and his eyes
settled on Skert Lawton, the man he knew best.</p>

<p>"It ees a document," he cried, in the broken English
of a French Canadian. "They sign him, oh, yes. You
no more are the boss. They say the mill it ees for the
'worker.' All dis big mill, all dis big money. Oh, yes.
Dey sign him."</p>

<p>"Who's this?" Bull demanded.</p>

<p>"One of my machine-minders. He's a good boy," the
engineer explained.</p>

<p>Bull nodded.</p>

<p>"That's all right We want all we can get of his sort."
He turned to Bat. "Are there others? I mean boys we
can trust?"</p>

<p>"Quite a bunch."</p>

<p>"Can we get them together?"</p>

<p>"Sure."</p>

<p>"Right. This is going to be the real thing. The sort
of thing I'd rather have it."</p>

<p>He turned to Skert who stood by, watching the light
of battle in his chief's eyes.</p>


<p>"Here, shut down the dynamos. Set them clean
out of action. Do you get me? Leave the machines
for the time being so they're just so much scrap. Then,
if you got the bunch you can rely on, leave 'em guard.
We'll get on down, an' sign that damned document for

'em."</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>The recreation room was crowded to suffocation. Men
of every degree in the work of the mill had foregathered.
A hubbub of talk was going on. Voices were raised.
There was anger. There was argument, harsh-voiced
argument which mainly expressed feeling. At the far
end of the hall, on the raised platform designed for those
who fancied their vocal attainments, a group of men were
gathered about a table upon which was outspread the
folios of an extensive document. The men at the table
were talking eagerly.</p>

<p>The gathering had listened to the furious oratory of
a pale-faced man, with long black hair and a foreign
accent. It had listened, and agreed, and applauded. For
he had talked Communism, and the overthrow of the
Capitalists, and the possession of the wealth creating mills
for those who operated them. It had listened to an appeal
to the latent instinct in every human creature, freedom
from everything that could be claimed as servitude,
freedom, and possession, and independence for those who
would once and for all rid themselves of the shackles
which the pay-roll and time-sheet imposed upon them.</p>

<p>They had been called together to witness the iniquity
of spending their lives in the degrading operation of
filling the pockets of those who laboured not, by the toil
in which their lives were spent. They had been told every
flowery fairy tale of the modern communistic doctrine,
which possesses as much truth and sanity in it as is to be
found in an asylum for the mentally deficient. And they
had swallowed the bait whole. The talk had been by the

tongue of a skilled fanatic, who was well paid for his
work, and who kept in the forefront of his talk that alluring
promise of ease, and affluence, and luxury, which
never fails in its appeal to those who have never
known it.</p>

<p>But something approaching an impasse had been
reached when the would-be benefactors passed over the
demand that their deluded victims should sign the roll
of Communal Brotherhood. The bait that had been
offered had been all to the taste of these rough creatures
who had never known better than an existence with a
threat of possible unemployment overshadowing their
lives. But in the signature to the elaborate document
they scented the concealed poison in the honeyed potion.
There was hesitation, reluctance. There was argument
in a confusion of tongues well-nigh bewildering. A surge
of voices filled the great building.</p>

<p>The agents were at work, men who posed as workers
to attain their ends. And the pale, long-haired creature
and his satellites waited at the table. They understood.
It was their business to understand. They knew the
minds they were dealing with, and their agents were
skilled in their craft. The process they relied on was
the unthinking stupidity of the sheep. Every man that
could be persuaded had his friends, and each friend had
his friend. They knew friend would follow friend
well-nigh blindly, and, having signed, native obstinacy and
fear of ridicule would hold them fast to their pledge.</p>

<p>Presently the signing began. It began with a burly
river-jack who laughed stupidly to cover his doubt. He
was followed by a machine-minder, who hurled taunts
at those who still held back. Then came others, others
whose failure to think for themselves left them content
to follow the lead of their comrades.</p>

<p>The stream of signatures grew. A pale youth, whose
foolish grin revealed only his fitness for the heavy, unskilled

work he was engaged upon, came up. The pen
was handed him, and the name of Adolph Mars was
scrawled on the sheet. The long-haired man at the table
looked up at him. He smiled with his lips, and patted
the boy's hand. Then something happened.</p>

<p>It was movement. Sudden movement on the platform.
The babel in the body of the hall went on. But the
long-haired man and his supporters at the table turned
with eyes that were concerned and anxious. A dozen
men had entered swiftly through the door in rear of the
platform. Bull Sternford led them. And he moved
over to the table, with the swift, noiseless strides of a
panther, and looked into the unwholesome face of the
Bolshevist leader.</p>

<p>It was only for the fraction of a second. The man
made a movement which needed no interpretation. His
hand went to a hip pocket. Instantly Bull's great hands
descended. The man was picked up like a child. He was
lifted out of his seat and raised aloft. He was borne
towards the window where he was held while the master
of the mill crashed a foot against its wooden sash. The
next moment the black-clothed body was hurled with
terrific force out into the snowdrift waiting to receive it.
It was all so swiftly done. The whole thing was a
matter of seconds only. Then Bull Sternford was back
at the table, while his comrades, Bat and Lawton, and
the men of loyalty they relied on, lined the platform.</p>

<p>As Bull snatched up the document and held it aloft, a
deathly silence reigned throughout the hall, and every
eye was turned angrily upon the intruders. Bull yielded
not a moment for those witless minds to recover from
their shock. His voice rang out fiercely.</p>

<p>"Here," he cried, "d'you know what you're doing,
listening to that fool guy I've thrown through that
window, and signing this crazy paper he's set out for you?
No. You don't unless you're just as crazy yourselves.

You're declaring war. You're starting a great fight to
steal the property that hands you your living. You reckon
you've got all you need of our brains, and your own
brute force and darnation foolishness can run these great
mills which are to hand you the big money you reckon
it hands us. That means war. Maybe you fancy it's
the one-sided war you'd like to have it. Maybe you fancy
there's about a dozen of us, and we're going to be made
to work for the wage you figger to hand us. You're
dead wrong. It's going to be a hell of a war if you swallow
the dope these fellows hand you. You've begun it,
and we're taking up the challenge. We've fired the first
shot, too. It's not gun-play yet. No. Maybe it'll come
to that and you'll find we can hand you shot for shot.
No. We're quicker than that. The mill's closed down!
Wages have ceased! And all power has been cut off!
There's not a spark of light or heat, for the whole of
Sachigo. The vital parts of the power station have been
removed, and you can't get 'em back. I've only to give
the word and the <em>penstocks on the river will be cut so you
can't repair them</em>. It's forty degrees below Zero out there,
where I've shot that crazy Bolshie, and so you know
just how you stand here on Labrador with no means of
gettin' away until the thaw comes. You and your wives
and kiddies'll have to pay in the cold for the crime of
theft you reckon to put through. We're ready for you,
whether it's gun-play or any other sort of war you want
to start. That's the thing I've come here to tell you."</p>

<p>He paused for a moment to watch the effect of his
words. It was there on the instant. A furious hubbub
arose. There was not a man in the room who did not
understand the dire threat which the <em>coup</em> of the master
mind imposed. Power cut off! Light! Heat! Power!
Forty degrees below Zero! The terror of the Labrador
winter was in every man's mind. Life would be unendurable
without heat. There were the forests. Oh,

yes. They could get heat of sorts. The sort of heat
which the men on a winter trail were accustomed to.
<em>Their electrically-heated houses were without stoves in
which they could burn wood</em>.</p>

<p>Bull listened to the babel of tongues while his men
watched for any act that might come. Every man on
the platform was armed ready.</p>

<p>"Here!"</p>

<p>Bull's voice rang out again, but he was interrupted.</p>

<p>A man shouted at him from the back of the hall.</p>

<p>"Who the hell are you, anyway? You ain't the guy
owning these mills. We know where you come
from&mdash;"</p>

<p>Like lightning Bull took him up.</p>

<p>"Do you?" he shouted back. "Then we know where
you come from. The man who knew me before I became
boss here must belong to the Skandinavia. That's the
only place any lumber-jack could have known me. Here.
Come up here. Stand out. Show yourself. And I'll
hand the boys your pedigree. It'll be easy. It's the
trouble with us just now, we've got too many stiffs from
the Skandinavia, and you've got our own good boys
paralysed. They haven't the guts to stand on the notions
that have handed them the best wages in the pulp trade
these fifteen years. Guess you've persuaded them they
ain't got swell houses, and good food, and cheap heat
and light, and, instead are living like all sorts of swine
in their hogpens. It's the way of the Skandinavia just
now. The Skandinavia's out for our blood. They want
to smash us. Do you know why? Because they're an
alien firm who wants to steal these forests from the
Canadians to fill their own pockets with our wealth. We're
for the Canadians, and we've built up a proposition that's
going to beat the foreigner right out into the sea. But
that don't matter now. These guys, these long-haired,
unwashed guys, that reckon to hand you boys these mills,

are sent by the Skandinavia to wreck us. Well, go right
over to 'em. Help 'em. Sign every darn document they
hand you. They'll be your own death warrants, anyway.
You want war. You can have it. I'm here to fight.
Meanwhile you best get home to your cold houses, for the
mills are closed down. You're locked out."</p>

<p>He turned without waiting a second and passed through
the back door by which he had entered. And his men
followed on his heels.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Bull was in his office. For all the storm of the morning
the rest of the day had passed quietly. Now it
was late at night. His stove was radiating a luxurious
heat. He was quite unconcerned that the electrically-heated
steam radiators were cold. He was alone. Harker
and the engineer were still down at the mill. He was
awaiting the report they would bring him later.</p>

<p>He had passed some time in reading the pledge of
Communal Brotherhood which he had brought away with
him from the recreation room, and he had read the
signatures that had been affixed to it. The latter were
few, and every name inscribed was of foreign origin.
But it was the document itself which concerned him most.
If it were honest he felt that its authors were wild people
who should be kept under restraint. If it were not honest,
then hanging or shooting was far too lenient a fate to
be meted out to them. It was Communism in its wildest,
most unrestrained form.</p>

<p>In his final disgust he flung the papers on his desk.
And as he did so a sound reached him from the outer
office, which had long since been closed for the night
by the half-breed, Loale.</p>

<p>He leapt to his feet. Without a second thought he
moved over to the door and flung it wide.</p>

<p>"What the&mdash;?" He broke off. "Good God!" he

cried. "You, Father?" He laughed. "Why I thought
it was some of the Bolshies from down at the mill."</p>

<p>He withdrew the gun from his coat pocket in explanation.
Then he stood aside.</p>

<p>"Will you come right in?"</p>

<p>The man Bull had discovered made no answer. But
as he stood aside, tall, clad in heavy fur from head to
foot, Father Adam strode into the room.</p>

<p>Bull watched him with questioning eyes. Then he
closed the door and his visitor turned confronting him
in the yellow lamplight.</p>

<p>"I've made more than a hundred miles to get you
to-night," Father Adam said.</p>

<p>Then he flung back the fur hood from his head, and ran
a hand over his long black hair, smoothing it thoughtfully.</p>

<p>"Yes?"</p>

<p>Bull's eyes were still questioning.</p>

<p>"Won't you shed your furs and sit?" he went on.
"The Chink's abed, but I'll dig him out. You must get
food."</p>

<p>The other glanced round the pleasant office, and his
eyes paused for a moment at the chair at the desk.</p>

<p>"Food don't worry, thanks," he said, his mildly smiling
eyes coming back to his host's face. "I've eaten&mdash;ten
miles back. I rested the dogs there, too. I've maybe a
ha'f hour to tell you the thing I came for. There's
trouble in the woods. Bad trouble. If it's not
straightened out, why, it looks like all work at your
mills'll quit, and you're going to get your forest limits
burnt out stark."</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_28"></a>
<h3>Chapter XIX&mdash;The Hold-Up</h3>


<p>Ole Porson took a final glance round his shanty. The
last of the daylight was rapidly fading. There was still

sufficient penetrating the begrimed double window, however,
to reveal the littered, unswept condition of the place.
But he saw none of it. It was the place he knew and
understood. It was at once his office, and his living
quarters; a shanty with a tumbled sleeping bunk, a wood
stove, and a table littered with the books and papers of his
No. 10 camp. He was a rough creature, as hard of soul
as he was of head, who could never have found joy in
surroundings of better condition.</p>

<p>He solemnly loaded the chambers of a pair of heavy
guns. Then he bestowed them in the capacious pockets
of his fur pea-jacket. He also dropped in beside them
a handful of spare cartridges. In his lighter moments
he was apt to say that these weapons were his only friends.
And those who knew him best readily agreed. Drawing
up the storm-collar about his face, he passed out into
the snow which was falling in flakes the size of autumn
leaves. There was not a breath of wind to disturb the
deathly stillness of the winter night.</p>

<p>Minutes later he was lounging heavily against the rough
planked counter of Abe Risdon's store. He was talking
to the suttler over a deep "four-fingers" of neat Rye,
while his searching eyes scanned the body of the ill-lit
room. The place was usually crowded with drinkers
when the daylight passed, but just now it was almost
empty.</p>

<p>"Who's that guy in the tweed pea-jacket an' looks
like a city man?" he asked his host in an undertone,
pointing at one of the tables where a stranger sat surrounded
by four of the forest men.</p>

<p>Abe's powerful arms were folded as he leant on the
counter.</p>

<p>"Blew in about noon," he said. "Filled his belly with
good hash an' sat around since."</p>

<p>"He's a bunch o' the boys about him now, anyway.
An' I guess he's talking quite a lot, an' they're doing most

o' the listening. Seems like he's mostly enjoying hisself."</p>

<p>Abe shrugged. But the glance he flung at the man
sitting at the far-off table was without approval.</p>

<p>"It's mostly that way now," he said, with an air of
indifference his thoughtful eyes denied. "There's too
many guys come along an' sell truck, an' set around, an'
talk, an' then pass along. Things are changing around
this lay out, an' I don't get its meanin'. Time was I
had a bunch of boys ready most all the time to hand me
the news going round. Time was you'd see a stranger
once in a month come along in an' buy our food. Time
was they mostly had faces we knew by heart, and we
knew their business, and where they came from. Tain't
that way now. You couldn't open the boys' faces fer
news of the forest with a can-opener. These darn guys
are always about now. They come, an' feed the boys'

drink, an' talk with 'em most all the time. An' they're
mostly strangers, an' the boys mostly sit around with
their faces open like fool men listenin' to fairy tales.
How's the cut goin'?"</p>

<p>Porson laughed. There was no light in his hard eyes.</p>

<p>"At a gait you couldn't change with a trail whip."</p>

<p>The other nodded.</p>

<p>'"That's how 'nigger' Pilling said. He guessed the
cut was down by fifty. What is it? A buck? Wages?"</p>

<p>Porson's hand was fingering one of the guns in his
pocket. His eyes were snapping.</p>

<p>"Curse 'em," he cried at last. "I just don't get it.
They're goin' slow."</p>

<p>He pushed his empty glass at the suttler who promptly
re-filled it.</p>

<p>"Young Pete Cust," Abe went on confidentially,
"handed me a good guess only this mornin'. He'd had
his sixth Rye before startin' out to work. Maybe he
was rattled and didn't figger the things he said. He was
astin' fer word up from the mills. I didn't worry to

think, and just said I hadn't got. I ast 'why'? The
boy took a quick look round, kind o' scared. He said,

'jest nothin'.' He reckoned he'd a dame somewhere
around Sachigo. She'd wrote him things wer' kind of
bad with the mills. They were beat fer dollars, and
looked like a crash. He'd heard the same right there,
an' it had him rattled. He thought of quittin' and goin'
over to the Skandinavia. Maybe it's the sort o' talk that's
got 'em all rattled. Maybe they're goin' slow on the cut,
worryin' for their pay-roll. You can't tell. They don't
say a thing. Seems to me we want Sternford right here
to queer these yarns. Father Adam's around an' talked
some. But&mdash;"</p>

<p>Porson drank down his liquor, and his glass hit the
counter with angry force.</p>

<p>"They're mush-faced hoodlams anyway," he cried
fiercely. "Ther' ain't a thing wrong with the mills. I'd
bet a million on it."</p>

<p>He stood up from the counter and thrust his hands
deep in the pockets of his coat. He was a powerful
figure with legs like the tree trunks it was his work to
see cut. Quite abruptly he moved away, and Abe's
questioning eyes followed him.</p>

<p>He strode down amongst the scattered tables and came
to a halt before the tweed-coated stranger. All the men
looked up, and their talk died out.</p>

<p>"Say, what's your bizness around here?"</p>

<p>Ole Person's manner was threatening as he made his
demand. The stranger dived at the bag lying on the
floor beside his chair. He picked it up and flung it
open.</p>

<p>"Why, I got right here the dandiest outfit of swell
jewellery," he cried, grinning amiably up at the man's
threatening eyes. "There's just everything here," he went
on, with irrepressible volubility, "to suit you gents of the
forest, an' make you the envy of every jack way down

at Sachigo. Here, there's a be-autiful Prince Albert for
your watch. This ring. It's full o' diamonds calculated
to set Kimberly hollerin'. Maybe you fancy a locket
with it. It'll take a whole bunch of your dame's&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You'll light right out of this camp with daylight
to-morrow!"</p>

<p>The tone of the camp-boss banished the last shadow
of the pedlar's cast-iron smile.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes?" he said, his eyes hardening.</p>

<p>"That's wot I said. This camp's private property an'
you'll light out. You get that? Daylight. If you don't,
we've a way of dealing with Jew drummers that'll likely
worry you. Get it. An' get it good."</p>

<p>For a moment they looked into each other's eyes.
There was not the flicker of an eyelid between them.
Then Porson turned and strode away.</p>

<p>He passed down the store re-fastening his coat. He
paused at the door as a chorus of rough laughter reached
him from the little gathering at the table. But it was
only for an instant. He looked back. No face was
turned in his direction. So he passed out.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>The night outside was inky black. The heavy falling
snow made progress almost a blind groping. But Porson
knew every inch of the way. He passed down the lines
of huts and paused outside each bunkhouse. His reason
was obvious. There was a question in his mind as to the
whereabouts of the crowd of his men who usually
thronged the liquor store at this hour of the evening.</p>

<p>It was at the last bunkhouse he paused longest. He
stood for quite a while listening under the double glassed
window. Then he passed on and stood beside the tightly
closed storm-door. The signs and sounds he heard were
apparently sufficient. For, after a while, he turned back
and set out to return to his quarters.</p>


<p>For many minutes he groped his way through the
blinding snow, his mind completely given up to the things
his secret watch had revealed. His brutish nature, being
what it was, left him concerned only for the forceful
manner by which he could restore that authority which he
felt to be slipping away from him under the curious
change which had come over the camp. His position
depended on the adequate output of his winter's cut and
on nothing else. That, he knew, was desperately falling,
and&mdash;</p>

<p>But in a moment, all concern was swept from his
mind. A sound leapt at him out of the stillness of the
night. It was the whimper of dogs and the sharp command
of a man's voice. He shouted a challenge and
waited. And presently a dog train pulled up beside him.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Bull Sternford was standing before the wood stove
in the camp-boss's shanty. He had removed his snow-laden
fur coat. He had kicked the damp snow from his
moccasins. Now he was wiping the moisture out of his
eyes, and the chill in his limbs was easing under the
warmth which the stove radiated.</p>

<p>Ole Porson's grim face was alight with a smile of genuine
welcome, as he stood surveying his visitor across the
roaring stove.</p>

<p>"It's surely the best thing happened in years, Mr.
Sternford," he was saying. "I'm more glad you made
our camp this night than any other. Maybe I'd ha' got
through someways, but I don't know just how. We're
down over fifty on our cut, an', by the holy snakes, I
can't hand you why."</p>

<p>Bull put his coloured handkerchief away, and removed
the pea-jacket which he had worn under his furs.</p>

<p>"Don't worry," he said with apparent unconcern. "I
can hand it you. That's why I'm here."</p>


<p>The camp-boss waited. He eyed his chief with no
little anxiety. He had looked for an angry outburst.</p>

<p>Bull pulled up a chair. He flung the litter of books it
supported on to the already crowded table and sat down.
Then he filled his pipe and lit it with a hot coal from the
stove.</p>

<p>"Here," he said, "I'll tell you. I've been the round
of four camps. I've been over a month on the trail, and
I've heard just the same tale from every camp-boss we
employ. I've three more camps to visit besides yours,
and when I've made them maybe I'll get the sleep I'm
about crazy for. Night and day I've been on the dead
jump for a month following the trail of a red-hot gang
that's going through our forests. If I come up with
them there's going to be murder."</p>

<p>He spoke quietly without a sign of emotion. But the
light in his hot eyes was almost desperate.</p>

<p>"I want to hand you the story so you'll get it all
clear," he went on after a moment. "So I'll start by telling
you how we stand at the mill. Get this, an' hold
it tight in your head, and the rest'll come clear as
day. Sachigo's right on top. We've boosted it sky high
on to the top of the world's pulp trade. In less than
twelve months we'll have grabbed well-nigh the whole
of this country's pulp industry, and we'll beat the foreigners
right back over the sea to their own country. The
Skandinavia folk are rattled. They know all about us
and they've done their best to buy us out of the game.
We turned 'em down cold, and they're mad&mdash;mad as
hell. It means they're in for the fight of their lives.
So are we. And we know Peterman an' his gang well
enough to know what that means. It's 'rough an'

tough.' Everything goes. If they can't gouge our
eyes they'll do their best to chew us to small meat.
But we've got 'em every way. This forest gang is sent
by the Skandinavia. If they can't smash us by fire or

labour trouble next year'll see us floated into a seventy
million dollar corporation with the whole Canadian wood-pulp
industry lying right in the palms of our hands.
That's the reason for the things doing."</p>

<p>He paused, and the camp-boss nodded his rough head.
It was a story he could clearly understand. Then there
were those figures. Seventy million dollars! They swept
the last shadow of doubt from his mind.</p>

<p>"That's the position," Bull went on. "Now for the
trouble as it is in the forests right now. The thing that's
had me travelling night an' day for a month. There's an
outfit going right through these forests. I can't locate
its extent. Only the way it works. There's two objects
in view. One is to fire our limits. The other reckons
to paralyse our cut. So far these folks have failed against
the fire-guard organisation, and I guess they'll likely miss
most of their fire-bugs when they call the roll. The
other's different."</p>

<p>Bull knocked out his pipe on the stove and gazed
thoughtfully at the streak of brilliant light under the
edge of the front damper.</p>

<p>"I've a notion there's an outfit of pedlars at work, as
well as others," he went on presently.</p>

<p>The camp-boss nodded.</p>

<p>"Sure," he said.</p>

<p>Bull looked up.</p>

<p>"You think that way?" he asked. Then he nodded.
"Yes, I guess we're right. They're handing the boys
dope to keep 'em guessing&mdash;worrying. They're telling
'em we're on the edge of a big smash at Sachigo. That
we can't see the winter through. We're cleaned out
for cash, and the mill folk are shouting for their wages
and starting in to riot. It's a swell yarn. It's the sort
of yarn I'd tell 'em myself if I was working for the
Skandinavia. It's the sort of dope these crazy forest-jacks
are ready to swallow the same as if it was Rye.

Do you see? These fools are being told they won't
get their pay for their winter's cut. So, being what
they are, the boys are going slow. They're going slow,
and drawing goods at the store against each cord they
cut. Well, do you see what's going to happen if the
game succeeds? With our forests ablaze, and our cut
fifty down, and the whole outfit on the buck, when spring
comes, Skandinavia reckons our British financiers, when
they come along to look our land over will turn the
whole proposition of the flotation down, and quit us
cold. But that's not just all. No, sir. Elas Peterman
isn't the boy to leave it that way. He's handing out
the story that when Sachigo smashes the Skandinavia's
going to jump right in and collect the wreckage cheap.
Then they'll start up the mill, and sign on all hands on
their own pay-roll, only stipulating that they won't pay
one single cent of what Sachigo owes for their cut. So,
if they're such almighty fools as to cut, it's going to be
their dead loss and the Skandinavia's gain. Do you
get it? It's smart. I guess there's a bigger brain behind
it than Peterman's."</p>

<p>The camp-boss spat into the stove. It was his one
expression of disgust.</p>

<p>Bull rose from his chair.</p>

<p>"Here, I need food. So does my boy out there with the
dogs. We'll take it after I'm through with the men. It's
snowing like hell, but I pull out two hours from now.
You see, I'm on a hot trail, an' don't fancy losing a
minute."</p>

<p>"You're goin' to talk to 'em&mdash;the boys?" Porson's
eyes lit with a gleam of satisfaction. "Can you&mdash;twist
'em?"</p>

<p>Bull thrust a hand into his breast pocket and drew out
a sealed packet. He held it up before the other's questioning
eyes.</p>

<p>"I haven't failed yet," he said quietly. "In nine of

our camps back on the river the work's running full
already. I've a whole big yarn for our boys. But
right here I've got what's better. It's the only thing
that'll clinch the yarn I'm going to hand 'em. This," he
went on, indicating the parcel in his hand, "is the bunch
of dollars representing the price of this camp's full winter
cut, and the price of a bonus for making up all leeway
already lost. I'm going to have the boys count it. Then
I'm going to have them hand it right over to Abe Risdon
to set in his safe, with a written order from me to
pay out in full the moment the winter cut is complete.
Is it good? Can the Skandinavia's junk stand in face
of it? No, sir. And so I've proved right along. I
don't hold much of a brief for the intelligence of the
forest-jack, but his belly rules him all the time. You
see, he's human, and no more dishonest than the rest
of us. Have him guessing and worried and you'll get
trouble right along. Show him the lies the Skandinavia's
been doping him with, and he'll work out of sheer spite
to beat their game. You get right out and collect the
gang."</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>The snowfall had ceased. And with its passing the
temperature had fallen to something far below its average
winter level. The clouds had vanished miraculously, and
in their place was a night sky ablaze with the light of
myriad stars, and the soft splendour of a brilliant moon.</p>

<p>It was a scene of frigid desolation. Away on the
southern horizon lay the black line which marked the tremendous
forest limits of the Beaver River. For the rest
it was a world of snow that hid up the rugged undulations
of a sterile territory.</p>

<p>The dog train was moving at a reckless gait over the
untracked, hardening snow. The man Gouter was
driving under imperative orders such as he loved. Bull

Sternford had told him when he left the shelter of No.
10 Camp: "Get there! Get there quick! There's dogs
and to spare at all our camps, and I don't care a curse
if you run the outfit to death."</p>

<p>To a man of Gouter's breed the order was sufficient.
Half Eskimo, half white man, he was a savage of the
wild, born and bred to the fierce northern trail, one of
Labrador's hereditary fur hunters by sea and land.
Speed on the fiercest trail was the dream of his vanity.
Relays of dogs, such as he could never afford, and something
accomplished which he could tell of over the camp
fire to his less fortunate brethren. So he accepted the
white man's order and drove accordingly.</p>

<p>Bull Sternford sat huddled in the back of the sled
under the fur robes which alone made life possible. His
work at No. 10 Camp had left him satisfied, but every
nerve in his body was alert for the final coup he contemplated.
He was weary in mind as well as body. And
in his heart he knew that the need of his physical resources
was not so very far off. But he was beyond care. He
had said he was crazy for sleep, but the words gave no
indication of his real condition. His eyes ached. His
head throbbed. There were moments, even, when the
things he beheld, the things he thought became distorted.
But he knew that somewhere ahead a ghostly
outfit of strangers was pursuing its evil work against
him, and he meant to come up with it, and to wreak his
vengeance in merciless, summary fashion. His purpose
had become an obsession in the long sleepless days and
nights he had endured.</p>

<p>It was war. It was bitter ruthless war on the barren
hinterland of Labrador, where civilisation was unknown.
Mercy? Nature never designed that terrible wilderness
as a setting for mercy.</p>

<p>The dogs had been running for hours when Gouter's
voice came sharply back over his shoulder.</p>


<p>"Dog!" he cried, in the laconic fashion habitual to him.</p>

<p>Bull knelt up. His movement suggested the nervous
strain he was enduring. It was almost electrical.</p>

<p>"Where?" he demanded, peering out into the shining
night over the man's furry shoulder.</p>

<p>The half-breed raised a pointing whip ahead and to the
south.</p>

<p>"Sure," he said. "I hear him."</p>

<p>Bull had heard nothing. Nothing but the hiss of the
snow under their own runners, and the whimper of their
own dogs.</p>

<p>"It wouldn't be a wolf or fox?" he demurred.</p>

<p>The half-breed clucked his tongue. His vanity was
outraged.</p>

<p>Bull gazed intently in the direction the whip had
pointed. He could see only the far-off forest line, and
the soft whiteness of the world of snow.</p>

<p>"Hark!"</p>

<p>The half-breed again held up his whip. This time it
was for attention. Bull listened. Still he could hear
nothing, nothing at all but the sounds of their own
progress.</p>

<p>"Man! Him speak with dog. Oh, yes."</p>

<p>Gouter had turned. His beady black eyes were shining
with a smile of triumph into the white man's face.</p>

<p>"By the forest?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes."</p>

<p>"Then in God's name swing over and run to head
them off!"</p>

<p>Gouter obeyed with alacrity. He had impressed his
white chief. It was good. A series of unintelligible
ejaculations and the dogs swung away to the south.
Then the whip rolled out and fell with cruel accuracy.
The rawhide tugs strained under a mighty effort, as
the great dogs were set racing with their lean bellies
low to the ground.</p>


<p>Bull wiped the icicles from about his mouth and nose.</p>

<p>"Now have your guns ready," he cried. "The driver
of that team is your man. The other's mine. If he
shows fight kill him. There's five hundred dollars for
you if you get 'em."</p>

<p>"I get 'em."</p>

<p>The half-breed's confidence was supreme. Bull
dropped back into the sled. He sat with a pair of automatic
pistols ready to his hand and gazed out over the
sled rail.</p>

<p>It was a terrific race and all feeling of weariness had
passed under the excitement of it. The dogs were silent
now. Every nerve in their muscular bodies were straining.
The pace seemed to increase with every passing
moment, and up out of the horizon the dark line of the
forest leapt at them, deepening and broadening as it came.</p>

<p>For some time the less practised white man saw and
heard nothing of his enemies. He was forced to rely on
the half-breed. He observed the man closely. He noted
his every sign and read it as best he could. Presently
Gouter leant forward peering. Then he straightened up
and his voice came back triumphantly.</p>

<p>"I see dem," he exclaimed. And pointed almost
abreast. "Dogs. One&mdash;two&mdash;five. Yes. Two man.
Now we get him sure."</p>

<p>Down fell the whip on the racing dogs. The man
shouted his jargon at them. The sled lurched and swayed
with the added spurt, and Bull held fast to the rail. A
glad thrill surged through his senses.</p>

<p>It was a moment of tremendous uplift. Bull had
yearned for it for weeks. But the short days and long
nights of deferred hope had had their effect. He had
almost come to feel that this thing that was now at hand
was something impossible.</p>

<p>Yes. There was the outfit growing plainer and plainer
with every moment. He could see it clearly. He could

even count its details as the other's sharper eyes had
counted them minutes before. There were five dogs.
And they were running hard. They, too, were being
flogged, and the man driving them was shouting furiously
in his urgency.</p>

<p>Suddenly there was a leap of flame and a shot rang
out. It came from the driver of the fleeing dog train.
It was replied to on the instant by Gouter who lost not a
second. His own shot sped even as the enemy's bullet
whistled somewhere past his head. He fired again. A
third shot split the air. And with that last shot the
enemy's sled seemed to leap in the air. There was a
moment of hideous confusion. Then the wreckage
dropped away behind the pursuers, sprawled and still in
the snow.</p>

<p>A fierce shout from Gouter and his dogs swung round.
The sled under him heeled over, and took a desperate
chance on a single runner. But the half-breed's skill
saved them from catastrophe. It righted itself, and the
dogs slowed to a trot. Then they halted. And the occupants
of the sled flung themselves prone, with their guns
ready for the first sign of movement in the tangled mass
of their adversary's outfit.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Two of the dogs lay buried under the overturned sled.
Three others were sprawling at the end of their rawhide
tugs. They were alive. They were unhurt. They lay
there taking full advantage of the situation for rest.</p>

<p>But for the moment interest centred round the body
of a white man lying some yards away. A groan of
pain came up to the two men standing over him.</p>

<p>Bull dropped on his knees. He reached down and
turned the body over. The eyes of the man were visible
between the sides of his fur hood. But that was all.</p>

<p>There was a moment of silent contemplation. Then
the injured man struggled desperately to rise.</p>


<p>"Sternford?" he ejaculated</p>

<p>Gouter was on him in a moment. He heard the tone
of voice, and interpreted the man's movement in his
own savage fashion. He knew the man to be the driver
of the team, whom his boss had told him was his man.
So he threw him back and held him.</p>

<p>Bull stood up. The man's voice told him all he wanted
to know.</p>

<p>"Laval, eh?" he said quietly. "A second time. I
didn't expect it. No."</p>

<p>Then he laughed and turned away. And the sound of
his laugh possessed something terribly mocking in the
night silence of the wilderness.</p>

<p>He passed back to the sled. There had been two men
in it. He had seen that for himself.</p>

<p>The wreckage looked hopeless. The sled was completely
overturned and its gleaming runners caught and
reflected the white rays of the moon. It had been thrown
by reason of the fallen bodies of the dogs which lay
under it, pinned by its weight, and additionally held fast
by their own tangled harness.</p>

<p>Bull had no thought for anything but the purpose in
his mind. So he reached out and caught the steel runners
in his mitted hands and flung the vehicle aside.</p>

<p>Yes, it was there in the midst of a confusion of baggage
and lying cheek by jowl with the mangled remains of the
dogs. He cleared the debris, and dragged the dogs aside.
Then he stood and gazed down at the figure that
remained.</p>

<p>It was clad in a voluminous beaver coat. It was
hooded, as was every man who faced the fierce Labrador
trail. But&mdash;</p>

<p>The figure moved. It stirred, and deliberately sat up.
Bull's hands had been on his guns at the first movement.
But he released them, as the hood fell back from the
face which was ghastly pale in the moonlight.</p>


<p>He flung himself on his knees, and tenderly supported
the swaying figure.</p>

<p>"God in Heaven!" he cried. "Nancy! You?"</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_29"></a>
<h3>Chapter XX&mdash;On The Home Trail</h3>


<p>Nancy's eyes were desperately troubled as she gazed out
across the great valley of the Beaver River. Somewhere
behind her, in the shelter of the woods, a mid-day camp
had been pitched, and the men who had captured her red-hand
in the work of their enemies were preparing the,
rough food of the trail. But she was beyond all such
concern.</p>

<p>Far out on every hand lay the amazing panorama of
the splendid valley, but she saw none of it. The mighty
frozen waterway, the depths of virgin snow, the far-reaching
woodlands its gaping lips embraced; they were
things of frigid beauty for her eyes to gaze upon, but their
meaning was lost upon a mind tortured with the vivid,
hateful pictures it was powerless to escape.</p>

<p>From the moment of that dreadful night when she
had witnessed the ruthless climax of the work to which
she had given herself she had known no peace. It was
no thought of her failure, her capture, that inspired her
trouble. She could have been thankful enough for that.
It was the only mercy, she felt, that had been vouchsafed
to her.</p>

<p>No, long before her capture, a deep undermining of
regret had set in. She had been without realisation of
it, perhaps. But it had been there. In yielding to the
demands of those she served, in her self-confidence she
had forgotten the woman in her. She had forgotten
everything but the crazy ambition which had blinded
her to all consequences. Yes, even in the excitement of

the work itself she had forgotten everything but the
achievement she desired. But through it all, under it
all, the woman in her had been slowly awakening, and
an unadmitted regret at the destruction of work which
meant the whole life of another had been stirring. Then,
when the leading tongues of the guns had flashed out,
and human life, even the life of dogs, had yielded to the
demand of her cause, the last vestige of her dreaming
had been swept away, and she told herself it was murder,
<em>murder at her bidding</em>!</p>

<p>Now her soul was afire with the bitterness of repentance,
with passionate self-accusation. Murder had been
done through her. Murder! The horror of it all had
driven her well-nigh demented when she gazed from the
distance while the two men disposed of Arden Laval's
body under the snow. The dogs? They had been
left where they fell. The living had been cut loose from
their trappings to roam the forests at their will, while
the dead had remained to satisfy the fierce hunger of
the savage forest creatures. Even the sled had been
destroyed, and its wood used to make fire that the living
might endure on those pitiless northern heights. The
memory of it all was days old now, but its horror showed
no abatement. The agony was still with her. She felt
that never again could she know peace.</p>

<p>So she had moved away out from camp, as she had
done at every stopping they had made on the long
journey from the highlands down to Sachigo. Somehow
it seemed to her impossible to do otherwise. She felt
she must hide herself from the sight of those others who
were her captors, and who, in their hearts, she felt, must
deeply abhor the presence of so vile a creature in their
camp.</p>

<p>How long she had been standing there, while the men
prepared the mid-day meal, she did not know. It was
a matter of no sort of consequence to her anyway. Nothing

really seemed of any consequence now. Her jaded
mind was obsessed by a horror she could not shake off.
There was nothing, nothing in the world to do but nurse
the anguish driving her.</p>

<p>"You'll come right along and eat, Nancy?"</p>

<p>The girl almost jumped at the gentle tones of the man's
voice, and glanced round at Bull Sternford in an agony
of sudden terror.</p>

<p>"I&mdash;I&mdash;" she stammered. Then composure returned
to her. "If you wish it," she said submissively. "But I
don't need food."</p>

<p>Bull regarded the averted face for moments. Sympathy
and love were in his clear gazing eyes. He understood
something of the thing she was enduring, and the
tone of his voice had been a real expression of his feelings.
This girl, with the courage of twenty men, with
her radiant beauty, and in her pitiful, heartbroken condition,
was far more precious to him than any victory he
had set himself to achieve. He knew that the world held
nothing half so precious.</p>

<p>He came a step nearer.</p>

<p>"I wonder if you'll listen to me, Nancy," he said, with
a hesitation and doubt utterly foreign, to him. "You
know, for all that's happened, for all we're mixed up
against each other in this war, I'm the same man you
found me on the <em>Myra</em> and in Quebec. I&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Don't."</p>

<p>The girl flung out her hands in a piteous appeal. And
Bull recognised the hysteria lying behind the movement.</p>

<p>"I know," she cried. "Oh, I know. But&mdash;don't you
understand? You must know what I am. It's my doing
that Laval has gone to his death. I'm responsible, just
as surely as if I'd fired the gun that robbed him of his
life. Oh, why, why didn't I refuse the work? Why did
they send me? And those dogs. Those poor helpless
dogs. They, too. I must have been mad&mdash;mad. How

can you come near me? How can you stand there summoning
me to eat food&mdash;with you? It's useless. It's&mdash;I
who sent that man to his death&mdash;I who&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Why, I thought it was Gouter."</p>

<p>Bull's manner had suddenly changed. The danger
signal in the girl's eyes had determined him. So he
smiled, and there was laughter in his challenge.</p>

<p>"Say," he went on rapidly, "if you told that to
Gouter he'd be crazy mad. He's the boss running shot
on Labrador, and if you claimed responsibility for the
killing of Laval you'd be dead up against it with him."
He shook his head. "No, he's sort of grieved he didn't
drop him plumb on the instant as it is. It won't do you
talking that way with him around."</p>

<p>He watched for the effect of his words and realised a
slight relaxing of the strained look in the hazel eyes.
Forthwith he plunged into the thing he contemplated.</p>

<p>"I'm going to make a big talk with you before we
eat," he said. "You see, I've wanted to right along,
Nancy, but&mdash;Well, I want to tell you you're no more
responsible for Laval's life, and the lives of those dogs,
than I am. We're each playing our little parts in the
things of life like the puppets we are. Our hands are
clean enough, but it's not that way with the skunks that
could send you, a girl, almost a child, to do the work, and
live the life that boys like Gouter hardly know how to
get through. That man, Peterman, is going to get it
one day from me if I have luck. And I won't call it
murder when I get my hands on his dirty alien throat.
But never mind that. I want to ease that poor aching
head of yours. I want to try and get you some peace of
mind. That's why I tell you you've nothing to chide
yourself for, nothing at all. It's true. You've played
the game like the loyal adversary you are. And, for the
moment, I'm top dog. You've handed me a bad nightmare
by the wonderful courage and grit you've well-nigh

shamed me, as a man, with. True, true you haven't
a thing to blame yourself with. You've fought a mighty
big fight I'd have been pleased to fight. It's just circumstances
pitched you into the muss up, and let you
see the thing your folks have brought about. It's
that that's worrying. Think, Nancy, think hard. This
is their fight. Not yours. The blood of Laval is on
Elas Peterman's head. His, and those other creatures
who are ready to commit any crime to steal our country
from us. Oh, I'm not preaching just my side. It's
true, true. We at Sachigo were content to compete
openly, honestly. Peterman and those others saw disaster
in our competition. And so they got ready to murder&mdash;if
necessary. It's the soulless crime of a gang of
unscrupulous foreigners, and those hounds of hell have
left you to suffer for it just as sure as if they'd seared your
poor gentle heart with a red hot iron. Say, Nancy," he
went on, with persuasive earnestness, "put it all out of
your mind. Forget it all. You're out of the fight now.
And it just hurts me to see your eyes troubled, and that
poor tender heart of yours all broken up. Won't you?"</p>

<p>The girl had turned away to the gaping valley again.
But she answered him. And her tone was less dull, and
it was without the dreadful passion of moments ago.</p>

<p>"I&mdash;I've tried to tell myself something of that," she
said, with the pathetic helplessness of a child.</p>

<p>"Then try some more."</p>

<p>Bull had drawn nearer. He laid one hand gently on
her shoulder. It moved down and took possession of
the soft arm under her furs. Nancy shook her head.
But there was no decision in the movement.</p>

<p>"Oh, I wish&mdash;" she began.</p>

<p>But she could get no further. Suddenly she buried her
face in her hands, and broke into a passion of weeping.</p>

<p>Bull stood helplessly by. He gazed upon the shaking
woman while great sobs racked her whole body. There

was nothing he could do, nothing he dared do. He knew
that. His impulse was to take her in his arms and protect
her with his body against the things which gave her
pain. But&mdash;somehow he felt that perhaps it was good
for her to weep. Perhaps it would help her. So he waited.</p>

<p>Slowly the violence of the girl's grief subsided. And
after a while she turned to him and gazed at him through
her tears.</p>

<p>"I'm&mdash;I'm&mdash;"</p>

<p>But Bull shook his head.</p>

<p>"Come. Shall we go and eat?"</p>

<p>He still retained his hold upon her arm. And as he
spoke he led her unresistingly away towards the camp.</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_30"></a>
<h3>Chapter XXI&mdash;The Man In The Twilight</h3>


<p>Bat Harker passed out of the house on the hillside.
Muffled in heavy furs he stood for a moment filling up the
storm doorway, gazing out over a desolate prospect, a
scene of grave-like, significant stillness.</p>

<p>The mills he loved were completely idle. But that
was not all. He knew them to be at the mercy of an
army of men who had abandoned their work at the call
of wanton political and commercial agitators. It was
disaster, grievous disaster. And he told himself he was
about to beat a retreat like some hard-pressed general,
hastily retiring in face of the enemy from a position no
longer tenable.</p>

<p>There was no yielding in the lumberman. But to a man
of his forcefulness and headstrong courage the thought
of retreat was maddening. He was yearning to fight
in any and every way that offered. He knew that he
was going to fight this thing out, that his present retreat
was purely strategic. He knew that the whole campaign

was only just beginning. But it galled his spirit
that his first move must be a&mdash;retreat.</p>

<p>The late winter day was fiercely threatening, fit setting
for the disaster that had befallen. The cold was bitterly
intense, but no more bitter than the lumberman's present
mood. There down below were the deserted quays
with their mountains of baled wood-pulp buried deep
under white drifts of snow. And the voiceless mills
were similarly half buried. Look where he would the
scene was dead and deserted. There was not one single
stirring human figure to break up the desolation of it all.</p>

<p>It was a sad, white, desolate world, which for over
fifteen years he had known only as a busy hive. Roadways
should have been clear. Traffic should have been
speeding, every service, even in the depth of winter,
should have been in full running. The mills&mdash;those
wonderful mills&mdash;should have been droning out their
chorus of human achievement in a world set out for
Nature's fiercest battle ground.</p>

<p>From the moment of that first encounter in the recreation
hall Bat had known the strike to be inevitable.
Bull's swift action at the outset had had its effect. For
the moment it had checked the movement, and reduced it
to a simmer. Heat and power had been restored, and
work had been resumed, and outwardly there had been
peace. But it was artificial, and the lumberman and
the engineer had been aware that this was so.</p>

<p>Brief as was the respite it was valuable time to the
men in control, and they used it to the uttermost. The
leaders of the strike had been robbed of the advantage
they had sought from a lightning strike. But they were
by no means defeated. It was only that they had lost
a move in the game they had prepared.</p>

<p>At the end of a week Bat awoke one morning to find
the mills and all traffic at a standstill, and the workers
skulking within the shelter of their own homes.</p>


<p>Then it was that the benefit of a week's respite was
made plain. Every plan that had been prepared was
forthwith put into operation. Power and heat were
again cut off. The loyalists, which included a large
number of the engineering staff, and the staff of the executive
offices, were equipped with such weapons as would
serve, and set guard over the food and liquor stores, and
the essentials of the mills. And the power house was
fortified for siege.</p>

<p>But the strikers gave no sign. There was no attempt
at violence. There was no picketing, and no apparent
attempt at coercion of the loyalists. It almost seemed
as if the objects of the leaders had been achieved by the
simple cessation of work.</p>

<p>This silent condition of the strike had gone on for
days with exasperating effect upon the defenders. Bat
endeavoured by every means in his power to bring the
leaders of the movement into the open to discuss the
situation. But every effort ended negatively. The men
would not contemplate the conference table, and finally,
in headlong mood, the lumberman had committed the
grave mistake of provocation. He threatened to cut off
food supplies if the leaders continued in their refusal
to confer.</p>

<p>Two weeks elapsed before his threat reacted. Two
weeks of continued silence and apparent inaction by the
strike leaders. The men's first terror at the loss of heat
and power seemed to have passed. As Bull had suggested
they had resorted to the methods of the trail, and
day and night mighty beacon fires burned along the fore-shores
of the cove upon which their homes were built.
The men and women came and went peaceably but silently
between the food stores and their homes, purchasing
such provisions as they needed. And the manner of
it all, the cold silence, should have served a warning of the
iron hand in exercise behind the strike.</p>


<p>The bombshell came at the end of the third week. It
came in the form of a message crouched in the flamboyant
phraseology beloved of the Communist fraternity.
It was conveyed by a small youth some ten years of
age, as though its authors were fearful lest a full grown
bearer should be made to suffer for the temerity.</p>

<p>Bat had received it at the office, and his manner had
been characteristic.</p>

<p>"Fer me, laddie?" he had said, as he took possession
of the official-looking envelope. Then he gently patted
the boy's shoulder. "All right, sonny," he added. "You
get right back to your folks. Pore little bit."</p>

<p>With the boy's departure he had lost no time in reading
the ultimatum the message contained.</p>

<div class="display">
<p>"A Soviet has been formed. The Workers will not submit
to inteference with the food supplies of the people such
as has been threatened by men who have no right over the life
and death of their fellows. In view of this threat, the Soviet
of the Workers has determined to possess itself of the
mills and all properties pertaining thereto. The whole territories
and properties hither controlled under a capitalist
organisation will in future be administered by the Soviet
or the Workers. You are required, therefore, to hand
over forthwith all accountings, administration, and all
funds, all legal documentary titles such as are held by you
of freeholds and forestry rights relating to Sachigo. Furthermore,
it is required of you to restore intact the machinery
of the new power station, and to hand over the whole
premises in full running order. One week's grace will be
permitted for the execution of this order. Failing absolute
compliance, the ruling Soviet of the Workers reserves to
itself the right of adopting such measures to enforce the
Will of the Workers as it may deem necessary.</p>

<p>"On behalf of the Soviet of the Workers,</p>

<p>"LEO MURKO,</p>

<p>"Chief Commissionary."</p>

</div>

<p>At the finish of his reading Bat had looked up into
the dark face of Pete Loale who was standing by.</p>


<p>"Leo Murko?" he said, in an ominously restrained
tone. "Ther' ain't no guy o' that name on our pay-roll.
Guess he'll be that feller Bull dropped out into the snow."
Then with a sudden explosive force: "In God's name
why in hell didn't he break that skunk's neck?"</p>

<p>The week's grace had expired. It had been a week of
further hasty preparations. Every day had been used
to the uttermost, and even far into the night the work
had gone on. The office on the hill, as well as the executive
offices down at the mill, had been cleared out. Documents,
cash, books, safe. Everything of real importance
had been removed to the citadel power house. The
mining of the penstocks had been completed, and left
ready to be blown sky high at a moment's notice. Whatever
befell, the men who had given their lives to the building
of the mills were determined that only a useless husk
should fall into the hands of the strikers.</p>

<p>Now had come the Communists' final declaration of
war. The message had been brought less than an hour
ago by the same youth, who had again departed with
Bat's smiling expression of pity. The letter was ominously
brief.</p>

<div class="display">
<p>"The Order of the Soviet of the Workers will be enforced
forthwith. No mercy will be shown in the event of resistance."</p>
</div>

<p>Bat's fury had blazed as he read the message. Again it
was signed "Leo Murko." How he hated that name.
He had been alone in the office when the letter came, and
had seized the 'phone and called up the engineer at the
power house, and read the message to him. Skert Lawton's
reply was as instant as it was characteristic.</p>

<p>"That's all right," he said. "We're fixed for the scrap.
Just come right over."</p>

<p>It was this last act that Bat contemplated now. And

he hated it. He knew well enough he must go. There
was no sane alternative. The power station was the
prepared fortress. It had everything in it that must be
guarded and fought for. But his fierce regret was none
the less for the knowledge.</p>

<p>Then, too, his regret was for something else. It
was at the absence of Bull Sternford. This was no
expression of weakness. It was simply he desired the
man's companionship. They had worked together. They
had planned and built together. And, now, in the moment
of battle, it seemed to him they should still be together.</p>

<p>But he knew that was impossible. When Bull's call
to the forest had come in the night there had been no
opportunity for explanation. He, Bat, had been engaged
down at the mill, and the other had been rushed
in his preparations. Bull had made his farewell to him
in a great hurry. He had outlined briefly the thing
happening in the forests. That had been all. That and
a few words on the affairs of the mill.</p>

<p>How the news had reached Bull, and who the messenger,
had never transpired between them. Perhaps
Bull had forgotten to mention it. Perhaps, in the hurry
of it all, Bat had forgotten to ask. Perhaps, even, the
messenger himself had impressed secrecy for his visit,
which had been timed for the dead of night. At any
rate Bat knew none of these things, and was in no way
concerned for them. All he was concerned for was the
absence of the man who was something more to him than
a mere partner.</p>

<p>Thinking of him now Bat remembered the other's
final words, and the memory stirred him deeply.</p>

<p>"Remember, old friend," he had said, "young Ray
Birchall will be over from England at the break of winter.
On his report to his people depends the whole thing we've
built up. We've got to have these mills running full when

that boy gets around. There's not a darn thing else
matters."</p>

<p>It was the final spur. The mills running full. Bat
spat out his chew, and turned and locked the door behind
him. Then he moved away hurriedly, gazing straight
in front of him as though he dared not even think of the
place he was leaving.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>On the foreshore of the Cove, out towards the guarding
headlands, half a hundred fires were burning. They
were immense beacon fires of monstrous proportions.
Belching columns of smoke clouded the whole region
till the water-front looked to be in the grip of a forest
fire.</p>

<p>Men, and women, and children were gathered about
them. They were basking in a moderation of temperature
such as their homes could no longer afford them.
But it was a curious, silent gathering, indifferent to everything
but the feeding of the fires on which they felt their
very existence depended.</p>

<p>The forests which supplied the fuel came down to the
edge of the now idle trolley track. Already acres and
acres had been felled to feed the insatiable fires. The
woodland decimated, and the devastation was going on
in every direction.</p>

<p>About the houses there were others engaged in homely
chores. There were men, and women, too, clad heavily
in the thick sheepskin clothing which alone could defeat
the fierce breath of winter. Here again was silence and
gloom, and even the children refrained from their accustomed
pastimes.</p>

<p>A tall, fur-clad figure was moving through the settlement.
His feet were encased in moccasins, and thick
felt leggings reached up just below his knees. For the
rest his nether garments were loose fur trousers, and his

body was covered by a tunic reaching just below his
middle, with a capacious hood attached to it almost completely
enveloping his head.</p>

<p>He moved slowly and without any seeming object.
He passed along, and paused when he encountered either
man, woman, or child. With the men he spoke longest.
But the women claimed him, too. And generally he
left behind him a change of expression for the better in
those with whom he talked.</p>

<p>He paused beside a small party of elderly men. They
were at work upon a prone tree trunk of vast girth. They
were cutting and splitting it, fresh feed for the fires which
must never be permitted to die down.</p>

<p>The men had ceased work on his approach. But they
went on almost immediately, all except one. He was
a grizzled veteran, a man just past middle life. His face
was deeply lined, and a scrub of whisker protected it from
the cold. He had been seated on the log, but he stood up
as the tall man addressed him by name.</p>

<p>"You'll be there, Michael," he said, brushing the frost
from his darkly whiskered face, and breaking the icicles
hanging from his fur hood where it almost closed over
his mouth.</p>

<p>The man's grey eyes were smiling as they looked into
the wide black eyes so mildly encouraging.</p>

<p>"Sure, Father," came his prompt reply. "We got
to be ther' anyway. That don't matter. But we're for
your lead, an' we'll stand by it, sure. There's going to
be no sort of damn fool mistake this time."</p>

<p>The tall man nodded.</p>

<p>"There must be no mistake this time," he said keenly.
"Say, how many years is it since I sent you along here
with a promise of good work and better wages, and a
square deal?"</p>

<p>"Nigh five years, Father."</p>

<p>"And you got all&mdash;those things?"</p>


<p>"Sure. More."</p>

<p>Father Adam nodded.</p>

<p>"And those are the things a man's entitled to. Just
those," he said. "If a man wants more it's up to him.
He must earn it in competition with the rest of his fellows.
If he can't earn it he must do without, or quit the
honesty that entitles him to hold his head up in the world.
There's no honesty in the things these men propose."</p>

<p>"That's so, Father."</p>

<p>There was decision in the man's agreement. But even
as he spoke his gaze wandered in the direction of two
small children, like bundles of fur, playing in the snow.</p>

<p>"Poor little kids," he said. "Say, it's hell for them
with heat cut off."</p>

<p>Again the tall man nodded as he followed the other's
gaze.</p>

<p>"That's so. But I don't blame the mill-bosses. This
gang is trying to steal from the men who've always handed
out a straight deal. Do you blame them for defending
themselves?"</p>

<p>Michael shook his head.</p>

<p>"I don't see I can. After all&mdash;"</p>

<p>"No. Listen. You boys have it in your own hands.
These crooks from the Skandinavia got a strangle holt
on the youngsters of this outfit who've no kiddies like
those. You older boys let 'em get it. You weren't
awake. Now you find yourselves caught in the tide.
We've got to make a break for it. There'll be heat in
plenty when you break free. Seven o'clock. That's the
time your masters ordered the meeting for. Seven
o'clock. That's the time they intend to commit their great
crime&mdash;with you helping them."</p>

<p>Father Adam smiled as he drove his satire home.</p>

<p>"Not on your life!" The man's grey eyes were fierce.
"Give us the lead, Father," he cried. "We&mdash;we just
got to have that. Ther' ain't a real lumber-jack in these

forests won't follow it. It'll be a scrap. A hell of a
scrap. Oh, I know. Maybe some of us'll never see the
light of another day. But sure it's got to be. We ought
to've gone over from the start, and stood by our jobs.
But I guess none of us with wives and kiddies had the
guts. They threatened our women and children, an' we
weakened. But it's different now, sure. We've learned our
lesson. It's themselves they're out for, an' we'll be their
dogs to be kicked and bullied as they see fit. We'll
follow your lead, Father, an' it don't matter a cuss when
the scrap comes."</p>

<p>Father Adam nodded. His dark eyes were alight with
something more than the smile shining in them.</p>

<p>"Good," he said. "I shall be there."</p>

<p>He moved away and Michael rejoined his companions.
They talked together for a moment or two while their
eyes followed the receding figure. They saw it stop and
speak to one of their wives. She had a small child with
her. They saw it bend down into a squatting attitude
and draw the child towards it. Then they saw a lean
hand draw out of its mit and proceed to touch a swelling
on the little mite's neck. They understood. And
when the figure finally passed on out of sight, they returned
to their work, each man absorbed in his own
thought, each man with a surge of deep feeling for that
lonely figure. For they were all men who knew, and
understood the man who lived in the twilight of the
forests.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>The recreation room was packed to suffocation, packed
from end to end with a human freight. The benches
were crowded, and the tables groaned under the weight
of as many rough-clad creatures as could crowd themselves
thereon. Every inch of floor space was occupied,
and even the recesses in the log walls which contained

the windows were utilised as sitting places for the audience
which had gathered at the imperative order of the
Soviet of the Workers.</p>

<p>Kerosene lamps had replaced the brilliant electric light
to which the men were accustomed. A haze of tobacco
smoke created a sort of fog throughout the length of the
building, and contrived to soften the harsh lines of the
sea of human faces turned towards the raised platform
whereon sat the members of the ruling Soviet. The
temperature of the room was cold for all the warming
influence of the human gathering, and every man wore
his fur-lined pea-jacket closely buttoned.</p>

<p>Once, in a light moment, Bull Sternford had declared
that male human nature in the "bunch" was the ugliest
thing in the world. Had he witnessed that sea of faces,
so intently, so anxiously turned towards the leaders
they had presumably elected, he must have been well
satisfied with the truth of his conviction.</p>

<p>Such was the ascendancy and power the Bolshevist
leaders had gained in the brief month since the first
rumble of industrial war had been heard in Sachigo,
that there were few who had failed to obey their summons.
Not only was the hall crowded but a gathering of
many hundreds waited outside. It was the hour of Fate
for all. They understood that. It was the hour of that
Fate which had been decreed by men, who, under the
guise of democratic selection had usurped a power over
the rest of the community such as no elected parliament
of the world had ever been entrusted with.</p>

<p>It was doubtful if the majority fully realised the
significance of what was being done. It is certain that a
feeling of deep regret stirred voicelessly in many hearts.
But every man there was a simple wage earner whose
horizon was bounded by that which his wage opened
up. For the rest he was left guessing, but more often
fearing. So, with his muscles of iron, his human desires,

and his reluctance to apply such untrained reasoning as
he possessed, he was ripe subject for fluent, unscrupulous,
political agitators, and ready to sweep along with any
tide that set in.</p>

<p>The leaders on the platform understood this well
enough. It was their business to understand it. The
others, the leaders' immediate supporters, were men of
fiery youth, or those whose work it was to wreck at all
costs, and snatch to themselves, in addition to pay for
their fell work, such loot as the wreckage afforded them.</p>

<p>The hum of talk snuffed right out as the leader rose
to address the meeting. It was Leo Murko, the same
man, a hard-faced, foreign-looking Hebrew whom a
month before Bull's great arms flung through the
broken window into the snowdrift beyond. His position
now, however, was far different from that which it
had been when his endeavours had been concentrated
upon enrolling a Communist following. All that had
been achieved or sufficiently so. Now he was the dictator
whose orders could be backed by an irresistible force.
His whole manner had changed. The velvet glove of
persuasion had been discarded, and he hurled his commands
with deep-throated authority, and the smile of
encouragement and persuasion was completely abandoned.</p>

<p>His preliminary was brief. A phrase or two of flattery
and acknowledgment to those on the platform supporting
him dismissed that. Then he passed on to the objects
in view. In five minutes he had dismissed also the ultimate
destiny of the mills, and the manner in which the
Workers were to benefit by its administration. Then he
flung himself into a fiery denunciation of all capitalists,
and particularly those who had dared to employ his
audience on good wages for something like fifteen years.
That completed he passed on to the plans for taking
over the mills forthwith.</p>

<p>During the earlier part of his address the audience

listened with grave attention. Here and there little
outbursts of applause punctuated his sentences. But
when he came to the task which had been set for that
night a deathly silence prevailed everywhere. The
intensity was added to rather than broken by the harsh
clearing of throats that came from almost every part of
the hall.</p>

<p>"The whole thing needs cleaning up before daylight,"
he hurled at them. "Our organisation is complete.
Here," and he indicated the table nearby littered with
papers and surrounded by four or five men who were
members of the elected Soviet, "we have the lists of
the names of every comrade, and the numbers of men to
be used in every detail of the work before us. They have
been carefully drawn up with a view to the task required
to be put through. Some tasks will be simple. Some
will be less so." A grim light that was almost a smile
shone in his black eyes. "But we have carefully discriminated
in our personnel. That is as it should be.
There will be certain bloodshed. Knowing the temperament
and preparations of your late masters this seems to
be inevitable. But again we have provided. Our
greatest and most important task is the possession
of the power station, and for the capture of that we have
machine guns which will quickly reduce the enemy to
capitulation. The strength of the enemy we know to the
last fraction&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Do you?"</p>

<p>The challenge came from the back of the hall. It came
in a quiet, refined voice that swept through the hall with
the cold cut of a knife. Someone had risen from a sitting
position on a table. He stood up. It was the tall, dark
figure of Father Adam clad in a garment which enveloped
him from head to foot like the black cassock of a priest.</p>

<p>"Do you?" he cried again, as the startled leader
stared stupidly at the interrupter.</p>


<p>Every eye turned to the back of the hall on the instant.
The men on the platform looked up from their
work to witness the daring of one who could interrupt
the elected leader of the people. One man, slight,
foreign-looking, who had been seated at the back of the
platform stood up and leant against the wall.</p>

<p>"You know nothing of these people you are determined
to destroy with machine guns," Father Adam
went on. "You know nothing of the men with whom
you are dealing, either the owners of the mill, or the
men who have found an ample livelihood under their
organisation. How can you know them? You are
dastardly agents of an alien company, sent and paid to
wreck a wholly Canadian enterprise. This is your
first object. Your second is even more sinister, for you
are the agents of that mad Leninism which has destroyed
a whole race of workers in a vast country like Russia.
You are a supreme pestilence seeking to destroy such
human nature as will listen to your vile doctrines. It is
I, I, Father Adam, tell you so. The men here to-night,
whom you are inciting to theft and brutal murder, know
me. They know me as their servant, as their loyal
comrade and helper, ready to answer their call when
trouble overtakes them, ready to yield them of my best
service in the day of prosperity or the night of their
woe. And as it is with them so it is with their women and
their babes. That's the reason I am here to-night, the
black night of their woe. And so I ask them to listen
to me now as they have listened many times before in
the woods and the mills, which is the world to which
we all belong. If they do that, if only reason asserts
itself, they'll here and now turn on you, and rend you,
you and your wretched gang. They'll cast you out of
their midst, and fling off a foreign yoke, as they would
cast out any other unclean pestilence for the purification
of their homes. They'll pack you out into the

northern night where no foul germs can exist. Are they
to become thieves at your bidding? Are they to become
murderers because your foreign money has bought
them machine guns? Would they go back to their
women, and their innocent babes, wiping their blood-stained
hands to ask them to rejoice in the brutal crime
committed in the name of brotherhood and fellowship?
No, sir. I know them. You don't&mdash;"</p>

<p>The Bolshevist flung out a denouncing hand and
bellowed in his seething wrath:</p>

<p>"Traitor! He is of the Cap&mdash;"</p>

<p>But immediate uproar drowned his denunciation and
a great voice shouted in the din.</p>

<p>"Let him speak."</p>

<p>A dozen other voices strove to make themselves heard,
and a wild pandemonium was rising when clear and sharp
Father Adam's voice rang out again above it.</p>

<p>"I tell you they'll have no more of you," he cried as
the leader dropped back to his seat, and the dark man
at the back of the platform further bestirred himself.
"Order them now to man your machine guns and murder
the men in the power house! Give your orders here and
now! Read out your list of names and see&mdash;"</p>

<p>A shot rang out. The flame of a gun leapt somewhere
at the back of the platform, to be followed by complete,
utter silence.</p>

<p>Then came a sound. It was a hardly-suppressed
moan. Father Adam reeled slowly. He half turned
about. Then he crumpled and dropped to his knees
and fell forward into hands outstretched to catch him.</p>

<p>Paralysis seemed to grip that dense-packed human
throng. But it was only for a second. Then the avalanche
leapt for the abyss.</p>

<p>"Father! Father Adam!"</p>

<p>The cry went up seemingly from a thousand throats.

And with a roar the crowd surged forward. It hurled
itself at the platform.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Bull stared up at the house. He moved away and
glanced over the windows. Then his eyes turned to
the valley below, and his gaze settled itself on the great
fires burning on the northern foreshore of the Cove.</p>

<p>For some moments he stood contemplating the thing
he beheld. Then, at last, he turned back to the locked
door of his office. Without a word he raised one foot,
and, with all his force, crashed its sole against the lock.</p>

<p>The lock gave and the door fell back into the pitch
darkness beyond. He passed within. After a while
a light appeared in the office window. It passed. Then it
reappeared in each window of the building in succession.
Presently it remained stationary and fresh lights
appeared in several of the windows. Minutes later he
reappeared in the doorway.</p>

<p>He stepped out into the snow and came over to the
waiting dog train.</p>

<p>"It's a cold sort of welcome," he said quietly. "But&mdash;will
you please come right in, and I'll see how I can
fix you up for comfort. I guess things have happened
since I've been away. They've turned off heat. However&mdash;"</p>

<p>Nancy McDonald rose from her place in the sled. She
flung back the wealth of furs under which she had been
well-nigh buried and stepped out. She made no reply,
but stood waiting while Bull gave orders to his driver.</p>

<p>"Get those dogs fixed, Gouter," he said. "Then
come right along back here. You'll need to gather
fuel and set those stoves going."</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>A great fire was roaring in the wood stove in the office.
Nancy and Bull were standing before it seeking to drive

out the cold which seemed to have eaten into their
bones. Bull had drawn up his own rocker-chair for the
girl but she had not availed herself of it.</p>

<p>"You are not going to keep me here, prisoner in&mdash;your
house?"</p>

<p>The girl spoke in a low, hushed tone. In the indifferent
lamp-light she looked ghastly pale and utterly weary-eyed.
She had removed her furs, revealing herself clad
in the heavy clothing which alone could have served
on her desperate journey through the camps. It robbed
her figure of much of its usual grace.</p>

<p>"I'm afraid I am." Bull smiled gently, for all the
decision of his words. "You see, Nancy, we're still at
war. Still fighting the battle that others have forced
on us."</p>

<p>Nancy inclined her head.</p>

<p>"I'd forgotten," she said almost humbly. "But
you have no women folk around you," she went on
urgently a moment later. "Does war mean that&mdash;that I
must submit even&mdash;to that?"</p>

<p>It was the woman in her that had taken alarm. Her
hands were pressed together as she held them over the
stove. The man understood. She moved away to the
window, over which the curtains had not been drawn,
and Bull watched her.</p>

<p>"Every respect will be paid you," he said. "You've
nothing to fear. When Gouter returns he'll get food,
and we'll make the best preparations we can. I've
to consider others with more at stake than even I."</p>

<p>"Look!"</p>

<p>The girl had turned. Her eyes were wide with terror.
She was pointing at the window, and Bull hurried to her
side.</p>

<p>A great fire was raging on the north shore of the Cove.
It was the recreation room, that room which Bat had
so bitterly come to hate. It was ablaze from end to

end, and lit up its neighbourhood so that the scene was
of daylight clearness. A horde of human figures were
gathered about it, in a struggling, seething mass, and
the man realised that a battle was raging, a human
battle, whilst the demon of fire was left to work its will.</p>

<p>He stood there, held speechless by the thing he beheld.</p>

<p>"What is it? What does it mean?"</p>

<p>Panic drove the questions to the girl's lips. And she
turned in an agony of appeal to the man beside her.</p>

<p>"It means the work of the Skandinavia has been well
and truly done."</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_31"></a>
<h3>Chapter XXII&mdash;Dawn</h3>


<p>The hush of dawn was unbroken. The shadows of
night receded slowly, reluctantly renouncing their long
reign in favour of the brief winter daylight. The shores
of the Cove lay hidden under a haze of fog.</p>

<p>There were no sounds of life. The world was desperately
still. No cry of wild fowl rose to greet the day.
There was not even the doleful cry of belated wolf, or
the snapping bark of foraging coyote to indicate those
conditions of life which never change in the northern
wilderness. It was as if the world of snow and ice were
waking to a day of complete mourning, a day of bitter
reckoning for the tumult of furious human passions,
which, under the cloak of night, had been loosed to work
the evil of men's will.</p>

<p>With the first gleam of the rising sun a breeze leapt out
of the east. It came with an edge like the keenest knife,
and ripped the fog to ribbons. It churned and tangled it.
Then it flung it clear of its path, leaving bare the scene
of wreckage which the rage of battle had produced.</p>

<p>It was a scene for pity and regret. Gone was the

building which had been set up for the workers' recreation.
Only a smoking ruin remained in its place. A dozen
other buildings in the neighbourhood bore the scars of
fire, which they would doubtless carry for all time of
their service. The mill, however, was safe. The work
of more than fifteen years remaining intact. But it had
been so near, so very near to complete destruction.</p>

<p>With the passing of the fog further disaster was revealed.
It was the wreck of human life which the night
had produced. Daylight had made it possible to deal
with the injured and those beyond all human aid. And
the work was going forward in the almost voiceless
fashion which the presence of death ever imposes on
the living.</p>

<p>Viewed even from a distance there could be no mistaking
the meaning, the hideous significance of it all. And
Nancy, gazing from a window in the house on the hill,
shrank in terror before that which she believed to be the
result of the cruel work to which she had lent herself.</p>

<p>It had been a dreary, heartbreaking night of sleepless
watching and poignant feeling. Nancy was alone in her
prison, a beautiful apartment, the best in the house. Bull
Sternford had conducted her thither personally, and, in
doing so, had told her the thing he was doing, and of his
real desire to save her unnecessary distress.</p>

<p>"You see," he had explained, with a gentleness which
Nancy felt she had no right to expect, "there's just
about the best of everything right here. It's as it was
left by the feller who designed and decorated it for the
woman he loved better than anything in life. No one's
ever used it since. I'd be glad for you to have it. We've
only a Chink servant to wait around on us, and a rough
choreman, and I guess they don't know a thing about
fixing things for a woman. But they've kept it clean
and wholesome, and that's all I can say. Can you make
out in it to-night?"</p>


<p>He smiled. Then his steady eyes had turned away
to the window where the light of the raging fire could be
seen. And after a moment he went on.</p>

<p>"You're a prisoner. I can't help that. That's got
to be. But no lock or bolt will be set to keep you here.
You're free to come and go as you choose. You can
make the doors of the room fast against intrusion, if you
feel that way. But there'll be none. To-night you'll
just be dead alone in the place. You see, I've got to
get out and pull my weight down there."</p>

<p>So he had left her. He had left her to a punishment
more desperate than anything he could have designed.
Her windows looked out over the mill. And a subtle
force attracted her thereto, and held her sleepless and
despairing the whole night long. She had been forced to
sit there watching the tragedy being enacted. A tragedy
with which she knew she was connected, and for which,
in her exaggerated self-condemnation, she believed herself
responsible.</p>

<p>The agony of that prolonged vigil would never be forgotten.
Fascinated, dreading, every act of it seared the
girl's soul as with a red hot brand. It was the Skandinavia's
work. The agents of the Skandinavia. And she
knew that she, perhaps, was their principal agent. The
rattle of machine guns. The human slaughter. She had
witnessed the terror of it all in the fierce light of the
conflagration which looked to be devouring the whole
world of the mills. She could never forget it. She could
never forgive herself her share in the ghastly plans for that
hideous destruction. But more than all she knew she
could never forgive, or again associate herself with those
who had designed the inhuman work of it all and plunged
her into the maelstrom of its execution.</p>

<p>Now, in the daylight, she was still at the window.
There was no relief. On the contrary. With the smoke
cleared from the smouldering ruins she saw the full extent

of the wreckage. It was sprawling everywhere,
human and material. An army of men, it seemed, was
searching the battlefield. It was searching and collecting
amongst the ruins. And she watched the bearing away
on improvised stretchers, of still, helpless, human burdens
which none could mistake. She could bear no more of it.
She shut out the sight and fled from the window, covering
her eyes with her hands.</p>

<p>But she was recalled almost instantly. The sound of
men's rough voices startled her. Whence came the sound
she could not judge. But it seemed to her it was from
somewhere outside. So she stealthily peered out. It was
a small group of fur-clad figures. They were approaching
the house over the snowy trail that came up from the
mill.</p>

<p>New terror leapt. They were supporting a prone,
human body! They were bringing it up to the house!
Who&mdash;who could they be bringing up to that house, which
was the home and the office of the master of the mill?
In that supreme moment all that which had gone before
was completely forgotten. She stood clutching at the
window casing, in a desperate effort to steady herself.</p>

<p>She knew. Oh, yes, it could be no other. It must be
Bull Sternford they were bringing up. Bull Sternford&mdash;the
man who&mdash;The agents of the Skandinavia had
done him to death! The agents of the Skandinavia!</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Bat Harker was standing at the window of the office
on the hill. His hard, grey eyes were searching the distance
below, and his square jaws were busy on their usual
occupation. Bull was sitting in a rocker-chair. He was
leaning forward, gazing down at the thickly carpeted
floor, and his hands were clasped between his outspread
knees. Both men were dishevelled. Their clothing was
stained, and their hands and faces were begrimed as a
result of the fierce work of the night.</p>


<p>Bat suddenly turned from his silent scrutiny.</p>

<p>"He'll pull around? You think so?" he demanded.</p>

<p>There was an appeal in his harsh voice such as Bull
had never heard in it before, and he looked up with a
start.</p>

<p>"That's how Jason reckoned," he said.</p>

<p>"Oh, to hell with Jason!" Bat's retort was fiercely
uncompromising. "Who's Jason anyway? A medical
student who hadn't the guts for his job. Leastways he
got on the crook. It's the thing you reckon I want to
know."</p>

<p>"I reckon he'll pull around," Bull returned quietly.
Then he stirred wearily. "But you're hard on young
Jason, Bat. He's bright enough. I like the way he
handles his job. And anyway he's the only feller around
this layout with any knowledge of a sick man. He's
qualified you know. He wasn't just a student. He practised
before he went down and out and took to the
forests. We've got to rely on him till we get a man up
from Montreal, which won't be for weeks. He'll be
through along from fixing him in a while. Then we can
hear the thing he's got to say. Maybe we'll be able to
judge better then."</p>

<p>"I wired Montreal," Bat said sharply.</p>

<p>"Good."</p>

<p>The lumberman turned again to his window, and Bull
continued to regard the carpet which had no interest for
him. Both were weary, utterly weary in body as well as
mind.</p>

<p>It was full, broad daylight now, with the low, northern
sun gleaming athwart the scene which these men had
so recently left. They were conscious of the victory
gained. They rejoiced in the complete defeat of an
enemy who had come so near to defeating all their plans.
But the cost appalled them. They had both faced the play
of machine guns. They had seen their men fall to the

scythe-like mowing of a cruel weapon of which its victims
had no understanding. Then, when the machine guns had
been silenced, they had witnessed the rage with which these
hard-living jacks had meted out their ideas of just
punishment upon the murderers of their comrades.</p>

<p>The wanton inhumanity of the whole thing had sickened
them both. Both knew and were indifferent to the roughness
of the fierce northland. But the ordeal through which
they had passed was something far beyond the darkest
vision of conflict they had ever contemplated.</p>

<p>Neither had been present to witness the shooting of
Father Adam. But both had been there within minutes
of the beginning of the battle which it had started. From
the power house Bat had discovered the thing happening,
just as Bull had seen from the window of his office the
leaping flames which had threatened the mill. It had been
largely due to their timely leadership that ultimate victory
had been snatched. But the work of it had been terrible.</p>

<p>Now they had returned to their quarters, their night's
work completed. Down below comrade was attending to
comrade in such fashion as lay to hand, and those beyond
earthly aid were being disposed to their last rest.
Thus these men had been left free to succour the wounded
creature whose timely lead had made possible the defeat
that had been inflicted.</p>

<p>Bat had but one concern just now. Father Adam.
The man whose secret he held. The man who counted
for everything in his rugged life. He raised his blood-shot
eyes to his companion's face.</p>

<p>"If&mdash;Father Adam&mdash;passes, I'm done with Sachigo,
Bull," he declared almost desperately. "It 'ud break me
to death. You can't know the thing that feller means to
me. You know him for the sort of missioner all these
folks guess he is. That's how he'd have you know him.
And it goes with me all the time. But I know him just as
he is."</p>


<p>Bull nodded. He made no reply. He knew the lumberman
was well-nigh beside himself, and he gazed back into
the hot eyes and wondered.</p>

<p>But Bat had nothing more to say. He even felt he
had said more than he had any right to say. So he
turned again to the window.</p>

<p>A few moments later the door communicating with
the house was unceremoniously thrust open. The two
men looked round. It was a youngish man dressed in the
overalls of an engineer who hurried in. He was alert
and full of business; a condition which he seemed to
appreciate.</p>

<p>"It's all right, boss," he cried cheerfully, addressing
himself to Bat. "Guess the good Father'll get away with
it. He's out of his dope an' smiling plenty. I jerked
that darn plug that holed him right out, an' it's a soft-nosed
swine. I left it back there for you to see. The
feller who dropped him deserves rat poison. I hope to
God they got him. Anyway I got the wound cleaned up
and fixed things. Now we just got to keep it clean and
open, and watch his temperature. Then we don't need to
worry a thing. I'll do that. But someone'll have to sit
around and nurse him. I'll have to get along down.
There's nigh a hundred needin' me. Gee I An' after all
these years, too. It makes me wonder."</p>

<p>There was a smile of keen appreciation in the eyes
that looked into those of the lumberman. And the look
deepened when Bat thrust out a large and dirty hand
at him.</p>

<p>"Thanks, boy," he said, in obvious relief. "I'm goin'
to nurse that pore feller. Maybe I ain't much in that
line. But I'll promise he don't lack a thing I can hand
him. Here, shake. You'll be along to fix him again?"</p>

<p>"Right on time," was the quick rejoinder.</p>

<p>Jason had readily enough gripped the outstretched
hand. Then he hurried away. And neither of the men

begrudged him the obvious vanity which his momentary
importance had inflamed.</p>

<p>With the man's going Bull passed a hand back over
his ample hair.</p>

<p>"God!" he exclaimed wearily. "It's been a tough
night."</p>

<p>"Tough?"</p>

<p>Bat's response spoke a whole world of feeling. He
moved from his window and flung himself into a chair.</p>

<p>"He saved us," he went on. "Father Adam. He
saved the whole of our darn outfit. How he did it I don't
just know. Maybe I'll never know. He don't talk a lot.
I gathered something of it from the boys. But there
wasn't time for talk." He shook his grizzled head. "You
see, I didn't even know he was around. And you never
told me it was him brought you word from the camps.
He must have been at work around from the start. He
must have got hold of a bunch of the boys he knew. And
when he got 'em right, why&mdash;Say, I'd have given a
thousand dollars to have heard him fire his dope at that
lousy gang. It must have been pretty. But they got
him. And I guess that was the craziest thing they did.
The fool man who could shoot up Father Adam in face
of the forest-boys could only be fit for the bughouse."</p>

<p>He sighed. It was not for the man's madness in
shooting, but for the hurt inflicted. Then a grim, vengeful
smile lit his eyes.</p>

<p>"Why, I guess there ain't a single agent of the Skandinavia
down there left with a puff of wind in his rotten
carcase. The boys were plumb crazed for their blood
an' got right up to their necks in it. I'm glad. I'm&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, forget it, man." Bull spoke sharply. "There's
things we can take a joy in remembering. But this isn't
one of 'em. No. The thing for us now is work. Plenty
of work. The mill needs to be in full work inside a
week. We haven't an hour to lose, with young Birchall

coming along over. Skert's promised us power in twenty-four
hours. He's at it right now. The camps on the
river'll be working full, and making up lost time. The
rest's up to us right here. But&mdash;but," he added, passing
a hand nervously across his forehead, "I've got to get
sleep or I'll go stark crazy."</p>

<p>Bat eyed the younger man seriously. It was the first
time he had realised his condition. His sympathy found
the rough expression of a nod.</p>

<p>"You had a hell of a time up there," he said.</p>

<p>Bull laughed. There was no mirth in his laugh.</p>

<p>"It was tough all right. I wonder if you'd guess how
tough." He shook his head. "No. You wouldn't. You
reckon Father Adam's a pretty good man, but I tell you
right here you don't know how good, or the thing he did
for us single-handed. I know&mdash;now. He set me wise
to it all, and didn't leave me a thing to do but make the
trail he'd set for me. It was an easy play dealing with the
fool forest-jacks who'd swallowed the Skandinavia's dope.
Yes. That was easy," he added thoughtfully. "But that
was just the start of the game. Father Adam had located
the trail of the outfit the Skandinavia had sent and it was
my job to come right up with 'em and silence 'em."</p>

<p>He broke off and sat staring straight in front of him.
His fine eyes were half smiling for all the weariness he
complained of. He yawned.</p>

<p>"Well, I hit that trail," he went on presently. "I hit
it, and hung to it like a she-wolf out for offal. I just
never quit. It was that way I forgot sleep. It wasn't
till between No. 10 and 11 Camps we got sight. We were
out in the open, up on the high land. We'd a run of fifty
mile ahead of the dogs. When we got sight that boy
Gouter was after 'em like a red-hot devil. Drive? Gee,
how he drove!"</p>

<p>Again came the man's mirthless laugh.</p>

<p>"There's things in life seem mighty queer at times.

It was that way then. There was a man I wanted to kill
once bad. Guess I've never quit wanting to kill him,
though I'm glad Father Adam saved me from doing it.
He was Laval&mdash;Arden Laval, one of the Skandinavia's
camp-bosses. Well, I saw him killed on that trip, and I
helped bury him in the snow. Gouter drew on him on the
dead run at fifty yards. He dropped him cold, and
wrecked the outfit the feller was driving. There were two
in the bunch that the Skandinavia sent there to raise
trouble for us. Laval and another. Laval's dead, and
the other we brought right along as prisoner. That
other's here in this&mdash;"</p>

<p>A light knock interrupted the story. Bull turned with
a start. Then he sprang to his feet, every sign of weariness
gone. He stood for a moment as though in doubt.
And the lumberman, watching him, remarked the complete
transformation that had taken place. He was smiling.
His straining eyes had softened to a tenderness the onlooker
failed to understand.</p>

<p>He moved swiftly across the room and flung open
the door.</p>

<p>"Will you come right in?"</p>

<p>The lumberman heard the invitation. The tone was
deep with a gentleness he had never before discovered in
it. And in his wonder he craned to see who it was who
had inspired it.</p>

<p>Bull moved aside.</p>

<p>It was then that Bat started up from his chair, and a
sharp ejaculation broke from him. Nancy McDonald
was standing framed in the doorway.</p>

</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_32"></a>
<h3>Chapter XXIII&mdash;Nancy</h3>


<p>Bat was hurrying down the woodland trail. For once
in his hard life he knew the meaning of rank cowardice.

The sight of Nancy McDonald had completely robbed
him of the last vestige of courage. The atmosphere of
the office, that room so crowded with absorbing memories
for him, had suddenly seemed to threaten suffocation.
He felt he must get out. He must seek the cold, crisp
air of the world he knew and understood. So he had fled.</p>

<p>Now he was alone with a riot of thought that was
almost chaotic. There was only one thing that stood
out clearly, definitely, in his mind. It was the Nemesis
of the thing that had happened. It was Nemesis with
a vengeance.</p>

<p>His busy jaws worked furiously under his emotion. He
spat, and spat again, into the soft white snow. Once
he stopped abruptly and gazed back over the circuitous
trail. It was as though he must look again upon the
thing that had so deeply stirred him, as though he must
look upon it to reassure himself that he was not dreaming.
That the thing had driven him headlong was real,
and not some troublesome hallucination.</p>

<p>Nancy McDonald! The beautiful stepdaughter of
Leslie Standing, with her red hair and pretty eyes, was
the agent of the Skandinavia, paid to wreck the great
work he and Leslie had set up. She was paid to achieve
the destruction at&mdash;any cost.</p>

<p>It was amazing. It was overwhelming. It was even&mdash;terrible.</p>

<p>He pursued his way with hurried steps. And as he
went his mind leapt back to the time when he had made
his great appeal for the poor, deserted child shut up in
the coldly correct halls of Marypoint College. What an
irony it all seemed now. Then he remembered her first
coming to Sachigo, and the mystery of the letter from
Father Adam heralding her arrival. He had understood
the moment Nancy had announced her name to him on the
quay. He had understood the thought, the hope which
had inspired the letter.</p>


<p>In his rugged heart he had welcomed the letter which
Father Adam had written. He had welcomed the girl's
first coming to the place he felt should be her inheritance.
He had seen in those things the promise of the belated
justice for which years ago he had appealed. Father
Adam had asked Bull to receive her well. Why? There
was only one answer to that in the lumberman's mind.
Father Adam had seen her. He understood her beauty,
and had fallen for it. What more reasonable then that
Bull should do the same.</p>

<p>But that was all past and done with now. All the
things he had dreamed of, and so ardently desired, had
been lost through a mischievous Fate. The neglected stepdaughter
of Leslie Standing was body and soul part of
their enemy's armament of offence. It was all too crazy.
It was all too devilish for calm contemplation.</p>

<p>The sight of the girl's pathetic eyes, so weary, so
troubled, had been sufficient. Bat could not have remained
in that room another minute. No. Down at the
mill were the things he understood. They were the things
he was bred to, and could deal with. These others were
something that left him hopeless and helpless. So he
went, determined to lay the ghost of the thing behind him
in the tremendous effort the necessities of the mill demanded
he should put forth.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Bull's emotions were deeply stirred. He gazed into
the tired eyes of the girl, so beautiful for all their complete
dejection. He marked the cold pallor of her cheeks,
and realised the dishevelled condition of her glorious
masses of hair. An intense pity left him gravely troubled.</p>

<p>As Nancy stood gazing up at the man, complete hopelessness
oppressed her. She remembered well enough
the declaration of war between them. She remembered,
too, that it had meant nothing personal when it was made.
At the time she had had no inkling of the terrible thing it

could mean, or how nearly it could bring them into real,
personal conflict.</p>

<p>She had been wholly unprepared for the demand that
had been thrust upon her by the man, Peterman. It had
frightened her at first. She had shrunk from it. Then,
finally, she had accepted it as her duty, under pressure.
Peterman had made it appear so trifling. A journey, a
trying journey, perhaps, but one to be made with all the
comfort he could provide. And then to preach to those
ignorant forest-men the disaster towards which their
employers were heading. As Peterman had put it, it had
almost seemed a legitimate thing to do. Convinced as
she had been of the disaster about to fall on Sachigo, it
had seemed as if she were even doing them a service.</p>

<p>Had she been able to search Peterman's mind she would
never have taken part in the dastardly thing he had
planned. Had she been able to read him she would have
quickly discovered the real motive he had in sending her.
She would have discovered the furious jealousy and
wounded vanity which meant her to be a prime instrument
in the wrecking of Bull Sternford and his mills. She
would have realised the devilish ingenuity with which he
intended to wreck her friendship with another man so that
he might the more truly claim her for himself. But she
had no suspicion, and had blindly yielded herself to the
duty she believed to be hers.</p>

<p>After Bat's hurried departure Bull cast about in his
mind for the thing to say to her. And somehow, without
realising it, the right words sprang to his lips.</p>

<p>"We won!" he said. And the smile accompanying
his words was one of gentle raillery, and suggested nothing
of the real tragedy of the thing that had happened.</p>

<p>The girl's eyes widened. She strove to understand the
dreadful lightness with which Bull spoke. Victory?
Defeat? At that moment they were the two things
furthest from her mind.</p>


<p>Bull drew forward a chair, and gently insisted. And
Nancy, accepting it, realised in a dull sort of way that
it was the chair she had occupied at the time of her first
visit, which now seemed so far, far back in her memory.
Bull sat again in his rocker. He leant forward.</p>

<p>"Sure," he went on, "we've won out. Your Skandinavia's
beaten. Beaten a mile. We've won, too, at less
cost than I hoped. Does it grieve you?"</p>

<p>There was no softness or yielding in his tone. It was
as he intended; the tone of a man who cares only that
victory has been won. Nancy shook her head.</p>

<p>"I'm&mdash;I'm glad," she said desperately.</p>

<p>"Glad?" Bull was startled.</p>

<p>The girl made a little involuntary movement. She
averted her gaze to the window through which the wintry
sunlight was pouring.</p>

<p>"Oh, don't you understand? Can't you? Is the victory
so much to you that you have no thought, no feeling, for
the suffering it has brought? Are you so hard set on your
purpose of achievement that nothing else matters? Oh,
it's all dreadful. I used to feel that way. I counted no cost.
Achievement? It was everything to me. And now, now
that I know the thing it means I feel I&mdash;I want to die."</p>

<p>Bull took a strong hold upon himself.</p>

<p>"I know," he said slowly. "You see, Nancy, you're
just a woman. You're just as tender and gentle&mdash;and&mdash;womanly,
as God made you to be. He gave you a beautiful
woman's heart, and a courage that was quite wonderful
till it came into conflict with your heart. You had no
right to be flung into this thing. And only a man of
Peterman's lack of scruple could have done such a thing.
Well, I'm not going to preach a long sermon, but I want
to tell you some of the things I've got in my mind before
I get the sleep I need. God knows that none of this thing
you're blaming yourself for lies at your door. It would
all have happened without you. Peterman designed it,

and put it through for all he was worth. Now I want to
say I'm glad&mdash;glad of it all. I've no pity for the Bolshevic
dregs of Europe he employed. They were out for loot,
they were out to grab the things and the power that other
folks set up. Any old death that hit them they amply
deserved. As for our folk who've gone under&mdash;well, we
mustn't think too deeply that way. We all took our
chances, and some had to go. I was ready to go. So was
Bat. So were we all. We wanted victory, and we
wanted it for those who survived. We honour our dead,
but our lives must not be clouded by their going. It's
war&mdash;human war. And just as long as the world lasts
that war will always be. Good and bad men will die, and
good and bad women will suffer at the sight. But for
God's sake have done with the notion that you&mdash;you have
anything to take to yourself, except that you've fought a
good fight, and&mdash;lost. It sounds like the devil talking,
doesn't it? Maybe you'll think me a monster of heartlessness.
I'm not."</p>

<p>"Oh, I wish I could feel all that," Nancy exclaimed
with an impulse which a few moments before must have
been impossible.</p>

<p>"You can." Bull nodded. "You will."</p>

<p>"You think so?" Nancy sighed. "I wish I could."
Suddenly she spread out her hands in a little pathetic
gesture. "Oh, it all seems wrong. Everything. What
am I to do? What can I do? I&mdash;I can't even think.
Whichever way I look it all seems so black and hopeless.
You think I can&mdash;will?"</p>

<p>Bull's sympathy would no longer be denied. He rose
from his chair and moved to the window. His face
was hidden from the troubled eyes that watched him.
But his voice came back infinite in its gentleness.</p>

<p>"You want to do something," he said. "You want to
give expression to the woman in you. And when that
has happened it'll make you feel&mdash;better. I know."</p>


<p>He nodded. Suddenly he turned back to her, and stood
smiling down into her anxious eyes.</p>

<p>"Tell me," he went on, "what is it you want to do?
You're no prisoner now. The war's finished. You're
just as free as air to come and go as you please. You
can return to Quebec the moment you desire, and the <em>Myra</em>
comes along up. And everything I can possibly arrange
shall be done for your happiness and comfort. When
would you like to go?"</p>

<p>The girl shook her head.</p>

<p>"I wasn't thinking of that."</p>

<p>"I knew that," Bull smiled.</p>

<p>"Father Adam. He's in the house there sick and
wounded," Nancy hurried on. "I know him. I&mdash;may I
nurse him back to health and strength. May I try that
way to teach myself I'm not the thing I think and feel.
Oh, let me be of use. Let me help to undo the thing I've
done so much to bring about."</p>

<p>The girl's hands were thrust out, and her eyes were
shining. Never in his life had Bull experienced such an
appeal. Never in his life had he been so near to reckless
disregard for all restraint. He came nearer to her.</p>

<p>"Surely you may do that," he said. "And I just want
to thank you from the bottom of my unfeeling heart for
the thought that prompts you. We haven't a soul here
to do it right&mdash;to do it as you can. And Father Adam is
a mighty precious life to us all&mdash;in Sachigo."</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_33"></a>
<h3>Chapter XXIV&mdash;The Coming Of Spring</h3>


<p>It had been a hard day. Bull Sternford had spent it
dealing with complicated financial schedules, an amazing,
turbulent sea of figures, until his powers and patience
had temporarily exhausted themselves.</p>


<p>In a final fit of irritation he had flung his work aside,
and risen from his desk. The insufferable heat of the
room, and the reek of his own pipe disgusted him. So
he had moved over to the window where the cold air of
early spring drifted in through the open ventilating slot
in the storm sash.</p>

<p>His gaze was on the Cove below, where the snow-laden
ice was discoloured by the moist slush of thaw, and
the open waters, far down towards the distant headlands,
had so deeply encroached upon the claims of winter.</p>

<p>A great, premature thaw had set in. It was the real
spring thaw a month or more early. Skert Lawton, who
controlled the water power of the mill, had warned him
of its coming. Bat too had spoken out of his years of
experience of the moods of Labrador's seasons. But
somehow the sight of it all gave him none of the joy with
which it had inspired the others.</p>

<p>The evil night of threatened disaster had become only
a memory. Nearly six weeks had passed since Nancy
McDonald had craved the privilege of caring for the man
who had so nearly given his life in the saving of the mill
and all the great purpose it represented. Now he was
mercifully returned to health and strength under the devoted
care that had been bestowed upon him. The mill
was again in full work. And the human army it employed
had returned to their peace-time labours in the full determination
to undo the grievous hurt which the mischief of
the Skandinavia's agents and their own folly had inflicted.
In the relief of reaction, they, no less than their employers,
had redoubled their efforts.</p>

<p>All outward sign of the trouble through which the
mill had passed had long since been cleared away under
the driving power of the forceful Bat Harker. The scars
of fire remained here and there. But they were no more
than a reminder for those who were ready to forget the
folly they had once committed.</p>


<p>Everything was moving on now as Bull and his comrades
would have had it. Only that morning word had
come through that Ray Birchall was on his way from
London for the purpose of his report, and expected to
reach Sachigo in three weeks' time. Could anything,
then, be better than this early thaw? It was a veritable
act of Providence that the London man's inspection of
the mills, and all the property involved would take place
under the most active conditions.</p>

<p>It should have been a time of rejoicing and mental
ease. It should have been a time of stirring hope. A
moment for complaisant contemplation of a great purpose
achieved. But the man at the window regarded the
thing he looked upon without any display of pleasurable
feeling. The sight of it literally seemed to deepen the
unease which looked out of his eyes.</p>

<p>In the midst of Bull's pre-occupation the door from
the outer office was thrust open, and Bat Harker's harsh
voice jarred the silence of the room.</p>

<p>"Gettin' a peek at things," he cried, stumping heavily
across the thick carpet. "Well, it looks good to me, too.
Say, if this lasts just one week we'll be as clear of snow
as hell's sidewalks." Then he flung open his rough pea-jacket
and pushed his cap back from his lined forehead.
"Gee, it's hot!"</p>

<p>The lumberman was standing at Bull's side, and his
deep-set eyes were following the other's gaze with twinkling
satisfaction. Bull nodded and moved away.</p>

<p>"Yep," he ejaculated. "It should be good for us."</p>

<p>He passed over to the radiators and shut them off.
Then he went over to the wood-stove and closed down the
dampers. Then, with a curious absent-mindedness, he
stood up and held out his hands to the warmth radiating
from the stove.</p>

<p>Bat was watching him interestedly. And at sight of

his final attitude he broke into one of his infrequent
chuckles and flung himself into a chair.</p>

<p>"Say, what in&mdash;? Feeling cold?" he demanded.</p>

<p>Bull's hands were promptly withdrawn, and, in spite
of his mood, a half smile at his own expense lit his troubled
eyes.</p>

<p>"That's all right," he said. "It's on me, sure. I
guess my head must be full of those figures still."</p>

<p>He returned to the window and stood with his back
to his companion. Bat watched him for some moments.</p>

<p>Bull had changed considerably in the last few weeks.
The lumberman had been swift to observe it. Somehow
the old enthusiasm had faded out. The keen fighting
nature he had become accustomed to, with its tendency to
swift, almost reckless action, had become less marked.
The man was altogether less buoyant.</p>

<p>At first it had seemed to Bat's searching mind as if
the effects of that desperate trip through the forests,
and the subsequent battle down at the mill, had left its
mark upon him, had somehow wrought one of those
curious, weakening changes in the spirit of the man
which seemed so unaccountable. Later, however, he dismissed
the idea for a shrewder and better understanding.</p>

<p>He helped himself to a chew of tobacco and kicked a
cuspidore within his reach.</p>

<p>"The fire-bugs are out," he said. "The last of 'em.
I jest got word through. It's the seventh. An' it's the
tally."</p>

<p>It was a sharp, matter-of-fact statement. He was
telling of a human killing, and there was no softening.</p>

<p>Bull nodded. He glanced over his shoulder.</p>

<p>"You mean&mdash;?"</p>

<p>"They shot five of 'em to death. The last two they
hanged." A grim set of the jaws, as Bat made the
announcement, was his only expression of feeling.</p>

<p>"Makes you wonder," he went on, after a pause.

"Makes you think of the days when locomotives didn't
run. Makes you think of the days when life was just a
pretty mean gamble with most of the odds dead against
you. It don't sound like these Sunday School days
when the world sits around, framed in a fancy-coloured
halo, that couldn't stand for any wash-tub, talkin' brotherhood
an' human sympathy. It's tough when you think
of the bunch that sent those boys to fire our limits. They
knew the full crime of it, and knew the thing it would
mean if we got hands on 'em. Well, there it is. We
got 'em. An' now ther' ain't a mother's son of 'em left
alive to tell the yarn of it all. It's been just cold, bloody
murder. An' the murder ain't on us. No, I guess the darn
savage eatin' hashed missioner ain't as bad a proposition
as the civilised guys who paid the price to get those
toughs killed up in our forests. I can't feel no sort of
regret. It won't hand me a half-hour nightmare. But
it makes me wonder. It surely does."</p>

<p>He spat accurately into the cuspidore.</p>

<p>"Does the report hand you anything else?" Bull asked,
without turning. The other noticed the complete lack
of real interest. He shrugged.</p>

<p>"The camps are all in full cut. They're not a cord
behind."</p>

<p>Bat looked for a word, the lighting of an eye. There
was none. And he stirred in his chair, and exasperation
drove him.</p>

<p>"Don't it make you feel good?" he demanded sharply.
"It's the last guess answered, unless there's a guess when
that boy, Birchall, comes along. Anyway, you don't figger
ther's much guess to that, with the mill runnin' full, an'

every boom crashed full of logs. No. Here, Bull!"
he cried, with sudden vehemence. "Turn around, man.
Turn right around an' get a grip on it all. The game's
won to the last detail. Can't you feel good? Can't you
feel like a feller gettin' out into the light after years of

the darkest hell? Don't it make you want to holler?
Ain't there a thing I can say to boost you? The boys
down at the mill are hoggin' work. The groundwood's
on the quays like mountains. The mills are roaring like
blast furnaces. Can you beat it? Spring. The flies an'
skitters, an' shipping. Why, in a week I guess Father
Adam'll be hittin the trail for the forests, an'&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Nancy McDonald will be sailing for Quebec."</p>

<p>Bat was no longer gazing on the other's broad back
and the mane of hair which did its best to conceal his
massive neck. Bull had turned. His strong face was
flushed. His fine eyes were hot. There could be no mistaking
the passionate emotion which the other had stirred.</p>

<p>The two men gazed into each other's eyes. Then with
a curiously expressive gesture of his great hands Bull
turned to the chair standing near, and flung himself into it.</p>

<p>The lumberman's eyes twinkled. He had done the
thing he desired. "An' you don't want her to?" he said
deliberately.</p>

<p>Just for a moment it looked as though a headlong
outburst was about to reply to him. Then, quite suddenly,
the hot light in Bull's eyes died out and he smiled.
He shook his head.</p>

<p>"No," he said in simple denial. "If she goes it means
the end of Sachigo for me."</p>

<p>"You reckon you'll quit?"</p>

<p>In a moment the lumberman remembered a scene which
had been enacted years ago on the high ground on the
north shore of the Cove. He would never forget it. It
had been the final decision of another to quit Sachigo.
And the reason had been not dissimilar.</p>

<p>There was no reply. Bull sat staring blankly in front
of him. His eyes were on the wintry sky which was still
broad with the light of day beyond the window.</p>

<p>Presently his gaze lost its abstraction and came again
to the strong, lined face of the older man.</p>


<p>"Yes, Bat," he said calmly, almost coldly, "I'd have
to quit. I just couldn't stand for it. Nancy's got right
into my life. She's the only thing I can see&mdash;now."</p>

<p>"Fer all she's a kind of prisoner right here, caught
red-hand doin' the damnedest she knows to break us in
favour of the outfit that pays her?"</p>

<p>Bat smiled as he flung his challenge. But his tone,
his words, were no indication of his mood, or of the rapid
thought passing behind his shrewd eyes. A great sense
of pleasure was asurge within him. He wanted to tell
of it. He wanted to reach out and grip the other's hand,
and tell him all that his words meant to him. But he
refrained. Another man's secret was involved, and that
was sufficient. His lips were sealed.</p>

<p>Bull stirred restlessly.</p>

<p>"Oh, psha!" he cried at last, with a force that displayed
the tremendous feeling he could no longer deny.
"I know what you think, Bat. I'm crazy. Well, maybe
I am. Most men get crazy one time in their lives when
a woman gets around. It's no use. I just can't help it.
I know all you're thinking. Nancy McDonald belongs to
our enemies. As you say she's done her damnedest to
break us. Maybe you reckon I ought to feel for her like
the devil does about holy water. Well, I don't. I'm
plumb crazy for her, and when spring clears up the waters
of the Cove, and the <em>Myra</em> comes alongside, she's going
right aboard, and will pass out of Labrador and out of
my life. I'm never going to get another sight of her.
I'm never going to get another sound of her dandy voice,
or a sight of her pretty eyes, and&mdash;Hell! What's the use.
Oh, I know it all. You've no need to tell me. We've
made good. We've fought and won out. My contract's
complete, and everything's looking just as good for us
as it knows how&mdash;now. This mill. It's ours. Yours, and
mine, and that other's, who I don't know about. All I've
to do is to sit around with the plums lying in my lap.

Well, I don't want those plums without Nancy. That's
all. I don't want a thing&mdash;without Nancy. All the dollars
in America can burn in hell for all I care, and as for
groundwood pulp it's a damp mess of fool stuff that
don't signify to me if it finds its way to the bottom of the
North Atlantic. An added month of open season? What
does it mean to me? Work. Only work, and flies, and
skitters. An added month of 'em. Father Adam's a
whole man again now, thanks to that dandy child. He'll
pull right out to the forests again, and&mdash;she'll pull out
too. I&mdash;"</p>

<p>"That's all right," Bat broke in drily. "I get all that.
But why not marry the gal? Marry her an' quit all this
darn argument. I guess this mill's goin' to hand you all
you need to keep a wife on. That seems to me the
natural answer to the stuff that's worryin' you."</p>

<p>His eyes twinkled as he regarded the other's troubled
face.</p>

<p>"Is it?"</p>

<p>Bull was on his feet. Hot, desperate irritation lay behind
the retort which Bat's gentle sarcasm had drawn
forth. His eyes were alight, and he passed an unsteady
hand across his forehead in a superlatively impatient
gesture.</p>

<p>"Marry her?" he exploded. "Say, are you every sort
of darn fool on God's earth, man? How can I hope to
marry her? What sort of use can a girl like that have for
the man who's beat her right out of everything she ever
hoped to achieve? I've had to treat her like any old
criminal, and hold her prisoner. I've brought her right
down here leaving her in a man's household without
another woman in sight. Say, these cursed mills have
made it so I've had to commit every sort of rotten act a
man can commit against a high-spirited girl. And you ask
me why I don't marry her? You've been too long in the
forests, Bat. Guess you've lost your perspective. Nancy

McDonald's no sort of chattel to be dealt with any way we
fancy. Get sense, man, an' talk it."</p>

<p>Bat's regard was unwavering before the other's angry
eyes.</p>

<p>"Sense is a hell of a good thing to have an' talk," he
said quietly. "I most generally notice the feller yearnin'
for someone else to get it an' talk that way, mostly has
least use for the thing he's preachin'. Maybe Nancy
feels the way you reckon. But that don't seem to me
to worry a deal. Still, maybe things have changed around
since the days when I hadn't sense to keep out of gunshot
of a pair of dandy eyes. And anyway I don't seem to
remember the boys bein' worried with the sort of argument
you're handing out. If my memory's as good as I
reckon, the boys most gener'ly married the gal first, an'

got busy wonderin' about things after. All of which
seems like so much hoss sense, seem' the natur' of things
is that most gals needs their minds made up for 'em. You
see, Bull, I kind o' fancy womenfolk ain't just ord'nary.
They got a bug that makes 'em think queer wher' men are
concerned. Now Nancy's all sorts of a gal, an' that bein'

so I don't reckon she sees the hell-fire crimes you've committed
against her just the way you see 'em. I allow
they're pretty darn tough. Shootin' up her outfit an'
dumpin' her into a snowdrift up on Labrador's mighty
hard sort of courtin'. Grabbin' her up an' settin' her
hospital nurse to her enemies, in a house full of a bunch
of tough men don't seem the surest way to make her smile
on the feller that did it. Then most generally beatin' the
game she set out to play looks like makin' fer trouble
plenty. It sure seems that way. But you never can tell
with a woman, Bull. You just can't."</p>

<p>Bat shook his grizzled head in solemn denial, but his
eyes were laughing. Bull smothered his resentment. He,
too, shook his head, and somehow caught the infection
of the other's smile.</p>


<p>"But she's ambitious," he said. "And she isn't the
sort of girl to take that easily. No."</p>

<p>Bat nodded and rose from his chair. Something of
his purpose had been achieved and he was satisfied. He
felt he had said all that was needed for the moment. So
he prepared to take his departure.</p>

<p>"Maybe that's so, boy," he agreed readily. "But ambition's
a thing that changes with most every wind. That
don't worry me a thing. Say, you've sort of opened out
about this thing to me, an' I ain't sure why. But I kind
of feel good about it. You're younger than me by years
I don't fancy reckonin'. I feel like I was an elder brother,
an' I'm glad. Well, that bein' so, I'd like to say right here
ther's just one ambition in a woman's life that counts.
And she mostly gits it when she hits up against the feller
that's got the guts to make her think his way. When that
happens I guess you can roll up every other old schedule,
an' pass it into the beater to make new paper. It's the only
use for it. See? But I 'low I don't know women like I
do groundwood, which was the stuff that fetched me here
right now. You see, I was feelin' good about things, an'

I fancied handin' you the news of them 'fire-bugs' myself.
Guess it hasn't handed you any sort of delirium so far,
Bull, but it will later. I allow ther' ain't room for two
fevers at the same time in a man's body. When you've
set Nancy McDonald figgerin' your way, your temperature's
liable to go up on the other. So long, boy."</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_34"></a>
<h3>Chapter XXV&mdash;Nancy's Decision</h3>


<p>With the lengthening days the world of Labrador was
already donning its brief, annual smile. But the passing
of winter was no easy thing. There had been rain and
"freeze-up," and rain again. And the whole countryside

was a dripping, melting sea of wintry slush. The
sun was rising higher in the steely heavens with each
passing day, but winter was still reluctant. It passed on
to its dissolution only under irresistible pressure.</p>

<p>Nancy, no less than Father Adam and those others, to
whom the early thaw meant so much, watched the passing
of winter with the closest interest. But her interest owed
its origin to a far different inspiration. She knew it
meant that her time at Sachigo was nearing its end, and
the future with all its barrenness was staring at her.</p>

<p>She moved restlessly about the large kitchen while
the Chinaman, Won-Li, was preparing toast over the
cook stove. She stood awhile at the window and watched
the winging of a seemingly endless flight of early geese
passing up from the South. Then she turned away and
glanced about the scrupulously clean and neat apartment.
It was so very different from the place she had first
discovered weeks ago.</p>

<p>After awhile she took up her position against the kitchen
table, and stood there with her gaze upon the bent figure
of the cook in its long, blue blouse. But she was scarcely
interested in the man's labours. She was not even waiting
for him to complete them. She was just thinking,
filled with apprehension and without confidence. Her
mind was made up to a definite purpose whose seeming
immensity left her staggered.</p>

<p>Nancy was no longer the distraught creature who had
witnessed the terrible night of fire and battle down at
the mill. Many weeks had passed since then. Weeks
full of mental, bodily, and spiritual effort. From the
first dark moments when she had begged the privilege
of nursing the wounded missionary, broken in spirit, a
beautiful creature well-nigh demented with the horror of
the thing she believed herself to be, the woman soul of her
had found a measure of peace.</p>

<p>It had been slow in coming. There had been moments

when she had nearly broken under the burden of conscience.
There had been moments when the weight of
unutterable depression, and the sense of guilt, had come
near to robbing her of her last shred of mental balance.
But the woman's mission of nursing had saved her in the
end. That, and the physical effort to which she had
applied herself.</p>

<p>It was all so single-minded and simple. It was all so
beautifully pathetic. Nancy had found a careless household
rapidly decaying through mannish indifference to
comfort. She understood. These men were completely
absorbed in the service of the great mills, and nothing
else mattered to them. Oh, yes, that was understandable.
She knew the feeling. She knew how it robbed its victim
of every other consideration in life. So she had flung
herself into the task of re-ordering the household of which
she had been forced to become a part, that she might yield
them comfort in their labours and help herself in her own
effort to obtain peace of mind.</p>

<p>She had transformed an untidy, uncared-for bachelor
habitation into a wholesome, clean establishment of well-ordered
life. She had lifted a lazy Chinaman into a
reasonable specimen of comparative energy, and saw to
it that meals were well and carefully served, and partaken
of at regular hours by men who quickly discovered the
futility of protest.</p>

<p>But her work by no means ended there. From one
end to the other the house was swept and garnished, and
the neglect of years disposed of. Bedrooms were transformed
from mere sleeping places to luxury. Linen was
duly laundered, and clothing was brushed, and folded, and
mended in a fashion such as its owners had never thought
possible. She was utterly untiring in her labours, and
in the process of them she steadily moved on towards the
thing she craved for herself.</p>

<p>The men realised the tremendous effort of it all. And

Bull Sternford, for all his absorption in his work, had
watched with troubled feelings. His love for Nancy had
perhaps robbed him of that vision which should have
told him of the necessity, in her own interests, for that
which the girl was doing. So there were times when
he had protested, times when he felt that simple humanity
demanded that she should not be permitted to submit
herself to so rough a slavery. But Nancy had countered
every protest with an irresistible appeal.</p>

<p>"Please, please don't stop me," she had cried, almost
tearfully. "It's just all I can do. It's my only hope.
Always, till now, I've lived for myself and ambitions.
You know where they have led me&mdash;Ah, no. Let me
go on in my own way. Let me nurse him back to health.
Let me do these things. However little I'm able to do
there's some measure of peace in the doing of it."</p>

<p>So the days and weeks had dragged on, and now the
time of Nancy's imprisonment was drawing to its inevitable
close. With Spring, and the coming of the
<em>Myra</em>, she would have to accept her freedom and all it
meant. She would be expected to return to her home in
Quebec, and to those who had employed her and sent her
on her godless mission. She understood that. But she
had no intention of returning to Quebec. She had no
intention of returning to the Skandinavia.</p>

<p>During the long hours of her labours she had searched
deeply for the thing the future must hold for her. It
was the old process over again. That great searching
she had once done at Marypoint. But now it was all
different. There had been no sense of guilt then, and
the only man who had been concerned in her life had
been that unknown stepfather, whom, in her child's
heart, she had learned to hate. It had been simple
enough then. Now&mdash;now&mdash;</p>

<p>But she had faced the task with all the splendid, impetuous
courage that was hers. There was no shrinking.

Her mind was swiftly and irrevocably made up. She
would abandon the Skandinavia for ever. She would
abandon everything and follow those dictates which had
prompted her so often in the past. Father Adam's self-sacrificing
example was always before her. The forests.
Those submerged legions which peopled them. Was there
not some means by which she could join in the work of
rescue? She would talk to Father Adam. She felt he
would help her. She wanted nothing for herself. If only
the rest of her life could be translated into some small
imitation of the life of that good man, then, indeed, she
felt her atonement might be counted as something commensurate.</p>

<p>It was not until her decision had been taken that she
permitted herself to seek beyond it. But once it was
taken the crushing sense of added desolation well-nigh
paralysed her. Somehow, never before had she understood.
But now&mdash;now the sacrifice of it all swept upon
her with an overwhelming rush. Bull Sternford. Bull
Sternford, the man whom with all her power she had
striven to defeat, the man whose strength and force of
character had so appealed to her, the man who must hate
her as any clean-minded man must hate a loathsome reptile,
she would never see him again.</p>

<p>Oh, she knew now. She made no attempt at denial.
It would have been quite useless. She loved him. From
the moment she had looked into his honest eyes, and
realised his kindly purpose on her behalf at their first
meeting, she had loved him. She must cut him out of
her life. It was the penalty she must pay for her crimes.</p>

<p>And now the moment had arrived when she must put
her plans into operation. Time was pressing. The season
was advancing. So she had chosen the hour at which she
served tea to Father Adam as the best in which to seek
his advice and support.</p>


<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>The light tap on Father Adam's door was answered
instantly. Nancy passed into the room with trepidation
in her heart, but the hand bearing the tea tray was
without a tremor.</p>

<p>The man whose life belonged to the twilight of the
northern forests was seated in a deep rocker-chair under
the window through which the setting sun was pouring
its pleasant spring light. He had been reading. But
his book was laid aside instantly, and he stood up and
smiled the thanks which his words hastily poured forth.</p>

<p>"You know, Nancy, you're completely spoiling me,"
he said. "I'm going to hate my forest coffee out of a
rusty pannikin. I don't know how I'm going on when I
pull my freight out of here."</p>

<p>The girl's responsive smile faded abruptly as she set
the tray on the table beside the chair.</p>

<p>"When are you going to&mdash;pull your freight?" she
asked, with a curious, nervous abruptness.</p>

<p>For a moment the man's eyes were averted. Then he
straightened up his tall, somewhat stooping figure. He
flung his lean shoulders back, and opened his arms wide.
And as he did so he laughed in the pleasant fashion which
Nancy had grown accustomed to.</p>

<p>He was the picture of complete health. His dark face
was pale. His black hair and sparse beard were untouched
by any sign of the passage of years. There
was not an ounce of superfluous flesh under the curiously
clerical garments he lived in.</p>

<p>"Why, right away, child," he said, with simple confidence.
"I'll just need to wait for a brief 'freeze-up'
to get through the mud around Sachigo. Once on the
highlands inside there'll be snow and ice for six weeks or
more. I told Sternford this morning I was ready to
pull out. You see, thanks to you I've cheated the folk
who reckoned to silence me. I'm well, and strong, and
the boys of the forest are&mdash;needing me. Every day I

remain now I'll be getting soft under the unfailing kindness
of my nurse."</p>

<p>Nancy poured out the tea. There were two cups on
the tray and the man was swift to notice it. She smiled
up at him.</p>

<p>"Won't you sit down?" she urged. "You see, I've
brought a cup for myself. I&mdash;I want to have a long
talk with you. I, too, have got to 'pull my freight.'"</p>

<p>Father Adam obeyed. His dark eyes were deeply
observant as he surveyed the pretty face with its red
glory of hair. That which was passing in his mind
found no betrayal. But his thought had suddenly leapt,
and he waited.</p>

<p>Nancy passed him his cup and set the toast within
his reach. Then she pulled up a chair for herself and
sat down before the tea tray.</p>

<p>"Yes," she went on, "that's why I brought my cup. I
must get away." She smiled a little wistfully. "My
imprisonment is over. Mr. Sternford set me free long
ago, but&mdash;well, anyway I'm going now, and that's why
I wanted to talk to you."</p>

<p>She seemed to find the whole thing an effort. But as
the man's dark eyes remained regarding her, and no
word of his came to help her, she was forced to go on.</p>

<p>"You know my story," she said. "You've heard
it all from Mr. Sternford. I know that. You told me
so, didn't you?"</p>

<p>The man inclined his dark head.</p>

<p>"Yes," he said. "I know your story&mdash;all of it."</p>

<p>"Yes." The girl's tea remained untouched. Suddenly
she raised one delicate hand and passed her finger
tips across her forehead. It was a gesture of uncertainty.
Then, quite suddenly, it fell back into her
lap, and, in a moment, her hands were tightly clasped.
"Oh, I best tell you at once. Never, never, never as
long as I live can I go back to the Skandinavia. All the

years I've been with them I've just been lost in a sort
of dream world of ambition. I haven't seen a thing
outside it. I've just been a blind, selfish woman who
believed in everybody, and most of all in herself and her
selfish aims. Can you understand? Will you? Oh,
now I know all it meant. Now I know the crime of it.
And the horror of the thing I've done, and been, has
well-nigh broken my heart. Oh, I'm not really bad,
indeed I'm not. I didn't know. I didn't understand.
I can never forgive myself. Never, never! And when
I think of the blood that has been shed as the result of
my work&mdash;"</p>

<p>"No." The man's voice broke in sharply. "Put
that right out of your mind, child. None of the blood
shed is your doing. None of it lies at your door. It
lies at the door of others. It lies at the door of two men
only. The man who first set up this great mill at Sachigo,
and the man whose hate of him desired its destruction.
The rest, you, those others, Bull Sternford and Harker,
here, are simply the pawns in the battle which owes
its inception to those things that happened years ago.
I tell you solemnly, child, no living soul but those two, and
chiefly the first of the two, are to blame for the things
that have happened to-day. Set your mind easy. No
one blames you. No one ever will blame you. Not even
the great God to whom we all have to answer. I know
the whole story of it. It is my life to know the story of
these forests. Set your mind at rest."</p>

<p>"Oh, I wish I could think so. I wish I could believe.
I feel, I feel you are telling me this to comfort me. But
you wouldn't just do that?"</p>

<p>The man shook his head.</p>

<p>"It's the simple truth," he said. Then he reached
for his tea and drank it quickly. "But tell me. You
will never go back to the Skandinavia? I&mdash;am glad.
What will you do?"</p>


<p>"That's why I've come to you now."</p>

<p>The tension had eased. Nancy's distress gave way
before the man's strong words of comfort. She, too,
drank her tea. Then she went on.</p>

<p>"You know, Father&mdash;"</p>

<p>The man stirred in his chair. It was a movement of
sudden restlessness as if that appellation on her lips
disturbed him.</p>

<p>"&mdash;I want to&mdash;I want to&mdash;Oh, how can I tell you?
You are doing the thing I want to help in. All my life
I felt the time would come when I must devote myself
to the service and welfare of others. I think it's bred
in me. My father, my real father, he, too, gave up his
life to those who could not help themselves. Well,
I want to do the same in however humble fashion. These
men, these wonderful men of the forests whom you
spend your life in succouring. Can I not serve them,
too? Is there no place for me under your leadership?
Can I not go out into the forests? I am strong. I am
strong to face anything, any hardship. I have no fear.
The call of these forests has got right into my blood.
Don't deny me," she appealed. "Don't tell me I'm
just a woman with no strength to withstand the rigours
of the winter. I couldn't stand that. I have the strength,
and I have the will. Can you? Will you help me?"</p>

<p>The girl's appeal was spoken with all the ardour of
youthful passion. There was no sham in it. No hysterical
impulse. It was irresistibly real.</p>

<p>The man's eyes were deeply regarding her. But he
was thinking far less of her words than of the girl herself.
Her amazing beauty, the passionate youth and strength.
The perfection of her splendid womanhood. These
things held him, and his mind travelled swiftly back over
years to other scenes and other emotions.</p>

<p>When at last he spoke his words came slowly and were
carefully considered.</p>


<p>"I think, perhaps, I can help you," he said. "You
are determined? You want to help those who need
help? The men of the forests?" He shook his head.
"I don't see why you shouldn't help the men of these
forests who&mdash;need your help."</p>

<p>Nancy drew a deep breath. A wonderful smile sprang
into her pretty eyes. It was a glad smile of thanks such
as no words of hers could have expressed.</p>

<p>"Oh, thank you, Father&mdash;thank you."</p>

<p>Again came the man's restless movement at the word
"Father." He abruptly leant forward and held his
cup out for replenishment.</p>

<p>"May I?" he asked. Then his smile broke out again.
"But tell me," he went on. "What have you done about
the Skandinavia?"</p>

<p>"Nothing."</p>

<p>Nancy returned him his cup with an unsteady hand.</p>

<p>"Nothing? But you must communicate with them.
You should write and tell them of your decision. You
should tell them you don't intend to return to them."</p>

<p>Father Adam sipped his tea. He was watching intently
but unobtrusively the transparent display of
emotions which his words had conjured.</p>

<p>"I hadn't thought about it," Nancy said at last, not
without some disappointment. "Do you really think
I should write? But it will take so long to reach them.
I can't wait for that. It&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Wire."</p>

<p>"Yes. I suppose I could&mdash;wire."</p>

<p>"Sternford will have it sent for you."</p>

<p>In a moment the light of hope died out of the girl's
eyes. The excited flush on her cheeks paled. And the
man saw, and read the sign he beheld.</p>

<p>He waited. But Nancy remained silent, crushed
under the feeling of utter desolation to which the mention
of Bull Sternford's name had reduced her.</p>


<p>Father Adam set his cup down.</p>

<p>"Don't let the sending of that message worry, child,"
he said quickly. "These people deserve no better treatment
after the thing they've done to you. All you need
say is, 'You will accept my resignation forthwith.'"
Write that out on a piece of paper, and sign it. Then
take it along to Mr. Sternford. Tell him of your decision,
and ask him to have it sent by the wireless. He'll do it,
my dear. And after that&mdash;why, after that, if you still
feel the same about things, and want to turn missionary
in the lumber camps, come right back to me here, and
I'll do for you as you ask. It's a great thought, Nancy,
and I honour you for it. It's a hard, desperate sort of
life, without comfort or earthly reward. Once the twilight
of the forest claims you, and its people know you,
there's nothing to do but to go on and on to the end.
Will you go&mdash;and send just that message?"</p>

<p>Nancy inclined her head.</p>

<p>"Yes. I'll go right away, just as soon as I've taken
this tray back."</p>

<p>She rose abruptly. She gathered the remains of the
meal on to the tray and picked it up. And the manner
of her movements betrayed her. She stood for a moment,
and the man saw the struggle for composure that was
going on behind her pretty eyes.</p>

<p>"Father," she said at last, and the man abruptly
rose from his chair and moved away, "I just can't thank
you&mdash;for this. It's given me fresh hope. A hope I never
thought would be mine. Some day&mdash;"</p>

<p>Her voice broke and the man turned at once. He was
smiling again.</p>

<p>"Don't say a word, my dear. Not a word. Go and
write that message, and take it to Sternford. And then&mdash;why&mdash;"</p>

<p>He moved over to the door and held it open for her.
As she passed out he nodded kindly, and looked after

her till she vanished into the kitchen at the end of the
passage.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Father Adam was alone again in the room that had
been his for so many weeks. The door was closed and
he stood at the window gazing out at the dreary world
beyond. But he saw nothing of it. He was thinking
with the speed of a mind chafing at delay. He was
wondering and hoping, and&mdash;fearing.</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_35"></a>
<h3>Chapter XXVI&mdash;The Message</h3>


<p>It was a woman of desperately fortified resolve who
turned the handle of the office door in response to Bull
Sternford's peremptory summons. The thought of the
coming interview terrified Nancy, and her terror had
nothing whatever to do with the sending of her message.</p>

<p>Bull failed to look up from the mass of papers that
littered his desk. His sharp "Well," as Nancy approached
him, was utterly impatient at the interruption. And its
effect was crushing upon the girl in her present dispirited
mood. She felt like headlong flight. She stood her
ground, however, and the sound of her little nervous
clearing of the throat came to the man at the table.</p>

<p>Bull looked up. In an instant his whole attitude
underwent a complete change. His eyes lit, and he
sprang from his seat behind the desk. He came towards
the shrinking girl, eager and smiling with the
welcome his love inspired.</p>

<p>"Why, say, Nancy," he cried. "I just hadn't a
notion it was you. I was up to my neck in all this stuff,"
he said, indicating the litter on his desk, "and I hadn't
a thought but it was the darn Chink come to worry
with food." He laughed. "You certainly have handed

me some scare since you got a grip on our crazy household.
I've got a nightmare all the time I've got to eat.
And the trouble is I'd hate to miss any of it. Will
you come right over to the window and sit? There's
daylight enough still. We don't need to use Skert's
electric juice till we have to. I'm real glad you came
along."</p>

<p>The man's delight was transparent. Nancy remained
unresponsive, however. She was blind to everything
but the thing she had come to do, and the hopelessness
that weighed so heavily upon her.</p>

<p>"I'm sorry," she said simply, accepting the chair he
set for her. "I didn't think you'd&mdash;you see, I waited
till I guessed you'd be through. But I won't keep you.
It's just a small favour, that's all."</p>

<p>Bull observed her closely. She was so amazingly and
completely charming. She was no longer clad in the rough,
warm garments of the trail. Even the cotton overall
she used in the work of the house had been removed.
Now a dainty frock, that had no relation to the rigours
of Labrador, displayed the delicate beauty of her figure,
and perfectly harmonised with the colouring of her
wonderful hair. Somehow it seemed to the man her beauty
had intensified in its appeal since the day of her
supreme confidence in the cause for which she had so
devotedly fought.</p>

<p>"A favour?" he laughed. "Why, I'm just glad."</p>

<p>Even while he spoke Bull remembered his talk with
Bat Harker when he had listened to a wealth of pitying
comment upon the feelings and opinions he had then
laid bare. The girl's unsmiling eyes troubled him.</p>

<p>"What's the favour?" he asked simply, as Nancy
remained silent.</p>

<p>The girl started. She had turned to the evening
light pouring in through the window. Her thought had
wandered to that grim, dark future when the twilit forests

would close about her, and the strong tones of this man's
voice would never again be able to reach her.</p>

<p>She drew a folded paper from the bosom of her frock.</p>

<p>"Would you let them send it for me&mdash;wireless?" she
asked timidly. "It's&mdash;it's to Mr. Peterman."</p>

<p>All Bull's desire to smile had passed. He nodded.</p>

<p>"Yes," he said. "If you wish it. It shall be sent
right off."</p>

<p>His tone had suddenly lost its warmth. It seemed as
if the mention of Peterman's name had destroyed his
goodwill.</p>

<p>Nancy searched his face anxiously. The man's brows
had depressed and his strong jaws had become set. She
knew that expression. Usually it was the prelude to
uncompromising action.</p>

<p>She drew a deep breath.</p>

<p>"Oh, I know," she cried. "I know the thing you're
thinking. You're reminding yourself of all I've done,
and of the injury I've striven to inflict on you. You're
wondering at my temerity in asking you to help me communicate
with your enemies. But please, please don't
think worse of me than you can help. I'm not just
trying to use you. It's not that. Will you read the
message? Maybe it'll tell you better than any words
of mine."</p>

<p>The paper was held out to him in an unsteady hand.
Bull ignored it. He shook his head.</p>

<p>"No," he said.</p>

<p>Nancy sprang to her feet.</p>

<p>"But you must read it," she cried. "If you don't I&mdash;oh,
I won't send it. I couldn't. Don't make me sorry
I asked this favour. It is so little to you, and&mdash;and
it means so much to me."</p>

<p>She stood waiting, but Bull showed no sign of yielding.
He was thinking of the man, Peterman. He remembered
his good-looking Teutonic face, and the favour

with which Nancy had seemed to regard him. A
smouldering jealousy had suddenly blazed up within him.</p>

<p>Nancy turned away in desperation. She moved to
depart.</p>

<p>"I'm sorry," she said. And even in her trouble there
was a coldness in her tone no less than his.</p>

<p>Bull choked down his feelings.</p>

<p>"Please don't go," he cried, urgently. "It would
please me very much to have that message sent. Say,
I wasn't thinking the way you reckoned. I wasn't
thinking of the message at all."</p>

<p>"Then you will read it?" The girl came back readily.</p>

<p>"Why should I?" Bull asked smilingly. "Say, a
friend asking me to send a message for him, a message
no concern of mine, what would you think, what would
he feel, if I demanded to read its contents?"</p>

<p>He ran the fingers of one hand through his mane of
hair and stood smiling down into the girl's pretty eyes.</p>

<p>"You know this thing makes me want to talk. I've
just got to talk. The position's sort of impossible as
it stands. Maybe you don't guess the thing I'm feeling,
and maybe I don't just know how it is with you. We've
got to talk right out and show down our hands. If we
don't&mdash;"</p>

<p>He turned away and glanced out of window. Then
his eyes came back claimed by the magnetism which the
girl exercised.</p>

<p>"You know, Nancy, our war is over. The war between
you and me. We declared war, didn't we? We
declared it in Quebec, and we both promised to do our
best, or&mdash;worst. It was a sort of compact. We made
it meaning it, and understanding the meaning of it.
If you got the drop on me you were to use it. The
same with me. It was one of those friendly things,
between friends, which might easily mean life or death.
We knew that, and were ready to stand just for whatever

came along. Well, we fought our battle. It's over.
It's done. Now for God's sake let's forget it. It's
easy for me. You see, I'm a rough, hard sort of product
of these forests that doesn't worry with scruples and
things. I'm not a woman who's full of the notions
belonging to her sex. I can wipe the whole thing out
of my mind. I can feel glad for the scrap you put up.
I can think one hell of a great piece of you for it. Maybe
it's different with you, being a woman. I guess it's
not going to be easy forgiving the way I had to handle
you back out there on the trail. Or the way you were
forced to live our camp life on the way down here. Or
how I've had to hold you prisoner in a rough household
of rougher men. I get all that. I know the thing it
is to a woman. All it means. Still, it must have been
plain to you the chances of that sort of thing before you
started in. That is if I was worth my salt as a fighter.
Well, can you kind of forgive it? Can't you try to
forget? Can't you figger the whole darn thing's past
and done with, and we're back at where we were in those
days in Quebec, when you didn't hate me to death, and
felt good taking dinner in my company? Say, do you
remember the old <em>Myra</em> you'll soon be boarding again?
You remember our talk on the deck, when the howling
gale hit us? We were talking of the sense of things
in Nature, and how she mussed them up. And how
we'd have done a heap better if the job had been ours.
Well?" His smile deepened. "Here we are standing
in the sort of fool position of&mdash;what'll I call it? Antagonism?
Anyway we agreed to fight, and stand for all
it meant to us, and we're both feeling all broken up at
the way we had to act to hurt each other most." He
shook his head. "Where's our boasted sense of things?
We ought to be sitting right here talking it over, and
laughing to beat the band, that I had to treat you like
a dangerous bunch of goods li'ble to get me by the

throat, and choke the life out of me, while you were
chasing every old notion folks could stuff into your
dandy head to set me broke and busted so I wouldn't
know where to collect a square feed once a week. That's
what we ought to be doing, if we had the sense we guess.
Instead of that you're feeling badly at me for the things
I had to do to you. And I'm worried to death I'll
never get a laugh from you for the fool talk I don't know
better than to make. You need me to send that message
to Peterman. Why, sure I'll send it, even if it's to tell
him how mighty glad you are to be quitting the prison
I'd condemned you to, and the joy it's going to hand
you to see his darnation Teuton face again. Sure I'll
send it. It's the least I can do to make up to you for
those things I've done to you. But&mdash;but for God's sake
don't ask me to read it."</p>

<p>The man concluded with a gesture that betrayed his
real feelings. He was in desperate earnest for all his
attempt at lightness. His words came swiftly, in that
headlong fashion so characteristic of his most earnest
mood. And Nancy listening to him, caught something
of that which lay behind them. The faintest shadow
of a smile struggled into her eyes. She shook her head.</p>

<p>"I haven't a thought in my head about you&mdash;that
way," she said. "It's not been that way with me. No."
She averted her gaze from the eager eyes before her.
"It's the thing I've done and been. It's the thing you,
and every other honest creature, must feel about me.
Oh, don't you see? The killing, the bloodshed and
suffering&mdash;But I can't talk about it even now. It's
all too dreadful still. I'm quitting when Father Adam
goes, and&mdash;and&mdash;But believe me no judgment you
can pass on me can begin to express the thing I feel
about myself. Please don't think I bear one single hard
thought against you."</p>

<p>The man laughed outright. The buoyancy of that

moment was supreme. Bat Harker was again in his
mind. Bat, with all his quaint, crude philosophy.</p>

<p>"Say, that beats everything," Bull cried. "My judgment
of you. And all this time I've been guessing&mdash;Oh,
hell! Say, do you know, it gets me bad when I
think of you going back to Peterman and his crew?
It sets me well-nigh crazy. Oh, I know. I've no right.
None at all. But it don't make me feel any better.
Here, I'll tell you about it. I'm not going to take to
myself virtues I don't possess, and have no right to
anyway. I wanted to win out in the fight against the
Skandinavia because I'm a bit of a fighting machine.
I wanted to win out for the dollars I'm going to help
myself to. But I also wanted to win out because of the
great big purpose that lies behind these mills of Sachigo.
I want you to get right inside my mind on that thing so
you'll know one of the reasons why I hate that you're
sending word to Peterman. You'll maybe understand
then the thing that made me fight you, a woman, as well
as the others, and treat you in a fashion that's made me
hate myself ever since. I'm going to say it as bluntly
as I know how. It'll be like beating you, a helpless
victim, right over the head with a club. I've acted the
brute right along to you, an' I s'pose I best finish up
that way. You were doing your best to sell your birthright,
my birthright, to the foreigner. You were helping
the alien, Peterman, and his gang, to snatch the wealth
of our forests. Why? You didn't think. You didn't
know. There was no one to tell you. You simply didn't
know the thing you were doing.</p>

<p>"This man Peterman was good to you. He held out
prospects that glittered. It was good enough. And all
the time he was looking to steal your birthright. The
birthright of every Canadian. That makes you feel
bad. Sure it does. I can see it. But I got to tell it
that way, because&mdash;Here, I'm on the other side. It

was chance, not virtue set me there. But once there
the notion got me good. Sachigo was built to defend
the great Canadian forests against the foreigner. That
slogan got a grip on me. Yes, it got me good. I could
scrap with every breath in my body for that. Well,
now we've got the Skandinavia beat, and in a year or
so they'll be on the scrap heap, ready to sell at scrap
price. That's so. I know. Sachigo will be the biggest
thing of its kind in the world next year, and there won't
be any room for the Skandinavia. That's a reason I
hate for you to go back to Peterman&mdash;one reason."</p>

<p>"But I'm not going back," Nancy cried vehemently.</p>

<p>Bull stared wide-eyed.</p>

<p>"You're not going back?" he echoed stupidly. Then
of a sudden he held out his hand. "Say, pass that
message right over. Why in&mdash;Guess I'm crazy to
read it&mdash;now."</p>

<p>Nancy held the paper out to him. There was something
so amazingly headlong in his manner. All the
girl's apprehensions, all her depression, were swept
away, and a rising excitement replaced them. A surge of
thankfulness rose up in her. At least he would learn
that she had no intention of further treachery to the
land of her birth.</p>

<p>"Accept my resignation forthwith."</p>

<p>Bull read the brief message aloud. It was addressed to
Peterman, and it was signed "Nancy McDonald." The
force, the coldness of the words were implacable. He
revelled in the phrasing. He revelled in the thing they
conveyed. He looked up. The girl was smiling. She
had forgotten everything but the approval she saw
shining in his eyes.</p>

<p>Suddenly he reached out and his great hands came
gently down upon her softly rounded shoulders. It was
a wonderful caress. They held her firmly while he
gazed into her eyes.</p>


<p>"Say, Nancy," he cried, in a voice that was deep with
emotion. "You mean that? Those words? You've
quit the Skandinavia? What&mdash;what are you going to
do?"</p>

<p>"I&mdash;I'm going to the forests with Father Adam. I'm
going to help the boys we've so often talked about.
I'm&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Not on your life!"</p>

<p>The man's denial rang out with all the force of his
virile nature.</p>

<p>"Say, listen right here. You've quit them. You've
quit Peterman. And you reckon from one fool play
you're going right over to another. No, sir, not on
your life. It's my chance now, and by God I don't
pass it. I'm kind of a rough citizen and don't know
the way a feller should say this sort of stuff. But I'm
crazy to marry you and have been that way ever since
you came along, and sat right in this office, and invited
me to take tea in the parlour of that darnation bug,
Peterman. Do you know all that means, Nancy? It
means I'm just daft with love for you, and have been
ever since I set eyes on you, for all I had to treat you
worse than a 'hold-up.' Say, my dear, will you give
me the chance to show you? Can you forget it all?
Can you? I'll raise every sort of hell to fix you good
and happy. And you and me, together, we'll just send
this great Sachigo of ours booming sky high, and in a
year I promise to hand you the wreckage that was once
the Skandinavia. Marry me, dear, and I'll show you
the thing a man can be and do. And I'll make you forget
the ruffian I've had to act towards you. Will you let
me help you to forget? Will you&mdash;?"</p>

<p>Nancy's eyes were frankly raised to the passionate
gaze which revealed the depths of the man's great heart.</p>

<p>"I have," she said in a low voice. "I've forgotten
everything but&mdash;but&mdash;you."</p>


<p>She moved as she spoke. There was no hesitation.
All her soul was shining in her eyes, and she yielded to
the impulse she was powerless to deny. She came to
him, releasing herself from the great hands that held
her shoulders. She reached up and placed her soft arms
about the neck that rose trunk-like above his shoulders.
In a moment she was caught and crushed in his arms.</p>

<p>"Why&mdash;that's just fine!"</p>

<p>The exclamation broke from the man out of sheer
delight and happiness. And the while he bent down
and kissed the smiling upturned face, and permitted one
hand to wander caressingly over the girl's wealth of
beautiful hair.</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<a name="toc_36"></a>
<h3>Chapter XXVII&mdash;Lost In The Twilight</h3>


<p>A fierce wind swept down off the hills. So it had
blown all night and all the day before. The sky was
overcast, and the thermometer had dropped below zero.
It was one of those brief "freeze-ups" such as Father
Adam had awaited, and it might last two or three days.
Then would come prompt reaction, and the rapidity of
the thaw would be an hundred-fold increased.</p>

<p>The sun was hidden, and the sky looked to be heavily
burdened with snow. The earth was frozen solid, and
the wide flung forests were white with the hoar frosts of
Spring.</p>

<p>Father Adam was standing beside the crouching team
of dogs. There were five of them; great huskies,
shaggy of coat and fiercely wolfish. They were fat
and soft from idleness. But they would serve, for
the sled was light, and a few days' run would swiftly
harden them.</p>

<p>The outfit was waiting just beyond the kitchen door

of the house on the hill, and the view of the busy Cove
below was completely shut out. The position for the
waiting sled had not been calculated by the man who
owned it, but by the shrewd, troubled mind of Bat
Harker.</p>

<p>He was standing beside the tall figure of the missionary
now, squat and sturdy, looking on with half-angry,
wholly anxious eyes. His expression was characteristic
of the man when he was disturbed. Father Adam's dark
eyes were surveying his outfit. There was no emotion
in them. They were calm, and simply searching, in
the fashion of the practised trail man.</p>

<p>"Say, Les, this is just the craziest thing of all your
crazy life," Bat said at last, in a tone kept low for all the
feeling that lay behind it. "I tell you they're waiting
on you. They've got you set. Just as sure as God
this'll be your last trip. It's kind of useless talkin' it
again out here, I know. We've talked an' talked it in
that darn sick room of yours till I'm sick to death trying
to git sense into you. We know the game from A to the
hindmost letter of the darn alphabet. We haven't shouted
it, you an' me, because there wasn't need. But Idepski's
been right here since ever he got his nose on your trail.
It was his gun that took you weeks back, an' sent you
sick. If I know a thing he meant just to wing you,
and leave you kind of helpless, so he could get hands
on you when he fancied. He wants you alive, and he's
goin' to git you. Ther's word got round you're pulling
out. It's clear to me. A bunch of boys hit the trail
out of here three nights gone, and I've a notion Idepski
went with 'em. Are they wise you're pulling out?
Sure they are. Why, in God's name, don't you quit it?"</p>

<p>The man whom the forest world knew as Father Adam,
but whom Bat knew as Leslie Standing, shrugged his
shoulders.</p>

<p>"Why should I?" he said, his dark eyes mildly enquiring,

"you can't tell me a thing I don't know about
Idepski. I knew it was he who dropped me. I saw
him that night down there and knew him right away.
Maybe he can fool you with his disguises. He can't
fool me. I'd been watching him days before that."</p>

<p>"Why didn't you show yourself? Why didn't you
say?"</p>

<p>Bat spoke fiercely in his exasperation.</p>

<p>The missionary smiled.</p>

<p>"You'd have had him shot up," he said. "I know.
No. If you'd known I was around it would have queered
the hand I was playing. Here, Bat, let's get this thing
right. You could shoot up a dozen Idepskis, and there'd
be others to replace 'em. Hellbeam's dogs'll never let
up." He shook his head. "It's a play that'll go on to
the&mdash;end. I know that. I tell you I've got past caring
a curse about things. When the end comes, what does
it matter! Not a thing. It's useless talking, old friend,"
he said, as Bat attempted to break in, "quite useless.
But don't reckon I'm a willing quitter. I'll play the
game till it can't be played longer. And when I've got to
I'll throw my hands up. Not before. But Idepski can't
follow my trail."</p>

<p>"But he ken cut it," Bat cried, desperation finding
expression in a clenched, out-held fist.</p>

<p>"Can he?"</p>

<p>The missionary smiled confidently. And Bat suddenly
flung out both hands.</p>

<p>"Say, Les," he cried, "do you think I want to see my
partner, and best friend, hounded to a life of hell by that
swine, Hellbeam? It breaks me to death the thought
of it. Man, man, it sets me nigh crazed thinking that
way. Don't I count with you? Don't the others you
came along to help count? That dandy gal I've heard
you wish was your own daughter? Don't she count?
Say, we're all for you, Bull an' Nancy, an' me, just the

same as the rest of the folk of the forest. Stop right
here, man. Take your place again, an' we'll fight Hellbeam
as we've fought his Skandinavia. Say, we'll fight
for you as we've never fought before. We'll fight him,
and beat him, and keep you safe from that hell he's got
waitin' for you. Just say the word, and stop right
here. And I'll swear before God&mdash;"</p>

<p>Leslie Standing raised a protesting hand. His eyes
were unsmiling.</p>

<p>"It's useless, old friend," he said with irrevocable
decision. "You don't know the thing you're trying to
pledge yourself to. You think me a crazy man. You
think I'm just asking for the trouble Hellbeam figures
to hand out to me. I'm not. I've got the full measure
of the whole thing. And I know the thing I'm doing
doesn't matter. I'm not going to change the plan of
life I've laid down. I've learnt happiness in the forests.
The twilight of it all has been my salvation. Time was
when I had other desires, other delights. They've long
since passed. Now there's only one appeal to me in life.
It's the boys, the scallawags, who haunt the forest like
I do. I love them. And my life's theirs as long as Hellbeam
leaves it to me. Get just that into your thick,
old head, Bat, and for our last five minutes together
we can talk of things more pleasant than Hellbeam."</p>

<p>The missionary smiled down into the strong face of
his companion. And the lumberman realised the uselessness
of further protest. He yielded grudgingly. He
yielded because he knew and loved the man. By a great
effort he turned his mind from the dread haunting it.</p>

<p>"You've got me beat, Les," he growled. Then he
spat in his disgust.</p>

<p>The missionary nodded, and, with a gesture of the
hand, he indicated the hidden mills below them.</p>

<p>"It's queer the way the whole thing's completed itself
as I hoped and dreamed so long ago," he said thoughtfully.

"You know, Bat, that yellow streak in me was a better
thing than either of us knew. If I hadn't had it I'd have
stood my ground. I'd have fought to the end, and I'd
have been beaten, and Sachigo would have crashed. Do
you see that? No. That's because you look at things
with the obstinate eyes of great courage. While I,
through fear, see things as they are. We won't debate
it now. The accomplished fact is the thing. You've
set Sachigo on top. Sachigo will rule the Canadian forest
industry. The foreigner is on the scrap heap. We've
helped to build something for this great old Empire of
ours, and so our lives haven't been wholly wasted. It's
good to feel that when the time comes to pay our debts.
That boy Sternford's a great feller. I'm glad about
him. Say, I felt I could cry last night when he and
Nancy came along like two school-kids to tell me of the
thing they'd fixed. I felt like handing them my story
and claiming my place as Nancy's stepfather. But I
didn't. You see, she's glad about me as Father Adam,
a dopey missionary. But I can see her eyes blaze up
red-hot with anger at the man who took her mother
from her, and denied her existence. No, it's best that
way. She's found the man I could have chosen for her,
and I'm glad. She's a great lass. She's all her mother&mdash;and
more."</p>

<p>Bat inclined his stubborn head. He was still thinking
of the dogs, and the sled, and all they meant to him just
now.</p>

<p>"Does she know about her share in the mills?" he
asked brusquely.</p>

<p>The other shook his head.</p>

<p>"Not yet. But I've sent word to Charlie Nisson. He'll
be along up on the <em>Myra</em>. And when he comes she'll
know." He laughed quietly. "Say, I'd be glad to see
them when they know about it&mdash;she and Bull. They're
going to be married right after Birchall's been along and

finally fixed things. It'll be a great day. I wonder.
You know, Bat, I'd like to think Nancy&mdash;my Nancy&mdash;knows
all about this. I wonder if she does. Do you
think so?"</p>

<p>Bat turned away. His eyes were on the surrounding
forest, and the white gossamer of the hoar-frost clinging
to the dark foliage. He dared not trust himself to reply.</p>

<p>Again came the missionary's quiet laugh.</p>

<p>"I wonder," he said. Then, in a moment, a curious
flicker marred the calm of his eyes. "Bat, old friend,"
he went on, after a pause, "there's just one thing I'm
going to ask you before I pull out. It's a promise I
want. When the time comes for me to pay, will you
tell her? Will you tell them both? If I'm gone will
you tell them the thing you know&mdash;all of it? Don't
make me out to be any old angel I guess you'd like to
paint me. Just hand 'em the story of the white-livered
creature I am, without the nerve of a jack-rabbit. Will
you do that?"</p>

<p>He held out a hand from which he removed his fur
mitt. Bat turned. He saw the hand, and disregarded
it in a surge of feeling.</p>

<p>"Tell 'em? Tell 'em?" he cried. "Say, Les, for God
Almighty's sake don't you pull out. You're my friend.
You're the one feller in the world that matters a curse
to me. Quit boy. Stop right here, an'&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Will you tell 'em?"</p>

<p>The hand was thrust further towards the lumberman
so that he could no longer ignore it.</p>

<p>"Hell! Yes!" he cried, in fierce mental anguish.
I'll tell 'em&mdash;if I have to." He seized the outstretched
hand in both of his and gripped it with crushing force.
"You're goin'&mdash;now?"</p>

<p>"Sure."</p>

<p>Their hands fell apart. Bat's dropped to his side
like leaden weights.</p>


<p>"So long," he said dully, as the other took his place
in the sled. Then he added, "So long, Les."</p>

<p>The sled needed breaking out, and the lumberman
watched the operation of it without a word. His emotions
were too real, to deep for anything more. He
looked on while the first sharp order was flung at the
dogs. He watched them leap to their feet and stand
ready, great, powerful, untamed souls eager for their,
task. Then the man in the sled looked round as he
strung out the long lash of his short-stocked whip.</p>

<p>"So long, Bat," he cried smilingly. And his farewell
was instantly followed by the sharp command to "mush."</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Far out on the desolate highlands the dogs broke trail
over a waste of virgin snow. The cold had abated, and
the flurry of snow that rose up under their feet was wet
and melting. The way lay through the maze of woodland
bluffs which lined the upper slopes of the course
of the Beaver River. Beyond them, northward, lay the
windswept barrens of the highlands.</p>

<p>Father Adam knew the trail by heart. The maze of
bluffs through which he was passing afforded him no
difficulties or anxieties. He read them with the certainty
of wide and long experience. There was nothing new that
Labrador had to show him. He knew it all, and revelled
in the wide freedom its fierce territory afforded. The
moods of the country concerned him not at all. Furious
or gentle, tearful or hard with the bitterness of desperate
winter, it was all one to him. He loved the twilight of
its mysterious, fickle heart. It was as much his home as
any place on earth.</p>

<p>The dogs swept on at a steady gait. The cruel whip
played over furry backs, a never-ceasing threat. And so
the miles were hungrily devoured. It was the first day
of freedom for dogs and man alike, and each moment of
it yielded a sense of almost fierce joy.</p>


<p>The bluffs narrowed in, and the softer snow slowed
the going. Instantly a sharp command hurled the leading
dog heading for the open where the surface was hard and
dry. The team swung away behind him and the sled
pursued. Then the silence broke.</p>

<p>A shot rang out. It came from the shelter of a bluff
directly ahead. The leading dog floundered. Then the
brute fell with a fierce yelp, and sprawled in the snow
while the others swept over his inert body. The man
in the sled strove to brake the sled with the "gee-pole"
which he snatched to his aid. There was a moment of
desperate struggle. Then the sled flung tail up in the air
and the man was hurled headlong amidst his dogs.</p>

<p style="text-align: center"> * * * * *</p>

<p>Father Adam stood with mitted hands thrust up above
his head. He was gazing into the smiling eyes of a man
no less dark than himself. There were three others confronting
him, and each was armed with a stubby, automatic
pistol which covered his body.</p>

<p>"Guess Hellbeam's waiting for you over the other side,
Mr. Leslie Martin, or Standing, or Father Adam, as you
choose to call yourself. He's waited a long time. But
you ain't tired him out. Guess your game's up."</p>

<p>"Oh, yes?"</p>

<p>The missionary smiled back into Idepski's derisive
eyes.</p>

<p>"You can drop your hands," the agent went on.
"We've got your gun. And I guess you'll be kind of
tired before we get you to the coast. You're going to
find things a heap tougher than No. 10 Camp&mdash;where
you sent me. You surely are."</p>

<p>"The coast?"</p>

<p>The missionary was startled.</p>

<p>"Yep. There's going to be no play game this time.
Hellbeam's yacht's waiting on you. You'll take the sea
trip. It's safer that way."</p>


<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>The mitted hands had dropped to the missionary's
sides. He moistened his lips, which seemed to have
become curiously dry. Once, and once only, there was
a flicker of the eyes as he looked into the face of his
captor. Otherwise he gave no sign. His time had come.
He knew that. He had always known it would come.
There was neither heat nor resentment in him against
these men who had finally hunted him down.</p>

<p>"How do we travel?" he asked quietly. "You've shot
up my leader."</p>

<p>The other nodded. He understood the tone of complaint
and regret in which the trail man spoke of his dog.
He grinned maliciously.</p>

<p>"We'll shoot up the rest for you. They'd only feed
the wolves if we left 'em. We've two dog trains with us.
Don't let that worry. You best get your kit loosed from
your sled."</p>

<p>The prisoner turned to obey, but the agent changed
his mind. He laughed.</p>

<p>"No. Guess the boys can fix that. It's safer that
way. You move right on into yonder bluff. And you
best not try making any break. There ain't only Hellbeam
in this. I haven't forgotten&mdash;No. 10 Camp. Your
game's plumb up."</p>

<p>"Yes, plumb up."</p>

<p>Father Adam obeyed. He moved away, followed
closely by the man who had hunted him for so many years.
There was no escape. He knew that. The reckoning
he had always foreseen had overtaken him. So, without
a word of protest, he passed for the last time into
the twilight of the woods.</p>


<p>THE END</p>
</div>
</div>

<hr class="doublepage">

<div>
<h2>The Heart of Unaga</h2>

<p>By</p>

<p>Ridgwell Cullum</p>

<p>Author of "The Way of the Strong," etc.</p>


<p>Many a stalwart deed has been done and many a
brave tale told of the forbidding but romantic North-land,
but seldom has an author so combined a tale of
love, adventure, and strong swift action with mystery.</p>

<p>The terrible fires of Unaga crimsoning the white
silent wastes are so vividly portrayed, that the reader
must feel authenticity. The strange "sleeper" Indians
are real Indians, the big-souled Northwest policeman
is not a superman, but a real human being, the girl is
bonafide, the villain is not fictional, but an actual
personality, brave and base alike&mdash;all the characters
are living and breathing folk, that you feel are there
in far-off Unaga, and that you know you would find
there, were you hardy enough to visit that remorseless
country.</p>

<p>G, P. Putnam's Sons</p>

<p>New York</p>

<p>London</p>
</div>

<hr class="page">

<div>
<h2>Snowdrift</h2>

<p>BY</p>

<p>James B. Hendryx</p>


<p>A Romance of the barrens&mdash;"straight north&mdash;between
the Mackenzie and the Bay," where
Snowdrift, waif of the Arctic, Indian bred, bearing
a false but heavy burden of shame, and Carter
Brent, Southerner, find their great happiness
among the icy wastes.</p>

<p>Swept to the Klondike by the first wave of the
great gold rush, Brent plunges, with the enthusiasm
of youth, into the whirl of Dawson, the city
of men gone mad. How luck sat upon his shoulder,
and how his recklessness and daring won him the
admiration of those wild times, until the raw red
liquor of Alaska downed him "for the count," is
but the beginning of the tale; for with him, we
are carried into the Northern night and fight the
long fight back to manhood till purged by the
cleansing cruelty of the Arctic.</p>

<p>G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS</p>

<p>NEW YORK</p>
<p>LONDON</p>
</div>

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</div>

</div>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14756 ***</div>
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