The Man in the Twilight (2024)

Chapter I—The Crisis

They sat squarely gazing into each other's eyes. BatMarker had only one mood to express. It was a moodthat suggested determination to fight to a finish, tofight with the last ounce of strength, the last gasp ofbreath. He was sitting at the desk, opposite his friendand employer, Leslie Standing, and his small grey eyeswere shining coldly under his shaggy, black brows. Hisbroad shoulders were squared aggressively.

There was far less display in the eyes of Leslie Standing.They were wide with a deep pre-occupation. Butthen Standing was of very different type. His pale face,his longish black hair, brushed straight back from anabnormally high forehead, suggested the face of astudent, even a priest. Harker was something of theroused bull-dog, strong, rugged, furious; a product ofearth's rough places.

"Give us that last bit again."

Bat's tone matched his attitude. It was abrupt, forceful,and he thrust out a hand pointing at the letter fromwhich the other had been reading.

Standing's eyes lit with a shadow of a smile as heturned again to the letter.

"There's just one thing more. It's less pleasant, so I'vekept it till the last. Hellbeam is in Quebec. So is his agent—theman Idepski. My informant tells me he saw the latterleaving the steam-packet office. It suggests things are onthe move your way again. However, my man is keeping tab.I'll get warning through at the first sign of danger."

Standing looked up. His half smile had gone. Therewas doubt in his eyes, and the hand grasping the letterwas not quite steady. But when he spoke his tone wasa flat denial of the physical sign that Bat had been quickto observe.

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

Bat regarded the letter. He watched the other layit aside on a pile of papers. He was thinking, thinkinghard. And his thought was mostly of the man whoseshaking hand betrayed him. Suddenly an explosivemovement brought his clenched fist down on the tablewith a thud.

"Hell!" he cried, in a fury of impatience. "What'sthe use? The danger sign's hoisted. I know it. Youknow it. Nisson knows it. Well? Say, Hellbeam'sbeen in Quebec a score of times since—since—. Thatdon't worry a thing. No. He's got big finance in theSkandinavia bunch in Quebec. We know all about that.It's Idepski. Idepski ain't visiting the packet office forhis health. He ain't figgerin' on a joy trip up the Labradorcoast. No. That's the signal, sure. Idepski at thepacket office. Their darn mud-scow mostly runs here,to Sachigo, and there ain't a thing along the way tointerest Idepski—but Sachigo. We'll be getting wordfrom Charlie Nisson in some hurry."

"Yes, we'll get it in a hurry."

Standing nodded. He was transparently perturbed.Bat watched him closely. Then, in a moment, his mindwas made up.

"See right here, Les," he cried, in a tone he vainlyendeavoured to restrain. "I've figgered right along thisthing would need to happen sometime. You can't beat afeller like Hellbeam all the time and leave him withouta kick. It don't need me to tell you that. But I wantto get a square eye on the whole darn game. Maybe youdon't get all you did to that guy when you cleaned himout of ten million dollars on Wall Street seven years ago.

"Say, you were a mathematical professor at a ScottishUniversity before you reckoned to buck the game onWall 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 intofour, and by no sort of imagination can cypher 'em intofive. I know. You figgered out that Persian Oil gambleto suit yourself, and forgot to figger that Hellbeam was atthe other end of it. No. The other feller don't cutany ice with you while you're playing around withfiggers. It's only afterwards you find that figgers ain'tthe whole game, and wrostling ten million dollars out ofone of the biggest railroad kings and bank presidentsin America has something to it liable to hand you nightmare.Well, you got that nightmare. So did I. You'vehad it for most the whole of the last seven years. Butit ain't a nightmare now. It's dead real, which is onlya way of sayin' Hellbeam's set his dogs on a hot trail,and we're the poor darn gophers huntin' our holes rightup here on the Labrador coast.

"Oh, yes. I know what you'd say. You've said itall before. Hellbeam hasn't a kick comin'. You wereboth operators on Wall Street. You were both playingthe financial game as all the world knows it. You beathim on a straight financial fight. It was just a matterof the figgers which it's your job to play around with.

"Now I'm just going to say the thing that's in mymind," he went on, his tone changing again to somethingclumsily 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 leftme but a stretch of penitentiary. I fought that darnlumber-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 awaywhen they'd got the penitentiary gates wide open waitingfor me, and it's a thing I can't never forget. I'm out foryou all the time, and I want you to know it when I'mtelling you the things in my mind. Hellbeam's got amighty big kick coming. It's the biggest kick any fellerof his sort can have. He's the money power of Sweden.He's one of the big money powers of the States. He livesfor money and the power it hands him. Well? This ishow I figger. Just how you played him up I can't say.But it's his job to juggle around with figgers same asit's yours, and if you beat him out of ten million dollarsyou must have played a slicker hand than him. All ofwhich says you must have got more to windward of thelaw than him—and he knows it. Why, it's easy. Thefeller who has the money power to hold the crown jewelsof Sweden from falling into the hands of yahoo politiciansout to grab the things they haven't the brains tocome by honestly, is mostly powerful enough to buy upthe justice he needs, or any other old thing. Hellbeammeans to get his hands on you. He's going to get youacross the darn American border. And when he's gotyou there he's going to send you down, by hook or crook,to the worst hell an American penitentiary can showyou. It's seven years since you hurt him. But that ain'ta circ*mstance. If it takes him seventy-seven he'll neverquit your trail."

Bat paused, and, for a moment, turned from the wideblack eyes he had held seemingly fascinated while hewas talking. It almost seemed that the emotions stirringin his broad bosom were too overpowering for him,and he needed respite from their pressure. But he cameagain. He was bound to. It was his nature to drive tothe end at whatever cost to himself.

"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'lllocate my object easy. Those words of Nisson's havetold 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 oftimes before. There ain't a feller I know who's gotmore fight in him than you—when you feel that way.But—well, say, you just need a boost to make you feellike it. You ain't like me who wants to fight most allthe time. No. Well—I'm going to hand you that boost."

"How?"

Standing's unruffled interrogation was in sharp contrastwith the other's earnestness. There was a calmtolerance in it. The tolerance of a temperament given tophilosophy rather than passion. Perhaps it was a mask.Perhaps it was real. Whatever it was, Bat's next wordssent the hot fire of a man's soul leaping into his eyes.

"When your boy's born, what then?"

"Ah!"

Bat's fists clenched at the sound of the other's ejacul*tion.It was the nervous clenching at a sound thatthreatened danger. Swift as a shot he followed up hischallenge.

"Your pore gal's down there in Quebec hopin' andprayin' to hand you that boy child you reckon Providenceis going to send you. Well, when he gets along, andHellbeam's around—and—"

Bat broke off. Standing had risen from his chair.He had moved swiftly, his lean figure propelled towardsthe window by long, nervous strides. His voice cameback to the man at the table, while his eyes gazed downupon the waters of Farewell Cove, over the widespreadroofs of the great groundwood mill, the building of whichwas the result of his seven years' sojourn on the Labradorcoast.

"You've handed it me, Bat," he said, in a quick,nervous way. "I'll fight. I know. You guess I'mscared 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—why,now it's real. But get your mind at rest. I'm going tofight Hellbeam all I know. And with the thought ofNancy, and the boy she's going to give me, I don't needa thing else. No."

"That's how I figgered."

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

"You reckon I've no imagination," he said. "Youreckon I'm just a calculating machine that can jugglefigures better than any other machine." He shook hisdark head. "I guess you don't do me full justice.When I quit the university on the other side it wasbecause I had built myself up a big dream. I crossed tothe United States with my imagination full of the thingsI hoped to do. It was the chance I looked for. And Ifound it in Hellbeam, and the Persian Oils it was hishobby to manipulate. I jumped in and grabbed it withboth hands. And, as you say, I beat him at his owngame. But that was only part of my dream. The nextpart you also know, though you choose to think it wasonly as a refuge from Hellbeam that I came here toSachigo. I admit circ*mstances have modified myoriginal dream, but then I dreamed my first dream as aman unmarried. Now I have added to it in the thoughtof the son my wife's going to present me with. Afterbeating Hellbeam and making the fortune I desired, Ididn't flee here to the coast of Labrador as a mere refugefrom the man you tell me I robbed. No. This placeserved its purpose that way, it's true. But it was theplace I selected long since for the fulfilment of the secondpart of my dream.

"Bat—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 waswhen the European war was on, and was doing its bestto unship the brains of half the world. I took it up torelieve myself of the strain of things. And it inspiredme with a desire to achieve something that looked well-nighimpossible. I was watching the Swedes, theSkandinavians generally, and I saw them getting fat andrich by holding the rest of the world to ransom for paperand wood pulp—the stuff we call here groundwood. Itwas then that my dream was born. Oh, yes, it's changeda bit since then. But not so much. All I learned atthat time told me there was only one country in theworld that was due to hold the world's paper industry,and that country was yours—Canada. The illimitableforests of the country are one of the most amazing featuresof it. The water power—yes, and even the climate.But I saw all Skandinavia's advantage. Hitherto they'vehad a complete monopoly. Geographically they werein the thick of the world. The whole darn thing wasin their lap. But they have a weakness which youcould never find in this country. Their forests are beingeaten into. Their lumber is receding farther and fartherfrom their mills. Their labour is difficult. Well, Iset to work with a map and those figures which youguess are my strong point. I played around with all theinformation of Quebec and Labrador I could get holdof. Then, after worrying around awhile, I realisedthat, with only eighteen hundred sea miles dividingBritain from Labrador, given the cheapness of power,sufficiently extensive plant and forest limits and adequateshipping, I could put groundwood on the Europeanmarket in favourable competition with Skandinavia. Bythis means I could build up an industry which means thewealth of Canada for the Canadians, and establish thepaper industry of the world within the heart of ourBritish Empire. So it was Farewell Cove and Sachigoon the coast of Labrador for me. And the locality hadnothing to do with the man who guesses I robbed him."

It was Bat who was held silent now. He nodded hishead at the narrow back that remained turned on him.

"Well, since then," Standing went on, "seven yearshave passed. Circ*mstances have forced modificationson my plans. Hellbeam is the circ*mstance. You saywe are the gophers hunting our holes. Maybe you'reright. Anyway Hellbeam's shadow is haunting me.It's haunting me in that I know—I feel—that the fulfilmentof this dream is not for me. Why?"

He turned abruptly from the window. His pale facewas even paler under the excitement burning in hisdark eyes. He thrust out a hand, a delicate, long-fingeredhand pointing at his friend and faithfulservant.

"Say, you reckon I've no imagination. Listen. Isee the time coming when all you say of Hellbeam'spurpose will be fulfilled, and my dream shattered andtumbling about my head. If Hellbeam succeeds, canI let this thing happen? Can I sacrifice this great purposein such a personal disaster? No. My hope is inmy little wife, that dear woman who's given herself tome with the full knowledge of the threat hanging overmy 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 withevery ounce that's in me. I know my failings. I'mat heart a coward. But I'm out to fight though the gatesof 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'scomplete. Oh, yes, I say 'my son.' Nancy will see toit that she gives me a son. And, by God, how I willfight for him!"

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

His devotion to the ex-university professor was basedon a splendid gratitude such as only the native generosityof his temper could bestow. The man had once servedhim in his extremity. Even to this day he never quiterealised how the thing had come about, and Leslie Standingrefused to talk of it. All he knew was that as mill-bossof an obscure mill, far in the interior of Quebec,away down south of Sachigo, he had fought one ofthose sudden battles with a lumber-jack which seem tospring up without any apparent reason. And in thedesperateness of it, in the fierce height to which hisbattling temper had arisen, he had killed his man. Evenso, these things were sufficiently common for little noticeof the matter to have been taken. But it so happenedthat the dead man was the hero of the workers of themill, and Bat Harker was their well-hated boss. Forthwith,in their numbers, the workers at once determinedthat Bat should pay the penalty. They seized and imprisonedhim, while they sent down country to get himduly tried and condemned. It was then the miraclehappened.

It happened in the night, with the appearance of alean, tall man, with a high forehead, and smooth blackhair, and the clothes of civilisation to which Bat Harkerwas little enough accustomed. He entered his prisonroom seemingly without question. He told Bat that ifhe cared to get away he had the means awaiting himoutside. And the prisoner who had visions of hanging,or at best, a long term of imprisonment, snatched at thehelping hand held out. And Leslie Standing had broughthim in safety straight to Farewell Cove, where together,with the vast capital which the former had wrung fromthe Swedish financier, Nathaniel Hellbeam, they hadundertaken the creation of the great mill of Sachigo.

Bat, in his wonder at the apparent ease of his rescue,had sought information. But little enough had beenforthcoming. Leslie Standing had only smiled in hispensive fashion.

"Money," he had said calmly. "Just money. It cando most things."

That was all. And thenceforward the subject hadbeen taboo. Even after seven years of intimate relations,Bat was still mystified on the subject, he was stillguessing.

Now, as he listened to his friend's expressions of faith,so strangely jumbled with calculated purpose, he sat atthe table groping helplessly. Suppose—suppose thatfaith were to be shattered. What then? His mindwas concerned, deeply concerned. And he dared not puthis fears into words.

Standing came back to his chair.

"Here, we've talked these things enough," he said."You've got my word. Just don't worry a thing. IfHellbeam's dogs get around, well—we're here first. AllI want is news of Nancy. And that'll be along any oldtime now. When I get that—."

The door of the office was thrust open, and an olive-huedface appeared. It was the clerk who worked indirect contact with the owner of the Sachigo mill. Hewas one-third nigg*r, another French Canadian, and therest of him was Indian. It was a combination thatappealed to the man who employed him.

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

He had gone as swiftly and silently as he came, andthe door was closed softly behind him.

Standing was gazing across at Bat. He had not evenglanced at the message.

"I'd like to bet," he cried, his eyes alight with a smilingexcitement. Then he shook his head. "No. Iwouldn't bet on it. It's too sacred. Nancy—myNancy—."

He broke off, and glanced down at the paper. In amoment the smile fell from his eyes. When he lookedup it was to flash a keen glance at the rugged face beyondthe desk.

"Here, listen," he cried, with a sharp intake of breath.

"Watch Lizzie for U.G.P. Signed—Nisson."

Bat nodded.

"U.G.P. That's Union Great Peninsular Railroad.That's Hellbeam's. It means—."

"It means Hellbeam's men are aboard. The packetLizzie is due at our quay in less than an hour."

Standing tore the message into small fragments anddropped them into the wastepaper basket beside him.Only was his emotion displayed in the deliberate carewith which he reduced the paper to the smallest possiblefragments.

Chapter II—The Man With The Mail

The calm waters of Farewell Cove lay a-shimmer underthe slanting rays of the sun. A wealth of racing whitecloud filled the dome of the summer sky, speeding underthe pressure of a strong top wind. Even the harsh worldof Labrador was smiling under the beneficence of thebrief summer season.

Leslie Standing stood for a moment before passingdown the winding woodland trail on his way to thewater-front below. The view of it all was irresistible tohim in his present mood, and he feasted his eyes hungrilywhile the resolve he had taken yielded an inflexiblehardening.

Bat Harker was less affected by the things spread outbefore him. He was concerned only for the mood of theman beside him. So he waited with such patience ashis hasty nature could summon.

"It's all good, Bat, old friend," Standing said, after amoment's silent contemplation. "It's too good to lose.It's too good for us to stand for interference from—NathanielHellbeam."

Bat grunted some sort of acquiescence. He was gazingsteadily out over the spruce belt which covered thelower slopes of the hillside. His keen deep-set eyes wereon the shipping lying out in the cove, watching the fussyapproach of the bluff packet boat.

It was a scene of amazing natural splendour whichthe works of man had no power to destroy. FarewellCove was a perfect natural harbour, deep-set amidstsurrounding, lofty, forest-clad hills. It was wide anddeep, a veritable sea-lake, backing inland some fifteenmiles 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-huedspruce, and all the many other varieties of soft,white, long-fibred timber demanded in the manufactureof the groundwood pulp needed for the world's paperindustry.

Far as the eye could see, in every direction, it was thesame; forest and hill. And, in the heart of it all, thegreat watercourse of the Beaver River debouched uponthe cove which linked it with the ocean beyond. It was aworld of forest, seeming of limitless extent.

But the feast that had inspired Leslie Standing's wordswas less the banquet which Nature had spread than thethings which expressed the labours he and his companionhad expended during the past seven years. He wasconcerned for the endless forests. He appreciated thegreat waterfall to the west, where the Beaver River felloff the highlands of the interior and precipitated itself intothe cove below. These were the two things in Naturehe had demanded to make his work possible. For therest, the rugged immensity of scenery, the mighty contoursof the aged land about him, the vastness of theharsh primordial world, so inhospitable, so forbiddingunder the fierce climate which Nature had imposed, madeno appeal. It served, and so it was sufficient. Thelights and shades under the summer sunlight were full ofsplendour. No artist eye could have gazed upon it alland missed its appeal. But these men lived amidst itthe year round, and they had learned something of thefear which the ruthless northland inspires. To themthe beauty of the open season was a mockery, a sham,the cruel trap of a heartless mistress.

It was on the wide southern foreshore, just belowwhere the falls of the Beaver River thundered into thechasm which the centuries of its flood had hewn inthe granite rock, that Standing had founded his greatmill. It lay there, in full view from the hillside, amidsta tangle of stoutly made roads, where seven years agonot even a game track had existed. He had set it up besidehis water-power, and had given it the name which belongedto the ruined trading post he had found on thesouthern headland of the cove when first he had exploredthe region. Sachigo. A native, Labrador word whichmeant "Storm." The trading post had since been re-builtinto a modern wireless station, and so had become nolonger the landmark it once had been. But Standing'swhim had demanded the necessity for preserving thename, if only for the sake of its meaning.

In seven years the translation of the wilderness hadbeen well-nigh complete. Its vast desolation remained.That could never change under human effort. It wasone of the oldest regions of the earth's land, driven andbeaten and desolated under a climate beyond words inits merciless severity. But now the place was peopled.Now human dwellings dotted the forest foreshore of thecove. And the latter were the homes of the workerswho had come at the mill-owner's call to share in hisgreat adventure.

Then there was shipping in the cove. A fleet ofmerchant shipping awaiting cargoes. There was a builtinner harbour, with quays, and warehouses. There weretravelling cranes, and every appliance for the loadingof the great freighters with all possible dispatch. Therewere light railways running in every direction. Therewere sheltering "booms" in the river mouth crammedwith logs, and dealt with by an army of river menequipped with their amazing peavys with which theythrust, and rolled, and shepherded the vast mass of hewntimber towards the slaughterhouse of saws. Then, immediatelysurrounding the mill, there was a veritabletown of storehouses and offices and machine shops ofevery description. There were power-houses, there werebuildings in the process of construction, and the laidfoundations of others projected. It was a world of activehuman purpose lost in the heart of an immense solitudewhich it was nevertheless powerless to disturb.

"Yes, it's all too good to have things happen, Bat,"Standing went on presently. "Hark at the roar of thefalls. What is it? Five hundred thousand horsepowerof water, summer and winter. Listen to the drone ofthe grinders." He shook his head. "It's a great song,boy, and they never get tired of singing it. There'sonly thirty-six of 'em at present. Thirty-six. We'llhave a hundred and thirty-six some day. Look downthere at the booms." He stood pointing, a tall, leanfigure on the hillside. "Tens of thousands of logs, andhundreds of men. We'll multiply those again and again—oneday. It's fine. The freighters lying at anchorawaiting their cargoes. Some day we'll have our ownships—a big fleet of 'em. See the smoke pennants floatingfrom our smoke stacks. They're the triumphantpennants of successful industry, eh? We can't havetoo many such flags flying. One day we'll have trolleycars running along the shores of the cove to bring theworkers in to the mill. It'll be like a veritable AtlanticCity. Oh, it's a great big dream. There's nothingamiss. No."

"Only the Lizzie getting in."

Bat was without apparent appreciation. He wasthinking only of the message they had received, andthe threat it contained.

Standing glanced round at the sturdy figure besidehim. A half smile lit his sallow features. Then heturned again and sought out the tubby vessel approachingthe wharf below. But it was only for a moment. Somesubtle thought impelled him, and he glanced back at thehouse on the hillside he had just left, the house he haderected for the woman whose devotion had taught himthe real meaning of life.

It was a long, low, rambling, gabled building. It wasan extensive timber-built home with a wide verandahand those many vanities and conceits of building thatwould never have been permitted had it been intendedfor bachelordom. He remembered how Nancy and hehad designed it together. He remembered the delightwith which they had looked forward to its completion, andultimately their boundless joy in the task of its furnishing.He remembered how Nancy had insisted that it shouldcontain not only their home, but his own private office,from which he could control the great work he had set hishand to. It had been her ardent desire to be alwaysnear him, always there to support him under the burdenof his immense labours. And remembering these thingsa fierce desire leapt within him, and he turned again tothe man at his side.

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

* * * * *

The two men had reached the quay-side, which waslined with bales of wood-pulp stacked ready for shipment.Farther down its length the cranes were rattling theirchains, swinging their burdens out over the holds of thevessel taking in its moist cargo. The stevedores werevociferously busy, working against time. For, in thebrief open season, time was the very essence of the successdemanded for the mills. The noise, the babel of it allwas usually the choicest music to Standing and hismanager.

But just now they were less heeding. Their eyes wereturned upon the small steamer plugging its deliberateway over the water towards them. It was a small,heavily-built tub of a vessel calculated to survive theworst Atlantic storms.

Bat's face was without any expression of undue emotion.But the hard lines about his clean-shaven mouthwere sharply set. Standing was asurge with an excitementthat fired his dark eyes. His wide-brimmed hat wasthrust back from his forehead, and he stood with hishands thrust deeply in the pockets of his moleskintrousers. His nervous fingers were playing with loosecoins and keys which they found irresistible.

The Lizzie came steadily on.

"We'll know the whole game in minutes now."

Standing could keep silent no longer. Bat nodded.

"Yep."

Orders from the bridge of the packet boat rang outover the water. Then Standing went on.

"I want to find Idepski aboard," he said. He wasscarcely addressing his companion. "It would be goodto get Master Walter here, fifty-three degrees north."A short, hard laugh punctuated his words. Then heturned abruptly. "Who's running No. 10 camp?"

Just for an instant Bat withdrew his gaze from theapproaching vessel. He flashed a keen look of enquiryinto the eyes of the questioner.

"Ole Porson," he said.

"I thought so. He's a good boy. He'll do."

Standing nodded. The cold significance of his tonewas not lost on his companion. Maybe Bat understoodthe thing that was passing in the other's mind. At anyrate he turned again to the broad-beamed tub steamingso busily towards them.

"I see old Hardy on the bridge," Standing went on amoment later. Then he added: "Fancy navigating theLabrador coast for forty years. No, I couldn't do it.I wouldn't have the—guts."

Bat still remained silent. He understood. The otherwas talking because it was impossible for him to refrain.

"They're standing ready to make fast," Standing saidsharply. He drew a quick breath. Then his mannerchanged and his words came pensively. "Say, it's a queerlife—a hell of a life. The sea folk, I mean. It's aboutthe worst on earth. Think of it, cooped within thosetimbers that are never easy till they lie at anchor in theshelter of a harbour. I'd just hate it. Their life? Whatis it? It's not life at all. Hard work, hard food, hardtimes, and hard drinking—when they're ashore—mostof them. I think I can understand. They surely needsomething to drown the memory of the threat they'realways living under. No, they don't live. They exist.Here, let's stand clear. They're coming right in."

* * * * *

The bustle of landing was in full swing. Even with sosmall a craft as the Lizzie there was commotion. Ordersflew from lip to lip. Creaking cables strained at unyieldingbollards. Gangways clattered out from deck, andran down on to the quay with a crash. Hatches wereflung open and the steam winches rattled incessantly.

Standing and Harker were looking on from a vantagepoint well clear of the work of unloading. The captainof the vessel, "Old Man" Hardy, was with them. Theseaman was beaming with that satisfaction which belongsto the master when his vessel is safely in port.

"Oh, I guess it ain't been too bad a trip," he wassaying. "Takin' the 'ins' with the 'outs,' I'd say it wasa fairish passage, which is mostly as it should be, seein'it's my last voyage in the old barge. Y'see, you folks arekind of robbing me of this blessed old kettle," he explained,with a grin that lit up the whole of his mahoganyfeatures. "Y'see we're loaded well-nigh rail under withstuff for your mill, which don't leave a dog's chance forthe other folks along the coast. The Company guessesthey got to put on a two thousand tonner. The Myra.I haven't a kick comin'. She's all a seaboat. Still, I'mkind of sorry, don't you know. I've known the Lizziesince 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—."

Standing shook his head.

"What do they say? 'Hardy' by name, 'Hardy' bynature. The toughest and best sailorman on the Labradorcoast! Well, I'm sorry you don't feel good about it.But," he added with a smile, "it means a good deal tous getting a bigger packet."

Captain Hardy nodded.

"Thankee kindly. It's good to know folks reckon afellow something more than just part of a kettle of scraplike this old packet. But I'd have been glad to finishmy job with her. Still, times don't stand around evenin Labrador." He finished up with something in thenature of a sigh.

The work going forward was full of interest. But itwas not the work that held Standing, or the watchfuleyes of Bat Harker. Their sole interest was in the personalityof the crew and the five passengers, mostly"drummers," from the great business houses of Quebecand Montreal, who were struggling to land their trunksof samples and get them off to the offices of the mill soas to complete their trade before the Lizzie put to seaagain. Not one of these escaped their observation.

"You seem to keep much the same crew right along,Hardy," Standing said pleasantly. "I suppose they likeshipping with a good skipper. I seem to recognise mostof their faces."

"Oh, yes. They're mostly the same boys," Hardyagreed, obviously appreciating the compliment. "ButI guess I lost four boys this trip. They skipped half anhour before putting to sea. It happens that way nowand then, if they're only soused enough when they getaboard. They're a crazy lot with rye under their belts.I just had to replace 'em with some dockside loafers, orlie alongside another day."

Standing nodded. A man was moving down the gangwaybearing a large, grey, official-looking sack on hisshoulders. He was a slight, dark man with a curiouslyforeign cast about his features.

"The mail?" he enquired. And a curious sharpnessflavoured his demand. Then he added, with studied indifference."One of your—dockside loafers?"

Captain Hardy laughed. He continued to laugh ashe watched the unhandiness of the man staggering downthe gangway under his burden.

"Yep. The mail," he said. "And I'd hate to setthat feller to work on a seaman's job. He's about asunhandy as a doped Chinaman. I'd say Masters is playingsafe keeping him from messing up the running gearwhile we're discharging. Say, get a look at it."

A great laugh accompanied the old man's words as theforeign-looking creature tripped on the gangway, andonly saved himself from a bad fall by precipitating hisburden upon the quay. There was no responsive laughterin Standing. And Bat Harker's features remained rigidlyunsmiling. Standing turned sharply.

"Maybe you can spare that boy to run those mailsup to my office," he said. "It's a good healthy pullup the hill for him, and my folks are full to the neckwith things. I'd be glad."

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

"Ho, you! Masters! Just let that darn Dago totethem mails right up to Mr. Standing's office. He ain'tno sort of use out of hell down here—anyway."

The mate's reply came back with an appreciative grin.

"Ay, sir," he cried, and forthwith hurled the order atthe mail carrier with a plentiful accompaniment ofappropriate adjectives.

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

Standing hurried away. A sudden fierce passion wassurging through his veins. Nisson was right. He knewit—now. And in a fever of impatience he was yearningto come to grips with those who would rob him of thehopes in which his whole being was bound up.

Chapter III—Idepski

The two men reached the office on the hillside minutesbefore the mail carrier. They took the hill direct, passinghurriedly through the aisles of scented woods whichshadowed its face. The other, the stranger, was leftwith no alternative but the roadway, zigzagging at aneasier incline.

Standing passed into the house. His confidential manof many races looked up from his work. The quick,black eyes were questioning. He was perhaps startledat the swift return of the man whom he regarded aboveall others.

Standing spoke coldly, emphatically.

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

The half-breed's eyes blinked. It was rather thecurious attitude of an attentive dog. But that was alwayshis way when the master of the Sachigo Mill spoke tohim.

Pete Loale was quite an unusual creature. He lookedunkempt and unclean, with his yellow, pock-marked skin,and his clothes that would have disgraced a second-handdealer's stores of waste. But for all his lack in thesedirections there was that in the man which was morethan worth while. Out of his black eyes looked a worldof intelligence. There was also a resource and initiativein him that Standing fully appreciated.

"Sure I get that," he said simply. Then he repeatedin the manner of a child determined to make no mistake."He's to take that mail-bag right into your office—himself."

"That's it. Don't knock on my door. Don't lethim think there's a soul inside that room. Just boosthim right in. You get that?"

The half-breed nodded.

"I'll just say: 'Here you! Just push that darntruck right inside that room, an' don't worry me with it,I'm busy.' That how?" The man hunched his slimshoulders into a shrug.

"See you do it—just that way," Standing said. Thenhe turned to Bat. "We'll get inside," he went on. "He'llbe right along."

They passed into the office. The door closed behindthem and Standing moved over to his seat at the crowdeddesk.

"Wal?"

Bat was still standing. He failed to grasp his friend'spurpose. His wit was unequal to the rapid process ofthe other's swiftly calculating mind.

Standing littered his writing-pad with papers. Hepicked up a pen and jabbed it in the inkwell. Then heflung it aside and adopted a fountain-pen which he drewfrom his waistcoat pocket. His eyes lit with a half-smileas he finally raised them to the rugged face before him.

"You sit right over there by that window, Bat," hesaid easily. "If you get a look out of it you'll be amazedat the number of things to interest you." He nodded asBat moved away with a grin and took the chair indicated."That's it. Just sit around, and you won't see or evenhear the fellow with the mail fall in through the door.And maybe, sitting there, you'll want to smoke yourfoul old pipe. Sort of pipe of peaceful meditation. Yes,I'd smoke that pipe, old friend, but you can cut out thepeaceful meditation. You need to be ready to act quickwhen I pass the word. It's going to be easy. So easyI almost feel sorry for—Idepski."

"It is—Idepski?" Bat filled and lit his pipe.

"It surely is. No other. And—I'm glad. Now we'llquit talk, old friend. Just smoke, and look out of thatwindow, and—think like hell."

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 constantshifting of the feet which the table revealed. For thetime, at least, the cowardice Standing claimed for himselfwas entirely swamped. He was stirred by the headlongexcitement of battle in a manner that left Bat more thansatisfied.

Once Bat turned from his contemplation of the piled-upcountry beyond the valley. It was at the sound ofStanding's fiercely scratching pen. And his quick gazetook in the luxury of the setting for the little drama hefelt was about to be enacted.

It was a wide, pleasant room, built wholly of red pine,and polished as only red pine will polish. There was athick oriental carpet on the floor, and all the mahoganyfurniture was upholstered in red morocco. There werea few carefully selected pictures upon the walls, hungwith an eye to the light upon each. But it was not anextravagant room. It suggested the homeland of Scotland,from which the owner of it all hailed. The Canadianatmosphere only found expression in the great steelstove which stood in one corner, and the splendid timberof which the walls of the room were built.

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.

The door swung open. The next moment there wasthe sound of a sack pitched upon the soft pile of thecarpet. And through the open doorway the harsh voiceof Loale pursued the intruder in sharp protest.

"Say, do you think you're stowing cargo in yourdarn, crazy old barge?" he cried. "If you fancy throwingthings around you best get out an' do it. Guessyou ain't used to a gent's office, you darn sailorman—"

But the door was closed with a slam and the rest of theprotest was cut off. Bat swung about in his chair todiscover a picture not easily to be forgotten.

Standing had left his desk. He was there with hisback against the closed door, and his lean figure toweredover the shorter sailorman in dungaree, who stood gazingup at him questioningly. The sight appealed to the grimhumour of the manager. He wanted to laugh. But herefrained, though his eyes lit responsively as he watchedthe smile of irony that gleamed in the mill-owner's eyes.

"Well, well." Standing's tone lost none of the aggravationof his smile. "Say, I'd never have recognisedyou, Idepski, if it hadn't been that I was warned you'dshipped on the Lizzie." He laughed outright. "I can'thelp it. You wouldn't blame me laughing if you couldsee yourself. Last time I had the pleasure of encounteringyou 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 hispant-legs like a razor edge, a fellow more concerned forhis bath than his religion. Say, where did you raise allthat junk? From old man Hardy's slop-chest? Hellbeammakes you work for your money when you're driven towallowing in a muck-hole like the Lizzie. It isn't worthit. You see, you've run into the worst failure you'vemade in years. But I only wish you could see the sorrysort of sailorman you look."

Standing's right hand was behind him, and Bat heardthe key turn in the lock of the door. He waited. But thetrapped agent never opened his lips.

Idepski had seen Standing and the other down at thequay-side. He had left them there when he started upthe hill. Yet—A bitter fury was driving him. Herealised the trap that had been laid. He realised somethingof the deadly purpose lying behind it. So heremained silent under the scourge that was intended tohurt.

For all the filthy dungarees tucked into the clumsylegs of high leather sea boots, the dirty-coloured handkerchiefknotted about his neck, the curious napless clothcap with its peak pulled down over one eye, that curiouscap which seems to be worn by no one else in the worldbut seafaring men, it was easy enough for Bat to visualisethe dapper picture, that other picture of Walter Idepskithat Standing had described. The man possessed a well-knit,sinuous figure which his dungarees could notdisguise. His alert eyes were good-looking. And, cleanedof the black, stubbly growth of beard and whisker, anamazing transformation in his looks would surely havebeen achieved. But Bat's interest was less with thesethings than with the possible reaction the man mightcontemplate.

For the moment, however, the situation was entirelydominated by Standing, who displayed no sign of relaxinghis hold upon it. He flung out a pointing hand, andBat saw it was grasping the door key.

"You'd best take that chair, Idepski," he ordered."You've opened war on me, but there's no need to keepyou standing for it. You'll take that seat against mywriting table. But first, Bat, here, is going to relieveyou of the useless weapons I see you've got on you. Getthose, Bat! There's a gun and a sheath knife, and they'reclumsily showing their shape under his dungarees."

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

"Keep your darn hands off!" he cried fiercely."By—"

His hand had flown to his hip. But he was given notime. Bat was on him like an avalanche, an avalancheof furious purpose. The fighting spirit in him yearned,and in a moment his victim was caught up in a crushingembrace. There was a short, fierce struggle. ButIdepski was no match for the super lumber-jack.

While Bat held on, the tenacious hands of Standingtore the weapons he had discovered from their hidingplaces. Then in a moment Idepski found himself sprawlingin the chair he had been invited to take.

Standing's appreciation was evident as he watched theman draw a gold cigarette case from the breast pocketof his overalls as though nothing had occurred. It wasan act of studied coolness that did not for a momentdeceive, but it pleased. However, his next effronterypleased the mill-owner still more.

"Say, boys," Idepski observed quietly, as he openedthe case and extracted a cigarette. "I guess I'm kind o'glad you left me this. But I don't figger you're out forloot, anyway." Then he glanced up at the man watchinghim so interestedly. "Maybe you'll oblige me with alight," he demanded, and co*cked up the cigarette he hadthrust between his lips with an exaggerated impertinence.

The action was quite irresistible and Standing nodded.

"Sure," he said smilingly, and picked up the matchboxlying on his table.

He struck a match and held it while the other obtainedthe required light. Then he passed round the desk tothe seat he had originally occupied.

Idepski leant back in his chair, and luxuriated in adeep inhalation of smoke. Bat watched him from hisplace at the window. Standing placed the revolver andsheath knife he had taken possession of in a drawer in thedesk, and closed it carefully.

"Well, what's the play?" Idepski addressed himselfsolely to Standing. "I guess you've said a deal calculatedto rile, and your pardner's done more," he went on."Still—anyway we're mostly men and not school-kids.What's the play?"

Standing, too, was leaning back in his chair.

"It's easy," he said, after a moment's thoughtfulregard. Suddenly he drew his chair up to the table,and, leaning forward, folded his arms upon the litteredblotting pad in front of him. "It's seven years sinceHellbeam—blazed the war trail," he said deliberately."I know he's persistent. He's angry. And he's thesort of man who doesn't cool down easily. But it's takenhim seven years to locate me here. And during all thattime I've been looking on, watching his every move."He shook his head. "He's badly served, for all hiswealth. He was badly served from the start. Youshould never have let me beat you in that first race acrossthe border. I got away with every cent of the stuff,and—you shouldn't have let me. You certainly were atfault. However, it doesn't matter."

Idepski removed his cigarette from his lips and droppedthe ash of it in the waste basket.

"No. It doesn't matter, because I'll get you—in theend," he retorted coldly.

"Perhaps."

Standing shrugged. But there was no indifference inhis eyes. The acid sharpness of Idepski's retort haddriven straight home. If the agent failed to detect it,the watchful eyes of Bat missed nothing. To him thedanger signal lay in the curious flicker of his friend'seyelids. The sight impelled him. He jumped in andtook up the challenge in the blunt fashion he bestunderstood.

"Guess you've got nightmare, boy," he said, with asneering laugh. "I ain't much at figgers, but it seemsto me if it's taken you seven years to locate us here, it'sgoing to take you seventy-seven gettin' Standing backacross that border. Work it out."

Idepski had no intention of being drawn. He repliedwithout turning.

"You think that?" he said easily. "Say, don't worrya thing; I'm satisfied. Just as sure as the sun'll riseto-morrow, Hellbeam'll get Leslie Martin, or Standingas he chooses to call himself now, just where he needshim. And if I know Hellbeam that'll be in the worstpenitentiary the United States can produce. Guess you'regoing to wish you hadn't, Mister—Standing."

Perhaps Idepski knew his man, and understood theweakness of which Bat was so painfully aware. Perhapshe was just fencing, or even putting up a bluff in viewof his own position. Whatever his purpose the effectof his added threat was instant.

Standing's luminous eyes hardened. The muscles ofhis jaws gripped. He sat up, and his whole attitudeexpressed again that fighting mood in which Bat rejoiced.

"That's all right," he said sharply. "That's just talk.You've come a hell of a long way with those boys ofyours down at the Lizzie to worry out some body-snatching.That's all right. I don't just see how you'vefiggered to do it. But that's your affair. The point is,I'm going to do the body-snatching instead of you. Andit's quite clear to me how I intend doing it. You'regoing a trip—right off. And it's a trip from which youwon't get a chance of getting back to Quebec under thistime next year. You see, winter's closing down in amonth, and Labrador and Northern Quebec aren't wholesometerritory for any man to set out to beat the trail inwinter, 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 countrycan show you in the way of a—prison ground. Andyou're going to try it for at least a year. You'll betreated white. But you'll need to work for your grublike other folks, and if you don't feel like working youwon't eat. We're fifty-three degrees north here, and ourways are the tough ways of the tough country we livein. There's no sort of mercy in this country. Bat, here,is going to see you on your trip, and, if you take myadvice, you won't rile Bat. He's got it in him, and inhis 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. Afterthat it's up to you. But if you try kicking between nowand then, why—God help you."

Standing beckoned Bat from his seat at the window.He held up the door key.

"You best take this," he said. "No. 10. And hestarts out right away. He needs to be well on the roadbefore the Lizzie puts to sea."

Bat took the key. He moved away and unlockedthe door, and remained beside it grimly regarding theman who had listened without comment to the sentencepassed on him, without the smallest display of emotion.Idepski was smoking his second cigarette.

"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 writingtable. "A tough place, eh? or you wouldn't be sendingme there." He laughed in a fashion that left his eyescoldly enquiring.

Standing inclined his head. He was without mercy,without pity.

"It's a tough camp in a tough country," he said deliberately."It's a camp where you'll get just as good atime as you choose to earn. The boy who runs it learnthis job in the forests of Quebec, and you'll likely understandwhat that means. Well, you're going right offnow. But there's this I want to tell you before I seethe last of you—for a year. I know you, Idepski. Iknow you for all you are, and all you're ever likely tobe. You're an unscrupulous blackmailer and crook.You're a parasite battening yourself on the weakness ofhuman nature, taking your toll from whichever side ofa dispute will pay you best. You're taking Hellbeam'smoney in the dispute between him and me, and you'llgo on taking it till you pull off the play he's asking, orget broken in the work of it. That's all right as far asI'm concerned. You've nerve, you've courage, or youwouldn't be the crook you are. I guess you'll go onbecause I've no intention of competing with Hellbeamfor your services. But I want you to understand clearlyyou've jumped into a mighty big fight. This is a countrywhere a fight can go on without the prying eyes of thelaws of civilisation peeking into things. And by that Itake it you'll understand I reckon to make war to theknife. You came here prepared to use force. That's allright. We shan't hesitate to use force on our side. Andwe're going to use it to the limit. If peace is only to begained at the cost of your life you're going to pay thatcost—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 youbrought with you. You best go along with Bat now.He'll fix things ready for your trip."

The dismissal was complete, and Bat was prompt toaccept his cue. He moved towards the man smoking atthe table, much in the fashion of a warder advancing totake possession of his prisoner after sentence of the court.

It was at that moment that the cold mask of indifferencefell from the agent. Hardy as he was, the contemplationof his momentary failure, which was about tocost him twelve months of hardship in one of the roughestlumber camps in Labrador, robbed him of something ofthat nerve which was his chief asset. He glanced forthe first time at the burly figure of Bat. He contemplatedthe rugged features of the man whose battling instinctwas his strongest characteristic. He read the purposein the grim set of the square jaws, and in the unyieldinglight of the grey eyes peering out from under shaggybrows. And that which he read reduced him to a feelingof impotence. He flung a look of fury and hate at theman behind the desk.

"Maybe that's all you've to say," he cried, his jawssnapping viciously over his words, his eyes fiercelyalight. "You think you've won when you've only gaineda 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, youcan shoot me up or any other old thing. You forgetHellbeam. You tell me I'm a crook and a blackmailer,you give me credit for nerve and courage. That's allright. You think these things, and I don't have to worry.But you've robbed Hellbeam. You've robbed him likeany common 'hold-up'—of millions. It's not for you totalk of crooks and blackmailers. The laws of the Statesare going to find you the crook, and Hellbeam'll see theydon't err for leniency. Hellbeam'll get you as sure asGod. You've got months to think it over, and whenyou've done I reckon you won't fancy shouting. Well,I'm ready for this joy spot you call No. 10. I'm notgoing to kick. I've sense enough to know when thedrop's on me. But you'll see me again. Oh, yes, you'llsee me again because you're not going to shoot me up.For all your talk you haven't the nerve. You'll see meagain, and when you do—well, don't forget Hellbeam'sat the other end of this business. Guess I'm ready."

The man stood up. And as he stood his eyes lookedsquarely into those of Bat.

"Get on with it," he cried, and flung the remains ofhis lighted cigarette on the pile of the carpet, and trodit viciously underfoot with his heavy sea boot.

* * * * *

Standing was alone. He was alone with the thoughtshis encounter with Idepski had inspired. Judging bythe expression of his reflective eyes they were scarcelythose of a man confident of victory. Had Bat beenthere to witness, the task he was at that moment engagedupon would surely have been robbed of half its satisfaction.

But Bat had gone. And with him had gone the manwho was to learn the rigours of a Labrador winter underconditions of hardship he had not yet realised. MeanwhileStanding was free to think as his emotions guidedhim, with no watchful eyes to observe.

"You'll see me again, and when you do—well, don'tforget Hellbeam's at the other end of this business."

The words haunted. The threat of them appealedto an imagination that was a-riot.

After a time Standing stirred restlessly. He sat upand brushed the litter of paper aside. Then he leant backin his chair and his fine eyes were lit with an agony ofdoubt and disquiet. The poisonous seed of the agent'sretort had fallen upon fruitful soil.

But after awhile the tension seemed to relax, and hisgaze wandered from the grey daylight beyond the windowand was suddenly caught and held by the mail bag, stilllying where the man had flung it. It was like the swiftpassing of a summer storm. The man's whole expressionunderwent a complete transformation. The mail!The mail from Quebec—unopened!

He sprang to his feet. For the moment Idepski, Hellbeam,everything was forgotten. His thought hadbridged the miles between Farewell Cove and the ancientcity of the early French, Nancy! That woman—thatdevoted wife who was striving with all the power of afrail body to serve him. There would be a letter in thatmail from Nisson, telling him—Yes. There mighteven be a letter from Nancy herself.

The sack was in his hands. He had broken the seals.He shook out the contents upon the floor. A packet ofless than half a hundred letters, and the rest was anassortment of parcels of all shapes and sizes. It was theletter packet that interested him, and he untied the stringthat held it.

A swift search produced the expected. Standing lookedfor the handwriting of Charles Nisson, the shrewd, obscurelawyer in the country town of Abercrombie. He hadnever yet failed him. He would not be likely to. Abulky letter remained in his hand. The others layscattered broadcast upon the desk.

For some moments he held the letter unopened. Thelean fingers felt the bulk of the envelope, while feverisheyes surveyed, and read over and over the address in thefamiliar small, cramped handwriting. The impulse ofthe moment was to tear open the letter forthwith, tosnatch at the tidings he felt it to contain. But somethingdeterred. Something left him doubting, hesitating. Itwas what Bat had called his "yellow streak." Suppose—suppose—Butwith all his might he thrust his fearsaside. He tore off the outer cover and unfolded the closelywritten pages.

Long, silent moments passed, broken only by theshuffling of the sheets of the letter as he turned them.Not once did he look up from his reading. Right throughto the end, the dreadful, bitter end, he read the hideousnews his loyal friend had to impart. Twice, during thereading, the sharp intake of breath, that almost whistledin the silence of the room, told of an emotion he had nopower to repress, and at the finish of it all the mechanicallyre-folded page's fell from shaking, nerveless fingers uponthe littered desk.

His eyes remained lowered gazing at the fallen letter.His hands remained poised where the letter had fallenfrom them. His face had lost its healthful hue. It wasgrey, and drawn, and the lips that parted as he mutteredhad completely blanched.

"Dead!" he whispered without consciousness ofarticulation. "Dead! Nancy! My boy! Both! Oh,God!"

Chapter IV—The "Yellow Streak"

The grey, evening light was significant of the passingseason. A chilly breeze whipped about the faces of themen at the fringe of the woods. They were resting aftera long tramp of inspection through the virgin forests.It was on a ledge, high up on the hillside of the northernshore of the cove, where the ground dropped away infront of them several hundreds of feet to the watersbelow. Behind them was a backing of standing timberwhich sheltered them from the full force of the bitingwind.

It was nearly a week since Bat Harker had returnedfrom his mission to No. 10 Camp. He had returnedfull of satisfaction at the completion of his task, andcomforted by the knowledge that the horizon of themill had been cleared of threatening clouds for at leastthe period of a year. Then he encountered the ricochetof the blow which Fate had dealt his friend andemployer.

It had been within half an hour of his return, whileyet the stains and dust of his journey remained uponhim, while yet he was yearning for that rest for hisbody to which it was entitled.

Bat had concluded the report of his journey, andthe two men were closeted together in the office onthe hillside. The lumberman had had no suspicion ofthe thing that had happened in his absence, andStanding had given no indication. Standing seemedunchanged. There had been the customary smile of welcomein his eyes. There had been the cordial handshakeof friendship. Maybe Standing had talked less,and the searching questions usual in him had not beenforthcoming. Maybe there was a curiously tired,strained look in his eyes. But that was all.

At the conclusion of his report Bat had bent eagerlyforward over the desk which stood between them. Hishard eyes were smiling. His whole manner was thatof a man anticipating something pleasant.

"Say, Les," he cried, "guess you've maybe somenews for me, too. It's more than a month since—andyou were expecting—Things all right?"

Standing reached towards the drawer beside him, andas he did so there was a sound. It was a curious, inarticulatesound that Bat interpreted into a laugh. Theother opened the drawer and drew out the folded pagesof a letter. These he passed across the table, and hiseyes were without a shadow of the laugh which Batthought he had heard.

"Best read it," he said. "Take your time. I'll justfinish these figures I'm working on."

It was the curious, cold tone that stirred Bat to hisfirst misgiving.

He took the letter. There were pages of it. He setthem in order and commenced to read. And meanwhileStanding remained apparently engrossed in his figures.

He read the letter through. He read it slowly,carefully. Then, like the other had done, the man towhom it was addressed, he read it a second time. Andas he read every vestige of his previous satisfactionpassed from him. A cold constriction seemed to fastenupon his strong heart. And a terrible realisation ofthe tragedy of it all took possession of him. At theend of his second reading he handed the letter back toits owner without comment of any sort, without a word,but with a hand that, for once in his life, wasunsteady.

"That was in the mail Idepski brought," Standingsaid, as he returned the letter to its place, and shut andlocked the drawer.

"You remember?" he went on, pointing. "He flungit down there. Just by the door. Yes, it was justthere, because I stood against the door, and was onlyjust clear of it."

He paused and his hand remained pointing at thespot where the mail bag had lain. It was as if thespot held him fascinated. Then his arm loweredslowly, and his hand came to rest on the edge of thetable, gripping it with unnecessary force.

"Seems queer," he went on, after a while. Then heshook his head. "Think of it. Nancy—my Nancy.Dead! She died giving birth to my boy. And he—hewas stillborn. Why? I—I can't seem to realize it.I—don't—" He paused, and a strained, hunted lookgrew in his eyes. "No. It's easy. It's just Fate.That's it. There's no escape."

He drew a deep breath and one lean hand smoothedback his shining black hair. Then his eyes came backto the face of the man opposite, and the agony in themwas beyond words. After a moment their terrible expressionbecame lost as he bent over his work. "I'mglad you're back, Bat," he said, without looking up.

"There's a hell of a lot of orders to get out. We'rerunning close up to winter."

The lumberman understood. At a single blow thisman's every hope had been smashed and ground underthe heel of an iron fate. The wife, the woman he hadworshipped, had given her life to serve him, and with herhad gone the man-child, about whom had been woventhe entire network of a father's hopes and desires.

A week had passed since Bat had witnessed the voicelessagony of his friend. A week of endless labourand unspoken fears. He knew Standing as it is givento few to know the heart of another. His sympathywas real. It was of that quality which made himdesire above all things to render the heartbroken manreal physical and moral help. But no opening hadbeen given him, and he feared to probe the woundthat had been inflicted. During those first sevendays Standing seemed to be obsessed with a desire towork, to work all day and every night, as though hedared not pause lest his disaster should overwhelmhim.

Now it was Sunday. Night and day the work hadgone on. No less than ten freighters had been loadedand dispatched since Bat's return, and only that morningtwo vessels had cast off, laden to the water-line, andpassed down on the tide for the mouth of the cove. Atthe finish of the midday meal Standing had announcedhis intentions for the afternoon.

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

And Bat had agreed on the instant.

"Sure," he said. "There's a heap to be done thatway if we're to start layin' the penstocks down on thatside next year."

So they had spent the hours before dusk in aprolonged tramp through the forests of the Northernshore. And never for one moment was their talk andapparent interest allowed to drift from the wealth oflong-fibred timber they were inspecting.

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

Now, at last, as they rested on the ledge overlookingthe mill and the waters of the cove, he felt the momentof its revelation had arrived. He was propped againstthe stump of a storm-thrown tamarack. Standing wasstretched prone upon the fallen trunk itself. Neitherhad spoken for some minutes. But the trend ofthought was apparent in each. Bat's deep-set, troubledeyes were regarding the life and movement going ondown at the mill, whose future was the greatest concernof his life. Standing, too, was gazing out over thewaters. But his darkly brooding eyes were on the splendidhouse he had set up on the opposite hillside. It wasthe home about which his every earthly hope had centred.And even now, in his despair, it remained a magnet forhis hopeless gaze.

Winter was already in the bite of the air and in theabsence of the legions of flies and mosquitoes as wellas in the chilly grey of the lapping waters below them.It was doubtless, too, searching the heart of these menwhose faces gave no indication of the sunlight ofsummer shining within.

"Bat!"

The lumberman turned sharply. He spat out a streamof tobacco juice and waited.

"Bat, old friend, it's no use." Standing had swunghimself into a sitting posture. He was leaning forwardon the tree-trunk with his forearms folded acrosshis knees. "We've done a lot of talk, and we've searchedthese forests good. And it's all no use. None at all.There's going to be no penstocks set up this side of thewater next year—as far as I'm concerned. I've done.Finished. Plumb finished. I'm quitting. Quitting it all."

The lumberman ejected a masticated chew and tooka fresh one.

"You see, old friend, I'll go crazy if I stop around,"Standing went on. "I've been hit a pretty desperatepunch, and I haven't the guts to stand up to it. Whenit came I set my teeth. I wanted to keep sane. I remindedmyself of all I owed to the folks working forus. I thought of you. And I tried to bolster myselfwith the schemes we had for beating the Skandinaviansout of this country's pulp-wood trade. Yes, I tried.God, how I tried! But my guts are weak, and I knowwhat lies ahead. For nearly six weeks I've been workingthings out, and for a week I've been wonderinghow I should tell you. I brought you here to tell you.

"I want you to understand it good," he went on,after the briefest pause. "I can't stand to live on inthe house that Nancy and I built up. Every room ishaunted by her. By her happy laugh, and by memoriesof the hours we sat and talked of the boy-child we'dboth set our hearts on. I just can't do it without goingstark, staring, raving mad. I can't."

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

Bat chewed steadily. It was a safety-valve for hisfeelings.

"The rest?" Standing turned to gaze out at thehouse across the water. "If it weren't for you, Bat,I'd close right down. I'd leave everything standingand—get out," he went on slowly. "The whole thing'sa nightmare. Look at it. Look around. The forestsof soft wood. The township we've set up. Theharnessed water power. That—that house of mine. It'sall nightmare, and I don't want it. I'm afraid. I'mscared to death of it."

Bat moved away from the stump he had been proppedagainst. He passed across to the edge of the ledge andstood gazing down on the scenes below.

"You needn't worry for me," he said. "It don'tmatter a cuss where or how I hustle my dry hash. Iwas born that way. Fix things the way you feel. Cutme right out."

The man's generosity was a simple expression ofhis rugged nature. His love of that great work belowhim, in the creation of which he had taken so great apart, was nothing to him at that moment. He wasconcerned only for the man, who had held out a succouringhand, and led him, in his darkest moments, to safetyand prosperity.

Standing shook his head at the broad back squaredagainst the grey, wintry sky.

"I didn't mean it that way, old friend," he said.

Bat swung around. His grey eyes were wide. Hisface seemed to have softened out of its usual harsh cast.

"But I do, Les," he cried. "You don't need to figgera thing about me. You're hurt, boy. You're hurtmighty sore. Cut me right out of your figgers, anddo the things that's goin' to heal that sore. If there'sa thing I can do to help you, why, I guess I'd be gladto know it."

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 theemotions which the selflessness of the other had inspired.

"Here," he cried at last, "I best tell you the wholestory that's in my mind. I told you I've been figuringit out. Well, it's figured to the last decimal. Youthink you know me. Maybe you do. Maybe you knowonly part of the things I know about myself. If youknew them all I'd hate to think of the contempt you'dhave to hand me. You see, Bat, I'm a coward, a terriblemoral coward. Oh, I'm not scared of any man livingwhen it comes to a fight. But my mind's full of ghostsand nightmares ready to jump at me with every doubt,every new effort where I can't figure the end. Yearsago, when I was a youngster, I yearned for fortune.And I realised that I had it in me to get it quick bymeans of that crazy talent for figures you reckon is sowonderful. I got the chance and jumped, for it. Butevery step I took left me scared to the verge of craziness.When I hit up against Hellbeam I got a desire to beathim that was irresistible, and I jumped into the fightwith my heart in my mouth. It was easy—so easy.Hellbeam was a babe in my hands. I could play withhim as a spider plays with its victim, and when, like aspider, I'd bound him with my figures, hand and foot,I was free to suck his blood till I was satiated. I didall that, and then my nightmare descended upon meagain. You know how I fled with Hellbeam's houndson my heels. I was terrified at the enormity of thething I'd done. I could have stood my ground andbeaten him—and them. But moral cowardice overwhelmedme and drove me to these outlands. God,what I suffered! And after all I haven't the certaintythat I deserved it."

Bat came back to his stump and stood against it whileStanding passed a weary hand across his forehead.

"The happenings since then you know as well as Ido. I don't need to talk of them. I mean, how I metand married Nancy, when she was widow of that no-accountMcDonald feller, the editor of The AbercrombieHerald!"

Bat nodded.

"Yes, sure, I know, Les. When you marriedNancy an' made her thirteen-year-old daughter—yourdaughter."

"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 isthat you—you Bat, old friend, are solely responsiblefor all the work that's being done here. You, oldfriend, are responsible that I've enjoyed seven years ofsomething approaching peace of mind. You, you withyour bulldog fighting spirit, you with your hell-may-caremanner of shouldering responsibility, and facingevery threat, have been the staunch pillar on which Ihave always leant. Without you I'd have gone underyears ago, a victim of my own mental ghosts. No, no,Bat," he went on quickly, as the lumberman shook hishead in sharp denial, "it's useless. I know. Leaningon you I've built up around me the reality of thatoriginal dream, with the other things I've now lost, andwith every ounce in me I've worked for its fulfilment.

"Well, what's the logic of it all?" he continued, aftera moment's pause. "Yes, it is the logic of it. Youmay argue that for seven years I've been doing a bigwork and there's no reason, in spite of what's happened,that I should now abandon it all. But there is. Andin your strong old heart you'll know the thing I say istrue—if cowardly. During seven years, or part ofthem, I've known a happiness that's compensated forevery terror I've endured. Nancy's been my guardianangel, and the boy, that was to be born, was the beaconlight of my life. My poor little wife has gone, and thatbeacon light, the son we yearned for, has been snuffedright out. And in the shadows left I see only the gropinghand of Hellbeam reaching out towards me. Inthe end that hand will get me, and crush the remainsof my miserable life out. I know. Just as sure as God,Hellbeam's going to get me."

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

Bat flung a clenched fist down upon the tree stump.

"You're wrong, Les. You're plumb wrong. If itmeans murder I swear before God Hellbeam'll neverlay hands on you. Hellbeam? Gee! Let him set hisnose north of 'fifty' and I'll promise him a welcome sohot that'll leave hell like a glacier. As for his darnagents? Why, say, I want to feel sorry for 'em 'forethey start. Idepski's hating himself right—"

"I know," cried Standing impatiently. "I know itall. Everything you've said you mean, but—it won'tsave me. But we can leave all that. There's the otherthings. Why should I go on living here, working,slaving, haunted by the terror of Hellbeam? With myboy, my wife, to fight for it was worth all the agony.But without them—why? Why in the name of sanityshould I go on? To beat the Skandinavians out ofCanada's trade, and claim it all for a country that doesn'tcare a curse? To build up a great name that in theend must be dragged in the mire of public estimation?Not on your life, Bat. No, no. I'm going to cutadrift. I'm going to quit. I'm going to lose myselfin these forests, and live the remaining years of mylife free to run to earth at the first shot of the hunter'sgun. It's all that's left me—as I see it."

"And all this?" Bat said, reaching out one greathand in the direction of the Cove. "An' that schoolgal 'way down at Abercrombie, learning her knitting,an' letters, an' crying her dandy eyes out for the motherwho had to leave her there when she passed over to you?Say, Les, you best go on. Jest go right on an' I'll saymy piece after."

Standing sat up. A deep earnestness was in the darkeyes that looked fearlessly into Bat's. He took theother at his word and went on. He had nothing toconceal.

"The mill? Why, I want to pass it over to yourcare, Bat," he said, permitting one swift regretful glancein the direction of the grey waters below them. Thenhe spoke almost feverishly. "Here's the proposition.I'm going to hand you full powers—through CharlesNisson. You'll run this thing on the lines laid down.If you fancy carrying on the original proposition ofextension, well and good. If not, just carry on andleave the rest for—later. You'll be manager for methrough Nisson. I shan't remove one cent of capital.I don't want Hellbeam's money beyond the barest grubstake. It'll remain under Nisson's guardianship for youruse in running this mill. You'll simply satisfy Nisson.For the rest I shan't interfere. You're drawing a bigsalary now. Well, seeing I go out of the work, thatsalary will be doubled. That's for the immediate. Thenthere's the future. I've a notion. Maybe it's a crazynotion. 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 Skandinavianring governing the groundwood trade of thiscountry. It was work that appealed to my imagination.I wanted to build this great thing and pass it on to myboy. It seemed to me fine. Worth while. It was aman's work, and it seemed to me a life well spent. Ihad the guts then—with your support, and the supportthe thought of my son gave me. I haven't the gutsnow. The notion fired you, too. It fired you, andit'll grieve you desperately to see it abandoned. It shan'tbe abandoned. Once in the woods of this queer countryI found a man—such a man as is rarely found. Hewas a man into whose hands I could put my life. AndI guess there's no greater trust one man can have inanother. He was a man of immense capacity. A manof intellect for all he had no schooling but the schoolingof Quebec's rough woods. That man was you, Bat.I'd like to say to you: 'Here's the property. You knowthe scheme. Go on. Carry it through.' But I can't.I can't because one man can't do it. Well, the woodsgave me one man, and they're going to give me anotherto take the place of the weak-gutted creature who intendsto 'rat.' I'm going to find you a partner, a man withbrain and force like yourself. A man of iron guts.And when I've found him I'm going to send him onto you. And if you approve him he shall be full partnerwith you in this concern the day that sees the CanadianGroundwood Trust completed, and the breaking of theSkandinavian ring. Do you follow it all? You andthis man will be equal partners in the mill, and everyavailable cent of its capital—the capital I made Hellbeamprovide. It'll be yours and his, solely and alone.I—I shall pass right out of it. Hellbeam has no scoreagainst you. He has no penitentiary preparing for you.You are not concerned with him. Whatever he mayhave in store for me he can do nothing to you, and themoney I beat him out of will have passed beyond hisreach."

"And this man you figger to locate? You reckonto take a chance on your judgment?"

Bat's challenge came on the instant.

"On mine, and—yours." Standing's eyes were fullof a keen confidence. And Bat realised something ofthe sanity lying behind a seemingly mad proposition."He'll own nothing until he and you have completedthe work as we see it. To own his share in the thinghe must prove his capacity. He'll be held by the tightestand strongest contract Charles Nisson can draw up."

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

"And this little gal-child, with the same name as themother who just meant the whole of everything lifecould hand you? This kiddie with her mother's bloodrunning in innocent veins? She's your Nancy's daughterand I guess your marriage made her yours."

"She's another man's child."

Standing's retort was instant. And the tone of itcut like a knife.

Bat regarded him keenly. His knife had ceased fromits work on the plug.

"That's so," he said after a while. Then his gazedrifted in the direction of the house across the water,and the expression in the grey depths of his eyes becamelost to the man who could not forget that the remainingchild of his wife was the offspring of another man."It seems queer," he went on reflectively. "Thatwoman, your Nancy, was about the best loved wife, afellow could think of. She was all sorts of a womanto you. Guess she was mostly the sun, moon, an' starsof your life. Yet her kiddie, a pore, lonesome kiddie,was toted right off to school so she couldn't butt in onyou. You've never seen her, have you? And she wasblood of the woman that set you nigh crazy. Only herfather was another feller. No, Les." He shook hishead, and went on filling his pipe. "No, Les, this milland all about it can go hang if that pore, lone kiddieis wiped out of your reckoning. Maybe I'm queer aboutthings. Maybe I'm no account anyway when it comesto the things of life mostly belonging to Sunday School.But I'd as lief go back to the woods I came from, ashandle a proposition for you that don't figger that littlegal in it. You best take that as all I've to say. There'sa heap more I could say. But it don't matter. You'refeelin' bad. Things have hit you bad. And you reckonthey're going to hit you worse. Maybe you're right.Maybe you're wrong. Anyway these things are foryou, though I'd be mighty thankful to help you. Youwant to go out of it all. You want to follow up somequeer notion you got. You reckon it's going to giveyou peace. I hope so. I do sure. The thing you'vesaid goes with me without shouting one way or theother. It grieves me bad. But that's no account anyway.But there's that gal standing between us, andshe's going to stand right there till you've finished thethings you're maybe going to say."

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

"Well?"

Bat's unyielding interrogation came sharply. Standingnodded.

"I hadn't thought, Bat," he said. Then he drew adeep breath. "I surely hadn't, but I guess you're right.She's my stepdaughter. And I've a right to do thething you say. Yes. It's queer when I think of it,"he went on musingly. "When I married her motherthe girl didn't seem to come into our reckoning. Shewas at school, and I never even saw her. Then hermother wanted her left there, anyway till her schoolingwas through. Everything was paid. I saw to that. But—yes,I guess you're right. It's up to me, and I'll fix it."

"The mill?"

"She shall have equal share when the time comes."

"When the whole work's put through?"

"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—"

Bat smoked on thoughtfully, and presently the otherroused himself from the pre-occupation into which hehad fallen.

"Does that satisfy?" he demanded.

Bat nodded.

"I'll do the darnedest I know, Les," he said in hissturdy fashion. Fix that pore gal right. Hand herthe share she's a right to—when the time comes along.Do that an' I'll not rest till the Skandinavians are lefthollerin'. That kid's your daughter, for all she ain'tflesh and blood of yours, an' you ain't ever see her.And anyway she's flesh of your Nancy, which seemsto me hands her even a bigger claim."

He moved away from his leaning post and his back wasturned to hide that which looked out of his eyes.

"I'm grieved," he went on, in his simple fashion,"I'm so grieved about things I can't tell you, Les. Ialways guessed to drive this thing through with you. Ialways reckoned to make good to you for that thing youdid by me. Well, there's no use in talkin'. You reckonthis notion of yours'll make you feel better, it's goin'to hand you—peace. That goes with me. Oh, yes, allthe time, seein' you feel that way. But—say, we bestget right home—or I'll cry like a darn-fool kid."

Chapter V—Nancy Mcdonald

Charles Nisson was standing at the window. His eyeswere deeply reflective as he watched the gently fallingsnow outside. He was a sturdy creature in his well-cut,well-cared-for black suit. For all he was past middlelife there was little about him to emphasise the factunless it were his trim, well-brushed snow-white hair,and the light covering of whisker and beard of a similarhue. He looked to be full of strength of purpose andphysical energy.

His back was turned on the pleasant dining-room of hishome in Abercrombie, a remote town in Ontario, where heand his wife had only just finished breakfast. SarahNisson was sitting beside the anthracite stove whichradiated its pleasant warmth against the bitter chill ofwinter reigning outside. She was still consuming thepages of her bulky mail.

A clock chimed the hour, and the wife looked up fromher letter. She turned a face that was still pretty for allher fifty odd years, in the direction of the man at thewindow.

"Ten o'clock, Charles," she reminded him. Then herenquiring look melted into a gentle smile. "The officehas less attraction with the snow falling."

"It has less attraction to-day, anyway," the lawyerresponded without turning. A short laugh punctuatedhis prompt reply.

"You mean the Nancy McDonald business?"

Sarah Nisson laid her mail aside.

"Yes." The lawyer sighed and turned from hiscontemplation of the snow. He moved across to thestove. "I'm a bit of a coward, Sally," he went on,holding out his hands to the warmth. "The lives ofother people are nearly as interesting as they are exasperating.They seem just as foolishly ordered as webelieve our own to be well and truly ordered. I don'tknow who it was said 'all men are fools,' or liars, orsomething, but I guess he was right. Yes, we're allfools. I really don't know how we manage to get througha day, let alone a lifetime, without absolute disaster.We spend most of our time abusing Providence for theresult of our own shortcomings, when really we ought tobe mighty polite and thankful to the blind good fortunethat lets us dodge the results of our follies."

"All of which I suppose has to do with the way LeslieMartin, or Leslie Standing, as he calls himself now, isacting."

"Well, most of it."

The man's eyes had become seriously reflective again.

Sarah Nisson nodded her pretty head. She leant herample proportions towards the stove and emulated herhusband's attitude, warming her plump hands. Her browneyes were twinkling, and her broad, unlined brow wascalmly serene. Her iron-grey hair was as carefullydressed as though she were still in the twenties, moreoverit was utterly untouched by any of the shams so belovedof the modern woman of advancing years.

"The death of his poor wife almost seems to haveunhinged him," she said, with a troubled pucker of herbrows. "But—but I don't wonder, I really don't. Shewas the sweetest girl. Poor soul. And that bonny weeboy. But there, I can't bear to think of it all. Youmustn't blame him too much, Charles. I guess you don'tin your heart. It's just as his attorney you feel madabout things. It's best to remember you were his friendfirst, and only his adviser, and man of business, after.The whole thing makes me feel I want to cry. And thatpoor girl coming to see you to-day. The other Nancy, Imean. I don't think I'd feel so bad about things if itwasn't for her. You know, I like Leslie. And I was asfond of his wife as I just could be, for all she made a foolof herself when she married that hateful James McDonald,who was no better than a revolutionary. Thank goodnesshe died and got out before he could do any harm.But I do think Leslie and poor Nancy were selfish abouther child. I don't believe it was so much him as Nancy.From the moment Leslie came on the scene it was shewho kept the poor child at college. She never even lethim see her. And she's such a bonny girl, too. Do youknow, I believe Nancy's death, and even the death of thebaby boy, wouldn't have meant half so much to Leslieif he'd had Nancy's own girl with him. She'd have gotherself right into his heart with her bonny ways, and herhazel eyes that look like great, big smiling flowers. Thenher hair. She's a lovely, lovely child. I wish she wasmine. I'd like to have her right here always. Couldn'tyou fix it that way?"

The man shook his head.

"I'd like to—but—"

"But what?"

"You see there's a whole lot to think about," thelawyer went on seriously. "Why, I don't even knowhow to get through my interview with her to-day withoutlying to her like a politician. Now just get a look at theposition. Here's a girl, a beautiful, high-spirited girl ofsixteen, straight out from college, at the beginning oflife, with her, head full of 'whys,' and 'wherefores.'Sixteen's well-nigh grown up these days, mind you. Hermother's dead, and curiously the fact didn't seem tobreak her up as you'd have expected it to. Why?" Theman 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 wasthirteen. A good understanding age. She was neverallowed to see her father. No. She was packed off toschool and kept there—"

"Yes, I know," Sarah broke in, with impatient warmth."And just at the time a girl most needs she never evensaw her mother for over three years. God doesn't give uswomen our babies to treat them as if they weren't ourown flesh and blood. Young Nancy was left to thosemaiden dames at college, who don't know more abouta child than is laid down by highbrow officials in thetext books they need to study to qualify for their posts.They haven't a notion beyond stuffing her poor weehead with the sort of view of life set down in foolhistory books. They say she's clever and bright. Well,that's all they care about. When they've done with herthey'll have knocked all the girl out of her, and turnedher adrift on the world behind a pair of disfiguringspectacles, with her beautiful hair all scratched back offher pretty face, and maybe 'bobbed,' and they'll fillher grips with pamphlets and literature enough to stocka patent med'cine factory, instead of the lawn, and lace,and silk a girl should think about, and leave her with asmuch chance of getting happily married as a queenmummy of the Egyptians. It's a shame, just a realshame. Why, if that poor, lonesome child came rightalong to me, I'd—"

"Teach her all the bright tricks of hunting down ahusband and—hooking him." The lawyer shook hishead and smiled. "You know, Sally, you're almost anoutrage on the subject of marriage. Sometimes I wonderthe sort of tricks I was up against when I—"

A plump warning finger and smiling threat interruptedthe laughing charge.

"You were due at the office long ago, Charles," hiswife admonished. "If you aren't careful I'll have topack you off right away."

"That's all right, Sally," the man demurred. "Iwon't go further with that. I'll get back to the things Iwas saying before you interrupted." His pale blue eyesbecame serious again. "Do you think Nancy didn'tunderstand why she was packed off to school—and keptthere? Of course she did. She knew she wasn'twanted. She knew she was in the way. She must notbe permitted to intrude on this stepfather, or her mother'snew life. It was all a bit heartless, and if I know anythingof the child, she understands it that way. I feltthat when she came to see her mother, and went to herfuneral. Now then, Nancy's coming to see me to-day.Remember she's sixteen. She's got to learn from me thesettlement Leslie's made on her. She's got to learnfurther that she isn't likely to ever see her stepfather.She knows I'm his business man. She knows I'm hisfriend. Well, when she's financially independent, do youthink she'll feel like rushing into our arms, here, for ahome, feeling the way I believe she does about herparent? It's going to be difficult, and—damned unpleasant.And for all I'm ready to help Leslie anywayI know, I'd rather see anybody on his behalf than thatkiddie, 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 believeshe would, she'd have to learn things of Leslie, and—well,the affairs you know about. That must not be. She'snot going to learn these things from us. I'm going to dothe best I know for the child, and when it comes to thematter of a home she must choose for herself. There'salways her mother's folk, or even James McDonald'sfolk—"

"God forbid! No. Oh, no." The woman's instantdenial was horrified. "Not the McDonald lot. They'reall revolutionaries. All of them. It's—it's unthinkable.It certainly is."

The man moved away.

"That's so," he agreed. "Well, anyway, I'll do thebest I know for the child, Sally. You can trust me."

The woman's anxiety abated, and she rose from herchair.

"I know that, Charles," she said. "But the McDonalds!They're—"

"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 shiningagain. I wish I felt as good as it looks outside here."

* * * * *

Charles Nisson had become a lawyer without anymarked inclination or enthusiasm for his profession. Ithad been simply a matter of following the father beforehim. It would have been much the same if his fatherhad been a farmer, or a politician, or anything else. Theson was patient, temperate, and of no great ambition.But he was also keenly intelligent. Without impulse,or striking originality, but with a tremendous capacityfor hard work, he was bound to be moderately successfulin any career. In his father's profession his temperamentwas particularly suited, and in spite of lackingenthusiasm he had become unquestionably a better lawyerthan the country attorney he had succeeded.

Just now his mind was filled with unease. The matterof his forthcoming interview with a child of sixteen yearshad only small place in the affairs which disturbed him.His real concern was for his friend, Leslie Standing, andthe disaster, which, in a seemingly overwhelming rushhad befallen at far-off Sachigo. Again his trouble hadno relation to these things as they affected his ownworldly affairs. It was of the man himself he was thinking.

He knew it all now. He had painfully learned thecomplete story of disaster. And, to his sturdy mind, itwas a deplorable example of almost unbelievable humanweakness.

Standing had conveyed his final determination toabandon his Labrador enterprise in the correspondencewhich had passed between them during the three monthswhich had elapsed since the funeral of his wife and stillbornchild. And during that time their friendship hadbeen sorely tested. There had been times when thelawyer's native patience had been unequal to the strain.There had been times when his temper had leapt fromunder the bonds which so strongly held it. But for allthe ordeals of that prolonged correspondence, for all hedeplored the pitiful weakness in the other, his friendshipremained, and he finally accepted his instructions. Butthe whole thing left him very troubled.

As the hour of noon approached, his trouble showed nosign of abatement. It was the reverse. There weremoments, as he sat in the generously upholstered chairbefore his desk, in the comfortable down-town officewhich overlooked Abercrombie's principal thoroughfare,that he felt like abandoning all responsibility in the chaosof his friend's affairs. But this was only the result ofirritation, and had no relation to his intentions. Heknew well enough that everything in his power wouldbe done for the man who never so surely needed his helpas now.

He refreshed his memory with the details of the deedof settlement for the abandoned stepdaughter. Then, asthe hands of the clock approached the hour of his appointment,he sat back yielding his whole concentration uponthose many problems confronting him.

What, he asked himself, was going to become ofStanding now that he had cut himself adrift from thatanchorage which had held him safe for the past sevenyears? He strove to follow the driving of the man'scuriously haunted mind. He had declared his intentionof going away. Where? Definite information had beenwithheld. He was going to devote himself to some purposehe claimed to have always lain at the back of hismind. What was that purpose? Again there had beenno information forthcoming. Was it good, or—bad?The man who was endeavouring to solve the riddle of itall dared not trust himself to a decision. He felt thathis friend's unstable soul might drive him in almost anydirection after the shock it had sustained.

No. Speculation was useless. The crude facts werelike a brick wall he had to face. Standing's wealth andthe great mill at Sachigo were left to his administrationwith the trusting confidence of a child. The responsibilityfor the neglected stepdaughter had similarly beenflung upon his shoulders. And, satisfied with this mannerof disposing of his worldly concerns, Standing intended tofare forth, shorn of any possession but a bare pittancefor his daily needs, to lose himself, and all the shadowsof a haunted mind, in the dim, remote interior of theunexplored forests of Northern Quebec. The wholething was mad—utterly—

The muffled electric bell on his table drubbed out itssummons. One swift glance at the clock and the lawyeryielded to professional instinct. He became absorbed inthe papers neatly spread out on his table as a bespectacledclerk thrust open the door.

"Miss McDonald to see you," he announced, in themodulated tone which was part of his professional make-up.

The lawyer rose at once. He moved toward the doorwith a smiling welcome. The sex and personality of hisvisitor demanded this departure from his custom.

Nancy McDonald stood just inside the doorwaythrough which the clerk had departed. She was tall,beautifully tall, for all she was only sixteen. In her simplecollege girl's overcoat, with its muffling of fur about theneck, it was impossible to detect the graces of the youthfulfigure concealed. Her carriage was upright, and herbearing full of that confidence which is so earnestlytaught in the schools of the newer countries.

But these things passed unnoticed by the white-hairedlawyer. He was smiling into the radiant face under thelow-pressed fur cap. It was the wide, hazel eyes, sodeeply fringed with a wealth of curling, dark lashes, thatinspired his smiling interest. It was the level brows, sodelicately pencilled, and dark as were the eyelashes.It was the perfect nose, and lips, and chin, and thechiselled beauty of oval cheeks, all in such classic harmonywith the girl's wealth of vivid hair.

Nancy returned his gaze without the shadow of asmile. She had come at this man's call from the coldlycorrect halls of Marypoint College, which was also thesoulless home she had been condemned to for the threeor four most impressionable years of her life. And sheknew the purpose of the summons.

There was a deep abiding resentment in her heart. Itwas not against this man or his wife. From these twoshe had received only kindness and affection. It wasdirected against the stepfather whom she believed tobe the cause of the banishment she had had to endure.Furthermore, she could never forget that her banishmentwas only terminated that she might gaze at last upon thedead features of her dearly loved mother before the coldearth hid them from view forever.

The lawyer understood. He had understood from herreply to his letter summoning her. There was no needfor the confirmation he read now in her unsmiling eyes.

"You sent for me?" she said.

Nancy's voice was deep and rich for all her youth.Then with a display of some slight confusion, she suddenlyrealised the welcoming hand outheld. She tookit hurriedly, and the brief hand clasp completely brokedown the barrier she had deliberately set up.

"Oh, it's a shame, Uncle Charles," she cried, almosttearfully. "It's—it's a shame. I know. I'm just a kid—afool kid who hasn't a notion, or a feeling, or—oranything. 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'smy stepfather. He's robbed me of my mother. Oh,it's cruel. Now he's going to rob me of everything else Is'pose. Who is he? What is he that he has the powerto—to make me a sort of slave to his wishes? I've neverseen him. I hate him, and he hates me, and yet—oh—I'mkind of sorry," she said, in swift contrition at thesight of the old man's evident distress. "I—I—didn'tthink. I—oh, I know it's not your fault, uncle. It'sjust nothing to do with you. You've always been sokind and good to me—you and Aunt Sally. You'vegot to send for me and tell me the things he says, because—"

"Because I'm his 'hired man.' But also because I'mhis friend."

The lawyer spoke kindly, but very firmly. He knewthe impulsive nature of this passionate child. He knewher unusual mentality. He realised, none better, thathe was dealing with a strong woman's mind in a girl ofchildhood's years. He knew that Nancy had inheritedlargely from her father, that headstrong, headlongcreature whose mentality had driven him to every lengthin a wild endeavour to upset civilisation that he mightwitness the birth of a millennium in the ashes of a worldsaturated with the blood of countless, helpless creatures.So he checked the impulsive flow of the child's protest.He held out his hands.

"You'd best let me take your coat, my dear," he said,with a smile the girl found it impossible to resist. "Maybeyou'd like to remove your overshoes, too. There's a bigtalk to make, and I want to get things fixed so you cancome right along up home and take food with us beforeyou go back to Marypoint."

The child capitulated. But she needed no assistance.Her coat was removed in a moment and flung across achair, and she stood before him, the slim, slightly angularschoolgirl she really was.

"Guess I'll keep my rubbers on," she said. Then sheadded with a laugh which a moment before must havebeen impossible. "That way I'll feel I can run away whenI want to. What next?"

"Why, just sit right here."

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

And Nancy submitted. She took the chair set for herwhile the man she loved to call "Uncle Charlie" passedround to his. He gave her no time for further reflection,but plunged into his talk at once.

"Now, my dear," he said earnestly, "you came herefeeling pretty bad about things, and maybe I don'tblame you. But there isn't the sort of thing waiting onyou you're guessing. Before we get to the real businessI just want to tell you the things in my mind. Of course,as you say, you're a 'kid' yet—a school-kid, eh? That'sall right. But I know you can get a grip of things thatmany much older girls could never hope to. That's whyI want to tell you the things I'm going to. Now you'veworked it out in your mind that your stepfather is just aheartless, selfish creature who has no sort of use for you,and just wants to forget your existence. He marriedyour mother, but had no idea of taking on her burdens—that'syou. It isn't so. It wasn't so. I know, becausethis man is my friend, and I know all there is to knowabout him. The whole thing has been deplorable.You've been the victim of circ*mstances that I may notexplain even to you. But I promise you this, your stepfatheris not the man to have desired to cut you out ofyour mother's life."

"Who did then? Mother?"

The girl's beautiful face flushed under her stirringemotions. The man shook his head.

"Circ*mstances. Yes, those circ*mstances I toldyou of. Those circ*mstances I can't explain." CharlesNisson picked up a typescript and held it out to the child.

"I want you to take this. It's not the deed, but atrue copy. I want you to read it over and think about it,and when you get back to Marypoint, and feel like talkingto those teachers you trust there, you can tell them whatit contains, and hear what they have to say about it, andsee if they won't think better of your stepfather thanyou do. You needn't read it now," as the girl turnedthe pages and glanced down the confusion of legalphraseology. "I'm going to tell you what it contains inplain words. But I want you to have it, and read it,and think over it, because I want you to try and get areal understanding of the man whose signature is set tothe original deed."

"Yes," he went on, meditatively, and in a tone of realregret. "I'd be pretty glad to have you think better ofhim. I think just now he needs the kind thought of anyonewho belongs to him. He's in pretty bad trouble—someways."

The girl looked up. A curious anxiety was shining inher eyes.

"Trouble?" she demanded. "You mean he's donewrong? What d'you mean? What sort of—trouble?"

The man shook his head.

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

"I'd—I'd want to die," the girl cried impulsively.

"Yes. So would anyone. So does he. Just as faras the world's concerned he's dead now. You'll neversee him, or hear from him. Nor will anyone else—exceptme. He'll never come into your life after this.He'll never claim his legal guardianship of you, beyondthat document. To you he's dead, leaving you heir towhat is contained in that deed. He's just a poor devil ofa man hunted and haunted through the rest of his existenceby the memory of a love that was more than lifeto him. Try and think better of him, Nancy, my dear.He's got enough to bear. I think he deserves far betterthan he's ever likely to get handed to him. I tell yousolemnly, my dear, whatever sins he may have committed,and most of us have committed plenty," he added, with agentle smile, "he's done you no real hurt. And now he'sonly doing that good by you I would expect from him."

Nancy sighed deeply, and it needed no words of hersto tell the man of law how well he had fought his friend'sbattle. A deep wave of childish pity had swept awaythe last of a resentment which had seemed so bitter, soimplacable. 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 thattears, real tears of sympathy, were not far off.

"Tell me," she said, in a low voice. "Tell me somemore."

But the man shook his head. "I can't tell you more,"he said gently. "Where your stepfather is, or where hewill be to-morrow, I may not tell you. Even when yourmother was alive you were not permitted to know thesethings. That was due to the 'circ*mstances' I told youof. It just remains for me to tell you the contents ofthat document. They're as generous as only your stepfatherknows how to make them. He's appointed meyour trustee. And he's settled on you a life annuity of$10,000. There are a few simple conditions. You willremain at college till your education is complete, and,until you are twenty-one I shall have control of yourincome. That is," he explained, "I shall see that youdon't handle it recklessly. During that time, subjectto my approval, you can make your home with whomyou like. After you've passed your twenty-first birthdayyou are as free as air to go or come, to live where youchoose, and how you choose. And your income will beforthcoming from this office—every quarter. Do youunderstand all that, my dear? It's so very simple.Your stepfather has gone to the limit to show you howwell he desires for you, and how free of his authority hewants you to be. There is another generous act of histhat will be made clear to you when the time comes.But that is for the future—not now. His last word tome," he went on, picking up a letter, "when he sent methe deed duly signed, was: 'Tell this little girl when youhand her these things, it isn't my wish to trouble herwith an authority which can have little enough appealfor her. Tell her that her mother was my whole world,and it is my earnest desire that her daughter shouldhave all the good and comfort this world can bestow. Ifever 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.'"

The man laid the letter aside and looked up.

"That's the last paragraph of the last communicationI had from him. And they're not the words of a monstroustyrant who is utterly heartless, eh?"

The girl made no answer. Her emotion was too strongfor her. Two great tears rolled slowly down her beautifulcheeks.

The lawyer rose from his chair. He came round thedesk and laid a gentle hand on the heaving shoulder,while Nancy strove to wipe her tears away with a whollyinadequate handkerchief.

"That's right, my dear," he said very gently. "Wipethem away. There's no need to cry. Leslie's done alla man in his peculiar position can do for you. You'vegot the whole wide world before you, and everything youcan need for comfort—thanks to him. Now let's forgetabout it all. Just take that paper back to school with you.And maybe you'll write, or come and let me know whatyou think about it. If you feel like making your homewith us, why, that way you'll just complete our happiness.If you feel like going to your mother's sister, AnnaScholes, I shan't refuse you. Anyway, think about itall. That's my big talk and it's finished. Just get yourovercoat on, and we'll get right along home to food."

Chapter VI—Nathaniel Hellbeam

The room was furnished with extreme modern luxury.The man standing over against the window with hisbroad back turned, somehow looked to be in perfectkeeping with the setting his personal tastes had inspired.He was broad, squat, fat. His head and neck were setlow upon his shoulders, and the hair oil was obvious onthe longish dark hair which seemed to grow low downunder his shirt collar.

The other man, seated in one of the many easy chairs,was in strong contrast. His was the familiar face of theagent, Idepski, dark, keen, watchful. He was smokingthe cigarette to which he had helped himself from thegold box standing near him on the ornate desk.

"You seem to have made a bad mess of things."

Nathaniel Hellbeam turned from the window and cameback to his desk with quick, short, energetic strides.

He presented a picture of inflamed wrath. His fleshy,square face was flushed and almost purple. His smalleyes were hot with anger. They snapped as he launchedhis harshly spoken verdict. His whole manner bristledwith merciless intolerance.

He was enormously fat, and breathed heavily throughclean shaven lips that protruded sensually. His agewas doubtful, but suggested something under middlelife. It was the gross bulk of the man that made it almostimpossible to estimate closely. The only real youthabout him was his dark, well oiled hair which possessednot a sign of greying in it.

He flung himself into the wide chair which gaped toreceive him, and glared at the dark face of his visitor.

"What in the hell do I pay you for?" he cried brutally,lapsing, in his anger, into that gutteral Teutonic accentwhich it was his life's object to avoid. "A wild cat'sscheme it was I tell you from the first. You go to thisSachigo with your men. You think to get this 'sharp'asleep, or what? You find him wide awake waiting foryou to arrive. What then? He jumps quick. So quickyou can't think. You a prisoner are. You go wherehe sends you. You live like a swine in the woods. Youare made to work for your food. And a year is gone.A year! Serve you darn right. Oh, yes. Bah! Youquit. You understand? I pay you no more. You area fool, a blundering fool. I wash my hands with you."

Idepski sat still, patient, as once before he had satunder the whip lash of a man's tongue. And he continuedsmoking till the great banker's last word was spoken.

Then he stirred, and removed his cigarette from histhin lips.

"That's all right, Mr. Hellbeam," he said coldly."It seems like you've a right to all you've said. Itseems, I said. But the 'fool' talk." He shook hishead. "My best enemies don't reckon me that—generally.The game I'm playing has room enough for thingsthat look like blunders. I allow that. It doesn't matter.You see, I know more of this feller Martin maybe thanyou do. I guess he's a mighty big coward, except whenhe's got the drop on a feller. I've given him the scareof a lifetime, and I've unshipped him from his safeanchorage on that darn Labrador coast. Do you knowwhat's happened? I'll tell you. He's quit Sachigo.From what I can learn he's sold out his mill to thatuncouth hoodlum, Harker, who was sort of his partner,and quit. Where? I don't know yet. Why has hequit? Why, because he knows we've located his hiding,and will get him if he remains. You reckon I've mussedthings up." He shook his head. "He was well-nigh safeup there on Labrador—and I knew it. We had to gethim out of it. Well, I've got him out. He's bolted likea gopher, and it's up to me to locate him. I shall locatehim. I'm glad he's quit that hellish country. I've hada year of it, and it's put the fear of God into me. Youneedn't worry. I'm quite ready to quit your pay. ButI'm going on with this thing, sure. You see, I owe himquite a piece for myself—now. I've been through thehell he intended me to go through when he sent me alongup to be held prisoner by that skunk, Ole Porson. I'mgoing to pay him for that—good. I don't want yourpay—now. One day I'll hand that feller over to you—andwhen you've doped him plenty—you'll have paidme." He rose leisurely from his comfortable chair."May I take another of your good cigarettes?" he wenton, with a half smile in his cold eyes. "You see, I won'tget another, seeing I'm quitting you."

He deliberately helped himself without waiting forpermission, while his eyes dwelt on the gold box containingthem.

But the financier's mood had changed. The keenmind was busy behind his narrow eyes. Perhaps Idepskiunderstood the man. Perhaps the coolness of the agentappealed to the implacable nature of the Swede. Whateverit was the hot eyes had cooled, and the fleshy cheekshad returned to their normal pasty hue. He raised ahand pointing.

"Sit down and smoke all you need," he said, in thesharp, autocratic fashion that was his habit. "We aren'tthrough yet." Then, for a few moments, he regardedthe slim figure as it lay back once more in the armchair."Say," he began, abruptly, "you reckon to go on for—yourself?Yes? You're a good hater."

He went on as the other inclined his head.

"I like a good hater. Yes. Well, just cut out all Isaid. We'll go on. I guess you'll need to blunder somebefore we get this swine. You're bound to. But I wanthim. I want him bad. If it's good for you to go on foryourself, that's good for me. There's a lifetime aheadyet, and I don't care so I see him down—right downwhere I need him. Maybe I won't get the money, butwe'll get him, and that'll do. Yes, cut out what I said,and go ahead. Tell me about it."

Idepski displayed neither enthusiasm nor addedinterest. He accepted the position with seeming indifference.Hellbeam to him was just an employer. Ameans to those ends which he had in view. If Hellbeamturned him down it would mean a setback, but nota disaster, and Idepski appraised setbacks at theirsimple value, without exaggeration. Besides, he knewthat this Swede, powerful, wealthy as he was, could notafford to do without him in this matter. His intolerant,hectic temper mattered nothing at all. He paid for theprivilege of its display, and he paid well. So—

"There's nothing much to tell," the agent returned,with a shrug. "I'm going to get him—that's all. Seehere, Mr. Hellbeam," he went on after a pause, with asudden change to keen energy, "you're a mighty bigpower in the financial world, and to be that I guessyou've had to be some judge of the other feller. That'sso. You most generally know when he's beat beforeyou begin. And when he squeals it don't come as asurprise. Well, that's how it is with me, only it's abigger thing to me because it sometimes happens to meanthe difference between life and death. Say, when youput up your bluff at a feller, and watch him square in theeyes, and you see 'em flicker and shift, do you reckonyou've lit on the 'yellow streak,' that lies somewherein most folk? I guess so. Well, that's how I knowmy man. I've seen it in this bum, Leslie Standing ashe calls himself now. And when I saw it I knew he wasbeat, for all he'd the drop on me. Since then mynotion's proved itself. He's lit out. He's cut from hisgopher hole at Sachigo. An' when a gopher gets awayfrom his hole, the man with the gun has him dead set.But say, that muss up you reckon I made doesn't lookthat way when you know the things it's taught me.While I was way up at that penitentiary camp on theBeaver River I kept all my ears and eyes wide, and Ilearned most of the things a feller's liable to learn inthis world when he acts that way. I learned somethingof the notions lying back of this feller's work up there.Say, he hadn't finished with you when he took that tenmillions out of you." An ironical smile lit the man'sdark eyes as he thrust home his retaliation for the financier'sinsults. "Not by a lot," he went on, with asmiling 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 wholework going on, right down to the Chink camp cooks.Guess that mill is only beginning. It's the ground workof a mighty big notion. And the notion is to drive theSkandinavians out of Canada's pulp trade, and very particularlythe Swedes, as represented by the interests ofNathaniel Hellbeam. Guess you sit right here in NewYork, but up there they've got you measured up to thelast pant's button."

"They that think?"

The financier's bloated cheeks purpled as he put hisclumsy interrogation.

"Oh, yes. This feller Standing reckons he's made abig start, and there are mighty big plans out. When heand that clownish partner of his, Harker, are through,Sachigo'll be the biggest proposition in the way of groundwoodpulp in the world. They've forests such as you inSkandinavia dream about when your digestion's feelinggood. They've a water power that leaves Niagara asummer trickle. They've got it all with a sea journey ofless than eighteen hundred miles to Europe. But there'smore than that. When Sachigo's complete it's to be theparent company of a mighty combine that's going totake in all the mills of Canada outside Nathaniel Hellbeam'sgroup. And then—then, sir, the squeeze'll startright in. And it isn't going to stop till the sponge—that'sNathaniel Hellbeam—is wrung dry."

"You heard all this—when you were held prisoner andworking like a swine in Martin's forests?"

The smile in Hellbeam's eyes was no less ironical thanthe agent's.

"When I was working like a swine."

"These lumber-jacks. They knew all that in Standing'smind is?"

"No. But I learned it all."

"How?"

The demand was instant, and a surge of force laybehind it.

"Because some I saw. Some I picked up from generaltalk. And the rest I pieced together because it's my jobto think hard when the game's against me. But it don'tmatter. You know that the things I've told you areright. It's news to you, but you know it's right,because you're thinking hard, and the game's against—you."

"Yes."

The financier's admission was the act of a man who hasno hesitation in looking facts in the face and acknowledgingthem. Idepski's deductions were irrefutable, becausethe Swede was a shrewd business man with a fullappreciation of the man who had lightened his financesby ten million dollars.

For some moments the fleshy face was turned towardsthe window which yielded the hum of busy traffic manystories below them. His narrow eyes were earnestlyreflective, but there was no concern in them. To the waitingman he was simply measuring the threat against him,and probing its possibilities for mischief.

"Yet this fellow. He on the run is—Yes?"

The eyes were smiling as they came back again toIdepski's face. The agent nodded, flinging his cigaretteend into the porcelain cuspidore beside the desk.

"Which makes me all the more sure of the game,"he said confidently. "He's rattled. He's so scared todeath for himself, and for his purpose, he's getting out.It's as clear as daylight to me. He feels he's plumbagainst it if he stops around. He knows we've locatedhim. He knows what he's done to me. He knows allhe wants to know of you. Well, he reckons there's nosort of chance for him at Sachigo. And if he stops there'sno sort of chance for this purpose of his. He reckons tocall off the hounds on his own trail, while the fellerHarker carries on the good work of squeezing the Swedes.That's how I see it. And I guess I'm right. RememberI had a year of hell up there to think in, and when Ifinally got clear away I had two months' solitary chasingof those woods to think in, and then, when I made thecoast, I had the trip down with the folks on the boat tolisten to. He's scared for his life, and of anything youhope to hand him. But he's more scared for the purposethat made him set up that mill at Sachigo."

Hellbeam leant back in his chair. His great paunchprotruded invitingly and he clasped his hands over it.

"Maybe you're right," he said, with an air intended toconciliate. "Anyway you've picked up some pieces andset them together so they make a fancy shape. But—itisn't good. No. Here, I think, too. I see another, wayfrom you. Without this fellow Sachigo is—nothing.See? I care nothing because of this Harker. No.The other—that's different. Yes. He the brain has.All this piece you make. He is capable of it. But heis 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 ofthe woods will help you," he said, with biting emphasis."You know the woods? Well, don't quit his trail. Gethim. Get him alive."

"Oh, I shall get him. Your urging ain't needed. I'llget him as you say—alive. And he knows it."

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

"But it's Sachigo I mean to watch," he went on, aftera brief pause. "I mean to play in that direction. It'sthe home burrow where you lay your traps once yourquarry's on the run."

Hellbeam nodded.

"That's good sense."

"Sure it is," retorted the agent. "I'm glad you seeit that way," he added with a smile under which thefinancier grew restive once more.

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

Suddenly he raised a clenched fist, fat, and strong,and white, and extended his thumb. He turned itdownwards and pressed its extremity on the goldmounted blotting pad before him with a force that bentthe knuckle backwards. "Get him so I can crush him—likethat," he cried. "Get him alive. I want him alive.See?"

"I see. I'll get him—sure. You needn't worry athing."

And as Walter Idepski rose to take his departure,for all his nerve, he felt glad that the passion of thisSwede's hate was not directed against him.

Chapter I—Bull Sternford

A great gathering thronged the heart of the clearing.There were men of every shade of colour, men of well-nighevery type. They stood about in a wide circle,whose regularity remained definite even under thestirring of fierce excitement. They had gathered for afight, a great fight between two creatures, full humanin shape and splendid manhood, but bestial in the methodof the battle demanded. It was a battle with musclesof iron, and hearts that knew no mercy, and body andmind tuned only to endure and conquer. It was a battlethat belonged to the savage out-world, acknowledgingonly the vicious laws of "rough and tough."

The rough creatures stood voiceless and well-nighbreathless. The combatants were well matched and redoubtable,even in a community whose only deity wasphysical might and courage and the skill of the wieldedaxe. The lust of it all was burning fiercely in everyheart.

The sun poured out its flood of summer upon a worldof virgin forest. The sky was without blemish. Adome of perfect azure roofed in the length and breadthof Nature's kingdom. Nevertheless the fairness of thesummer day, with its ravishing accompaniment of soft,mystery sounds from an unseen world and the lavishbeauty of shadowed woods were fit setting for the pulsingof savage emotions. It was far out in the lost world ofNorthern Quebec. It was far, far beyond the widest-flungfrontiers of civilisation. It was out there whereman soon learns to forget his birthright, and readilyyields to the animal in him.

It was a scene of mighty slaughter amongst the giantsof the forest. Hundreds sprawled in the path of man'sgleaming axe. Giants they were, hoary with age, andgnarled with the sinews built up by Nature to resist herfiercest storms. They lay there, in every direction, reachingup with tattered arms outstretched, as though appealingfor the light, the warmth, and the sweetness of lifethey would know no more.

Amidst this carnage a great camp was growing up.There were huts completed. There were huts only in theskeleton. They were dotted about in a fashion apparentlywithout order or purpose. Yet long before the falling ofthe first snow, order would reign everywhere and man'spurpose would be achieved.

The bunkhouses, the stores, the offices, the stables, theymust all be ready before the coming of the "freeze-up."Summer is the time of preparation. Winter is the seasonwhen the lumber-jack's work must go forward withoutcessation or break of any sort. Not even the excuseof sickness can be accepted. There is no excuse. Thelumber-jack must work, or sink to the dregs of a lifethat has already created in him a spirit of indifference tothe laws of God and man. So the life of the forest is hardand fierce, and the battle of it all is long.

But the men who seek it are more than equal to thetask. They are of all sorts, and all races. They drift tothe forest from all ranks of life by reason of the spiritdriving them. They come from the universities of theworld. 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 everyreason. The call of the forest is deep with significance.Its appeal is profound. Its life is free, and shadowed, andafar.

For long moments the clinch of the fighting men remainedunbroken. They lay there upon the ground lockedin a deadly embrace. A spasmodic jolt, a violent, muscularheave. The result was changed position, while the clinchremained unrelaxed. There were movements of grippinghands. There were changes of position in the intertwinedlegs clad in their hard cord trousers. The heavily-bootedfeet stirred and stirred again in response to the impulseof the searching brains of the fighters, and every slightmovement had deep meaning for the onlookers.

Yet none of these movements revealed the inspirationof passion. They were calculated and full of purpose.It was devilish purpose driving towards the objects ofthe fight. The stirring fingers yearned to reach the eyesof the adversary to blind him, and leave his organs ofvision gouged from their sockets. The bared, strongteeth were only awaiting that dire chance to close uponthe enemy's flesh, whether ear, or nose, or throat. Thenthe knee and foot. They were striving under ardentwill for that inhuman maiming which would leave thevictim crippled for life.

Each movement of the fighters was estimated by theonlookers at its due worth. They understood it all, theskill, the chance of it. Not one of them but had foughtjust such a battle in his time, and not a few carried thescars of it, and would continue to carry the scars of itfor the rest of their days.

The moments of quiescence yielded to a spasmodicviolence. There was a wild rolling, and the unlockingof mighty, clinging legs. One dishevelled head was raisedthreateningly. It remained poised for a fraction of timeover the upturned face of the man lying in a positionof disadvantage. Then it lunged downwards. And asit descended, a sound like the clipping of teeth cameback to the taut strung senses of the onlookers. A sighescaped from a hundred throats.

"Bull missed it that time."

Abe Kristin whispered his comment. The two menbeside him had nothing to add at the moment. Theireyes were intent for the next development.

Suddenly the fair-haired giant who had missed hisattack seemed to disengage himself from the under man'sdesperate hold. It was impossible to ascertain the meanshe employed. But he clearly released himself and onehammer fist swung up. It crashed sickeningly down onthe upturned face, and a whistling breath escaped theemotional Abe.

"Gee! He's takin' a chance! That ain't the play ina 'rough and tough,'" he muttered.

"Nope. You're right, Abe," Luke Gats agreed withoutturning. "He's crazy. Gee! It's a chance. Buthe's maybe rattled. Bull's been fightin' over an hour."

"Here get it!" Tug Burke was pointing with a cant-hookin his excitement. "Get it quick. See? He's—"

The man's excitement found reflection in the wholeconcourse of onlookers. There was a furious movementin the human body crushed on the ground beneath theman they called Bull. Its knees came up under his adversary'sbody with a terrific jolt. The purpose of maimingwas obvious.

"Gee! I'm glad."

Tug's relief found an echo in the sigh that escaped hiscompanions. The intended victim had promptly swunghis body clear and the threatened injury was averted.But his retaliation was instant. His great open handspread over the man's face, smothering it; and it seemedthe sought-for goal had been reached.

"Gouge! Gouge!"

The cry roared in hoarse, excited tones from everydirection. Unanimity displayed the general feeling.The man whose face had been smothered was ArdenLaval, the camp boss, the man they hated as only forest-mencan hate. The other was a giant youngster, notlong a member of the camp, the usual object forvictimisation by such a man as the French Canadianboss.

The demand remained unsatisfied. The fingers remainedspread out over the man's eyes, but the foul actwas never perpetrated. The younger man's efforts weredirected towards a deeper, more significant purpose, andperhaps less cruel. He could have blinded in a twinkling.But he refrained. Instead, he pressed up mightilywith a fore-arm crooked under the back of the man'sneck, his smothering hand pressed down with all hisenormous strength.

"The darn fool! Why in hell don't he—?"

Abe was interrupted by the excited voice of the manwith the cant-hook.

"God A'mighty!" Tug cried. "Do you get it?Gouge? It ain't good enough fer Master Bull. He'splayin' bigger. He's playin' fer dollars while we wasreck'nin' cents. Look! It'll crack sure! His gorl-darnneck! He means—!"

"To kill!"

Luke Gat's jubilation was dreadful to witness. Hishard, be-whiskered features were alight with fiendishjoy. This youngster had gone beyond all expectations.No less than the life of the greatest bully in the lumberworld would satisfy him.

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

"Ken he do it?" Tug had thrust forward.

"Laval ain't the feller he was," mused Abe. "Heshouldn't a let the boy get that holt. It's goin' back.It certainly is."

The men stood hushed before the terrible significanceof what they beheld. In the abstract, a life-and-deathstruggle meant little enough to them. Witnessing it, however,violently stirred their deepest emotions. They hatedthe camp boss, the libertine, drunkard, bully, ArdenLaval, who only held his position by reason of his fightingpowers. They would be infinitely pleased to witnesshis end. All the more sure was their delight that itshould come at the hands of this pleasant-voiced younggiant, who had come amongst them out of the very lapof civilisation. Later on they would laugh at the thoughtof the redoubtable Laval in the hands of this "kid," asthey considered him. But for the moment they wereheld enthralled by the excitement of it all.

The moments prolonged. The thrusting hand, andthe crushing arm were forcing, forcing slowly, in theirterrible strangle hold. The face of the camp boss washidden from the spectators under the smothering hand.But the perilous angle at which his dark head was thrustback was there for all to see. His struggles, in thatmerciless hold, were becoming less violent. There wasdespair in their impotence.

The man called Bull was fighting with no less desperation.His youthful, resilient muscles were extendedto the last ounce of their power, and an active, steely-temperedbrain lay behind his every effort. The memoryof months of brutal injustice and bullying, the bitternessof which had galled beyond endurance, supported thislast mighty effort. Yes, for all he was bred in the gentlelife of civilisation, for all ruthless cruelty had no placein his normal temper, his one desire now was to kill, toslay this brute-man who had made his life unendurable.

It was an awful moment. It was terrible even tothese hardy men of the forests. The spectacle of a slow,deliberate killing was incomparable with the blood feudsto which they were used. There were those whose nervesprompted them to shout for haste. There were someeven 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 ofmercy. Bull's right was his own. If he demanded deathit was his due. Certainly it was the due of the bully,Laval.

On the far side of the circle a sudden commotion brokeup the tense expectancy of the onlookers. Every eyeresponded, and the unanimity of the change of interestsuggested 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-cladfigure leapt into the arena and flung itself upon thecombatants.

The circle had re-formed. Again were eyes fastenedupon the point of fascination which had held them solong. But now a buzz of talk hummed on the summerair.

"What in hell!" demanded Luke, in the bitternessof disappointment.

"Here, I'm—"

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

"Say, quit, kid!" he cried hoarsely.

The man's harsh tones were stirred out of their usualquiet.

"Stop right here," he went on. "There's just onefeller on this earth has a right to butt in when Death'sflappin' his wings around. That's Father Adam. Maybeyou're feeling sick to think Laval's going to get clearwith his life. Maybe I am. Father Adam ain't buttin'in ordinary. He's savin' that hothead kid the bloodof a killin' on his hands. Guess I'm glad."

The next moments were abounding with amazingincident. It seemed as though a flying, priestly figurehad been absorbed in the life-and-death struggle. Heseemed to become part of it. Then, with kaleidoscopicsuddenness, the men lay apart, and the death stranglehold of Bull Sternford was broken. And the magic ofit all lay in the fact that the stranger was standing overthe prone combatants, his dark, bearded face, and wide,shining black eyes turned upon the living fury gazingup out of the eyes of the man who had been robbed ofhis prey.

"There's going to be no killing, Bull." Father Adamspoke quietly, deliberately, but with cold decision.

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 glancedown at the still prostrate camp boss.

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

Young Bull Sternford leapt to his feet. His youthfulfigure towered. His handsome blue eyes were ablazewith almost demoniac fury. His purpose was obvious.A voiceless passion surged as he started to rush againupon his victim.

But the priestly figure, with purpose no less, instantlybarred the way.

"Quit," he cried sharply. "What I say, goes."

Bull halted. He halted within a yard of the automaticpistol whose muzzle was covering him. He stood for asecond staring stupidly. And something of his madnessseemed to pass out of his eyes. Then, in a moment,his voice rang out harshly.

"Get away. Let me get at him. Oh, God, I'll smashhim! I'll—!"

"You'll quit right now!" Father Adam still barredthe way with the threatening gun. He raised the muzzlethe least shade. "There's this gun says you're notgoing to have murder on your hands, boy; and there'sa man behind it knows how to make it stop your madattempt. That's better," he went on, as, even in his furythe 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 usdeserve the bad times we get. You've licked him like thegood man you are. You've licked him without any filthymaiming, or unnecessary cruelty. Now leave him his life.He'll never trouble you again. Let it go at that."

The calm of the man, the gentleness of his tones wereirresistible. The fury of the youth died hard, but it solessened in face of the simple exhortation that it hadpassed below the point where insanity rules.

Suddenly a great, bleeding hand was raised to hismane of fair hair, and he smoothed it back off his foreheadhelplessly.

"Why? Why?" he demanded. Then spasmodically:"Why should—he—get away with it? He's handedme a dog's life He's—"

He broke off. His emotions were overwhelming.

Father Adam's dark eyes never wavered. Theysquarely held their grip on the stormy light shining inthe other's. Laval had not stirred. He still lay sprawledon the ground. Quite abruptly the hand gripping theautomatic pistol was thrust into the pocket of the blackcoat. When it was removed it was empty. The mantook a quick step towards the half-dazed Bull.

"Come along, boy," he said persuasively, taking himby the arm. "Come right over to my shanty," he wenton. "You'll feel better in a while. You'll feel betterall ways, and glad you—didn't." Then he paused, holdingthe man's unresisting arm. He looked down atLaval who displayed belated signs of movement. "Getup, Laval," he ordered, returning to a coldness that displayedhis inner feeling. "Get up, and—get out. Getaway right now, and thank God your neck's still whole."

He waited for the obedience he demanded, and waitinghe realised by the quiescence of the man beside himthat all danger had passed.

Laval staggered to his feet. He stood up, a giantin the prime of early manhood, but bowed under theweight of physical hurt, and the knowledge of his firstdefeat. 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 quarterspursued by a hundred contemptuous, unpitying glances,while busy tongues expressed regret at his escape. Itwas the scowl of the wolf pack in its merciless regardfor a fallen leader.

Very different was the general attitude when FatherAdam led the victor away. Hard faces were a-grin.The tongues that cursed the defeated camp boss hurledjubilant laudations at the unresponsive youth, whotowered even amongst these great creatures. But forthe presence of Father Adam, who seemed to exercisea miraculous restraining influence, these lumber-jackswould have crowded in and forcibly borne their championto the suttler's store for those copious libations,which, in their estimate, was the only fitting conclusionto the scene they had witnessed. As it was they madeway. They stood aside in spontaneous and real respect,and the two men passed on in silence leaving the crowdto disperse to its labours.

Chapter II—Father Adam

The hush of the forest was profound. For all the proximityof the busy lumber camp its calm was unbroken.

It was a break in the endless canopy of foliage, anarrow rift in the dark breadth of the shadowed woods.

It was one of those infinitesimal veins through whichflows the life-blood of the forest.

A tiny streamlet trickled its way over a bed of decayedvegetation often meandering through a dense growthof wiry reeds in a channel set well below the generallevel. Banks of attenuated grass and rank foliage linedits course, and the welcome sunlight poured downupon its water in sharp contrast with the twilight of theforest.

Clear of the crowding trees a rough shanty stood outin the sunlight. It was a crazy affair constructed oflogs laterally laid and held in place by uprights, withwalls that looked to be just able to hold together whilesuffering under the constant threat of collapse. Theplace was roofed with a thatch of reeds taken from theadjacent stream-bed, and its doorway was protected bya sheet of tattered sacking. There was also a windowcovered with cotton, and a length of iron stove-pipeprotruding through the thatch of the roof seemed tothreaten the whole place with fire at its first use.

Inside there was no attempt to better the impression.There was no furnishing. A spread of blankets on awaterproof sheet laid on a bed of reeds formed the bedof its owner, with a canvas kit-bag stuffed with hislimited wardrobe serving as a pillow. There wereseveral upturned boxes to be used as seats, and a largerbox served the purpose of a table and supported a tinyoil lamp. There was not even the usual wood stoveconnected up to the protruding stove-pipe. A smoulderingfire was burning between two large sandstone blocks,which, in turn, supported a cooking pot. An unculturedIndian of the forests would have demanded greatercomfort for his resting moments.

But Father Adam had no concern for comfort ofbody. He needed his blankets and his fire solely tosupport life against the bitterness of the night air. Forthe rest the barest, hardest food kept the fire of lifeburning in his lean body.

Squatting on his upturned box he gazed out upon thesunlit stream below him. His dark eyes were fullof a pensive calm. His body was inclining forward,supported by arms folded across his knees. An unlitpipe thrust in the corner of his mouth was the onetouch that defeated the efforts of his flowing hair anddark beard to suggest a youthful hermit meditating inthe doorway of his retreat.

Bull Sternford was seated on another box at theopposite side of the doorway. He, too, had a pipethrust between his strong jaws. But he was smoking.Beyond the dressings applied to a few abrasions he boreno signs of his recent battle. But there still burned acuriously fierce light in his handsome blue eyes.

"You shouldn't have butted in, Father," he said, ina tone which betrayed the emotion under which he wasstill labouring. "You just shouldn't." Then with amovement of irritation: "Oh, I'm not a feller yearningfor homicide. No. It's not that. You know ArdenLaval," he went on, his brows depressing. "Of courseyou do. You must know him a whole heap better thanI do. Well? Say, I guess that feller hasn't a right towalk this earth. He boasts the boys he's smashed thelife clean out of. He's killed more fool lumber-jacksthan you could count on the fingers of two hands. Hewanted my scalp to hang on his belt. That man's amurderer before God. But he's beyond the recall oflaw up here. And he stops around on the fringe lookingfor the poor fool suckers who don't know better thanto get within his reach. Gee, it was tough! I'd a holton him I wouldn't get in a thousand years, and I'dnearly got the life out of him. I'd stood for all hisdirt weeks on end. He made his set at me because I'mgreen and college-bred. But he called me a 'son-of-a-bitch!'Think of it! Oh, I can't rest with that hittingmy 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 whenI do it."

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

Father Adam stirred. He reached down into thebox under him and picked up a pannikin. Then heproduced a flask from an inner pocket. He unscrewedthe top and poured out some of its contents. He heldit out to the other.

"Drink it," he said quietly.

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

"What is it?" Bull demanded roughly.

"It's brandy, and there's dope in it."

"Dope?"

"Yes. Bromide. You'll feel better after you'veswallowed it. You see I want to make a big talk withyou. That's why I brought you here. That's why Istopped you killing that feller—that, and other reasons.But I can't talk with you acting like—like I'd guessArden Laval would act. Drink that right up. Andyou needn't be scared of it. It'll just do you the goodyou need."

Father Adam watched while the other took the pannikin.He watched him raise it, and sniff suspiciously atit* contents. And a shadowy smile lit his dark eyes.

"It's as I said," he prompted. Then he added: "I'mnot a—Cæsar."

The youth glanced across at him, and for the firsttime since his battle a smile broke through the angrygleam of his eyes. He put the pannikin to his lips andgulped down the contents.

Father Adam drew a deep sigh. It was curious howthis act of obedience and faith affected him. The weightof his responsibility seemed suddenly to have becomeenormous.

It was always the same. This man accepted him asdid every other lumber-jack throughout the forests ofQuebec. He was a father whose patient affection forhis lawless children was never failing, a man of healing,with something of the gentleness of a woman. Anadviser 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 andwhither he went no one enquired, no one seemed to know.He just moved through the twilight forests like aghostly, beneficent shadow, supreme in his commandof their rugged hearts.

Bull set the pannikin on the ground beside him. Hissmile had deepened.

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

"Good."

The missionary removed his empty pipe, and Bullhastily dragged his pouch from a pocket in his buckskinshirt. He held it out.

"Help yourself," he invited. And the other took it.For a moment Bull looked on at the thoughtful mannerin which Father Adam filled his pipe. Then a curiosityhe could no longer restrain prompted him.

"This big talk," he said. "What's it about?"

The missionary's preoccupation vanished. His eyeslit and he passed back the pouch.

"Thanks, boy," he said in his amiable way. "GuessI'll need to smoke, too—you see our talk needs somehard thinking. Pass me a stick from that fire."

Bull did as he was bid. And the missionary's eyeswere on the fair head of the man as he leant down overthe smouldering embers stewing his own meagre middaymeal.

Bull Sternford was a creature of vast stature andmuscular bulk. It was no wonder that the redoubtableLaval had run up against defeat. The camp boss hadlived for twenty years the hard life of the forests. Hisbody was no less great than this man's. His experiencein physical battle was well-nigh unlimited. But so, too,was his debauchery.

Bull Sternford was younger. He was clean and freshfrom one of the finest colleges of the world. He was anathlete by training and nature. Then, too, his mentalitywas of that amazing fighting quality which stirs youthto go out and seek the world rather than vegetate in thenursery of childhood. It was all there written in hiskeen, blue eyes, in the set of his jaws of even whiteteeth. It was all there in the muscular set of his greatneck, and in the poise of his handsome head, and in theupright carriage of his breadth of shoulder. Even hiswalk was a thing to mark him out from his fellows. Itwas bold, perhaps even there was a suggestion of arrogancein it. But it was only the result of the militarystraightness of his body.

Little wonder, then, a man of Arden Laval's brutalnature should mark him down as desired victim. Thisman was "green." He was educated. He possessed aspirit worth breaking. Later he would learn. Later hewould become a force in the calling of the woods. Nowhe would be easy.

The brute had sought every opportunity to bait andgoad the man to his undoing. For months he had"camped on his trail," and Bull had endured. Thencame that moment of the filthy epithet, and Bull's spiritbroke through the bonds of will that held it. The insulthad been hurled at the moment and at the spot wherethe battle had been fought. Bull had flung himselfforthwith at the throat of the French Canadian almostbefore the last syllable of the insult had passed the man'slips. And the end of nearly a two hours' battle had beenthe downfall of the bully, with the name of Bull Sternfordhailed as a fighting man in his place.

The firebrand was passed to the waiting missionary.He sucked in the pleasant fumes of a lumberman'stobacco. Then the stick was flung back to its place inthe fire.

Father Adam nursed one long leg, which he flungacross the other, while his wide, intelligent eyes gazedsquarely into the eyes of the man opposite.

"Tell me," he said. "What brought you into the lifeof the woods? What left you quitting the things I cansee civilisation handed you? This is the life of thewastrel, the fallen, the man who knows no better. It'snot for men starting out in possession of all those things—youhave."

Bull sat for a moment without replying. FatherAdam's "dope" had done its work. His passionatemoments had vanished like an ugly dream. His turbulentspirit had attained peace. Suddenly he lookedup with a frank laugh.

"Now, why in hell should I tell you?"

It was an irresistible challenge. The missionarynodded his approval.

"Yes. Why—in hell—should you?"

He, too, laughed. And his laugh miraculously litup his ascetic features.

Instantly Bull flung out one bandaged hand in a sweepinggesture.

"Why shouldn't I—anyway?" he cried, with theabandon of a man impatient of all subterfuge. "GuessI ought to turn right around and ask who the devil youare to look into my affairs? Who are you to assumethe right of inquisitor?" He shook his head. "ButI'm not going to. Now I'm sane again I know justhow much you did for me. I meant killing Laval. Oh,yes, there wasn't a thing going to break my hold untilhe was dead—dead. You got me in time to save mefrom wrecking my whole life. And you got in at—therisk of your own. If I'd killed him all the things andpurposes I've worried with since I left college wouldhave been just so much junk; and I'd have drifted intothe life of a bum lumber-jack without any sort of notionbeyond rye whiskey, and the camp women, and a wellswung axe. You saved me from that. You saved mefrom myself. Well, you're real welcome to ask me anyold 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'ma product of a wealthy man's licence and unscruple.I'm an outcast amongst the world's honest born. Butit's no matter. I'm not on the squeal. Those who'reresponsible for my being did their best to hand me thethings a man most needs. Mind, and body, and will.Further, they gave me all that education, books, andcollege 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 dollarsthe day I became twenty-one. I never knew him, andI never knew my mother. The circ*mstances of mybirth were simply told me on my twenty-first birthday.I know no more. And I care nothing to hunt out thosespectres that don't figger to hand a feller much comfort.The rest is easy. I hope I'm a feller of some guts—"

Father Adam nodded, and his eyes lit.

"Sure," was all he commented.

"Anyway, I feel like it," Bull laughed. "When Ilearned all these things I started right in to think. Ithought like hell. I said to myself something like this:'There's nothing to hold me where I am. There's noone around to care a curse. There's that feeling rightinside the pit of my stomach makes me feel I want tomake good. I want to build up around me all that mybirth has refused me. A name, a life circle, a power, a—anyway,get right out and do things! Well, what wasI going to do? It needed thinking. Then I hit thenotion."

He laughed again. He was gazing in at himselfand laughing at the conceits he knew were real, andstrong, and vital.

"Say." He nodded at the prospect through the doorway."There it is. This country's beginning. Wedon't know half it means to the world yet. Well, Ihadn't enough capital to play with, so I resolved rightaway to start in and learn a trade from its first step toits topmost rung, and to earn my keep right through.Meanwhile my capital's lying invested against the timeI open out. I'm going to jump right into the groundwoodpulp business when the time comes. And out ofthat I mean to build a name that folks won't easily forget.Well, I guess you won't find much that's interestingin all this. It don't sound anything particularly brightor new. But for what it is it's my notion, and—I'mgoing to put it through. That's why I'm here. I'mlearning my job from the bottom."

The decision and force of the man were remarkable.The conciseness of his story, and his indifference to thetragedy of his birth, indicated a level mind underpowerful control. And Father Adam knew he hadmade no mistake.

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

"Is it?"

Bull's smile was no less whimsical.

"Yes. You've guts of iron, boy. And I've beenlooking years for just such a man."

"That sounds—tough," Bull laughed, but he wasinterested. "What's the job you want him for? Areyou yearning to hand out a killing? Is it a trip—a tripto some waste space of God's earth that 'ud freeze up anormal heart? Do you want a feller to beat the lawsof God and man? Guts of iron! It certainly soundstough, and I'm not sure you've found the feller you'reneeding."

"I am."

Father Adam was no longer smiling. The gravityof his expression gave emphasis to his words.

Bull was impressed. His laugh died out.

"I don't know I'm yearning," he said deliberately."Anyway I don't quit the track I've marked out. Thatway there's nothing doing. It's a crank with me; Ican't quit a notion."

"You don't have to."

"No?"

They were regarding each other steadily.

"Here, it's not my way to beat around," the missionaryexclaimed suddenly. "When you find the thing youneed you've got to act quick and straight. Just listena while, while I make a talk. Ask all you need as I goalong. And when I've done I'd thank you for a straightanswer and quick. An answer that'll hold you, andbind you the way your own notions do."

"That's talk."

Bull nodded appreciatively. The missionary let hisgaze wander to the pleasant sunlight through the doorway,where the flies and mosquitoes were basking.

"There was a fellow who started up a groundwoodmill 'way out on the Labrador coast. He was brightenough, and a mighty rich man. And he'd got a notion—abig 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'tmatter to you. The thing that does matter is, he setout to do something big. His notions were always big.Maybe too big. This notion was no less than to drivethe Skandinavians out of the groundwood trade of thiscountry. He figured his great mill was to be the nucleusof an all-Canadian and British combination, embracingthe entire groundwood industry of this country. Itwas to be Canadian trade for Canada with the BritishEmpire."

Bull emitted a low whistle.

"An elegant slogan," he commented.

He shifted his position. In his interest his pipe hadgone out, and he leant forward on his upturned box.

"Yes," Father Adam went on. "And, like yournotion, it was something not easily shifted from hismind. It was planned and figured to the last detail. Itwas so planned it could not fail. So he thought. Soall concerned thought. You see, he had ten milliondollars capital of his own; and he was something of agenius at figures and finance—his people reckoned. Hewas a man of some purpose, and enthusiasm, and—somethingelse."

"Ah!"

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

"No. It wasn't drink, or women, or any foolishnessof that sort," the missionary said. "The whole edificeof his purpose came tumbling about his ears from atotally unexpected cause. Something happened. Somethinghappened to the man himself. It was disaster—personaldisaster. And when it came a queer sort ofweakness tripped him, a weakness he had alwaysh*therto had strength to keep under, to stifle. Hiscourage failed him, and the bottom of his purpose fellout like—that."

Father Adam clipped his fingers in the air and hisregretful eyes conveyed the rest. Then, after a moment,he smiled.

"He'd no—iron guts," he said, with a sigh. "He hadno stomach for battle in face of this—this disaster thathit him."

"It has no relation to his—undertaking?"

"None whatever. I know the whole thing. We were'intimates.' I know his whole life story. It was a disasterto shake any man."

The missionary sighed profoundly.

"Yes, I knew him intimately," he went on. "Ideplored his weakness. I censured it. Perhaps I wentfar beyond any right of mine to condemn. I don'tknow. I argued with him. I did all I could to supporthim. You see, I appreciated the splendid notion of thething he contemplated. More than that, I knew it couldbe carried out."

He shook his head.

"It was useless. This taint—this yellow streak—waspart of the man. He could no more help it than youcould help fighting to the death."

"Queer."

A sort of pitying contempt shone in the youngerman's eyes.

"Queer?" Father Adam nodded. "It was—crazy."

"It surely was."

The missionary turned back to the prospect beyondthe doorway. But it was only for a moment. He turnedagain and went on with added urgency.

"But the scheme wasn't wholly to be abandoned. Itwas—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 ofour craft. There must be a hundred and more mencapable of doing this thing. Of putting it through.Well, the forests must provide the man, or the ideamust die.' He said: 'We must find a man!' He said:'You—you whose mission it is to roam the lengthand breadth of these forests—you may find such a man.If you do—when you do—if it's years hence—sendhim along here, and there's ten million dollars waitingfor him, and all this great mill, and these timber limitsinexhaustible waiting for him to go right ahead. Itdoesn't matter a thing who he is, or what he is, orwhere he comes from, so long as he gets this idea—sticksto it faithfully—and puts it through. I want nothingout of it for myself. And the day he succeeds inthe great idea all that would have been mine shall behis.'"

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

"Well?" he demanded.

Bull cleared his throat.

"The mill? Where is it?" He demanded.

"Sachigo. Farewell Cove."

"Sachigo! Why it's—"

"The greatest groundwood mill in the world."

There was a note of pride and triumph in the missionary'stone. But it passed unheeded. Bull wasstruggling with recollection.

"This man? Wasn't it Leslie Standing who built it?Didn't it break him or something? That's the storygoing round. There was something—"

Father Adam shook his head.

"There's ten million dollars says it didn't. Tenmillions you can handle yourself."

"Gee!"

Bull drew a sharp breath. Strong, forceful as he wasthe figure was overwhelming.

"This—all this you're saying—offering? It's all real,true?" Bull demanded at last.

"All of it."

"You want me to go and take possession of Sachigo,and ten—Say, where's the catch?"

"There's no 'catch'—anywhere."

The denial was cold. It was almost in the tone ofaffronted dignity. The missionary had thrust his handin a pocket. Now he produced a large, sealed envelope.Bull's eyes watched the movement, but bewilderment wasstill apparent in them. Suddenly he raised a bandagedhand, and smoothed back his hair.

Father Adam held out the sealed letter. It wasaddressed to "Bat Harker," at Sachigo Mill.

"Here," he said quietly. "You're the man with ironguts Leslie Standing wants for his purpose. Take this.Go right off to Sachigo and take charge of the greatestenterprise in the world's paper industry. You're lookingto make good. It's your set purpose to make goodin the groundwood industry. Opportunities don't cometwice 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?"

There was a taunt in the challenge. It was calculated.There was something else. The missionary's dark eyeswere almost pleading.

Bull seized the letter. He almost snatched it.

"Will I do it? Can I do it? Have I the nerve?"he cried, in a tone of fierce exulting. "If there's a fellercrazy enough to hand me ten million dollars and trustme with a job—if it was as big as a war between nations—I'dnever squeal. Can I? Will I? Sure I will.And time'll answer the other for you. Iron guts, eh! Itell you in this thing they're chilled steel."

"Good!"

Father Adam was smiling. A great relief, a greathappiness stirred his pulses as he stood up and movedover to the miserable fire with its burden of stewingfood.

"Now we'll eat," he said. And he stooped down andstirred the contents of the pot.

Chapter III—Bull Learns Conditions

The Myra ploughed her leisurely way up the cove.There was dignity in the steadiness with which she glidedthrough the still waters. The co*ckleshell of the Atlanticbillows had become a thing of pride in the shelter ofFarewell Cove. Her predecessor, the Lizzie, had neverrisen above her humble station.

Her decks were wide and clean. Her smoke-stack hadsomething purposeful in its proportions. The bridgewas set high and possessed a spacious chart house. Shehad an air of importance not usual to the humble coastingpacket.

"Old man" Hardy was at his post now. One of hisofficers occupied the starboard side of the bridge, whilehe and another looked out over the port bow.

"It's a deep water channel," the skipper said, with alla sailor's appreciation. "That's the merricle that makesthis place. It'ud take a ten-thousand tonner withfathoms to spare right away up to the mooring berth.Guess Nature meant Sachigo for a real port, but gotmussed fixing the climate."

Bull Sternford was leaning over the rail. For allsummer was at its height the thick pea-jacket he waswearing was welcome enough. His keen eyes weresearching, and no detail of the prospect escaped them.He was filled with something akin to amazement.

"It compares with the big harbours of the world," hereplied. "And I'd say it's not without advantages manyof the finest of 'em lack. Those headlands we passedaway back. Why, the Atlantic couldn't blow a stormbig enough to more than ripple the surface here inside."He laughed. "What a place to fortify. Think of thisin war time, eh?"

The grizzled skipper grinned responsively.

"It's all you reckon," he said. "But she needshumouring. You need to get this place in winter whenice and snow make it tough. This cove freezes rightaround its shores. You'd maybe lay off days to getinside, only to find yourself snow or fog bound forweeks on end. We make it because we have to withmails. But you can't run cargo bottoms in winter.It's a coasting master's job in snow time. It's a lifestudy. You can get in, and you can get out—if you'venerve. If you're short that way you'll pile up sure ashell."

He turned away to the chart room, and a momentlater the engine-room telegraph chimed his orders tothose below.

Bull was left with his busy thoughts.

It was a remarkable scene. The forest slopes cameright 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-builthabitations sufficient to shelter hundreds of workers.Their quality was staunch and picturesque, and pointedmuch of the climate rigour they were called upon toendure. But they only formed a background to, perhaps,the most wonderful sight of all. A road andtrolley car line skirted each foreshore, and the mind behindthe searching eyes was filled with admiration forthe skill and enterprise that had transplanted one ofcivilisation's most advanced products here on the desperatecoast of Labrador. Many of the forest whispersof Sachigo had been incredible. But this left theonlooker ready to believe anything of it.

The mill, and the township surrounding it, werealready within view, a wide-scattered world of buildings,occupying all the lower levels of the territory on bothsides of the mouth of the Beaver River before it roseto the heights from which its water power fell.

Bull was amazed. And as he gazed, his wonder andadmiration were intensified a hundredfold by his self-interest.This place was to be in his control, possiblyhis possession if he made good. He thrust back thefur cap pressed low on his forehead.

His thought leapt back on the instant to the man whohad sent him down to this Sachigo. Father Adam,with his thin, ascetic features, his long, dark hair andbeard, his tall, spare figure. His patient kindlinessand sympathy, and yet with the will and force behindit which could fling the muzzle of a gun into a man'sface and force obedience. He had sent him. Why?Because—oh, it was all absurd, unreal. And yet here hewas on the steamer; and there ahead lay the wonders ofSachigo. Well, time would prove the craziness of it all.

"Makes you wonder, eh?" The coasting skipper wasat his side again. "You know these folks needed bignerve to set up this enterprise. It keeps me guessingat the limits where man has to quit. I've spent my lifeon this darn coast, an' never guessed to see the daywhen trolley cars 'ud run on Labrador, and the workingfolk 'ud sit around in their dandy houses, with electriclight making things comfortable for them, and electricheat takin' the place of the cordwood stove it seemedto me folk never could do without. Can you beat it?No. You can't. Nor anyone else."

"Who is it? A corporation?" Bull asked, knowingfull well the answer. He wanted to hear, he wantedto learn all that this man could tell him.

Hardy shook his head.

"Standing," he said. "That was the guy's name whostarted it all up. But," he added thoughtfully, "I neverrightly 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 Standingpassed out o' things eight years back—the time I wasfirst handed command of this kettle—the mill's jumpedout of all notion. Those trolleys," he pointed at theforeshore of the cove: "They started in to haul the'hands' to their work only two years back. I'd say it'sBat Harker. But he looks more like a longshore toughthan a—genius."

He shrugged expressively. Then he shook his head.

"No," he went on. "I don't know a thing but whatany guy can learn who comes along up this coast. I'vethought a heap. An', like you, I've ast questions allthe time. But you don't learn a thing of this enterprisebut the things you see. Bat Harker don't evertalk." He laughed in quiet enjoyment. "He's mostlike a clam mussed up in a cement bar'l. There don'tseem any clear reason either. The only thing queer tome was Standing's 'get out.' There was talk then whenthat happened along. But it was jest talk. Canteentalk. Something sort of happened. No one seemedrightly to know. They guessed Bat was a tough guywho'd boosted him out—some way. Then I heard hiswife had quit and he was all broke up. Then they saidhe'd made losses of millions on stock market gambles.But the yarns don't fit. You see, the mill's gone rightahead. The capital's there, sure. They've just builtand built. There's more than twice the 'hands' therewas eight years back. And get a look at the 'bottoms'loading at the wharves. No. Say, when I came aboardthe Myra and they scrapped the Lizzie, I never guessedto get a full cargo. Well, I can load right down to thewater 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 ourpropellers moving all the time. They're bright folk,sure."

The old seaman laughed and moved off again to histelegraphs. The business of running in to the quaysidewas beginning in earnest.

* * * * *

The hawsers creaked and strained at the bollards.The vessel yawed. Then she settled at her berth. Theengine-room telegraph chimed its final order, and thevessel's busy heart came to rest. Instantly activityreigned upon the deck, and the discharge of cargo wasin full swing.

Bull Sternford was one of the first to pass down thegangway. Clad in the pleasant tweeds of civilisation,part hidden under a close-buttoned pea-jacket, he bulkedenormously. His more than six feet of height was lostagainst his massive breadth of shoulder. Then, too,his keen face under a beaver cap, and his shapely headwith its mane of hair, were things to deny his body thatattention it might otherwise have attracted.

For all that, at least one pair of critical eyes lost nodetail of his personality. Bat Harker was unobtrusivelystanding amongst the piled bales of groundwood thatstacked the wharf from end to end. There was nothingabout him to single him out from those who stood onthe quay. The rough clothing of his original callingwas very dear to him, and he clung to it tenaciously.He seemed to have aged not one whit in the added eightyears. His iron-grey hair was just as thick and colourfulas before. There was no added line in his hardface. His girth was no less and no more. And hiseyes, penetrating, steady, had the same spirit shiningin them.

He had laboured something desperately in the pasteight years. With the passing of Leslie Standing fromthe life of Sachigo he had realized a terrible loss. Hisloss had more than embarrassed him. There was evena moment when it shook his purpose. But with himSachigo was a religion, and his faith saved him. Fora while, in both letter and spirit, he obeyed his orders,and Sachigo stood still. Then his philosophy carriedthe day. It was his dictum that no one could standstill on Labrador without freezing to death. He sawthe 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.

Bull stared about him for the fascination of hisjourney up the cove was still on him. His pre-occupationleft him watching the hurried, orderly movementgoing on about him.

"That all your baggage?"

The demand was harsh, and Bull swung round witha start. He was gazing down into the upturned face ofBat Harker, who was pointing at the suit case he wascarrying.

"Guess I've a trunk back there in the hold somewhere,"Bull replied indifferently, taking his interrogatorfor a quayside porter.

"That's all right. I'll have one of the boys tote itup. Best come right along. It's quite a piece up to theoffice. You've a letter for me?"

"I've a letter for Mr. Bat Harker."

The doubt in Bull's tone set a genuine grin in theother's eyes.

"Sure. That's me. Bat Harker. Maybe you don'tguess I look it. Don't worry. Just pass it over."

Bull groped in an inner pocket, surprise affordinghim some amusem*nt. His interest in Sachigo hadabruptly focussed itself on this man.

"I'm kind of sorry," he said. "I surely took you forsome sort of—porter."

Bat laughed outright, and glanced down at his work-stainedclothing.

"Wal, that ain't new," he said. Then his eyes resumedtheir keen regard. "We don't need to waitaround though. The skitters are mighty thick downhere. Sachigo's gettin' a special breed I kind o' hate.That letter, an'—we'll get along."

Bull drew out Father Adam's letter and waited whilethe other tore it open. Bat glanced at the contents andjumped to the signature. Then he thrust out a gnarledand powerful hand.

"Shake," he cried. And there could be no doubtinghis good will. "Glad to have you around, Mr. BullSternford."

* * * * *

Bull Sternford was seated in the luxurious chair thathad once known Leslie Standing. His pea-jacket wasremoved and his cap was gone. The room was warm,and the sun beyond the window was radiant. Beyondthe desk Bat was seated, where his wandering gazecould drift to the one object of which it never tired.He was at the window which looked out upon the millbelow.

He was reading Father Adam's letter. Sternford wassilently regarding his squat figure. He was waitingand wondering, speculating as to the hard-faced, unculturedcreature who had built up all the amazing detailsthat made up an industrial city in a territory that wasoutlawed by Nature.

Bat thrust the letter away and looked up.

"Father Adam didn't write that letter for you? Hejust handed it out to you to bring along?"

"That's how," Bull nodded.

"Sure." Bat's tone became reflective. "He musthave wrote that letter years, and held it against the timehe located you. He's queer."

Bull laughed.

"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'sjust father and mother to every darn lumber-jack thathaunts the forests of Quebec, and it don't worry him ifhis children are hellhound or honest. There's that tohim sets me just crazy. I'd like to see his thin, tired face,always smiling." He stirred. And the warmth diedabruptly out of his manner. "Say, you knew me—atthe wharf?"

"Sure. I knew you before you came along. We'vea wireless out on the headland."

"I see. Father Adam warned you I was coming. Hetold you—"

"The whole darn yarn. Sure."

Bull laughed grimly.

"That he guessed to shoot me to small meat if I didn'tdo as he said?"

"If you didn't cut out homicide from your notions of—sport."

"Yes. It was tough," Bull regretted. "But I'm glad—now."

"Yep. Guess any straight sort of feller would feelthat way—after."

The lumberman's regret was unnoticed by the other.

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

"It just beats hell!" he cried. "It certainly does. Oh,I'm awake all right. Sure, I am. One time I wasn'tsure. Two months back I was lying around a lousysummer camp getting ready to take a hand in the wintercut for the Skandinavia Corporation. I was withintwo seconds of breaking a man's life—the rotten campboss. And now? Why, now I'm sitting around in dandytweeds in the boss chair of a swell office, with a crazynotion back of my head I'm here to beat the game withthe greatest groundwood mill in the world, and tenmillion dollars capital behind me. Maybe there's folkswouldn't guess I'm awake, but I allow I am. But thewhole thing sets me thinking of the fairy stories I usedto read when I was a kid, and never could see the horsesense in wasting time over."

Bat helped himself to a chew from a fragment of plugtobacco.

"Here, listen," Bull went on, after the briefest pause."It's my 'show down.' I don't understand a thing. I'mmostly a kid from college with a yearning for fight.So far I've learned some of the things the forest canteach the feller who wants to learn. They're the roughthings. And I like rough things. I've some grip ongroundwood. And the making of groundwood's themain object of my life. That, and the notion of lickinghell out of the other feller. That's me, and those are thethings made Father Adam send me along down toSachigo. Well, it's up to you." He spread out his hands,"Where do I stand? How do I stand? And why inthe name of all that's crazy am I sitting in this boss chair—rightnow?"

Bat swung one trunk-like leg across the other. Hismovement suggested an easing of mind and a measureof enjoyment. He pointed at the window and noddedin its direction.

"Quite a place," he said, in a tone and with a pridethat had no relation to the other's demands. "Makesyou feel man ain't the bum sort of inseck in the schemeof things some highbrows ain't happy not tellin' you.There's folks who guess it's Nature the propositionthat matters. It's her does it all, an' keeps on doin' itall the time. But Nature's most like one mighty foolish,extravagant female. That sort o' woman who don'tcare but to please the notion of the moment. And whenthat's done, goes right on to please the next. Wal, anywayI guess she's got her uses if it's only to handchances to the guy that's lookin' on. Take a look rightdown there below," he went on. "That's the truck theguy lookin' on has sweppen up in Nature's trail. It'staken most of fifteen years collectin' it. We've had topush that broom hard. And now I guess you're goingto boost your weight behind it too. There's other thingsto collect, and that's what we want from you. You gotnerve. You got big muscle, and education, too. Well,you'll handle the biggest sweeper of us all. Does itscare you?"

"Not a thing." Bull was smiling confidently.

Bat chuckled. His eyes were sparkling as he ruthlesslymasticated his tobacco. This man pleased himmightily.

"That's all right," he said. Then he went on after asilent moment while he gazed thoughtfully out of thewindow. "It's right here," he exclaimed. "Here's a mill,a swell mill that don't lack for a thing to make it well-nighperfect. I'll tell you about it. Its capacity. Itspresent limit is six thousand tons dry weight groundwoodpulp to the week. That's runnin' full. There's a hundredand twenty grinders feeding a hundred and eightysheetin' machines. And they're figgered to use up fifty-fivethousand horse power of the five hundred thousandwe got harnessed on this great little old river thatfalls off the highlands. That power is ours winter an'summer. It don't matter a shuck the 'freeze up.' It'sthere for us all the darn time. Then we've forest limitsto hand us the cordage for that output that could give usthree times what we're needing for a thousand years.Labour? We got it plenty. And later, by closing inour system of foresting, I figger to cut out present costson a sight bigger output. The plans for all that are fixedin my head. Then we come to the market for our stuff,an' I guess that's the syrup in the pie. The world'smarket's waitin' on us. It's ours before we start. Why?Our power don't cost us one cent a unit. We're able tohand our folks a standard of living through the natureof things that leaves wages easy. The river's wide, andfull, and it's our own. Then our sea passage to Europe'sjust eighteen hundred miles instead of three thousand.An' these things mean our costs leave us cutting rightunder other folks, and Skandinavia beat. There it is," hecried, with a wide gesture of his knotted hands. "It'spie!"

Something of the lumberman's enthusiasm found reflectionin Sternford's eyes.

"But Nature's handed us a lemon in the basket oforanges," Bat went on, with a shake of his head. "It'sthat woman in her again. Y'see, she gives us just fourmonths in the year to get our stuff out. Oh, she don'tfreeze 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 itwith any sort o' safety. The headlands are desperatenarrow, and—well, there it is. We've four months in theyear to get our stuff out. It's a sum. Figger it yourself.Set us goin' full. Six thousand tons in the week. Whatis it? Three hundred thousand in the year. Howmany trips at ten thousand tons? Or put the averagetonnage lower. Say eight thousand. Forty trips. Fourmonths. A vessel making two trips on an average turnround. We need a fleet of twenty 'bottoms,' to do itin the time. And they'll need to be our own. You can'thelp yourself to the world's market, and fix prices, andall the while fight for shipping in the open market. See?"

"Sure—I see."

Bat nodded approval.

"When we get that the rest can go through. Meanwhilethere'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 thewhole purpose. There's the rest."

The super lumber-jack turned again to the windowwith that fascination that was almost pathetic.

"And the rest?"

Bull Sternford urged the other sharply, and Bat turnedat once.

"Canada's groundwood for the Canadian, inside theEmpire," he shot at him.

The other nodded.

"The world's market for the country that can andshould supply it," he replied.

"The smashing of the darn Skandinavian ring," criedBat, his deep-set eyes alight.

"And drive them—back over the sea."

Bat suddenly leant across the table.

"That's it, boy," he cried. "That's it! Hellbeamand 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. Heset him right here to help himself to the things He gavehim. It's being filched by these foreigners—his birthright.They're fat on it. Did we fight the world warfor that? Not by a darn sight. We fought to hold aplace on the map for ourselves. And that's a propositionwe've all got to get our back teeth into."

"It sure is."

The mill manager sat back in his chair and chewedvigorously.

"That's it," he said. "How?" he went on. "Combination.Finance—and the interest of the little, greatold country across the water. It's all planned and laidout by the feller that started up this proposition. It'sscheduled for you. Guess you'll find the last word ofit writ out in the locked book in this desk. It's clearand straight for the feller with the nerve. That's you.Wal?"

Bat was watching—searching. He was looking forthat flicker of an eyelid he had learned to dread in thepast. But he failed to discover it. The wide, clear eyesof the younger man returned his regard unwaveringly.The uncultured lumberman had stirred a responsive enthusiasm,and somehow the project no longer seemed thecrazy thing it had once appeared to Bull Sternford.

"Guess my back teeth have got it," he said, with asmile. "You needn't worry I'll let go."

Bat drew a deep breath. He stood up and spat hismangled chew into the cuspidore.

"I'm glad. I'm real glad," he cried. "I'm a heapmore glad you told me those words without askin' theother things you need to know. But you got to know'em right away. Say, the day that fixes up the thingswe been talkin' sees you with me and another masters ofthis 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 readyto do all we know all the time, just the way you need it.Down in Abercrombie there's the attorney, CharlesNisson, 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 anymistake."

Bull had risen, and his height left him towering overthe man across the table.

"Now for the mill," he cried, as their hands fell apart."The Myra sails sundown to-morrow and I need to get aswift look around before then. Say, you folk have kindof taken me on a chance—well, that's all right. I'mglad."

Chapter IV—Drawing The Net

Nathaniel Hellbeam was contemplating the spiral ofsmoke rising from his long cigar. He was dreamingpleasantly. He was dreaming of those successful manipulationsof finance it was his purpose to achieve. He hadlunched, so his dream was of the things which most appealed.

In the midst of his reflections the drub of the muffledtelephone beat its insistent tattoo. His dream vanished,and his senses became alert. He leant forward in hischair and picked up the receiver.

"Yes," he said shortly. And it sounded more like theTeutonic, "Ja!"

Putting up the receiver again he leant his clumsybody back in his chair. His small eyes no longer containedtheir dreaming light. They were turned expectantlyupon the polished mahogany door.

The door swung silently open.

"Mr. Idepski!" The announcement was made in acarefully modulated tone.

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

"Well?"

There was no cordiality in the greeting. That wasnot Hellbeam's way with a paid agent.

Idepski walked across to the chair always waiting toreceive a visitor and sat down.

"May I sit?" he inquired coolly, after the operationhad been performed.

Hellbeam nodded.

"Well?" he repeated.

The agent laid his hat on the ornate desk, and removedhis gloves with care and deliberation.

"I'm just back from Sachigo," he said.

"Hah!"

The financier settled himself more comfortably in hischair, and returned his cigar to his gross mouth.

"Tell me," he demanded.

"Easy. Things are moving our way."

The dark eyes glanced over the table for the goldcigarette box that always stood there.

"Help yourself," the banker ordered rather than invited.

Idepski needed no second bidding.

"You got all my code messages?" he asked. "Good,"as the Swede nodded. "Then you know the positionof the mill. Say, that feller Harker needs a sort ofapology from me—also from you. The mill's a wonder.And he's the guy that's fixed it that way. You haven'ta thing in Skandinavia comparable. I'd say you haven'ta feller on your side capable of touching the fringe ofthat tough's genius for organisation. It's him. NotMartin—I mean Standing."

"And Standing?"

But Idepski was not to be deflected from his purpose.

"That's all right," he said easily. "I'm coming tohim presently. I gave you, at times, the whole lengthand 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—BullSternford. Guess it's him I need to tell you aboutbefore I pass on to the other. It's taken me a while tolocate all I needed. And I guess I had luck or I wouldn'thave got it all yet."

For once the man's smile reached his eyes.

"What's his position—in Sachigo?" Hellbeam demanded.

"Right on top of the business side of it."

"A financial man?"

The banker's interest was obviously stirred. ButIdepski shook his dark head.

"That's the queer of it," he said. "He's a youngsterstraight out of the forest with no sort of record exceptas a pretty tough fighting proposition. Here, let mehand it to you in my own way, and I'll answer any sort ofquestion after. I got men chasing up the forest camps.You know that. Well, I get their reports right here inthis city at my office. They're read carefully, and anythingthat looks good is coded, and sent on to mewherever I am. Well, right after I located this feller,Sternford, coming into Sachigo, I got word of some stuffreported from one of your own camps way out north-westof Lake St. Anac. Guess it's about the farthestnorth in that direction, and it's cut off from any othercamp by a hundred miles. On the face of it the stuffdidn't seem to need more than a single thought. It wasto say my man was quitting the camp. He'd sifted itright through, but there wasn't a 'jack' in the camp withany sort of story worth wasting paper on. There wasn'ta trace of our man that way, and he proposed drawinganother cover. At the end of his report was one of thosenotes these boys never seem able to resist mixing up withtheir official work. It told me of one of those scrapsthat happened in the camps, and he seemed mighty struckby it. It was between the camp boss, Arden Laval, and akid called Sternford. Say, when I read that name Ijumped. I felt like handing my feller promotion rightaway. Well, his story was good anyway. It seems thiscamp boss is about the biggest bluff in the scrap wayknown to that country. The kid licked him. Theyfought nearly two hours, 'rough and tough.' And thekid would have killed his man, but for the interference ofa missionary feller called Father Adam. He broke 'emloose with a gun, and when he got 'em loose he took thekid right away so he shouldn't hand out the homicide hereckoned to. This report was more than two months oldwhen I got it. Anyway I got it after a feller called BullSternford, a queer name by the way, had jumped in onthe Sachigo proposition."

The agent flung away his cigarette and helped himselfafresh.

"Well," he went on, smiling, "I guess it didn't takeme thinking five seconds. I set the wires hummingasking a description of this fighting kid. I got it. Itwas my man. The feller at Sachigo. Well?"

Idepski's smiling interrogation was full of satisfaction.

"Go on." The watchful eyes of the financier seemedto have narrowed.

"Now, by what chance does this feller, Bull Sternford,come straight from one hell of a scrap in a far-offcamp belonging to Skandinavia to run the business endof Sachigo? What happened after that fool missionarygot him away? And—"

Idepski broke off, pondering. He flicked his cigaretteash without regard for the carpet.

Hellbeam stirred in his chair impatiently. His lipsseemed to become more prominent. His small eyesseemed to become smaller.

"You ask that, yes? You?" he snorted. "A childmay answer that thing. You think? Oh, yes, youthink." The hand supporting his cigar made a gesturethat implied everything disparaging. "Our man—thisMartin—has gone out of Sachigo because—of you? Itell you, no! Does a man give up the money, the bigplan he makes, at the sight of an—agent? He tookyou in his hand and sent you to the swine life of theforest where he could have crushed you like that." Hegripped the empty air. "Then he goes—where? Yousay he fears and quits. What does he fear? You?"The man shook his head till his cheeks were shaken bythe violence of his movement. "He goes somewhere.But he does not quit. That is clear. Oh, yes. The millgoes 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—the same as with Martin there. SoMartin does not quit. He—just goes. Then who setsthis Bull Sternford in the mill? Why? He says, 'Thisman can do the things I need.' Well? Say quick toyour man, 'Do not leave this camp of Skandinavia.' Martinis there, or near by. He must know this FatherAdam, too. He must be in touch with him. Maybe hewatches the Skandinavia work. Maybe he plays hisgame so. Maybe he goes from Sachigo for that reason.Yes?"

The financier's undisguised contempt left the agentapparently undisturbed.

"That's the simple horse sense of it," Idepski retortedpromptly. "I get all that. But you're wrong whenyou say, Martin's playing any other game than lying lowbecause of one hell of a scare. I know him. You thinkyou know him because you can't get away from judginga man from your end. However, that don't mattera shuck. I've told that man of mine to stop around.Don't worry. I told him that right away. I told himto watch this missionary." He shook his head. "Nothingdoing. The missionary has quit. As I said, I'mright back from Sachigo. I didn't come back just tohand you this stuff. I'm on my way up to this campof yours. We've been hunting this guy eight years—blind.Now there's a streak of daylight. I'm going forthat streak myself. Anyway, it's liable to be pleasanterwork than lumbering in the booms at Sachigo, and wonderingwhen that feller Bat Harker, was going to locateme through a lumber-jack's outfit. And while I'm upthere I mean to learn all I can of this Father Adam. Idon't look for much that way. He's just a missionerthat every feller in the forest's got a good word for, andanyway, it don't seem to me the feller who jumped inon you, and touched your bank roll is the sort to passhis time handlin' out tracts to the bums of the forest. Icame in on my way to pass you these things. I go northagain to-night. I'll be away quite a while, and, shut offup there, you'll not be likely to get word easy. Butyou'll hear things when I've got anything to hand you."

A sardonic light crept into Hellbeam's eyes as helistened to the final assurance.

"So," he ejacul*ted with a nod.

The agent rose to go.

"Meanwhile," he said, leaning over the desk, "itmight be well for you to get a grip on the fact thatSachigo's going right on. It's the greatest groundwoodproposition in the world. I know enough of Harker torealise his capacity to make it do just what he needs.And as for that other—this Sternford kid—why, I gatherhe's a pretty live wire that's set there for a reason. Theslogan up there's much what it was, only the words arechanged."

Hellbeam sucked his cigar and removed it from hislips.

"Changed? How?" he demanded, without suspicion.

"It was 'Canadian trade for the Canadians,'" Idepskisaid, his dark eyes snapping maliciously. "It's morepersonal since the fighting kid came along. It remindsme of the German slogans of the war. It's 'To hell withthe Swedes, we'll drive 'em into the sea.'"

The financier nodded. His armour was impenetrable.

"The Germans said much," he said.

"That's all right, these folks aren't Germans," camethe prompt retort, as Idepski picked up his hat andgloves.

"No." Hellbeam remained seated. It was not hisway to speed a departing visitor. "I'm glad. Oh, yes."He smiled into the other's face, and his meaning wasobvious. "You go to this camp. You find this missionary.That's work for you. The other—" hiseyes dropped to the papers on the desk before him—"thismill, this Sachigo is for me. It is much nearerto the sea than the Skandinavia. Oh, yes."

Chapter V—The Progress Of Nancy

The girl reached out a hand in response to the ring ofthe telephone. It was slim and white; and her fingernails displayed that care which suggests a healthy regardfor the niceties of a woman's life.

"Hullo! Yes?"

She remained silently intent upon the rapidly spokenmessage 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 ofmeaningless diagrams.

"Yes," she replied, after a while. "Oh, yes. Allreports are in. I've gone through them all, and mysummary is being prepared now. They're a pretty badstory. Yes. What's that? How? Oh, yes. Someof the camps are in pretty bad shape, I'd say. Output'sfallen badly. Output! Yes. All sorts of reasons and—" shelaughed, "—to me, none quite satisfactory. Ithink I've my finger on the real trouble, and fancy I'veseen all this coming quite a while back. Very well. I'llbe right up. Yes, I'll bring my rough notes if the summaryisn't ready."

Nancy McDonald thrust the receiver back in its placeand sat for a moment gazing at it. She knew she hadcommitted herself. She had intended to. She knewthat she had reached one of the important milestonesin her career. In her youth, in the springtime energyabounding in her, she meant to pit her opinion againstthe considered policy of those who formed the managementof the great Skandinavia Corporation she served.She understood her temerity. A surge of nervous anticipationthrilled her. But she was resolved. Herambition was great, and her youthful courage was noless.

The brazen clack of typewriters beyond the glasspartitions of her little private office left her unaffected.It was incessant. She would have missed it had it notbeen there. She would have lost that sense of rushwhich the tuneless chorus of modern commercialisminspired. And, to a woman of her temperament, thatwould have been a very real loss.

The great offices of the Skandinavia Corporation, inthe heart of the city of Quebec, with their machine-likeprecision of life, their soulless method, their passionlessprogress towards the purpose of their organisation,meant the open road towards the fulfilment of her desiresfor independence and achievement.

All the promise of her earlier youth had been abundantlyfulfilled. Tall, gracious of figure, her beauty hada charm and dignity which owed almost as much tomentality as it did to physical form. Yet, for all shehad already passed her twenty-fourth birthday, she wasamazingly innocent of those things which are countedas the governing factors of a woman's life. Certainlyshe knew and loved the Titian hue of her wealth of hair;her mirror was constantly telling her of the hazel depthsof her wide, intelligent eyes, with their fringes of dark,curling, Celtic lashes. Then the almost classic mouldingof her features. She could not escape realising thesethings. But they meant no more to her than the factthat her nose was not awry, and her lips were not misshapen,and her even, white teeth were perfectlycompetent for their proper function.

She was a happy blending of soul and mentality.Heredity seemed to have done its best for her. TheGaelic fire and the brilliance and irresponsibility of hermisguided father seemed to have been balanced andtempered by the gentle woman soul of her mother. Andthrough the eyes of both she gazed out upon the world,inspired and supported by a tireless nervous energy.

Since the memorable day of her interview with herappointed trustee, Charles Nisson, her development hadbeen rapid. The events which had suddenly been flunginto her life at the interview seemed to have unloosed ahundred latent, unguessed emotions in her child heart,and translated her at once into a thinking, high-spiritedwoman.

She honestly strove to banish bitterness against theman who had deprived her of that mother love whichhad been her childhood's treasure, but always a shadowof it remained to colour her thought, and influence herimpulse. She had studied the deed of settlement asshe had promised. She had studied it coldly, dispassionately.She had looked upon it as a mere document aimedto benefit her, without regard for her feelings for theman who had made it. She had thought over it at nightwhen passion was less to be controlled. She had consultedthose she had been bidden to consult, and hadlistened to, and had weighed their kindly advice. Andwhen all was done she took her own decision as she wasbound to do. It was a decision that had no relation toreason, only to passionate impulse.

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 nogreater ambition than to marry and bear children. Thesimple prospect of marriage and motherhood could neversatisfy in itself. That would be a happy incident, butnot the whole, and acceptance of that deed would surelyhave robbed her of the rest.

There were times when she felt the disabilities of hersex. She knew she was deprived of the physical strengthwhich the battle of life seemed to demand. But to herthe world was wide, and big, and, in her girl's imagination,teeming with appealing adventure. The worldalone could not satisfy her.

Once her decision was taken all the kindly efforts ofher mentors at Marypoint were rallied in her support.They had advised out of their wisdom, but acted fromtheir hearts. And the day on which the principal ofthe college notified her that the Skandinavia Corporationof Quebec had signified its willingness to absorb herinto its service as typist and stenographer, at one hundreddollars per month, was the happiest she had knownsince her well-loved mother had been taken out of herlife.

Now, after three years of unwearying effort, therewas still no shadow to mar her happiness, or temperher enthusiasm. On the contrary, there was much tostimulate both. In that brief period she had succeededalmost beyond her dreams. Was she not already thetrusted, confidential secretary to the ruling power inthe great offices of the Skandinavia Corporation? Hadshe not been taken out of the ranks of the many capablestenographers, and been given a private office, a doubledsalary, and work to do which left her wide scope forthe play of those gifts with which she was so liberallyendowed? Yes. All these things had been showeredupon her in three years. She was a figure of authorityin the great establishment. And furthermore, the manshe served—this man, Elas Peterman—had hinted, andeven definitely talked of, further rapid promotion.

She had worked hard for it all. Oh, yes. She hadworked morning, noon, and night. When other girlshad been content to study fashions and styles, andchatter "beaus" and husbands, she had given herselfup to the study of the wood-pulp trade, and the world'smarket of the material she was interested in. She hadsaturated herself with the whole scheme, and purpose,and methods of her employers, till, as Peterman himselfhad 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 awoman's life, failed to yield her the real truth it is alwaysready to tell to its devotees.

The pre-occupation suddenly passed out of the girl'seyes. She stirred. Then she stood up and collected anumber of papers into a small leather attaché case. Amoment later she pressed the bell push on the desk.

Her summons was promptly answered by a slimfigured girl, with fair hair, and "jumpered" in the lateststyle.

"I shall be away a while. See to the 'phone, MissWebster," Nancy said, in a tone of quiet but definiteauthority. "I shall be with Mr. Peterman. Don't ringme unless it's something important. That summary.Is it ready?"

"It's being checked right now."

"Well, speed them up. You can send it up directlyit's through. Mr. Peterman is needing it."

Nancy passed out of the room. Her discipline wasstrict. Sometimes it approached severity. But sheunderstood its necessity for obtaining results. Herorders would be carried out.

* * * * *

Elas Peterman set the 'phone back in its place. Hisdark eyes were smiling. They were shining, too, in acurious, not altogether wholesome fashion. He hadjust finished talking to Nancy McDonald, and he wasthinking of the vision of red hair, of the serious hazeleyes gazing out of their setting of fair, almost transparentcomplexion.

He took up his pen to continue the letter he had beenwriting. But he added no word. The girl he had beenspeaking with still occupied his thoughts to the exclusionof all else.

He was a good-looking man, clean cut and youthful.His profile was finely chiselled. But his Teutonic originwas clearly marked. It was in the straight square backof his head. It was in the prominent, heavily, roundedchin, 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, inhis eyes. The former was gross, and definite sensualitylooked out of the latter.

As the door opened to admit Nancy his pen promptlydescended on his paper. But he did not write. Helooked up with a smile.

"Come right in, my dear," he said cordially, with thepatronising familiarity of a man conscious of his power."Just sit right down while I finish this letter." Then headded gratuitously, "It's a rude letter to a feller I've nouse for; and I don't guess to rob myself of the pleasureof passing it plenty to him—in my own handwriting."

Nancy smiled as she took the chair beside the deskwhich was usually assigned to her in her intercoursewith her chief.

"I wish I felt that way writing a bad letter," she said."But I don't. It just makes me madder with folks, andI go right on thinking things, and—and—it worries."

Elas Peterman shook his head.

"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 thetime. That's how it is. You want to laff and seethings happy all around you. Later you'll get so yousee the other feller mostly thinks of himself, and don'tcare a hoot for the folks sitting around. Then you'llfeel different; and you'll tell folks you don't like thethings you feel about them."

He went on writing, smiling at his own cynicism.

Nancy leant back in her chair. His words left herunaffected. She was used to him. But, for a moment,she contemplated the dark head, supported on his hand,without any warmth of regard.

After awhile she glanced away, her gaze wanderingover the luxurious furnishings of the room. And itoccurred to her to wonder how much, if any, of theexcellent taste of the decorations owed inception to theman at the desk. No. Not much. The cheque-bookand the decorator's artist must have been responsible.This grossly Teutonic creature with his cynical, commercialmind, was something of an anachronism, andcould never have inspired the perfect harmony of thepalatial offices of his Corporation. It was rather a pity.He had been exceedingly good to her. She would haveliked to think that he was the genius of the whole structureof the Skandinavia, even to the decorations of theoffice. But it was impossible.

The man blotted and folded his letter. He enclosedand sealed it. He even addressed it himself.

"I'm kind of sorry I had to break in on you whileyou were fixing those reports," he said, in his friendliestfashion. "But, you see, I'm just through with theBoard, and we took a bunch of decisions that needhandling right away. Tell me," he went on, an ironicallight creeping into his smiling eyes, "you reckon you'veset your finger on the real trouble with our droppingoutput. I want to know about it because the Boardand I can't be sure we've located it right."

The sarcasm hurt. It was not intended to. ElasPeterman had no desire in the world to hurt this girl.A cleverer man would have avoided it. But this manhad no refinement of thought or feeling. Cynicism andsarcasm were his substitutes for a humour he did notpossess.

Nancy's cheeks flushed hotly. But she stifled herfeelings. She was confident of herself, and despite themanner of the challenge, she knew the moment of hergreat opportunity had come.

With a quick movement she crossed her knees andleant forward. She smiled in response.

"Yet, it's easy," she said boldly, with bland retaliation."The reports are not good. And the trouble stands outclear as daylight. I guess a big scale contour map isthe key to it. We've 'hand-weeded' the ShagauntyValley. It's picked bare to the bone. The folks havecleared the forests right away to the higher slopes ofthe river. We're moving farther and farther away fromthe river highway. Well, that's all right in its way.Ordinarily that would just mean our light railways areextending farther, and a few cents more are added toour transport costs. Owing to our concentration oforganisation that wouldn't signify. No. It's Nature,it's the forest itself turning us down. And the map, andthe reports show that. The camps are right out on theplateau surrounding the valley, which is unprotectedfrom winter storms. The close, luxurious growth ofthe valley we have been accustomed to is gone. Thestanding 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. Eachcamp cuts over four times the area. Instead of a proportionof, say, two trees in five, it's about one in, say,ten. It looks like a simple sum. I should say we'velumbered that valley at least one season too long."

The man's smile had passed. There was no longerderision in his keen eyes. He had invited this girl'stalk for the sake of hearing it. Now he was caught inadmiration of her clear perception.

"Do the reports bear out those facts?"

His question was sharp, and Nancy realised she haddone well.

She shook her head.

"No. They do just the thing you'd expect them todo," she said. "They make every sort of excuse thatcouldn't possibly account for the drop. And avoid thereal cause which their writers are perfectly aware of."She shrugged her pretty shoulders. "You wouldn'texpect it otherwise. You want to remember those reportsare written by bosses who're more interested intheir own comfort than in the affairs of the Skandinavia."

"How?"

Again the girl's expressive shrug.

"To quit the Shagaunty and break new ground meansthe break up of those amenities and comforts they'veaccumulated in years. It means work, real hard work,and discomfort for at least two seasons. You see, weneed to get into the skin of these folk. They can keepthe booms full from these forests, and the kick onlycomes when the grinders get to work. Output fallsautomatically 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 theShagaunty. Well, so long as the booms are kept full,the camp bosses are satisfied. There's a limit belowwhich the girth of logs may not go. They watch thatlimit, and are careful not to go below it. Well, our bigoutput has been made up always, not by the minimumlogs, but the maximum to which we have been hithertoaccustomed. These boys know all about that; but they'resatisfied 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 ouroutput. They'll not willingly face the discomfort andadded work of opening a new territory. There's justone decision needed."

"What's that?"

The girl laughed. It was a low, pleasant, happy laugh.She felt glad. Her chief was serious. He was in deadlyearnest, and it represented her revenge for his sarcasm.

"We've five other rivers running down to the lake.The Shagaunty isn't even the largest. Well, these boyswill have to be shaken out of their dream. We ought toquit the Shagaunty right away and make a break forfresh 'limits.' It's simple."

The man had no responsive smile. He shook his head.

"That's what it isn't, my dear," he said.

For the time the girl's beauty, her personality werequite forgotten. Peterman was absorbed.

"It means the complete dislocation of our forestorganisation," he went on. "Here, I'll tell you something.We've done a very great thing in the past. Andit's been easy. Years ago we decided by concentrationof all our forest work on a limited area we could cutcosts to the lowest. That way we could jump in on themarket cheaper than all the rest. Our forest limits werethe finest in Canada. We had standing stuff practicallyinexhaustible, and of a size almost unheard of. Whatwas the result? Why, one by one we've absorbed competitorsat our own price till the Skandinavia standshead and shoulders above the world's groundwoodindustry. That's all right. That's fine," he went on,after a pause. "But like most easy trails, you're liableto keep on 'em longer than is good for you. We haven'thad to worry a thing up to now. You see, we'd stifledcompetition, and we'd paid a steady thirty per centdividend. Which left our Board in an unholy state ofdope. I've tried to wake 'em. Oh, yes. I tried whenthat guy started up his outfit on Labrador. The Sachigooutfit. Then he seemed to fade away, and I couldn'trouse 'em again." He shook his head—"Nothing doing.Well, for something like fifteen years those guys ofSachigo have been doing and working; and now, to-day,they've jumped into the market with both feet. Ihaven't the full measure of things yet. But the play'sa big thing. They're out for the game we've been playing.Say, they're combining every old mill we've leftover. All the derelicts and moth-bounds. Their handsare out grabbing all over the country. Well, thatwouldn't scare me worth a cent, only they've never let upin fifteen years, and there's talk about big British financegetting behind 'em."

The man broke off. His serious eyes remained steadilyregarding the girl's interested face.

"You reckon this change is easy," he went on again."I guess it would be easy if these folk hadn't jumpedinto the market. That makes all the difference. Whilewe're changing they're busy. Their stuff's coming downin thousands of tons. And it's better groundwood thanours. If we change over we're going to leave the marketshort and these folk will get big contracts. You're right.We've been working the Shagaunty too long. But it'sbeen by three or four seasons. Not one. The time'scoming, if it hasn't already come, when we've got tofight these folks and smash 'em; or get right out ofbusiness."

Something of the girl's joy had passed in face of theman's statement.

"There's been talk of these Sachigo folk in the trade,"she said thoughtfully, "but I didn't know it was as bigas you say. Of course—"

"Sure you didn't. You haven't had to handle ourstuff on the market." The man laughed. And somethingof his seriousness passed. "But you're a brightkid. And the Skandinavia's looking for bright kidsall the time. It needs 'em to counter a doped Board. It'staken you five minutes to locate a trouble the Board'staken years to realise. And you've been talking one ofthe bunch of decisions we've taken. I mean quittingthe Shagaunty. We didn't have your argument, but wehad the 'drop.' So the decision was taken. We've gotto move like hell. Sachigo has our measure, and it'sgoing to be a big fight. How'd you fancy a trip upcountry? I mean up the Shagaunty?"

There was a change in the man's voice and manner ashe put his demand. He was leaning forward in hischair. A hot light had suddenly leapt into his eyes,which left them shining unwholesomely. Nancy wasstartled at his words. And his attitude shocked her nota little out of her self-satisfaction.

"I don't know—. How do you mean?" she demandedawkwardly.

The man realised her astonishment and laughed.Then he reached out, and his hand patted the roundedshoulder nearest him. It was a touch that lingeredunnecessarily, and the girl stirred restlessly under it.

"Why, it's the chance of a life—for you," he saidboisterously. "You'll go right up through the camps.You'll take your notions with you and investigate. I'llhand you a written commission, and the folk'll lay their'hands' down for you to see. When you've seen it allyou'll get right back here, and I'll set you before theBoard to tell your story. I don't need to tell a brightgirl like you what that means to you. You'll get onedandy summer trip, and I'll lose one dandy secretary.But I'm not kicking. No. You see, Nancy, I'm out tohelp you all you need. Well?"

It was crude, clumsy. It was all so blatantly vulgar.It was not the thing he said. It was the manner of itand all that which was lying unspoken behind.

For the first time Nancy experienced a curious uncertaintyin dealing with him. But here was realopportunity. She had dreamed of such. And she musttake it. The touch of the man's hand upon her shoulderhad disturbed her. But she smiled her gratitude at him.

"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 thebest thing. Someone to go who'll bring back a deadright story. I'd be real glad."

"That's bully!" The man beamed as he leant backin his chair more than satisfied with himself. "But Idon't fancy losing my dandy secretary," he went on."No, sir. I'm going to hate this summer bad. I surelyam. Still, there's next winter. Winter's not too badwith 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 foryou, you'll feel like getting around some. Well, I'mmostly vacant. A feller can't live all the time at homewith his wife and kids. I guess I could show you Quebecat night better than most—"

The telephone saved Nancy the rest of the man'srendering of his account and she breathed deeply herrelief. But the interruption was by no means welcometo the man. And his irritation was promptly displayedby the vindictive "Well?" he flung at the unyieldingreceiver.

"Oh! What's that? Who? Hellbeam? Oh. Sure.Yes. Send him right up. Don't keep him waiting.Right up now. Yes."

He thrust up the instrument and sat back in his chair.

"Curse the man!"

Nancy had risen from her chair at the mention ofHellbeam's name. She was glad enough of the excuse.She understood Hellbeam was the great outstandingfigure in the concern of the Skandinavia. His was theone personality that dwarfed everybody. He was themoving power of the whole concern.

"You'll let me know later?" she said. "I mean, justwhen I'm to start out. I'm ready when you like. I'lljust go and see why those reports have not been sent up."

"Oh, don't worry with the reports. You've told methe things that matter."

The man's irritation was as swift as it was violent.But it passed as quickly as it came. He laughed.

"That's all right, my dear. Be off now. I'll let youknow about things this afternoon."

Nancy gladly accepted her dismissal. She wanted tothink. She wanted to get things into their proper focus.As she closed the door behind her her beautiful eyes hadno joy in them. She had realised two things as a result ofher interview. The opportunity she had looked forwardto had materialised, and she had seized it with bothhands. But the goodness of Elas Peterman to herselfpossessed none of that disinterested kindliness she hadhitherto believed. Furthermore, there was dawningupon her that which her mirror should have told herlong ago. She was beginning to understand that herwork, her capacity, her application, counted far less inthe favour of her chief than did those things with whichnature had equipped her. She was shocked out of heryouthful dream. And it left her so troubled, that, hadshe not been passing down the carpeted corridor of theSkandinavia offices, she would have burst into a floodof tears.

* * * * *

It was a different Elas Peterman who confronted thesquat figure of Nathaniel Hellbeam. The master in theyounger man was completely submerged. He possessedall the Teutonic capacity for self-abnegation in thepresence of the power it is necessary to woo. Therewas only one master when the great financier was present.Elas Peterman knew that his part was to listen and obeywith just that humility which he would have demandedhad the position been reversed.

Another type than Hellbeam's would have despisedthe attitude. But the financier had no scruple. Naturehad denied him qualities for inspiring affectionate regard,or even respect. But she had bestowed on him alust for power, and a great vanity, and these he satisfiedto the uttermost.

The financier drove straight to the object of his visit.

"I come for an important purpose," he said, in hisguttural fashion. "There must be a special Boardassemble. Skandinavia will buy the mill on Labrador.The Sachigo mill. I come on the night train, which isthe worst thing I can think to do, to say this thing. Ifwe do not buy this mill, then—" He broke off withan expressive gesture.

Elas nodded. He was startled, but his powers of dissimulationwere profound.

"I understand," he said. "They have been approached?"

Hellbeam stirred his bulk in the chair Nancy had sorecently occupied. It was a movement of irritation.

"That is for you. You represent Skandinavia. I—Isay this thing. I the money find."

The face of Peterman was a study. His eyes wereserious, his manner calmly considering. Amazementwas struggling with a desire to laugh outright in theface of this grossly insolent money power.

"Nothing could suit us better, sir," he said, deferentially."They've been handing us more trouble than Ifancy talking about. And they look like handing us stillmore. These people have grown slowly, but verydeliberately. There's something very like genius in theirmanagement. And seemingly they possess unlimitedcapital or credit. I guess I know something of theircontemplated manoeuvres. They're assembling all thefree mills outside our ring. I see a great big scrapcoming. May I ask the price you're considering?"

Hellbeam produced a gold cigar case. A greater manwould have been content with a certain modesty ofappointment. His case was comparable in vulgaritywith the size of his cigars. He thrust the pierced endof the cigar between his gross lips and spoke with thehuge thing lolling.

"It does not matter. I say buy."

The tone, the snapping of the man's eyes forbadefurther probing in this direction. He lit his cigar.

"It will need careful handling," ventured Peterman.

Hellbeam snorted.

"It careful handling always needs. Eh?"

"Surely. I was thinking."

"So. You will think. Then you will act. You willcommunicate forthwith. See? You listen. I buy thisSachigo, yes. The price matters nothing. There is areason. This fight. It is not that. Who is the head?I would know. I fancy this man to meet. He is whatyou call—bright. So."

Elas shook his head-

"There are two men in it we recognise. A man namedHarker and another called Sternford—Bull Sternford.We know little of either. You see, it's kind of far away.Anyway, between them they're pretty—bright. I don'tthink they built the mill. I'm sure that's so. It wasa man called Standing. But he seems to have gone outof active management. I might start by writing themand feel the way."

"Ach no!" Hellbeam shook his head in violent protest."You write—no. You have your confidentialman, yes? You send him. I give you the outline ofterms. I give you alternative terms. Big terms. Hewill go. He will talk. He will hear. Then we willlater come to terms. All men will sell—on terms.Your man. Where is he? I must see him. Then theBoard. It meets. I will address it. I show them howthis thing will serve."

"That's all right, sir," Elas was smiling. "Youcouldn't offer the Board a more welcome propositionthan the purchase of Sachigo just now. We're changingour forest organisation right now, and that means temporarydelays and drop in output. Sachigo's our worrywhile we're doing it. But with your permission I won'tsend a man up there. I think," he added deliberately,"I'd like to send a—woman."

Hellbeam's face was a study. His little eyes openedto their widest extent. His heavy lips parted, and hesnatched his cigar into the safety of his white fingers.

"A—woman—for this thing? You crazy are!"

There was no restraint or pretence of restraint. Theother's smile was more confident than might have beenexpected before such an intolerant outburst.

"Guess a woman has her limitations, sir. Maybe thisone hasn't a wide experience. But she's clever. She'sloyal to us, and she's got that which counts a whole heapwhen it comes to getting a man on her side. You reckonto buy Sachigo. If you send a man to deal he'll getshort shrift. If there's anyone to put through this dealfor Skandinavia it's the woman I'm thinking of. Andshe'll put it through because she's the woman she is, andnot because of any talents. Your pardon, sir, ifI speak frankly. But from all I know of Sachigo, ifyou—perhaps the king of financiers on this continent—wentto these folk and offered them double what theirenterprise is worth, I guess they'd chase you out ofLabrador so quick you wouldn't have time to think theblasphemy suitable to the occasion."

Peterman's explanation caught the humour of hiscountryman. The bulk of the visitor shook under asuppressed laugh.

"Well," he retorted, "I do not go. This woman. Agood-looker, eh? She is pleasant—to men? Where isshe? Who is she?"

"She's my secretary, sir." Elas jumped at the changeof his visitor's humour. "She's not much more than akid. But she's quite a 'looker,' I'll send for her, ifyou'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 toyou. If I do she'll guess something, and it's best sheknows nothing of this contemplated deal—as regardsyou."

For a moment the banker made no reply. He sat, anadipose mass, breathing heavily, and sucking at his cigar.Then quite suddenly, he nodded.

"Send for her," he said sharply.

Elas reached the telephone and rang down.

"Hello! That you? Oh, will you step up a moment,Miss McDonald? Yes. Are they ready? Good. That'sjust what I want. Please. All of them."

* * * * *

Nancy knocked at the door and stepped into the room.She was carrying a large typescript of many pages. Itrepresented many days and evenings of concentratedlabour. It had been a labour not so much of love as ofambition. It was an exhaustive summary of the positionof the Skandinavia's forestry in the Shagaunty Valley.

She missed the squat figure in the chair she usuallyoccupied. She saw nothing of the stare of the narroweyes concentrated upon her. She saw only the tall figureof Peterman, standing waiting for her beyond hisdesk in such a position that, to reach him, she mustpass herself in review before the devouring gaze of thegreat banker.

She walked briskly towards him, her short skirt yieldingthe seductive rustle of the silk beneath it. Hermovements were beyond words in grace. Her tall figure,so beautifully proportioned, and so daintily rounded,displayed the becoming coat-frock she usually wore inbusiness to absolute perfection.

The banker's searching eyes realised all this to thelast detail. He realised much more. For his was theregard that sought beneath the surface of things. It wasthat regard which every wholesome, good woman resents.But ultimately it was the girl's face and hairthat held him. The rare beauty of the latter's coloursent a surge of appreciation running through his sensualveins. And the perfect beauty, and delicate charm ofher pretty features, stirred him no less. Only her eyes,those pretty, confident, intelligent, hazel depths hemissed. But he waited.

"These are the papers, Mr. Peterman."

Nancy held out the typescript to the waiting manwhose eyes had none of the smiling welcome they wouldhave had in Hellbeam's absence.

"Thank you." Elas glanced down at the neatly boundscript.

"It's all complete?"

"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."

A rough clearing of the throat interrupted her, andNancy discovered the banker beside the desk. In somethingof a hurry she promptly turned to depart. ButElas claimed her.

"Will you come to me after lunch?" he said pleasantly.

"I want to go into the details of that trip I explainedto you. You must get away as soon as possible."

"Directly after lunch?"

"Yes. Say three o'clock."

"Very well."

The girl again turned to go, but the banker anticipatedher. As she reached the door he stood beside it,and opened it for her to pass out. He was holdingsomething in his hand. It was an exquisitely formedgold fountain-pen.

"This yours is, I think," he said heavily, while hiseyes searched those depths of hazel he had missed before.

The girl smiled as she gazed at the beautiful pen.She shook her head.

"No," she said. "I never possessed anything sobeautiful in my life."

"But you drop it as you come, I think, yes?" Theman's eyes were levelled at her devouringly. Quick asthought he turned to Elas watching the scene. "Is ityours? I see it on the carpet, yes?"

The manager was prompt to take his cue.

"It's not mine," he said. "It must be yours, MissMcDonald. If it isn't I guess you'd best have it till wefind its owner."

The girl smiled from one to the other.

"Thanks ever so much," she said, with frank pleasure."I'll keep it till we find the owner. It's a lovely thing."

She took the glittering pen from the fleshy fingersholding it. And just for an instant her hand encounteredthe banker's. It was only for an instant, however. Amoment later the door was closed carefully behind her bythe man who had thought Elas crazy to employ a woman.

"Well?"

Elas Peterman was seated behind his desk again. Hischallenging smile was directed at the heavily breathingfigure of the banker who had hurried back to his chair.

The great man laughed. It was a curious, unpleasantlaugh. His heavy cheeks were flushed, and his eyes glitteredcuriously.

"You're a judge, Elas, my boy," he exclaimed, withclumsy geniality. "Oh, yes. But you are a young man.There is power in that young woman's eyes." Helaughed again. "Oh, no, I think of the young woman.It not her capability is. See you look to your place inSkandinavia. Let her go. She may not buy this Sachigoas I think to buy it. She will buy the men we woulddrive from our path."

Chapter VI—The Lonely Figure

The girl was leaning against the storm-ripped bole ofa fallen tree. The great figure of her companion wassilhouetted against the brilliant sky-line. He was contemplatingthe distance at the brink of a sheer-cut ravine,which dropped away at his feet to giddying depths.

Nancy gazed out beyond him. For the moment heheld no interest for her. She only had eyes for thesplendid 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 greenworld of unbroken forest. It seemed to have neitherbeginning nor end. To the girl's imagination there couldbe no break in it until the eternal snows of the Arcticwere reached.

The breadth of it all was a little overwhelming. Nancywas gazing upon just one portion of the Skandinavia'suntouched forest limits, and somehow it left her with afeeling of protest.

She pointed with one gauntleted hand, stirred to animpulse she could not deny.

"It's too beautiful," she said. "It isn't fair: it's notright. To think it's all ours, and we have the right todestroy it."

The man turned. He gazed back at this unusualvision of a beautiful, well-gowned woman in the heartof the forests. He grinned ironically, this great, rough-beardedcreature, in hard cord clothing, and with hiswell-worn fur cap pressed low over his lank hair thatreached well-nigh to his shoulders.

"Why not?" he demanded roughly. "Oh, yes. It'sSkandinavia's, every mile of it. An' I guess there'shundreds an' hundreds of 'em. Ain't that what Canada'sforests are for? To feed us the stuff we're needin'?But you don't need to worry any. We ain't cuttin' thatstuff for years. Guess the waterways out there aremostly a mean outfit that wouldn't raft a bunch oflucifers. We need to wait permanent railroad forhaulage."

Nancy accepted the statement without reply. It wasimpossible to stir a man like Arden Laval to any sortof sympathy. He was hardened, crude, first, last andall the time. He was big and brutal. His limbs werelike to the trees his men were accustomed to fell, and hishands reminded her of the hind limbs of the mutton.She felt he had a mind that matched his physicaldevelopment.

Nancy McDonald was nearing the end of her thirdmonth of forest travel. The Shagaunty valley lay behindher, desolated by the fierce axe of the men wholived by their slaughter. She had seen it all. She hadstudied the re-afforestation which followed on the heelsof the axemen. And the seeming puerility of this effortto salve the wounds inflicted upon Nature had filled herwith pitying contempt.

She knew the whole process of the forest industry byheart now. It fascinated her. Oh, yes. It was picturesque,it was real, vital. The men on the river drivingdown to the booms had stirred her greatest admiration.These supermen with their muscles of iron, with thehearts of lions, and the tongues and habits of beastsof the forest. But they were men, wonderful men forall their savage crudity. So, too, with the transportersand freighters handling sixty-foot logs as though dealingwith matchwood. But above all, and before all, theaxemen made their appeal.

There was nothing comparable with the rough skillof these creatures, She had watched the flash andswing of the axe, with its edge like the finest razor. Shehad seen the standing muscles like whipcord writhingunder sunburnt flesh as they served the lethal weapon.She had noted every blow, how it was calculated to ahair's-breadth, and fell without waste of one single ounceof power. And then the amazing result. The fallentree stretched out on the exact spot and in the exactdirection ready for the hauliers to bear straight awayto the final transport station.

The summer days had been filled with vital interest.And at night, weary in body, Nancy still had time, lyingin the amply, if crudely blanketed bed provided for herin some lumber-built shanty, to contemplate the lives ofthis strangely assorted race. She knew the pay of theforest men, from the haulier to the princely axeman andriver-jack. She had seen their food, and their dwellingaccommodation. She had heard such details as were possibleof telling of their recreations, and had guessedthe rest. And for all her admiration of their manhoodshe pitied, in her woman's way, and felt shame for theslavery of it all.

Oh, yes. She had no illusions. She was not weaklysentimental. She looked at it all with wide-open eyes.It was a well-paid animal life. It was a life of eatingwell, of sleeping well, of gambling, and drinking, andlicence. But it was a life of such labour that only perfectphysical creatures could face.

She felt that these folks were wage slaves in the crudestmeaning of the words. There was nothing for thembeyond their daily life, which was wholly animal. Ofspirituality there was none. Of future there was none.Their leisure was given over to their pastimes, whileahead the future lay always threatening. Stiffeningmuscles, disease, age. The king of them all in his youth,in age would be abandoned and driven forth, weary inbody, aching in limbs, a derelict in the ranks of the world'slabour.

She was gravely impressed by the things she saw, bythe men she met.

Her summer had been an education which had stirredfeelings and sympathies almost unguessed. It was thefather, she could scarcely remember, making himselfknown to her. For all the ambitions firing her, the long,fascinating days in the forests of the Shagaunty hadtaught her of the existence of an "underdog," who, inhimself, was the foundation upon which the personalambition of the more fortunate was achieved. Withouthim to support the whole edifice of civilisation mustcrash to the ground, and life would go back again to thebosom of that Nature from which it sprang.

Her realisation inspired her with an added desire. Itwas a desire coming straight from an honest, unsophisticatedheart. She registered a vow that whithersoeverher ambitions might lead her, she would always rememberthe "underdog," and work for his betterment and greaterhappiness.

"So you can only cut the stuff here within reach ofour light haulage system?" Nancy demanded at last."The rest's gone. The real big stuff, I mean, down belowin the valley. We're just driven to the plateau where thecut looks to me more like one in twenty than any better?"

Arden Laval left his position at the brink of the ravine.He came back to the girl in her modish costume thatseemed so out of place beside the rough clothing thatCovered his body.

"Why, I guess that's so," he said. "Still, it's a dealbetter than one in twenty." He laughed. "Sure. Ifit wasn't the darn booms 'ud need to go hungry."

The man's French temperament left him more thanappreciative of the beauty he beheld. But he waswondering. He was searching his shrewd mind for thereal explanation of Nancy's presence in these forests. Tohim it was amazing that the Skandinavia should sendthis girl, this good-looker, on a journey through theirforests alone. He would willingly have asked the question.But he remembered her written commission,signed by Elas Peterman. So he was left with no alternativebut to yield the utmost respect.

"Y'see, mam," he went on easily. "I guess I couldtalk quite a piece on this thing, but maybe you won'tfancy my dope. Skandinavia's been badly spoilt by thecut in the Shagaunty Valley. You've seen it all. Guessyou've come right through. Well, that being so, you'llunderstand the Shagaunty cut's been far above average.Now we're down to average. That's all. That's howthe Skandinavia's been spoilt."

He thrust his cap back from his forehead. It was amovement of irritation. Then he produced a plug oftobacco from his hip-pocket, and bit off a chew.

"I've been twenty odd years lumbering," he went ona moment later. "I've lumbered most every forest inOntario and Quebec. "There ain't more'n one bunch ofplums like the Shagaunty. Mostly the forest's full ofthe sort of stuff we're handling here. These forests areaverage and I'd like to say to the Skandinavia, 'you'vegot to figger results on the average.' We're cutting downto the minimum because we've got to, to feed the boomsright. Well, that's goin' on if I know my job. There'spatch stuff better. I daresay there's new ground onour limits liable to hand us Shagaunty stuff. But that'sjust as I say, patch stuff, an' not average. If they wantShagaunty quality right through let 'em get out andget limits up on Labrador. I reckon there's a hundredyears cutting up there that 'ud leave Shagaunty a bunchof weed grass. They say the folks out on the coast areworried to death there's so much stuff, an' so big, an'good, an' soft, an' long-fibred. The jacks out that wayare up to the neck in a hell of a good time, sure. I get itthey've time to sleep half the year, it's so easy. Well,it ain't that way here. We've no time singing hymnsaround this lay-out. It's hell, here, keeping the darnbooms fed. Speakin' for my outfit I'd say they're a prettybright lot of boys. What a feller can do they can do, Iguess. But there are times I get mighty sick chasing toget even the minimum. An' it's all the time kick. TheSkandinavia seems to have got a grouch about now youcouldn't beat with a tank of rye whisky. You've seenit all as far as I can show you, mam, and I'd be glad toknow if you're satisfied I've done the things you want.If I have, and you feel good about it, I'd be thankful ifyou'd report the way we're workin' this camp. And ifyou've a spare moment to talk other things, you mightsay that the boys of my camp are mighty hard put to getthe stuff, and they're as tough a gang of jacks as everheard tell of the dog's life of the forest."

The man spoke with the fluency of real protest. Hesomehow felt he was on his defence in the presence ofthis woman representative of his employers. This girlwas not there enduring the discomforts of the forests foramusem*nt. She came with authority, and she seemedto possess great understanding. Arden Laval knew hisown value. His record was one of long service with hiscompany. Furthermore, his outfit was trusted with thepioneering work of the forest where judgment and enterprise,and great experience were needed. He felt it wasthe moment to talk, and to talk straight to this womanwith the red hair who had invaded his domain. So hegave full rope to his feelings.

It was some moments before the girl replied, and theman waited expectantly. He was studying the far-offgaze of the pretty hazel eyes, and wondering at thethought moving behind them. At length Nancy withdrewher gaze from the forest.

"I shall certainly report the things I've seen," she saidwith a smile that found prompt response in the man'sdark eyes. "You've certainly done your best to showme, and tell me, the exact position. I shall make a pointof reporting all that. Yes, I've seen it all, thank you verymuch."

Then her smile suddenly vanished. The shrewd gazeof commercial interest replaced it.

"But these Labrador folk?" she demanded. "Is thatstuff just—hearsay?"

The man shook his head. He was feeling easier.

"It's God's truth, mam." He spat out a stream oftobacco juice. "I know them forests. Say," his eyeshad lost their smile, "I don't guess I figger to know thebusiness side of things, I don't calculate to know if thefolks on Labrador work with, or against the Skandinavia.But I do know that if they're up against us they've gotus plumb beat before we start. They got the sort oflumber the jacks dream about when they got their belliesfull on a Saturday night, and they're going to wake up tofind it Sunday mornin'. I'm just a lumberman, and if Ihadn't fifteen years' record with the Skandinavia, andwasn't pouching two hundred and fifty bucks, and whatI can make besides, a month, why, it 'ud be me for thecoast where you can jamb the rivers in a three months'cut, and souse rye the rest of the year till the bugs look asbig as mountains. Guess it's the summer rose garden ofthe lumber-jack, for all it's under snow eight months inthe year, when you can't tell your guts from an iceflow,and the skitters, in summer, mostly reach the size of agasoline tank. It's a dog's life, mam, lumberin' anywhere.But they're lap-dogs out that way."

The man's words brought the return of the girl's smile."Yes, I spose it's—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'tescape it. It's so desperately patent. But it's not thelife 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—now.How long does it last, and then—whathappens? I'm here on business, hard business. But Iguess this thing's got hold of me so I can't sometimes sleepat nights. Tell me about them."

Arden Laval, one of the hardest specimens of thelumber boss, turned away. His understanding of womenwas built up out of intimacy with the poor creatureswho peopled the camps he knew. This girl's burst offeeling only stirred him to a cynical humour.

"Mam," he said, with a grin that was almost hateful,"if I was to start in to hand you the life history of alumber-jack you'd feel like throwing up your kind heart,and any other old thing you hadn't use for in yourstummick. But I guess I can say right here, a lumber-jack'sa most disgustin' sort of vermin who hasn't moreright than a louse to figger in your reckonin'. I guess hewas born wrong, and he'll mostly die as he was born.And meanwhile he's lived a life that's mostly dirt, andno account anyway. There's a few things we ask of alumber-jack, and if he fulfils 'em right he can go righton living. When he can't fulfil 'em, why, it's up to himto hit the trail for the pay box, an' get out. Guess youfeel good when you see a boy swingin' an axe, or handlin'a peavy. Sure. That sort of thing don't come yourway often. Neither does it come your way to see therest. He's mostly a sink of filth in mind and body, andif he ain't all that at the start he gets it quick. He's awaster of God's pure air, and is mostly in his right surroundingswhen the forest does its best to hide himup from the eyes of the rest of the world. Guess he's thebest man I know—dead."

For all his grin Arden Laval was in deadly earnest.Nancy stared at the broad back he had turned on herwith his final word. And her indignation surged.

"I don't believe it," she cried. "I can't believe it.You're just talking out of years of experience of a lifeyou've probably learned to hate. Man, if that's youropinion of your fellows, then it's you who ought neverto leave the forest you claim does its best to hide up folkfrom the eyes of the rest of the world. You're a campboss. You're our head man in these forests. You'retrusted, and we know your skill. Well, it seems to meyou've a duty that goes further than just feeding thebooms right. You've a moral duty towards these menyou condemn. You can help them. It should surelybe your pride to lift them out of the desperate mire youclaim they are floundering in. I'll not believe you meanit all."

The man turned away as a black-clothed figureemerged from the trees, and came to a stand at the brinkof the ravine some hundred and more yards to the eastof them. Nancy, too, beheld the lonely figure and she,too, became interested in its movements.

The lumber boss laughed shortly, roughly, and raisedan arm, pointing as he turned a grinning face to the girl.

"See him, there?" he cried. "Say, mam, with allrespect, I'd say to you, if you're feeling the way youtalk, and look to get the sort of stuff you'd maybe fancyhearing, that's the guy you need to open out to. Asyou say, I'm the head camp-boss on the Skandinavia'slimits. I've had nigh twenty years an' more experienceof the lumber-jack. An' I'm tellin' you the things anycamp-boss speakin' truth'll tell you. That's all, Idon't hate the boys. I don't pity 'em. But I don'tlove '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. Ijust got to make good so that some day I ken quit thesecursed forests and live easy the way I'd fancy. Whenthat time comes maybe I'll change. Maybe I'll feel likethat guy standin' doping over that spread of forest scene.I don't know. And just now I don't care—a curse."

But Nancy was no longer listening. The lonely, black-coatedfigure Laval had pointed out absorbed all herinterest. His allusion to the man's calling had createdin her an irresistible desire.

"Who is he? That man?" she demanded abruptly.

Laval laughed.

"Why, Father Adam," he replied. There was a curioussoftening in his harsh voice, which brought the girl'seyes swiftly back to him.

"Father Adam? A priest?" she questioned.

Laval shook his head. He had turned again, regardingthe stranger. His face was hidden from the searchingeyes of the girl.

"I just can't rightly say," he demurred. "Maybehe 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 kidwhen I think of the things he's up against. He's out forthe 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 abum lot o' toughs who oughter to be in penitentiary. Buthe makes 'em feel that way—the way he acts. He'sjust a lone creature, sort of livin' in twilight, who comesalong, an' we don't know when he's comin'. He passesout like a shadow in the forests, an' we don't see himagain till he fancies. He's after the boys the whole darntime. It don't matter if they're sick in body or mind.He helps 'em the way he knows. An', mam, they justlove him to death. There's just one man in these forestsI wouldn't dare blaspheme, if I felt like it—which Idon't. No, mam, my life wouldn't be worth a twoseconds buy if I blasphemed—Father Adam. He's oneof God's good men, an' I'd be mighty thankful to be likehim—some. Gee, and I owe him a piece myself."

"How?"

Nancy's interest was consuming.

"Why, only he jumped in once when I was beingscrapped to death. He jumped right in, when he lookedlike gettin' killed for it. And," he laughed cynically, "hegave me a few more years of the dog's life of the forest."

The girl moved away from her support.

"I want to thank you, Mr. Laval, for the troubleyou've taken, and the time you've given up to me." Thehazel eyes were smiling up into the man's hard face. "Idon't agree with some of the things you've just beentelling me; I should hate to, anyway. I don't even believeyou feel the way you say about your men. Still,that's no account in the matters I came about. Thethings I've got to say when I get back are all to yourcredit. I'm going over now to talk to—Father Adam.And you needn't come along with me. You see, you'vefired my curiosity. Yes, I want to hear the stuff I fancyabout the—boys. So I'll go and talk to your—shepherdof souls. Good-bye."

Nancy's eyes were bright and smiling as she gazed upinto the lean, ascetic face of the man in the black, semi-clericalcoat. His garments were worn and almostthreadbare. At close quarters she realised an evendeeper interest in the man whose presence had wroughtsuch a magical change in the harsh tones of the camp-boss.He was in the heyday of middle life, surely. Hishair was long and black. His beard was of a similar hue,and it covered his mouth and chin in a long, but patchymass. His eyes were keen but gentle. They, too, werevery dark, and the whole cast of his pale face was curiouslyreminiscent.

"I just had to come along over, sir," she said. "Iwas with Mr. Laval, and he told me of the work—thegreat work you do in these camps. Maybe you'll forgiveme intruding. But you see, I've come from our headquarterson business, and the folk of these camps interestme. I kind of feel the life the boys live around theseforests is a pretty mean life. There's nothing much toit but work. And it seems to me that those employingthem ought to be made to realise they've a greater responsibilitythan just handing them out a wage for workdone. So when I saw you come out of the forest andstand here, and Mr. Laval told me about you, I madeup my mind right away to come along and—speak toyou. My name's McDonald—Nancy McDonald."

It was all a little hasty, a little timidly spoken. Thedark eyes thoughtfully regarding the wonder of red hairunder the close fitting hat were disconcerting, for allthere was cordiality in their depths.

At Nancy's mention of her name, Father Adam instantlyaverted his gaze, and dropped the hand whichhe had taken possession of in greeting. It was almostas if the pronouncement had caused him to start. Butthe change, the movement, were unobserved by the girl.

"And you are—Father Adam?" she asked.

The man's gaze came quickly back.

"That's how I'm known. It—was kind of you to comealong over."

In a moment all the girl's timidity was gone. If theman had been startled when she had announced her name,he displayed perfect ease now.

"Do you know," Nancy went on, with a happy laugh,"I almost got mad with Laval for his cynicism at theexpense of the poor boys who work under his orders.But I think I understand him. He's a product of a lifethat moulds in pretty harsh form. He doesn't meanhalf he says."

"I'd say few of us do—when we let our feelings go."Father Adam smiled back into the eyes which seemed tohold him fascinated. "You see, Laval's much what weall are. He's got a tough job to put through, and hedoes his utmost. He's a big man, a brave man, a—yes,perhaps—a harsh man. But he couldn't do his job ashe's paid to do it if he weren't all those things." Heshook his head. "No, I guess we can't play with firelong without getting a heap of scars." He shrugged."But after all I suppose it's just—life. We've got toeat, and we want to live. We don't need to judge tooharshly."

"No. That's how I feel about the boys—he so condemned."

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 hadchanged. Incredulous amazement had replaced his smilingease.

"Would you care to come along through the woodsto my shanty, Miss McDonald?" he said, almost diffidently,at last. "Maybe I've a cup of coffee there. AndI'd say coffee's the most welcome thing on earth in theseforests. It's a pretty humble shanty but, if you feel liketalking things, why, I guess we can sit around thereawhile."

The girl snatched at the invitation.

"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 moreabout coffee in half a second than we city folk know in ayear. Which way?"

"It's only a few yards. You'd best follow me."

* * * * *

The girl stood amazed. She was even horrified. Shewas gazing in through the opening of the merest shelter,a shelter built of green boughs with roof and sides ofinterlaced foliage. True it was densely interlaced, butno sort of distorted imagination could have translatedthe result into anything but a shelter. Habitation wasout of the question. She stared at the primitive, lessthan aboriginal home, of the priestly man. She staredround her at the undergrowth upon which were spreadhis brown coarse blankets airing. She looked down atthe smouldering fire between two granite stones uponwhich a tin of coffee was simmering and emitting itspleasant aroma upon the woodland air. It was too crude,too utterly lacking in comfort and even the bare necessitesof existence.

The man emerged from the interior bearing twoenamelled tin cups. He realised the amazement withwhich Nancy was regarding his home, and shook his headwith a pleasant laugh as he indicated two upturned boxesbeside the fire.

"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."

The girl silently took her seat on one of the boxes.Father Adam took the other. Then he poured out twocups of coffee, and passed a tin of preserved milk acrossto the girl. There was a spoon in it. After that he produceda small tin of sugar and offered that.

You see, it's all I need," he said, in simple explanation."When the rain comes I mostly get wet, exceptat 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 therest of the forest creatures. But, you see, this thingsuits me well. I'm never long in one place. I've beenhere two weeks, and I pull out to-morrow."

"You pull out? Where to?"

"Why, I just pass on to some other camp. The boysare pretty widely scattered in these forests. You'd neverguess the distances I sometimes make. Even Labrador.But it doesn't much matter. I've a good smattering ofphysic, and the boys are always getting hurt one way andanother. I'd hate to feel I couldn't go to them whereverthey are. Maybe if I built a better house I'd not wantto leave it. It would be hard getting on the move. Yousee, I get their call any old time. Maybe it comes along onthe forest breezes," he said whimsically. "Then I haveto be quick to locate it, and read it right."

The girl had helped herself to milk and sugar, andsipped the steaming coffee. But she was listening withall her ears and thinking feverishly. This strange creature,with his deprecating manner, and smiling, saneeyes, filled her with a sense of shame at his utter selflessness.

She nodded.

"You mean they—always want help?"

"Sure. Same as we all do."

Father Adam sipped his coffee appreciatively.

"But tell me," he said. "It's kind of new the Skandinaviasending a woman along up here. It's your firsttrip?"

Nancy set her cup down.

"Yes."

"They're a great firm," Father Adam went on, reflectively."I mean the—extent of their operations."

Nancy smiled.

"I like the distinction. Yes, they're big. You don'tlike their—methods?"

It was the man's turn for a smiling retort.

"Their methods?" he shook his head. "I don't know,I guess they pay well. And their boys are no worsetreated than in other camps. They employ thousands.And that's all to the good."

"But you don't like them," Nancy persisted. "I canhear it in your voice. It's in your smile. Few peoplelike the Skandinavia," she added regretfully.

"Do you?"

Like a shot the challenge came, and Nancy found herselfreplying almost before she was aware of it.

"Yes. Why shouldn't I? They've been good tome. More than good, when those who had a right tobe completely deserted me. No. I mustn't say justthat," she hurried on in some contrition. "They providedfor me, but cut me out of their lives. Maybe youwon't understand what that means to a girl. It meantso much to me that I wouldn't accept their charity. Iwouldn't accept a thing. I'd make my own way withthe small powers Providence handed me. So I went tothe Skandinavia who have only shown me the best ofkindness. Well, I'm frankly out for the Skandinaviaand all their schemes and methods in consequence. It'snot for me to look into the things that make folks hatethem. That's theirs. My loyalty and gratitude are allfor them for the thing they've done for me. Isn't thatright?"

"Surely," the man concurred. "But your coffee. It'sgetting cold," he added.

Nancy hastily picked up her cup.

"Why am I telling you all this?" she laughed. "Wewere going to talk of the—boys."

"We surely were." Father Adam laughed responsively."But personal interest I guess doesn't figure tobe denied for long. We sort of get the notion we canshut it out. But we can't. We try to guess there's otherthings. Things more important. Things that matter awhole 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 thebiggest thing in life. It's the whole thing."

"And it's such a pity," Nancy agreed slyly. "Justthink," she went on, "I've got a hundred notions forthe good of the world. These boys for instance. I'dlike to make their lives what they ought to be. Full ofcomfort and security and—and everything to make itworth while. Instead of that my first and whole concernis to make good for Nancy McDonald. To do allthose things for her. It's dreadful when you think of it,isn't it?" She sighed. "I want to do good to the—the'underdog,' and all the time I'm planning for myself.I want to fight all the time for those who hold opportunityout to me. It doesn't really matter to me why theSkandinavia is disliked. They give me opportunity. Ireckon they've been good to me. So I'm their slave tofight for them, and work for them, whatever theirmethods. Yes. It's too bad," she laughed frankly. "Ican't deny it. I'd like to, but—I can't."

"No."

Father Adam set down his empty cup, and sat withhis arms resting on his parted knees. His hands wereclasped.

"You remind me of someone," he said, in his simpledisarming fashion. "Queerly enough it's a man. Astrong, hard, kindly, good-natured man. I found himwithout a thought but to make good. And I knew hewould make good. Then it came my way to show himhow. I offered him a notion. The notion was fine.Oh, yes—though I say it. It was the sort of thing if itwere carried to success would hand the fellow working itdown to posterity as one of his country's benefactors.The notion appealed to him. It stirred something inhim, and set fire to his enthusiasm. He jumped for it.Why? Was it the thought of doing a great act for hiscountry? Was it for that something that was all goodstirring in him? No. I guess it was because he was astrong, physical, and spiritual, and mental force concentratedon big things, primarily inspired by Self. Personalachievement. It seems to me the good man alwaysdoes what's real and worth while in the way of helpinghimself."

"Yes. I think I understand." The girl nodded. "Andthis strong physical, and spiritual, and mental force?Have I heard of him? Is he known? Has he achieved?"

"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 throughthe agency of a groundwood mill that would fill yourSkandinavia folk with envy and alarm if they saw it.He's master of forests such as would break your heartwhen compared with these of your Skandinavia. Hisname's Sternford. Bull Sternford, of Sachigo."

At the mention of Sachigo, Nancy's eyes widened.Then she laughed. It was a laugh of real amusem*nt.

"Why, that's queer. It's—I'm going right on therefrom here. I'm going to meet this very man, Sternford.They tell me I've just time to get there and pull outagain for home before winter freezes them up solid.So he is this great man, with this great—notion. Tellme, what is he like?"

"Oh, he's a big, strong man, as ready to laugh as tofight."

Father Adam smiled, and stooped over the fire topush the attenuated sticks of it together.

"May I ask why you're going to Sachigo?" he asked,without looking up.

Just for a moment Nancy hesitated. Then shelaughed happily.

"I don't see why you shouldn't," she cried. "There'sno secret. Skandinavia intends to buy him, or crushhim."

The man sat up.

"And you—a girl—are the emissary?"

Incredulity robbed the man of the even calmness of'his manner.

"Yes. Why not?"

The challenge in the girls's eyes was unmistakable.

"You won't buy him," Father Adam said quietly."And you certainly won't crush him."

"Because I'm a girl?"

"Oh, no. I was thinking of the Skandinavia." Theman shook his head. "If I'm a judge of men, the crushingwill be done from the other end of the line."

"This man will crush Skandinavia?"

The idea that Skandinavia could be crushed was quiteunthinkable to Nancy. It was the great monopoly of thecountry. It was—but she felt that this lonely creaturecould have no real understanding of the power of herpeople.

"Surely," he returned quietly. "But that," he added,with a return of his pleasant smile, "is just the notionof one man. I should say it's no real account. Yes, yougo there. You see this man. The battle of your peoplewith him matters little. It will be good for you to seehim. It—may help you. Who can tell? He's a whiteman, and a fighter. He's honest and clean. It's—inthe meeting of kindred spirits that the great events oflife are brought about. It should be good for you both."

"I wonder?" Nancy rose from her chair.

The man rose also.

"I think so," he said, very decidedly.

The girl laughed.

"I hope so. But—" She held out her hand. "Thankyou, Father," she said. "I'll never be able to think ofthe things I'm set on achieving without rememberingour talk—and the man I met in the forest. I wish—butwhat's the use? I've got to make good. I must.I must go on, and—do the thing I see. Good-bye."

Father Adam was holding the small gauntleted hand,and he seemed loth to release it. His eyes were verygentle, very earnest.

"Don't worry to remember, child. Don't ever thinkabout—this time. It won't help you. You've set yourgoal. Make it. You will do the good things you fancyto do, though maybe not the way you think them. Itseems to me that 'good' mostly has its own way all thetime. You can't drive it. And the best of it is I don'tthink there's a human creature so bad in this world,but that in some way God's work has been furtheredthrough his life. Good-bye."

* * * * *

For some moments the lonely figure stood gazing downthe woodland aisles. The deep, shining light of a greathope was in his eyes. A wonderful tender smile haddispersed the shadows of his ascetic face. At length,as the girl's figure became completely swallowed up inthe twilight of it all, he turned away and passed into thefoliage shelter which was his home.

He was squatting on his box, and the small canvasbag containing his belongings was open beside him. Itscontents were strewn about. He was writing a longletter. There was several pages of it. When he hadfinished he read it over carefully. Then he carefullyfolded it and placed it in an envelope, and addressed it.It was addressed:

MR. BULL STERNFORD,

Sachigo, Farewell Cove,

Labrador.

Chapter VII—The Skandinavia Moves

Bat gazed up at the wooded ridge. They were standingin the marshy bottom of a natural hollow amidst asparse scattering of pine and attenuated spruce. Beyondthe ridge lay the waters of the cove. And to theleft the broad waters of the river mouth flowed by. Itwas a desolate, damp spot, but its significance to the twomen studying it was profound.

Skert Lawton, the chief engineer of Sachigo, tall,loose-limbed, raw-boned, watched his superior with somewhatmournful, unsmiling eyes. There was somethingof deadly earnest in his regard, something anxious.But that was always his way. Bat had once said ofhim: "Skert Lawton's one hell of a good boy. But Iwon't get no comfort in the grave if I ain't ever see himgrin." There was not the smallest sign of a smile inhim now.

"It's one big notion," Bat said, at last. Then headded doubtfully. "It comes mighty nigh being too big."

Lawton emitted a curious sound like a snort. It wasmainly, however, an ejacul*tion of violent impatience.Bat turned with a twinkling grin, surveying the queerfigure. His engineer was always a source of the profoundestinterest for him. Just now, in his hard, roughclothing, he might have been a lumber-jack, or casuallabourer. Anything, in fact, rather than the college-bred,brilliant engineer he really was.

Bat's doubt had been carefully calculated. He knewhis man. And just now as he awaited the explosion helooked for, his thoughts went back to a scene he hadonce had with a half drunken machine-minder whomhe had had to pay off. The man had epitomised the chiefengineer's qualities and character, as those who encounteredhis authority understood them, in a few lurid,illuminating phrases. "You know," he had said, "thatguy ain't a man. No, sir. He's the mush-fed imageof a penitentiary boss. I guess he'd set the grease boxof a driving shaft hot with a look. His temper 'ud burnholes in sheet iron. As for work—work? Holy Mackinaw!I've worked hired man to a French Canuk mossbackwhich don't leave a feller the playtime of a nigg*rslave, but that hell-hired Scotch machine boss sets meyearnin' for that mossback's wage like a bull-pup chasin'offal. I tell you right here if that guy don't quit his notionsthere'll be murder done. Bloody murder! An' it's aGod's sure thing when that happens he'll freeze to deathin hell. It don't rile me a thing to be told the things heguesses my mother was. Maybe that's a matter ofopinion, and, anyway, she's mixin' with a crop ofangels who don't figger to have no truck with Scotchmachine bosses. I guess a sight of his flea-bitten features'ud set 'em seein' things so they wouldn't rec'nise theirharps from frypans, and they'd moult feathers till youwouldn't know it from a snowfall on Labrador. But whenhe mixes his notions of my ma with 'lazy'! Lazy! Lazy!Gee! Why, if I signed in a half hour late from thatbum suttler's canteen, I guess it was only the time it tookme digestin' two quarts of the gut-wash they hand outthere in the hope you won't know it from beer. No,sir, 'lazy son-of-a-bitch' from that guy is the talk nodecent citizen with a bunch of guts is goin' to standfor."

Skert Lawton was known for a red-hot "burner," a"nigg*r driver." No doubt he was all this in addition tohis brilliant attainments as an engineer. But the methodshe applied to others he applied to himself. And thewhole of him, brain and body, was for the enterprisethey were all engaged in. Bat had intended to goadthe demon of obstinate energy which possessed the man,and he succeeded.

Skert flung out his hand in a comprehensive gesture.

"Hell!" he cried. "That's no sort of talk anyway.I've been weeks on this thing. And I've got it to thelast fraction. Big notion? Of course it is. Aren'twe mostly concerned with big notions? Here, what areyou asking? An inland boom with capacity for anythingover a million cords. Well? It's damn ridiculoustalking the size of the notion. This hollow is fixed right.Its bed is ten feet below the bed of the river. It's surroundedwith a natural ridge on all sides a hundred andfifty feet high. There's a quarter mile below the hollowand the river bank, and the new mill extensions are justto the east of this ridge. It's well-nigh child's play.Nature's fixed it that way. Two cuttings, and a race-wayon the river. We flood this. Feed it full of lumber inthe summer with surplus from the cut and you've gotthat reserve for winter, so you can keep every darnmachine grinding its guts out. What's the use talking?Big notion? Of course it is. We're out for big notionsall the time. That's the whole proposition. Well?"

Bat grinned at the heated disgust in the man's tone.

"Sounds like eatin' pie," he retorted aggravatingly."The cost? The labour? Time? You got thosethings?"

"It's right up at your office now." Skert's eyeswidened in surprise at such a question. "It's not myway to play around."

"No." Bat's eyes refused seriousness.

"Oh, psha! This is no sort of time chewing thesedetails. It's figgered to the last second, the last man,the last cent. I brought you to see things. Well, you'veseen things. And if you're satisfied we'll quit rightaway. I've no spare play time."

There was no pretence of patience in Skert Lawton.He had looked for appreciation and only found doubt. Hemoved off.

Bat had done the thing intended. He had no intentionof hurting the man. He understood the drivingpower of the mood he had stirred.

They moved off together.

"That's all right, Skert," he said kindly. "You'vedone one big thing. An' it's the thing Bull and Iwant—"

"Then why in hell didn't you say it instead of talking—notions?"

For all the sharpness of his retort, Skert was mollified.Bat shook his head and a shrewd light twinkled in hiseyes.

"You're a pretty bright boy, Skert," he said. "Butyou're brightest when you're riled."

They had gained the river bank where booms linedthe shore, and scores of men were rafting. They had leftthe water-logged hollow behind them, and debouchedon the busy world of the mill. Ahead lay the new extensionswhere the saws were shrieking the song of theirlabours upon the feed for the rumbling grinders. Itwas a township of buildings of all sizes crowding aboutthe great central machine house.

They crossed the light footbridge over the "cut in"from the river, and moved along down the main highwayof the northern shore.

Both were pre-occupied. The engineer was listeningto the note of his beloved machinery. Bat was concernedwith any and every movement going on withinthe range of his vision. They walked briskly, the leanengineer setting a pace that kept the other stumpinghurriedly beside him.

Abreast of the mill they approached a new-looking,long, low building. It was single storied and lumberbuilt, with a succession of many windows down itslength. The hour was noon. And men were hurryingtowards its entrance from every direction.

Bat watched interestedly.

"They seem mighty keen for their new playground,"he said at last, with a quick nod in the direction of therecreation house.

The engineer came out of his dream. His mournfuleyes turned in the direction indicated and devoured thescene. Then he glanced down at the squat figure stumpingbeside him.

"Guess that's so. But not the way you figgered whenyou got that fool notion of handing 'em a playhouse,"he said roughly. "If you pass a hog a feather bed, it'sa sure thing he'll work out the best way to muss it quick."

"How? I don't get you?"

There was no humour in Bat's eyes now.

"They call it a 'Chapel'," Skert said dryly. "They'vesurely got preachers, but they don't talk religion. Maybethat's sort of new to you, here. It isn't across the waterwhere I come from. Guess you think those boys areracing out to get a game of checkers, or billiards, or cards,or some other fool play you reckoned to hand 'em tomake '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 mostall the time, gets up and hands 'em out an address. It'sshort, but red hot. The afternoon shift in the mill isgiven up to brightening up their fool brains on it. Andwhen evening comes along, and they've their bellies fullof supper and beer, they get along to the 'Chapel' andthey debate the address, handing out opinions and notionsjust as bellies guide 'em."

"And the addresses. What are they mostly? Onthe work? The trade they're working at?"

A world of pity looked out of Skert's eyes as he surveyedthe man he believed to be the greatest organiserthe mill industry had ever seen. He shook his head.

"Work? Not on your life! Socialism, Communism—Revolution!"

Bat spat out a stream of tobacco juice. He was startled.

"But I ain't heard tell of any sort of unrest gettin'busy. We're payin' big money. It's bigger than themarket. They got—"

"Best talk to Sternford when you get back up thereto your office. He's got the boys sized right up to thelast hair of their stupid heads. But I'll hand you somethingI've reckoned to hand you a while back, only Iwanted to be sure. There's nothing of this truck aboutthe 'hands' of the old mill. It's the new hands you'vebeen collecting from the forests. We've grown by twothousand hands in the past year or so. And they're sodarn mixed I wouldn't fancy trying to sort 'em. Theycome from all parts. The world's been talking revolutionsince ever these buzzy-headed Muscovites reckonedto start in grabbing the world's goods for themselves.Well, it's a hell of a long piece here to Labrador, butit's found its way, and the mutton-brained fools who'resupposed to play around that shanty you handed 'emare recreating themselves talking about it in there. Here,come right over to that window. It's open."

Perhaps Skert was enjoying himself. Certainly hismournful eyes were less mournful as he led his chiefover to the open window. Bat had had his innings withhim. He was planning the game and hitting hard inhis turn.

"The enemy of the world, of more particularly theworker is the—CAPITALIST!"

The words were hurled from the platform of therecreation room at the heads of the listening throngbelow and reached the open window just as Lawton andhis chief came up to it. There was applause followingthis profound announcement, and Skert turned on hiscompanion.

"Well?" he demanded, in a tone of biting triumph.

They had reached the window at the psychologicalmoment. Nothing could have suited his purpose better.

Bat turned away abruptly. It was as if some fierceemotion made it impossible for him to remain anothersecond. His heavy brows depressed, and his deep-set eyesnarrowed to gimlet holes. Skert pursued him. Once clearof the window, and beyond earshot, Bat flung his replywith all the passionate force of his fighting nature.

"The lousy swine!" he cried. "I'll close that placesure as—hell."

Skert shook his head as they walked on.

"No, you won't," he said. "Guess you aren't crazy.You'll talk this over with Sternford. And when you'vetalked it some, you'll keep that place running, and letthem talk. It's best that way. But I've got tab of mostof 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. Maybeeven Skandinavia's glad they're talking that way hereon Labrador. I don't know. But—well, I'll have to quityou here. They're setting up the two big new machines,and it don't do leaving them long. So long. Anythingelse you need to know about that recreation room, why,I guess I can hand it to you."

* * * * *

Bull Sternford laid the telegram aside while a shadowysmile hovered about his firm lips. Then he settled himselfback in his chair, and gave himself up to the thoughtfulcontemplation of the brilliant sunlight, and the perfect,steely azure of the sky beyond the window opposite him.

The change in the man was almost magical. Thehot-headed, determined, fighting lumber-jack whomFather Adam had rescued from furious homicide hadhidden himself under something deeper than the veneerwhich the modest suit of conventional life provides. Itwas the subtle change that comes from within which hadtransformed him. It was in his eyes. In the set of hisjaws. It was in the man's whole poise. His resourcesof spiritual power; his mental force; his virility ofpersonality. All these things were concentrated. Theywere no longer sprawling, groping, seeking the greatpurpose of his life as they had been in the lumber campof the Skandinavia.

A feeling akin to triumph filled the man's heart as hegazed out upon the pleasant light of Labrador's latesummer day. In something like twelve months he hadthrust leagues along the road he meant to travel. Andhis progress had been of a whirlwind nature. It hadbeen work, desperate, strenuous work. It had been thedouble labour of intensive study combined with the necessaryprogress in the schemes laid down for the futureof Sachigo. It had only been possible to a man of hisamazing faculties, combined with the fact that BatHarker and the mournful Skert Lawton had left himfree from the clogging detail of the mill organisation androutine.

In twelve months he had crystallised the dreams andprojects of his predecessor in the chair he was nowoccupying. In twelve months he had built up the shellof the great combination of groundwood and paper millswhich was to have such far-reaching effect upon the papertrade of the world. And now, ahead of him was spreadout the sea of finance upon which he must next embark.He felt that already giant's work had been done. Buthis yearning could never be satisfied by a mere measureof completion. He must embrace it all, complete it all.

Already he seemed to have lived with bankers andfinancial specialists, but he felt it was only the beginningof that which he had yet to do. He was unappalled.He was more than confident. He had discovered unguessedfaculties for finance in himself. He had surprisedhimself as well as those others with whom he hadcome in contact. They had discovered in him all thatwhich Father Adam had been so prompt to realise. Theyhad found in him a young, untrained mind, untrained intheir own calling, whose natural aptitude was amazing,and whose courage and confidence were beyond words.But greatest of all was the perception he displayed. Theyrealised he never required the telling of more than halfthe story. Intuition and inspiration completed it forhim without the labour of their words. The result ofthose twelve months was there for all to see. Thelumberman had been translated into a hard, fighting,business man.

The train of the man's thought was broken by theunceremonious entry of Bat Harker. Bull turned. Oneswift glance into the grizzled face warned him hisassociate's mood was by no means easy. He, like everyonewho came into contact with Bat, had learned toappreciate the volcanic fires burning under the lumberman'sexterior.

Bull promptly fended any storm that might possiblybe brewing. He held up his telegram and his eyes weresmiling.

"The Skandinavia's on the move," he cried. AndBat recognised the battle note in the tone.

"How?"

Bull flung the message across the desk.

"The Skandinavia's representative is arriving on theMyra," he said. Then he added, "Elas Petermansays so."

"What for?"

Bat had picked up the message and stood reading it.

The other searched amongst his papers.

"I kind of forgot putting you wise before," he said."There were two letters came along a week back. Onewas from Elas Peterman, of the Skandinavia folk, andthe other from Father Adam. That message was'phoned on from the headland. The letters didn't justconcern a deal, so I set 'em aside. This message isdifferent."

For the moment the affairs down at the recreationroom were forgotten, and Bat contented himself withthe interest of the moment.

"How?" he demanded again in his sharp way.

Bull laughed.

"Here," he cried, holding out the letters he had found."I best pass you these. That's from Peterman. There'snot much written, but a deal lies under the writing.You'll see he asks permission for a representative of theSkandinavia to wait on us. I wirelessed back, 'I'd justlove to death meeting him.' By the same mail cameFather Adam's yarn. An' I guess that's where the soupthickens. He says some woman's coming along from theSkandinavia folk. He guesses they're going to put upsome proposition that looks like butting in on the planslaid out for Sachigo. But that don't seem to worry hima thing. I guess his letter wasn't written to hand uswarning. 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'."

Bull waited while the other perused both letters. Then,as Bat looked up questioningly, he went on:

"That telegram got here half an hour back," he said.Then he shrugged. "The woman's on the Myra, and thevessel's been sighted off the headland. She'll be alongin two hours."

"And what're you doin' about it?"

Bat's eyes were searching. Perhaps Father Adam'sletter had told him something it had failed to tell theother.

"I'll see her right away," Bull laughed. "If shefeels like stopping around and getting a sight of thethings we're doin' she's welcome. She can put up atthe visitor's house. It 'ud do me good for her to passthe news on to the folk she comes from."

But Bat's manner had none of the light confidence ofthe other. Bitter hatred of the Skandinavia was deeplyingrained in him. He shook his head.

"Keep 'em guessin'," he said. "It'll worry 'em—thatway."

Then he passed the letters back, and dropped into thechair that was always his.

"But this woman," he went on, in obvious puzzlement."It's—it's kind of new, I guess. Then there'sFather Adam's message. That don't hand us much."

Bull's lightness passed.

"No," he said, "that message is queer. He knowsabout it. Yet he hasn't given her name or said a thing.Say—I like that phrase though. What is it? He says,'treat her very, very gently—you see, she's a woman.'That's Father Adam right thro'—sure. But—well it's apity he don't say more."

Bat nodded.

"You'll go along down an' meet her?"

"No." Bull shook his head decidedly. "You will."

Bat's eyes twinkled with a better humour than they hadhitherto displayed.

"Why—me?"

"She comes from the Skandinavia. Guess Skandinaviawould fancy me meeting their representative at the quay—quitea lot."

The argument met with Bat's entire approval. Hepulled out a silver timepiece and consulted it.

"That's all right," he said, "I'll quit you in ha'f anhour. Say—I'm kind of guessin' there's other representativesof the Skandinavia around. I didn't guess ther'was much to Sachigo that I wasn't wise to. But thatboy, Skert Lawton, showed me a play I hadn't a notionabout. It's that darn play shanty I set up for the boys.I feel that mad about it I got a notion closing it rightdown. It worried me startin' it. It worries me morenow. You see, I guess it's come of me lappin' up theha'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 sortof queer soul needin' things he can't pay for. I allow Ihadn't seen it that way myself. It mostly seemed to me ahell of a good wage and a full belly was mostly the needof a lumber-jack, and a dead sure thing all he deserved.But I fell for the news-sheet dope, an' set up that cursedrecreation shanty. Now we're goin' to git trouble."

"How?"

Bull's ejacul*tion was sharp.

"They hold meetings there. They dope out Capital andLabour stuff there, instead of pushing games at each other.Guess they got the bug of politics an' are scratchingthemselves bad. It ain't the old Labrador guys, Skertsays. It's mostly new hands passin' their stuff on. Skertreckons we got a whole heap of the Skandinavia 'throw-outs,'around here now. That don't say Skandinavia'sworkin' monkey tricks. Though they might be. Yousee, this sort of dope's been talked most everywhere,except on Labrador, years now. I guess we need to gothrough the bunch with a louse comb. But maybe themischief's done. I'm dead crazy to shut that darn placedown."

"Don't!" Bull was emphatic. "Shut it down andyou'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 nothingmuch coming of it up here on Labrador. There's thisto remember. We're a thousand miles of hell's ownwinter, and a pretty tough sea, from the politicians whospend their lives befooling a crowd of unthinking muttons.Pay 'em well, and feed 'em well, and they've the horsesense to know there ain't no electric stoves out in theLabrador forests in winter. That way we don't needto worry. If it's the Skandinavia tricks it's different.They'll play the game to the finish. It don't signify acurse if you close down the recreation shanty or not.We've got to meet it as a competition, and fight it the waywe'd fight any other."

Bat's eyes snapped.

"That's the kind of dope Skert Lawton's handed me,"he protested.

"And Skert's a wise guy," came the prompt retort.

Quite suddenly Bat flung out his gnarled hands.

"Hell!" he cried violently. "Have we got to sitaround like mush-men, while the rats are chawin' ourvitals. Fifteen or sixteen year I've handled this lay-outwithout a growl I couldn't kick plumb out o' the fellerwho made it. Now—now, because of a fool play I made,I've got to set the kid gloves on my hands, sayin' 'thankyou,' while the boys git up and plug me between theeyes. No, sir. It ain't my way. It's me for the shotgun in the stern of the gopher all the time. It's me tomush up the features of any hoboe who don't knowbetter than to grin when I'm throwin' the hot air. Ican't stand for the politics of labour where I hand outthe wage. A man's a man to me, not one darn slobberof policy. I'm goin' to jump in on that talk. Andwhen I'm thro'—"

"You'll get all the trouble in the world plumb on yourneck." Bull's fine eyes were alight with humour. Herevelled in the fighting spirit of the older man. "Here,Bat," he cried, "I'm a fool kid beside you. I don'tbegin to know my job when I think of you. But I'mup 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 betterto do than sit around and think, and talk, an' see howthey can make other folk conform to the things theythink. That's all right. It's human nature in its biggestconceit, or it's another way of helping themselveswithout pushing a shovel. It don't matter which it is.But what I want to impress on you is, it's the biggestthing in life. It's the whole thing in life. Get a notionand think it hard enough, and talk it hard enough, andyou'll hypnotise a hundred brains bigger than your own,and sweep the crowd with you. You'll even hypnotiseyourself into believing the truth of a thing your bettersense knows isn't true, never was true, an' couldn't betrue anyway. And when you're fixed that way you'lldie for your notion. Oh, a politician ain't yearning forany 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 anotion he's built up. He'd hate to death to push a bluepencil through it and—try again. All of which means,bar the doors of this recreation room parliament, andyou'll start up a hundred such parliaments, and worse,throughout your enterprise here on Labrador, and you'llfinish by wrecking the whole blessed concern."

If Bull looked for yielding he was disappointed. Buthe appreciated the twinkle that had crept into the lumberman'sstern eyes. The answer he received was a curiouslyexpressive grunt as the man took out his timepieceand consulted it. When he saw him rise abruptlyfrom his chair, Bull felt that if his talk had not had theeffect he desired it had not been wholly wasted.

"Guess I'll git goin'," Bat said shortly. Then heglanced out of the window, where he could plainly seethe stream of the Myra's smoke as she came down thecove. "I'll bring your lady friend right up. Maybeshe'll fancy the dope, which I 'low you can hand outgood an' plenty."

With this parting shot he hurried from the room, andBull fancied he detected the sound of a chuckle as theman departed.

Chapter VIII—An Affair Of Outposts

The business of making fast the vessel had no interestfor Nancy McDonald. The thing that was about her,the thing that had leapt at her out of the haze hangingover the waters of Farewell Cove, as the Myra steamedto her haven, pre-occupied her to the exclusion of everythingelse. Her feelings were something of those of theexplorer suddenly coming upon a new, unguessed world.

"Old Man" Hardy was at her side, waiting for theadjustment of the gangway. He was quietly observingher with a sense of enjoyment at the obvious surpriseand interest she displayed. Besides, her beauty charmedhim for all his years. And then had she not been entrustedto his especial care by those people who heldpowerful influence in all concerning the coastal trade uponwhich he was engaged?

Sachigo was not only a mill. It was a—city. Thiswas the sum of Nancy's astonishing discovery. And thepicture 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 hervisit.

"It's a mighty elegant place," the seaman said at last.

The girl nodded. Then she smiled.

"I've seen trolley cars on the seashore. I've seenelectric standards for lighting. What am I to see nexton—Labrador?" she asked.

Captain Hardy laughed.

"You've to see the folks who've done it all," he replied."And—there's one of 'em."

He indicated the squat figure of Bat Harker leaningagainst some bales piled on the quay. Nancy turned inthat direction.

She discovered the rough-clad, almost uncouth figureof Bat. She noted his moving jaws as he chewed vigorously.She saw that a short stubble of beard was growingon a normally clean-shaven face, and that the man'sclothing 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 completefailure for her mission.

"Is he the—owner? Is he—Mr. Sternford?" Herquestions came in a hushed tone that was almost awed.

"No. That's Bat—Bat Harker. He's mill-boss."

"I see." There was relief in Nancy's tone. But itpassed as the seaman continued.

"Maybe he's waiting for you though. Are they wiseyou're coming along? You don't see Bat around thisquay without he's lookin' for some folk to come alongon the Myra."

The gangway clattered out on to the quay, and theman moved toward it.

We best get ashore," he said. "You see, mam, myorders are to pass you over to the folks waiting foryou. That'll be—Bat. He'll pass you on to Sternford.I take it you'll sleep aboard to-night. Your stateroom'sbooked that way. We sail to-morrow sundown, whichwill give you plenty time looking around if you fancythat way. I allow Sachigo's worth it. One day it'll bea big city, if I'm a judge. Will you step this way?"

The seaman's deference was obvious. But Nancyremained oblivious to it. To her it was just kindliness,and she was more than grateful. But his final remarkabout Sachigo left her pathetically disquieted. For thefirst time in her life she doubted the all-powerful positionof the people to whom she had sold her services.

"Yes, thanks," she returned, smiling to disguise herfeelings. Then she added, "I'm glad we don't sail tillto-morrow evening. You see, I couldn't leave—this,without a big look around."

* * * * *

The ship-master had hurried away.

Bat's deep-set eyes were steadily regarding the beautifulface before him. He was gazing into the hazel depthsof Nancy's eyes without a sign. He had noted everythingas the girl had come down the gangway. Theheight, the graceful carriage in the long plucked-beavercoat which terminated just above the trim ankles in theirsilken, almost transparent, hose. Not even at CaptainHardy's pronouncement of her name had he yielded asign. And yet—

"Miss—Nancy McDonald?"

Bat's tone had lost its usual roughness. His mind hadleapt back over many years to a time when he had beenconcerned for that name in a way that had stirred him togreat warmth. He smiled. It was a baffling, somewhatderisive smile.

"You're the lady representing the—Skandinavia?"he added.

"Why, yes," Nancy cried, "and I feel I want to thankyou for the privilege of obtaining even an outside viewof your wonderful, wonderful place here."

Bat raked thoughtfully at the stubble on his chin.

"If you feel that way, Miss, it'll hand me pleasure toshow you and tell you about things," he said. "Youcome right out of what the folks around here like to callthe enemy camp, but it don't matter a little bit. Nota little bit. The whole of Sachigo's standin' wide openfor you to walk through." Then he dashed his handacross his face to clear the voracious mosquitoes. "Butif we stop around here mor'n ha'f another minute, thememory you'll mostly carry away with you from Labrador'llbe skitters—an' nothing much else. Will youcome right along up to Mr. Sternford's office? It's quitea piece up the hill, which helps to keep it clear of skittersan' things?"

Nancy laughed. Her early impression of the super-lumberjackhad passed. The man's smile was beyondwords in its kindliness. His deep, twinkling eyes werefull of appeal.

"Why, surely," she assented. "If you'll show me theway I'll be glad. The flies and things are certainly thick,and as I intend leaving Sachigo with happy memories,well—"

"Come right along. I'm here for just that purpose."

As they made their way up the woodland trail theytalked together with an easy intimacy. Nancy wasyoung. She was full of the joy of life, full of real enthusiasm.And this rough creature with his ready smileappealed to her. His frank, open way was somethingso far removed from that which prevailed under theSkandinavia's rule.

For Bat, the walk up from the quayside was one of themany 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 amystery. He understood. But he was also puzzled.How had this thing come about? How had FatherAdam learned of this visit? How had this girl becomerepresentative of the Skandinavia? A hundred questionsflashed through his mind, for none of which he could finda satisfactory answer. But he smiled to himself as hethought of that last line in Father Adam's letter. "Treather gently—firmly, yes—but very gently. You see, she'sa—woman."

* * * * *

It was a moment likely to live with both in the yearsto come. For Nancy it was at least the final stage ofher apprenticeship, the passing of the portal beyondwhich opened out the world she so completely desired totake her place in. Did it not mean the moment ofshouldering the great burden of responsibility she hadso steadfastly trained herself to bear? For Bull Sternfordit had no such meaning. His powers had longsince been tested. As a meeting with the representativeof a rival enterprise it was merely an incident in the lifeto which he had become completely accustomed. Its significancelay in quite another direction.

Bat had taken his departure. He had witnessed themeeting of Nancy with this protégé Father Adam hadsent him from the dark world of the forests. And hiswitness of it had been with twinkling eyes, and the happysense of an amusem*nt he had never looked to discover inthe presence of a representative of the Skandinavia. Inan unexpressed fashion he realised he was gazing uponsomething in the nature of a stage play.

He had found Bull transformed. The office suit wasgone. The man's hair was carefully brushed. He evensuspected the liberal use of soap and water. And then,too, the heavy, rough boots had given place to shiningpatent leather. The youth and human nature of itpleased him. So he had departed to the workshops belowwith a voiceless chuckle, and a greater appreciationof the inevitability of the things of life.

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. Theheight and muscular girth she beheld left her with afeeling that she was gazing upon one of the picturesher school-girl mind had created for the great men ofGreek and Roman history. The clean-shaven, clear-cutface, with its fine eyes and broad brow, its purposefulmouth; these were details that had to be there, andwere there. And somehow, as she realised them, andthe sense of the man's power and personality forceditself upon her, her original confidence still furtherlessened, and she wondered not a little anxiously as tothe outcome of this interview she had sought.

As for the man, his eyes had calmly smiled his spokengreeting. His handshake had been conventionally firm.But behind the mask of it all was one great surge offeeling. The vision of a beautiful, fur-coated figure, withthe peeping lure of pretty ankles, the warm cap pressedlow on the girl's head as though endeavouring to hideup the radiant framing of the sweetest, most beautifulface he felt he had ever seen, dealt all his preconceivedpurpose for the interview one final, smashing blow.

"I'm real glad to welcome you to Sachigo," he hadbegun. Then in a moment, the conventional gave placeto the man in him. "But say," he added with a pleasantlaugh, "we've a big piece of talk to make. You best letme help you remove that coat. The stove we alwaysneed to keep going here on Labrador makes this shantyhot as—very hot."

The manner of it sent convention, caution, businesspose, scattering to the winds. The girl laughed andyielded.

"Why, thanks," she said readily. "I'm glad youreckon we're to make a big talk. You see," she addedslyly, "I've been looking out of the window, and there'squite a drop below. Up to now I felt my fur might—beuseful."

Bull laughed as he laid the coat aside. He had drawnup a comfortable lounging chair which Nancy was promptto accept. For himself he stood at the window.

"Why, yes." He smiled. "I'd say it's a wise generalwho looks to his retreat before the encounter. I'd sortof half forgotten you come from the—Skandinavia."

"But I hadn't."

"No."

They both laughed. Nancy leant back in her chair.Her pose was all unconscious. She had toiled hard tokeep pace with the sturdy gait of Bat in the ascent fromthe quay. Now she was glad of the ease the chairafforded.

"Why did you say that?" Nancy asked a moment later.

Bull spread out his great hands.

"The Skandinavia don't usually let folks forget they'rebehind them."

"Now that's just too bad. It—it isn't generous," thegirl said half seriously.

"Isn't it?"

Bull left the window and took the chair that wasusually Bat's. He set it so that he could feast his eyeson the beauty he found so irresistible.

"You see," he went on, "I've got a right to say thatall the same. It's not the—the challenge of a—what'llI say—competitor? I once had the honour of drawinga few bucks a month on the paysheets of the Skandinavia.And folks reckoned, and I guess I was amongst 'em, thatSkandinavia said to its people: 'Make good or—beat it.'That being so it makes it a sure thing they're not liableto leave you forgetting who's behind you."

His smile had gone. He was simply serious. Thisman had worked for her people, and Nancy felt he wasentitled to his opinion.

"That's going to make my talk harder," she said. "I'msorry. But there," she went on. "It doesn't really matter,does it? Anyway I want to tell you right away of thecraze the sight of your splendid Sachigo has started buzzingin my head. Say, Mr. Sternford, it beats anything Iever dreamed, and I want to say that there's no one in theSkandinavia, from Mr. Peterman downwards, has thelittlest notion of it. It's not a mill. It's a world of real,civilised enterprise. And it's set here where you'd lookfor the roughest of forest life. I just had no idea."

It was all said spontaneously. And the pleasure it gavewas obvious in the man's eyes. He nodded.

"Yes," he said. "The construction of this mill, hereon Labrador, isn't short of genius by a yard. And thegenius of it lies where you won't guess."

Nancy's pretty eyes were mildly searching.

"You're the head of Sachigo," she suggested.

Bull's eyes lit.

"Sure," he cried, "an' I'm mighty proud that's so.But I'm not the genius of this great mill. No. Thatgrizzled, tough old lumberman who toted you along upfrom the quayside is the brain of this organisation. He'sa—wonder. There's times I want to laff when I think ofit. There's times I'm most ready to cry. You see, youdon't know that great feller. I'm just beginning to guessI do. He's a heart as big as a house, and the manner toscare a 'hold-up.' He's the grit of a reg'ment of soldiersand the mutton softness of a kid girl. He's the brain ofa Solomon, and the illiteracy of a one day school kid.He's all those things, and he's the biggest proposition inmen I've ever heard tell about. It's kind of tough. Don'tyou feel that way? He'll suck a pint of tobacco juice inthe day, and blaspheme till your ears get on edge. Andwhile your folks are guessing he'll put through a propositionthat 'ud leave ha'f the world gasping."

Nancy stirred. This man's whole-hearted appreciationof another was something rather fine in her simplephilosophy. The last thing she had contemplated inapproaching the head of a rival enterprise was such talkas this. But somehow it seemed to fit the man. Somehowas she noted the squarely gazing eyes, and the powerin every line of his features, she realised that whateverlines he chose to talk on, nothing could change the decisionlying behind it all. She liked him all the better forthat, and found herself drawing comparison between himand Elas Peterman to the latter's detriment.

"I like that," she cried impulsively. Then the colourrose in her cheeks at the thought of her temerity. "Iguess he's all you say. Maybe some day I'll hear hisside of things. I'd like to. You see—I felt I'd knownhim years when he brought me in here. Maybe you won'tunderstand what that implies."

"I think I do."

Bull stood up from his chair and passed round his desk.

"Here, say, Miss McDonald," he went on, in his keenfashion. "You come from Skandinavia. And I guessyou come on a pretty stiff proposition. It's going to bedifficult for you to hand it me. Maybe you're young inthe game. Well, it doesn't matter a thing. Now we'regoing to start right in talking that proposition, and I'mgoing to help you. But before that starts I just want tosay this. You, I guess, are going right back on the Myraand she sails to-morrow, sundown. That means you'llstay a night in Sachigo—"

"I'm stopping on the vessel. It's all fixed."

Bull sat down at his desk.

"I'm kind of glad," he said, with a shade of relief."It isn't that you aren't welcome to all the old hospitalitySachigo 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'ta thing in skirts around this place, only a Chink cook,a half-breed secretary, and a clerk or two, and a bum sortof decrepit lumber-jack who does my chores. So yousee I'm—kind of relieved. Anyway you sleeping on theMyra makes it easy. Now there's a mighty big conceitto me, and it's all for this mill in our country's wilderness.And I just can't let you quit to-morrow nightwithout showing you all it means. You've simply gotto see the thing that's going to make the whole world'sgroundwood trade holler before we're through. You'remy prisoner until you've seen the things I'm going toshow you. Is it anyway agreeable?"

Nancy smiled delightedly.

"You couldn't drive me out of Sachigo till I've peekedinto all your secrets down there," she said.

Bull leant forward with his arms outspread across thedesk.

"Great!" he cried. "And," he added, "you shall seethem all. The things I can't show you Bat will. And ifI'm a judge that old rascal'll be tickled to death handinghis dope out to you. But—let's get to business."

Nancy sat up. In a moment all ease was banished.She knew the great moment had come when she mustprove herself to those who had entrusted her with hermission.

"Yes," she said, almost hurriedly. "I don't know theword Mr. Peterman sent you. And anyway it doesn'tmatter. I must put things my way. You are a greatenterprise here. We are a great enterprise. It looks tous a pretty tough clash is bound to come between us inthe near future, and—there should be no necessity for it.There's room—plenty of room—for both of us in ourtrade—"

She paused. The keen eyes of Bull were closelyobserving. He realised her attitude. Her words and tonewere almost mechanical, as though she had schooled herselfand rehearsed her lesson. And her voice was notquite steady. He jumped in with the swift impulse of aman whose rivalry could not withstand that sign of abeautiful girl's distress.

"Here," he cried, with that command so natural tohim. "Just don't say another word. Let me talk. Iguess I can tell you the things it's up to you to handme. It'll save you a deal, and it'll hand me a chance toblow off the hot air that's mostly my way. This is theposition. Peterman's wise to the things doing right here.The Skandinavia's up against years of cutting on theShagaunty. The Shagaunty's played right out. Youfolks have got to open new stuff. It's my job to know allthis. Very well. As I said, Peterman's at last got wiseto us. He knows we look like flooding the market, andjumping right in on him. So—you're a mighty wealthycorporation—he figures to recognise us, and embrace us—witha business arrangement. That so?"

"Yes. A business arrangement."

The girl's relief was almost pathetic. Bull smiled.

"That's so. A business arrangement. Should Ientertain one, eh? That's the question you're right hereto ask. And you want to take back my answer." Hepaused. "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, butI guess I know what it means to set out on a work hopingand yearning to make good. Will it make good for youto go back to Elas Peterman and say the feller at Sachigois coming right along down by the Myra to-morrow, andwould be pleased to death to talk this proposition right outin the offices of the Skandinavia? Will it?"

Nancy's eyes lit. Their hazel depths were wells ofthankfulness.

"Why, surely," she said. "You mean you're goingto sail to-morrow?"

Bull laughed and his laugh was infectious. The girlwas smiling her delight.

"That's so. I need to cross the Atlantic. I wasn'tgoing till the Myra's next trip. I'll go to-morrow an'stop over in Quebec to see your people. It just meanshurrying my choreman packing my stuff while I showyou around to-morrow. That kind of fixes things, andif you'll hand me that pleasure I'd just love to show youaround some this afternoon. There's a heap to see, andI don't fancy you missing any of it." He passed roundthe desk, and picked up the girl's coat and held it outinvitingly. "Will you come right along?"

There was no denying him. Nancy looked up intohis smiling eyes. She felt there was a lot she wantedto say, ought to say, on the business matter in hand.But it was impossible. And in her heart she was thankful.

"Why, I'd just love to," she said, and stood up fromher chair.

Very tenderly, very carefully the man's hands helpedher into her coat. And somehow Nancy was very gladthe hands were big, and strong, and—yes—clumsy.

Chapter IX—On The Open Sea

The Myra laboured heavily. With every rise and fallof her high bows a whipping spray lashed the faces ofthose on deck. The bitter north-easterly gale churned theocean into a white fury, and the sky was a-race withleaden masses of cloud. There was no break anywhere.Sky and sea alike were fiercely threatening, and the windhowled through the vessel's top gear.

Bull Sternford had been sharing the storm with thesturdy skipper on the bridge. He had been listening tothe old man's talk of fierce experience on the coast ofLabrador. It had all been interesting to the landsmanin view of the present storm, but at last he could nolonger endure the exposure of the shelterless bridge.

"It's me for the deck and a sheltered corner," he finallydeclared, preparing to pass down the iron "companion."

And the Captain grinned.

"I don't blame you," he bellowed in the shriek of thegale. "But I guess I'd as lief have it this way. It'sbetter than a flat sea an' fog, which is mostly the alternativethis time o' year. The Atlantic don't offer muchchoice about now. She's like a shrew woman. Hersmile ain't ever easy. An' when you get it you've mostalways got to pay good. She can blow herself sick withthis homeward bound breeze for all I care."

"That's all right," Bull shouted back at him. "Guessyou've lost your sense of the ease of things working thiscoast so long. It 'ud be me for the flat sea and fog allthe time. I like my chances taken standing square ontwo feet. So long."

He passed below, beating his hands for warmth. Andas he went he glanced back at the sturdy, oil-skinnedfigure clinging to the rail of the bridge. The man's far-offgaze was fixed on the storm-swept sky, reading everysign with the intimate knowledge of long years of experience.It was a reassuring figure that must have put heartinto the veriest weakling. But Bull Sternford needed nosuch support. In matters of life and death he was withoutemotion.

He scrambled his way to the leeward side of theengines where a certain warmth and shelter was to be had,and where a number of hardly tested deck chairs weresecurely lashed. It was the resting place of those fewbeset passengers who could endure no longer the indifferent,odorous accommodation of the Myra's saloon.Only one chair was occupied. For the rest the deck wascompletely deserted.

Bull's first glance at the solitary passenger was sufficient.The gleam of red hair under the fur cap told himall he wanted to know, and he groped his way along theslippery deck, and deposited his bulk safely into the chairbeside Nancy McDonald.

"Say," he cried, with a cheerful grin, as he struggledwith his rug, "this sort of thing's just about calculatedto leave a feller feeling sympathy with the boy who hasn'tmore sense than to spend his time trying to climb outsidemore Rye whisky than he was built to hold. It makesyou wonder at the fool thing that lies back of it all. Imean the fuss going on out yonder."

Nancy smiled round from amidst her furs.

"It does seem like useless mischief," she agreed readily.Then she laughed outright. "But to see you crawlingalong the deck just now, grabbing any old thing for support,and often missing it, was a sight to leave one wonderinghow much dignity owes to personality, and howmuch to environment. Guess environment's an easy win."

"Did I look so darn foolish?"

Bull's eyes were smiling, and Nancy laughed again.

"Just about as foolish as that fellow with the Ryewhisky you were talking about."

The man settled himself comfortably.

"That's tough. And I guess I was doing my best,too. Say," he went on with a laugh, "just look at thoseflapping sea-gulls, or whatever they are out there. Makesyou wonder to see 'em racing along over this fool wasteof water. Look at 'em fighting, struggling, and using upa whole heap of good energy to keep level with this oldtub. You know they've only to turn away westward tofind land and shelter where they could build nests andmake things mighty comfortable for themselves. Idon't get it. You know it seems to me Nature got ina bad muss handing out ordinary sense. I'd say Shenever heard of a card index. Maybe Her bookkeeperwas a drunken guy who didn't know a ledger from ascrap book. Now if She'd engaged you an' me to keep tabof things for Her, we'd have done a deal better. Thosepoor blamed sea-gulls, or whatever they are, would havebeen squatting around on elegant beds of moulted feathers,laid out on steam-heat radiators, feeding on oyster co*cktailsand things, and handing out the instructive dope of ahighbrow politician working up a press reputation, andlearning their kids the decent habits of folk who're yearningto keep out of penitentiary as long as the police'lllet 'em. No. It's no use. Nature got busy. Look at theresult. Those fool birds'll follow us till they're tired, inthe hope that some guy'll dump the contents of the Myra'sswill barrel their way. Then they'll have one disgustingorgy on the things other folks don't fancy, and start rightin to fly again to ease their digestions. It's a crazy gameanyway. And it leaves me with a mighty big slump inNature's stock."

Nancy listened delightedly to the man's pleasantfooling.

"It's worse than that," she cried, falling in with hishumour. "Look at some of them taking a rest, swimmingabout in that terribly cold water. Ugh! No, ifwe'd fixed their sense we'd have made it so they'd havehad enough to get on dry land, like any other reasonablefolk yearning for a rest."

The man studied the girl's pretty profile, and a greatsense of regret stirred him that the Skandinavia had beenable to buy her services. What a perfect creature tohave been supported by in the work he was engaged on.

"That sounds good," he said. "Reasonable folks!"He shook his head. "Nature again. Guess we're allreasonable till we're found out. No. Even the greatestmen and women on earth are fools at heart, you know."

The girl sat up as the vessel lurched more heavily andflung their chairs forward, straining dangerously.

"How?" she questioned, glancing down anxiously atthe moorings of her chair.

"They're safe—so far," Bull reassured her. Then heleant back again, and produced and lit a cigar. "GuessI'll smoke," he said. "Maybe that'll help me tell you—'how.'"

The girl watched him light his cigar and her eyes werefull of laughter.

"It's a real pity women can't sit themselves behind acigar," she said at last, with a pretence of regret. "It'sthe wisest looking thing a man does. A cigarette kindof makes him seem pleasantly undependable. A pipemakes you feel he's full of just everyday notions. But acigar! My! It sort of dazzles me when I see a manwith a big cigar. I feel like a lowgrade earthworm,don't you know. Say," she cried, with an indescribablegesture of her gloved hands, "he handles that cigar, hesort of fondles it. He co*cks it. He depresses it. Herolls it across his lips to the opposite corner of his mouth,and finally blows a thin, thoughtful stream of smokegently between his pursed lips. And that stream isimmeasurable in its suggestion of wise thought and keencalculation. I'd say a man's cigar is his best disguise."

Bull nodded.

"That's fine," he cried. "But you've forgotten theother feller. The man who 'chews.'"

Nancy laughed happily.

"Easy," she cried promptly. "When he of the bulgedcheek gets around just watch your defences. He'smostly tough. He's on the jump, and hasn't muchfancy for the decencies of life. The harder he chewsthe more he's figgering up his adversary. And when hespits, get your weapons ready. When the chewing mansucceeds in life I guess he's dangerous. And it's becausehis force and character have generally lifted him fromthe bottom of things."

Bull shook his head in mock despair.

Nancy settled herself back in her chair.

"That's fixed it. Guess you'll need to tell me 'how.'"

"No, sir," she cried. "You can't go back. 'The greatestmen and women in the world are fools at heart.'That's what you said."

"Yes. I seem to remember."

The man stirred and sat up. He folded the rug moreclosely about his feet. Then he turned with a whimsicalsmile in his eyes.

"Well?" he cried. "And isn't it so? What do wework, and fight, and hate for? What do we spend ourlives worrying to beat the other feller for? Why do weset our noses into other folks' affairs and worry them todeath to think, and act, and feel the way we do? Andall the while it don't matter a thing. Of course we'refools. We'll hand over when the time comes, and theold world'll roll on, and it's not been shifted a hair's-breadthfor our having lived, in spite of the obituariesthe news-sheets hand out like a Sunday School mam atprize time. Say, here, it's no use fooling ourselves.Life's one great big thing that don't take shape by reasonof our acts. What's the civilisation we love to pat ourselveson the back for? I'll tell you. It's just a thingwe've invented, like—wireless telegraphy, or soap, orsteam-heat; and it hands us a cloak to cover up the evilthat man and woman'll never quit doing. Before wemade civilisation a feller got up on to his hind legs andhit the other feller over the head with a club; and if hewas hungry he used him as a lunch. Now we don't dothat. We break him for his dollars and leave him andhis poor wife and kids hungry, while we buy a lunch withthe stuff we beat out of him. Why do we work? Forone of two elegant notions. It's either to fill ourselves upwith the things we've dreamt about when appetite wassharp set, and hate to death when we get, or it's to satisfya conceit that leaves us hoping and believing the rest ofthe world'll hand us an epitaph like it handed no otherfeller since ever it got to be a habit burying up the garbagedeath 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 withoutthose things. And as for settin' our noses into the affairsof other folk, that's mostly disease. But it isn't all. No,sir. There's more to it than that," he laughed. "If itwas just disease it wouldn't matter a lot, but it isn't.There isn't a fool man or woman born into this worldthat doesn't reckon he or she can put right the foolnotions and acts of other fools. And when the otherfeller persuades them the game's not the one-sided racketthey guessed it was, then they get mad, and start gropingand scheming how to boost their notions on to a worldthat's spent a whole heap of time fixing things, mostlyfoolish, to its own mighty good satisfaction. I say righthere we're fools if we aren't crooks, which is the exception.There's a dandy world around us full of sun towarm us and food to eat, and birds to sing to us, andflowers and things to make us feel good. If we neededmore I guess Providence would have handed it out. Butit didn't. And so we got busy with our own notions tillwe've turned God's elegant creation into a home for crazesand cranks. I could almost fancy the Archangels hoveringaround, like those silly sea-gulls, with a bunch ofstraight-jackets to wrap about us when we jump the limitthey figger we've a right to. Fools, yes? Why, I guessso—sure."

Nancy breathed a deep sigh.

"My, but that's a big say."

Then she broke into a laugh which found promptresponse in the other. It was cut short, however. Asea thundered against the staunch side of the vessel andleft her staggering. The girl's eyes became seriouslyanxious. The straining chairs held, and presently thedeck swung up to a comparative level.

"I had visions of the—"

"Scuppers?" Bull laughed. "Yes. That sea's one ofthe elegant things Providence handed out for ourhappiness."

Nancy nodded.

"So man built things like the Myra, which, of course,was—foolish?"

"An' set out sailing around in a winter storm offLabrador, instead of basking in a pleasant tropical sun,which hasn't any—sense."

Bull chuckled.

"All because two mighty fine enterprises reckonedthey'd common interests which were jeopardised by rivalry,which was also—foolishly?"

Bull's cigar ash tumbled into his lap.

"But not ha'f so foolish as the notion that a girl has tosuffer the worries and dangers of one hell of a trip on theworst sea that God ever made to try and square thethings between them."

Nancy shook her head.

"I can't grant that," she cried quickly.

"No?"

"I mean—oh, psha! Don't you see, or does yourcynical philosophy blind you? We're fools, maybe.The things Providence sends us aren't the things we'vegot 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 chasinghappiness in the way we fancy. It seems to me the onlyreal happiness in life is in doing. Ease, wealth, love,all the things folk talk and write about are just dreams ofhappiness that aren't real. Work, achievement, even ifit's wrong-headed—that's life; that's happiness. That'swhy I'd say there's nothing foolish in a girl putting upwith dangers and discomforts to bring two enterprises toan understanding, calculated to promote a greater achievementfor both. It's my little notion of snatching a bunchof happiness for myself."

There was no laughter in Nancy's eyes now. Theywere quite serious. Her words were alive with vehemence.Bull was watching her intently, probing, in his searchingway, the depths which her hazel eyes hinted at. Thethings she said pleased him. Her tone thrilled him. Hewanted more.

"I wonder," he said, as he rolled the cigar across hislips in the way Nancy had laughingly pointed. "Youreckon it's handed you happiness—this thing?"

The girl was stirred.

"Surely," she cried. "Later, when things get fixedup between the Skandinavia and Sachigo, I'll get a focusof my little share in the business of it—the achievement.Then I'll get warm all through with a glow of happinessbecause I—helped it along."

Bull nodded as he watched the rising colour in theperfect cheeks. The girl was very, very beautiful.

"Yes, I suppose you will," he said. Then he went onprovocatively. "But do you guess it's always so? Imean that always happens? Isn't it to do with temperament?Now, take the forest-jacks. Do you guess theyfeel happiness in a tree dropped right? Do you guessthere's happiness for the poor fool who don't know betterthan to spend his days in a forest risking his life boostinglogs on the river jamb? Do you guess there's any sortof old joy for the feller turned adrift, when he's gettingold in the tooth, and there's no room for him on the payroll of the camp, in the thought that he was the bestaxeman the forest ever bred? It seems like a crazy sortof happiness that way. Happiness in achievement's greatwhile the achieving's going on. But at the finish we getright back to Nature. And when that time comes Naturedoesn't do much to help us out."

Nancy sat up.

"What are you doing? That great Sachigo!" shedemanded challengingly. "You're building, building onemagnificent enterprise. Is there happiness in it for you?"

"Sure," Bull admitted frankly. "Oh, yes. But I'veno illusions," he said. "I don't go back on the thingsI said. Nature as she dopes out life couldn't hand me ahundredth part of the happiness I get that way. Butwhen I'm through, like that lumber-jack who's struckoff the pay roll, how's it going to be with me? A trainedmind without the bodily ability to thrust on in the gameof life. It'll be hell—just hell. The one hope is to diein harness. Like the forest-jack who drowns under thelogs on the river, or who gets up against the other feller'sknife in a drunken scrap. That way lies happiness.The rest is a sort of passing dream with the years of oldage for regret."

The girl spread out her hands.

"I can't believe you feel that way," she cried, withsomething very like distress. "Oh, if I had your power,your ability. Why, I'd say there's no end to the thingsyou could achieve, not only now, but right through, rightthrough that time when you're old in body, but stillstrong in brain. A limited goal for achievement isn'tthe notion in my foolish head. Why, if I'd only thestrength to knit socks for the folks who need them,there'd still be happiness and to spare. But let's keep toour own ground. The forest-jack. I guess you're onebig man who employs thousands. What of those boyswhen they're struck off the—pay roll. Is there nothingto be achieved that way—nothing to last you to yourlast living moment? Think of their needs. Think ofthe happiness you could hand yourself in handing themcomfort and happiness when they're—through. It's athing I've promised myself, if luck ever hands me thechance. You've got the pity of their lives. Your wordstell that. Well?"

The man had forgotten the storm. He had forgotteneverything but the charm of the girl's hot enthusiasm.And the picture of superlative beauty she made in heranimation.

He shook his head.

"It's a bully notion," he demurred, "but it's not forme. No. You see, I'm just a tough sort of man who's bigfor a scrap. I haven't patience or sympathy for the fellerwho don't feel the same. You've seen the forest boys?"

"I've been through the Shagaunty."

"Ah!"

Bull Sternford's ejacul*tion was sharp. The problemof Father Adam's letter was partially solved.

"Well, I guess you're a woman," he went on. "AndI'd like to say right here a woman's sympathy is justabout the best thing on this old earth. That's why I'dlike to cry like a kid when I see it going out to the thingsthat haven't any sort of excuse for getting it. It's goodto hear you talk for those boys. It isn't they deserve it,but—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'twaste one moment of your hard earned happiness on'em. I was a forest-jack. I know 'em. I know it—thelife. And if you knew the thing I know you wouldn'tharden all up as you listen to the things I'm saying:—"

"But—"

Bull flung his cigar away with vicious force.

"Let me say this thing out," he went on. "There'sa man in the forest I know, every jack knows. He's afeller who sort of lives in the twilight. You see, he sortof comes and goes; and no one knows a thing about him,except he haunts the forests like a shadow. Well, he'ssettin' the notion you feel into practice—in a way. He'sout for the boys. To help 'em, physically, spiritually,the whole time. They love him. We all love him todeath. Well, ask him how far he gets. Maybe he'd tellyou, and I guess his story 'ud break the heart of a stoneimage. He'll tell you—and he speaks the truth—thereisn't a thing to be done but heal 'em, and feed 'em, andjust help 'em how you can. The rest's a dream. Yousee, these jacks come from nowhere particular. Theytake to the forests because it's far off; and it's dark, andcovers most things up. And they go nowhere particular,except it's to the hell waiting on most of us if we don'tlive life the way that's intended for us. No. Quitworrying for the forest-jack. Maybe life's going to handyou all sorts of queer feelings as you go along. And thegood heart that sees suffering and injustice is going toache mighty bad. The forest wasn't built for daylight,and the folks living there don't fancy it. And there isn'ta broom big enough in the world to clean up the muckyou'll find there."

"You're talking of Father Adam?"

Nancy's interest had redoubled. It had instantlycentred itself on the man she had met in the Shagauntyforests. The lumber-jacks were forgotten.

"Yes." Bull nodded. "Do you know him?" Therewas eagerness in his question.

"I met him on the Shagaunty."

The man had produced a fresh cigar. But the renewedheavy rolling of the vessel delayed its lighting. Nancygazed out to sea in some concern.

"It's getting worse," she said.

Bull struck a match and covered it with both hands.

"It seems that way," he replied indifferently. Thenafter a moment he looked up. His cigar was alight."He's a great fellow—Father Adam," he said reflectively.

"He's just—splendid."

The girl's enthusiasm told Bull something of the thinghe wanted to know.

"Yes," he said. "He's the best man I know. Theworld doesn't mean a thing to him. Why he's there Idon't know, and I guess it's not my business anyway.But if God's mercy's to be handed to any human creatureit seems to me it won't come amiss—Say!"

He broke off, startled. He sat up with a jump. Agreat gust of wind broke down upon the vessel. It camewith a shriek that rose in a fierce crescendo. His startledeyes were riveted upon a new development in the sky.An inky cloud bank was sweeping down upon them outof the north-east, and the wind seemed to roar its way outof its very heart.

The vessel heeled over. Again the wind tore at thecreaking gear. It was a moment of breathless suspensefor those seated helplessly looking on. Then somethingcrashed. A vast sea beat on the quarter and delugedthe decks, and the chairs were torn from their moorings.

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 theswirling sea that swept over the vessel's submergedrail.

Bull struggled furiously. Every muscle was strainingwith the effort of it. A fierce anxiety was in his eyes ashe fought his way foot by foot towards the saloon companion.The handicap was terrible. There was practicallyno foothold, for the vessel was riding at an angleof something like forty-five degrees. Then, too, he hadbut one hand with which to help himself along. Theother was supporting the dead-weight of the body ofthe unconscious girl.

At last, breathless and nearly beaten, he reached hisgoal and clutched desperately at the door-casing of thecompanion. He staggered within. And as he did sorelief found expression in one fierce exclamation.

"Hell!" he cried. And clambered down, bearinghis unconscious burden into the safety of the vessel'sinterior.

Chapter X—In Quebec

It was the final stage of her journey. Nancy was on herway up from the docks, where she had left the staunchMyra discharging her cargo.

It was that triumphant return to which she had alwayslooked forward, for which she had hoped and prayed.Her work was completed. It had been crowned withgreater success than she had dared to believe possible.Yet her triumph somehow found her unelated, even ashade depressed.

A belated sense of humour battled with her mood.There were moments when she wanted to laugh atherself. There were others when she had no such desire.So she sat gazing out of the limousine window, as thoughall her interest were in the drab houses lining the way,and the heavy-coated pedestrians moving along the sidewalksof the narrow streets through which they werepassing.

It was winter all right, for all no snow had as yetfallen, and the girl felt glad that it was so. It suitedher mood.

Once or twice she took a sidelong glance at the manseated beside her; but Bull Sternford's mood was noless reticent than her own. Once she encountered theglance of his eyes, and it was just as the vehicle bumpedheavily over the badly paved road.

"We can do better in the way of roads up at Sachigo,"he said with a belated smile.

"You surely can," Nancy admitted readily. "Theroads down here in the old town are terrible. This oldcity of ours could fill pages of history. It's got beauties,too, you couldn't find anywhere else in the world. Butit seems to need most of the things a city needs to makeit the place we folk reckon it is."

She went on at random.

"Do you always keep an automobile in Quebec?" sheasked.

Bull shook his head.

"Hired," he said.

"I see."

Bull's eyes twinkled.

"Yes," he went on, "when I make this old city it'swith the purpose of driving twenty-four hours work intotwelve. An automobile helps that way."

"And you're wasting all this time driving me up tomy apartments?" Nancy smiled. "I'm more indebtedthan I guessed."

The man's denial was instant.

"No," he said. "Your apartments are about twoblocks from the Château. But tell me, when'll you bethrough making your report to Peterman?"

Nancy's depression passed. She was caught againin the interest of everything.

"Why, to-day—surely," she said. "You see, I wantto get word to you right away."

Bull nodded.

"That's fine," he said. "It's not my way leavingthings lying around either. I'll be on the jump to getthrough before sailing time to that little old countryacross the water. But tell me. That report. Afterit's in you'll have made all the good you reckon to? Andthen you, personally, cut right out of this thing?"

His manner gave no indication of the thing in hismind.

"Oh, yes," Nancy replied happily. "You see, I'vebearded you—only you've no beard—in your fierce denup in Sachigo. And I've—and you've come right downhere to Quebec with me to discuss with my people thething they want to discuss with you. They didn'tthink I—they didn't hope that. Maybe I've done betterthan they expected. Why, when I hand the news to Mr.Peterman he'll—he'll—oh, I'm just dying to see his facewhen I tell him."

"You—haven't wired him already?"

"No. The news was too good to send by wire."

For a moment the man contemplated the simple radiantcreature beside him. She was so transparently happy.And the sight of her happiness satisfied him.

"It'll—astonish him, eh?"

"Astonish him?" Nancy laughed. "That doesn'tsay a thing. I shouldn't wonder if he refused to believeme."

"And you'll get—promotion? Promotion—in Skandinavia?"

The girl's eyes sobered on the instant.

"Surely. Why not?"

"Yes. Why not?"

Just for a moment Nancy hesitated. Then herchallenge came incisively.

"What do you mean?"

But the man smilingly shook his head.

"You want promotion under Peterman—in theSkandinavia?"

Nancy's eyes widened.

"Why shouldn't I? The Skandinavia's everything tome. It ought to be everything. Isn't that so? Now, Iwonder what you mean?" she went on, after the briefestpause. "Are you talking that way just because you area rival concern?" She shook her head. "That's noaffair of mine. But wait while I tell you. Try andthink yourself a young girl without folks that count,with a pretty tough world laid out in front of her, andwith a healthy desire to dress, and eat the same as anyother girl of her age. She's given a chance in life tomake good, to gather round her all those things sheneeds, by—the Skandinavia. Well, how would you feel?Wouldn't you want that—promotion? Yes. I want it.I want it with all my heart. The Skandinavia gave me myfirst start. They've been very, very good to me. I'vebig room in my heart for them. Their work's my work allthe time. I've nothing but gratitude for Mr. Peterman."

"Yes." Bull's smile had passed. He was thinking ofNancy's feeling of gratitude towards the Swede—Peterman.

He turned away, and the grey wintry daylight beyondthe window seemed to absorb him. He was possessedby a mad desire to fling prudence to the winds and thenand there point out the wrong he felt she was committingagainst the country that had bred her in spending herlife in the service of these foreigners. But he knew hemust refrain. It was not the moment. And somehow hefelt she was not the girl to listen patiently to such ethicsas he preached when their force was directed againstthose who claimed her whole loyalty and gratitude.

To Nancy it seemed as though some shadow had arisenbetween them. She was a little troubled at the thingshe had said. But somehow she had no desire to withdrawa single word of it.

The car had passed out of the old part of the city.And Nancy realised it was ascending the great hill wherethe Château Hotel looked out over the old citadel andthe wide waters of the busy St. Lawrence river. In afew minutes the happy companionship of the past fewdays would be only a memory.

It was only a little way to her apartments now. Sucha very little way. Yes. The porter would be there. Hewould take her trunks and baggage, and then her doorwould close behind her, and—She remembered thatmoment at which she had awakened to consciousness inthis man's strong arms in the poor little saloon of thestorm-beaten Myra. She remembered the embracingstrength of them, and the way she had thrilled undertheir pressure. It had been all very wonderful.

"Say!"

Bull Sternford had turned back from the window. Hewas smiling again.

"Yes?" The girl was all eager attention.

"I was wondering," Bull went on. "Maybe you'll'fancy hearing how things are fixed after I see Peterman?"

"I'll be ever so glad. There's the 'phone. You canget me most any time after business hours. I don't goout much. I—"

Nancy broke off to glance out of the window. Theautomobile had slowed.

"Why, we're at my place," she cried. And the manfancied he detected disappointment in her tone.

The car stopped before the apartment house, and Bullhurled himself at the litter of the girl's belongings strewnabout their feet. A few moments later they were standingtogether on the sidewalk surrounded by the baggage.

Bull gazed up at the building.

"You live here?" he asked at random.

Nancy nodded.

"Yes. It isn't much. But some day, maybe, I'll beable to afford a swell apartment with—"

"Sure you will," Bull agreed, as they passed up the stepsto the entrance doors. "But meanwhile I mostly needyour 'phone number of this," he added with a laugh.

The baggage was left to the porter's care, and theystood together in the hallway. Bull's youthful staturewas overshadowing for all Nancy was tall. Somehowthe girl was glad of it. She liked his height, and thebreadth of his great shoulders, and the power of limbshis tweed suit was powerless to disguise.

She moved across to the porter's office and wrote downher 'phone number while the man looked on. But heonly had eyes for the girl herself. At that moment hertelephone number was the last thing he desired to thinkabout.

She stood up and offered him the paper.

"You won't forget it that way," she said, with a smile.

"No."

Bull glanced down at it. Then he looked again intothe smiling eyes.

"Thanks," he said. "I'll ring up." Then he held outa hand. "So long."

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 sheturned to the porter, and her smile had completelyvanished.

* * * * *

Nathaniel Hellbeam stood up. He had been seatedat Elas Peterman's desk studying the papers which hismanaging director had set out for his perusal. His grossbody hung over the table for a moment as he reachedtowards his hat. He took his gloves from inside it andcommenced to put them on.

"The Myra? You say she is in?" he asked in hisguttural fashion. "This girl? This girl who is to buyup this—this Sachigo man," he laughed. "Is shearrived?"

The man's eyes were alight with unpleasant derision.Peterman gave no heed. The man's arrogance was alltoo familiar to him.

"I've not heard—yet," he said. "She should be."

"You not have heard—yet?" The challenge was superlativelyoffensive. "You a beautiful secretary have. Youlose her for weeks—months. Yet you do not know of herreturn—yet? Sho! You are not the man for this beautifulsecretary. She for me is—yes? Hah!"

Peterman smiled as was his duty.

"I shall be glad to get her back," he said quietly. "ButI haven't heard from her at all. And—well, she's not thesort of woman to bombard with telegrams. She's out ona difficult job and I felt it best to leave her to it. I shallhear when she's ready, I guess she'll be right along in totell me personally. Maybe—"

He broke off and picked up the telephone whose buzzerwas rattling impatiently on the desk.

"Hullo!" he said softly. "Oh, yes. Oh, how are you?So glad you've got back. What sort of passage did—oh,bad, eh? Well, well; I'm sorry. Oh, you're a goodsailor. That's fine. Right away? You'll be over rightaway? Wouldn't you like to rest awhile? All right, Isee. Yes, surely I'll be glad. I just thought—oh, not atall. You see, if you were a man I wouldn't be concernedat 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."

Peterman set the 'phone down. His smiling eyeschallenged those of the man who a moment before hadderided him.

"Well?"

Hellbeam's impatience was without scruple at any time.

"She's got back all right, and she's succeeded far betterthan you hoped. Better than she hoped herself. But—nobetter than I expected."

The other's eyes snapped under the quiet satisfaction ofthe man's reply.

"Ah, she has. Does she say—yes?"

Elas shook his dark head.

"No. She's coming right over to tell me the wholestory."

"Now?"

"In a while."

Elas Peterman knew his position to the last fractionwhen dealing with Nathaniel Hellbeam. He knew it wasfor him to obey, almost without question. But somehow,for the moment, his Teutonic self-abnegation had becomeobscured. He was yielding nothing in the matter of thiswoman to anyone. Not even to Nathaniel Hellbeam whomhe regarded almost as the master of his destiny.

Perhaps the gross nature of the financier possessed acertain sympathy. Perhaps even there was a lurking senseof honour in him, where a woman, whom he regarded asanother man's property, was concerned. Again it maysimply have been that he understood the other's reticence,and it suited him for the moment to restrain his grosserinclinations. He laughed. And it was not an hilariouseffort.

"Oh, yes," he said. "You will see her first. That is asit should be. Later, we both will talk with her. Well—goodluck my friend."

Hellbeam thrust his hat on his great head and struttedhis way across to the door.

"These people must be bought. Or—" he said,pausing before passing out—

"Smashed!"

Hellbeam nodded.

"It suits me better to—buy."

"Yes. You want to come into touch with—the owner."

"Yes."

The gross figure disappeared through the doorway.

Peterman did not return to his desk. He crossed tothe window and stood gazing out of it. His hands werethrust deep into his pockets. And his fingers movednervously, rattling the contents of them. He was a goodlyspecimen of manhood. He was tall, and squarely erect,and carried himself with that military bearing whichseems to belong to all the races of Teutonic origin. It wasonly in the study of the man's face that exception could betaken. Just now there was none to observe and he wasfree from all restraint.

His dark eyes were smiling, for his thoughts werestreaming along the channel that most appealed. He wasthinking of the beauty of the girl who was about to returnto him, and it seemed to him a pity she was so simplyhonest, so very young in the world as he understood it.Then her ambition. It was—but he was rather glad of herambition. Ambition might prove his best friend in theend. In his philosophy an ambitious woman could have noscruple. Anyway it seemed to him that ambition pittedagainst scruple was an easy winner. He could play on that,and he felt he knew how to play on it, and was in a positionto do so. She had come back to him successful. Hewondered how successful.

He moved from the window and passed over to thedesk, where he picked up his 'phone and asked for anumber.

"Hullo! Oh, that Bennetts? Oh, yes. This is Peterman—ElasPeterman 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—"

He set the 'phone down and turned away. But in amoment he was recalled. It was a message from downstairs.Nancy McDonald wished to see him.

* * * * *

Peterman was leaning back in his chair. Nancy wasoccupying the chair beside the desk which had not knownher for several months.

It was a moment of stirring emotions. For the girlit was that moment to which she had so long lookedforward. To her it seemed she was about to vindicatethis man's confidence in her, and offer him an adequatereturn such as her gratitude desired to make. And deepdown in her heart, where the flame of ambition steadilyburned, she felt she had earned the promised reward, allof it.

The man was concerned with none of these things. Hewas not even concerned for the girl's completed mission.It was Nancy herself. It was the charming face with itshalo of red hair, and the delightful figure so rounded, sofull of warmth and charm, which concerned him.

He had no scruple as he feasted his eyes upon her. Hedid nothing to disguise his admiration, and Nancy, full ofher news and the thrilling joy of her success, saw nothingof that which a less absorbed woman, a more experiencedwoman, must unfailingly have observed.

"You've a big story for me," Peterman said, with alight laugh. "Have you completed an option on—Sachigo?You look well. You're looking fine. Travellingin Labrador seems to have done you good."

Nancy's smiling eyes were alight with delight.

"Oh, yes," she said. "It's done me good. But thenI've had a success I didn't reckon on. Maybe it's made allthe difference. It was a real tough journey. I'm not sureyou'd have seen me back at all if it hadn't been for Mr.Sternford."

"How?"

The man's smiling eyes had changed. Their darkdepths were full of sharp enquiry. Nancy read onlyanxiety.

"Why, we were sitting on deck, and it was storming.It was just terrible. We lurched heavily and shipped agreat sea. Our chairs were flung into the scuppers by therush of water, and I—why, I guess I was beaten unconsciousand drowning when he got hold of me. He justfought his way to safety. I didn't know about it till Iwas safe down in the saloon. I woke up then, and he wascarrying me—"

"Sternford?"

The change in the man's eyes had deepened. Then hissmile came back to them. But that, too, was different.It was curiously fixed and hard.

"You've gone a bit too fast for me," he said. "I don'tget things right. Sternford, the man running Sachigowas with you on the Myra? He's here—in Quebec?"

It was Nancy's great moment.

"Yes," she said, with a restraint that failed to disguiseher feelings. "He's come down to discuss a businessarrangement between the Skandinavia and his enterprise.That's what you wanted—isn't it?"

The man leant forward in his chair. He set his elbowson the desk and supported his chin in both hands. Hissmile was still there, and his eyes were steadily regardingher. But they expressed none of the surprise and delightNancy looked for. They were smiling as he literally forcedthem to smile.

"You brought him down with you—to meet us?" heasked slowly.

The girl nodded.

"You did your work so well that he entertained thenotion sufficiently to come along down—with you?"

"I—I—he's come down for that purpose."

The man's eyes were searching.

"Where is he?"

"At the Chateau. He's waiting to hear from you foran appointment."

Peterman flung himself back in his chair with a greatlaugh. Nancy missed the mirthless tone of it.

"Say, my dear," he cried at last. "How did you do it?How in—You're just as bright and smart as I reckoned.You've done one big thing and I guess you've earnedall the Skandinavia can hand you. But—"

He broke off, and his gaze drifted away from the facewith its vivid halo. The wintry daylight beyond thewindow claimed him, and Nancy waited.

"How did you persuade him to ship down on the Myrawith you?" he asked, after a moment's thought.

"I didn't persuade him. He volunteered."

"Volunteered?"

"Yes. He was coming down on her next trip. Yousee, he's making England right away. He guessed he'dcome along down with me instead. He seemed keen setto discuss this thing with you."

"I see. Keen set, eh? Keen set to talk with me?"

The man shook his head. It was not denial. It wasthe questioning of something left unspoken.

The girl became anxious. Somehow a sense of disappointmentwas stirring.

"Is there anything wrong?" she asked at last, as theman remained silent.

Peterman shook his head again.

"Not a thing, my dear," he said. "No. You've doneeverything. You couldn't have done more if—if you'dbeen 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 businessproposition. Guess only you could have done that." Helaughed. "And this man saved your life, eh? And hecarried you in his arms to—safety. Say he was lucky.That's something any man would be crazy to do. Well,well, I—"

He rose from his chair and passed round to the windowwhere he stood with back turned. Nancy's gaze followedhim. For all his praise she was disturbed.

The man at the window saw nothing of that upon whichhe gazed. His eyes were unsmiling now that the girlcould no longer observe them. They were the eyes of aman of unbridled jealous fury. They were burning withan insensate hatred for the man who had hitherto beenonly a stranger rival in business.

Oh, he understood. Was it likely that this Bull Sternfordwas going to yield for a business proposition in thisfashion at the request of a formidable rival? Was hegoing to change all his plans at the bidding of the Skandinavia,and seize the first boat to come and tell them he wasprepared to fall for any plans they might design to beathim? Not likely. No. It was the girl he had fallen for.He had changed his plans for her, and for his nerve he hadreaped 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 markeddown for his own. For how long? And she was allunconscious. Oh, it was maddening, infuriating.And—

Suddenly he came back to the desk. Nancy was relievedas she beheld the familiar smiling kindness in hiseyes.

"Well, my dear. I can't tell you how delighted I am toget you back," he said, pausing at her side. "My work'snot been by any means satisfactory with you away.There's just no one suits me in this house like you. Butthe thing I'm most glad about is your success. That'sbeen wonderful. I felt you would make good, but I didn'tknow how good. Now I'm going to ring this fellow up andfix things to see him. Meanwhile you get your big reportof the camps ready for the Board. Then, when you'reready, I'm going to let them see you, and hear it all fromyou first hand, and I'm going to get them to give you thehead of the forestry department right here. It'll be amighty jump, but—well—"

Nancy was on her feet and her eyes were shining agratitude which words could never express. Impulsivelyshe held out a hand in ardent thanks.

"Why, say—" she began.

The man had seized the delicate tapering fingers andheld them warmly in the palms of both of his.

"Now just don't say a thing," he said. "I know. Iknow just how you feel, and the things you want to say.But don't. You've earned the best, and I'm going to seeyou get it. I'm going to lose a smart secretary, but Idon't care if I make one good little friend. Now, Nancy,what about to-night? I think we ought to celebrate yourtriumphant return with a little dinner up at the Chateau.What say? Will you—honour me? Eight o'clock. Thankgoodness we're not a dry country yet, and it's still possibleto enjoy our successful moments properly. Willyou?"

Nancy longed to withdraw the hand the man still held.It was curious. Every word he said expressed just thosethings and tributes which her girlish vanity had desired.There was not a word in all of it to give offence. Butfor the second time she experienced a sense of troublewhich her woman's instinct prompted, and a feeling akinto panic stirred. But she resisted it, as she knew shemust, and her mind was quite made up.

"You're—very kind," she said, with all the earnestnessshe could summon, and with a gentleness that was intendedto disarm. "But I'm so very—very tired. Youdon't know what it was like on the Myra. We were batteredand beaten almost to death. I feel as if I needed sleepfor a week."

The man released her hand lingeringly. His disappointmentwas intense, but he smiled.

"Why, sure," he said, "if you feel that way. I hadn'tthought."

Then he turned abruptly back to his desk. "That's allright. Guess we'll leave it. You go right home and getyour rest."

For a moment Nancy hesitated. She was fearful ofgiving offence. She felt the man's disappointment in histone, and in the manner of his turning away. But shedared not yield to his request. Suddenly she remembered,and all hesitation passed.

"I—I just want to thank you for your kind thoughtsending me those flowers and fruit," she exclaimed. "Iwanted to thank you before, but I was too excited withmy news. I—"

The man cut her short.

"That's all right, my dear," he said. Then he noddedand deliberately turned to his work. "I'm glad. Now—justrun right along home and—rest."

Chapter XI—Drawn Swords

The palatial halls and public rooms of the hotel werecrowded. Everywhere was the hum of voices, whichpenetrated even to the intended quiet of the writing rooms.Every now and then the monotony of it all was broken bythe high-pitched, youthful voices of the messenger boysseeking out their victims.

Bull Sternford was at work. Within an hour of hisarrival he was plunged in the affairs connected with thegreat business organisation he projected. The earlier dateof his visit to Quebec had necessitated considerable changesin plans already prepared. He had entailed for himselfendless added work for the pleasure of the companionshipof a beautiful girl on the journey down the coast, andbegrudged no detail of it. Just now he was writing to anumber of important people, bankers and financial men,re-arranging appointments to suit his change of plans.

There was something tremendously purposeful in thepoise of the man's body as he sat at one of the manywriting tables scattered about the smoking lounge. Therewere few passers-by who did not glance a second time inhis direction with that curiosity which is unfailing inhuman nature at sight of an unusual specimen of theirkind.

Twice a name was called by a uniformed boy in thatunintelligible fashion which seems to be the habit of hisspecies. The boy hovered round. Then he came upbehind the chair on which Bull was seated and hurledhis final challenge.

"Sternford, sir?" he asked curtly.

His victim turned.

"Yes."

"Wanted on the 'phone, sir."

The boy was gone on the run. He had hunted hisquarry down. There were still fresh victories to beachieved.

* * * * *

Bull was at the 'phone, and his eyes were smiling atan insurance advertisem*nt set up for the edification andinterest of those whose use of the instrument preventedtheir escape.

"Yes. Oh, yes. Got in this morning. What's that?Oh, pretty rough. Yes. It's a bad sea most all thetime. Why, that's good of you, Mr. Peterman." Hissmile broadened. "Yes. You sent an excellent ambassador.A charming girl. Well, there's no time likethe present. Yes. I've lunched. I'm just through withmy mail. Four o'clock would suit me admirably. Whysure I'd like to. All right. G'bye."

He stood for a moment after replacing the receiver.Then, becoming aware of another wanting to use theinstrument, he moved away.

Returning to the smoking lounge he finished off hiscorrespondence and took possession of one of the couchesand lit a cigar.

For a time the hang-over of business pre-occupied him.But it was not for long. His whole thought swiftlybecame absorbed in Nancy McDonald, with her wonderfulhalo of vivid hair. It had been the same during thewhole of his journey down from Sachigo, in fact, fromthe moment he had first set eyes on her when she enteredhis office on that memorable day of her visit. She pre-occupiedall his leisure.

He had thought deeply on the meaning of her visitto him, and his thought had had little to do with themission she had come upon. Swift decision had dealtwith that. No, it was the girl herself who claimed him.

He understood the sheer design of the Skandinavia insending so perfect a creature to him. That was easy.It only helped to prove their desire—their urgent desire—tofree themselves from the threat of his competition.But he wondered at their selection.

Somehow he felt that the Skandinavia should havechosen, 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 thegame of commercial warfare. Instead of that they hadsent Nancy, with her sweetly beautiful face and perfecthair, to be their unthinking tool. He realised her simplicity,her splendid loyalty to those she served. Heknew she was without design or subterfuge. She wasjust the most beautiful, desirable creature he had everbeheld in his life.

He told himself it was all wrong. This wonderfulchild should never have been sent on such a journey, onsuch an errand. She was fit only for the shelter of ahappy home life, protection from every roughness, everytaint with which the sordid world of commerce couldbesmirch her. His chivalry was stirred to its depths,and the wrong of it all, as he saw it, only the more surelydeepened his purpose for his dealings with an unscrupulousrival who could commit so egregious an outrage.

Bull Sternford's existence, until now had always beena joyous heart-whole striving which had no more in itthan the calmly conceived ideals of a heart undisturbedby sexual emotions. Now—now that had been completelychanged. Perhaps he was not yet wholly aware of thething that had come to him. He saw a woman, a perfectcreature who had come to him out of the forest world inwhich his whole life was bound up, and a passionateexcitement had taken possession of him. There couldbe no denial of that. But so far the full measure of hisfeelings had not revealed itself. All he wanted was tothink of nothing and nobody just now, but this girl whohad stirred him so deeply. So he stretched himself outon the well-sprung couch and yielded to the delight ofit all.

But the hour he had been free to dispose of thus wasswiftly used up with his pleasant dreaming. And it waswith a feeling of real irritation that he finally flung awayhis cigar and bestirred himself. His irritation did notlast long, however, and his consolation was found in thefact that Elas Peterman was awaiting him, and ElasPeterman was the man who had so outrageously offendedagainst his ideas of chivalry.

He stood up and brushed the fallen cigar ash from hisclothing. His one desire now was to get through withthe business once and for all, to do the thing that shouldleave Nancy McDonald with the reward of her labours.Yes, he wanted to do that. Afterwards—well, he mustleave the "afterwards" to itself.

He hurried away in search of his heavy winter overcoat.

* * * * *

Elas Peterman looked up as the door opened to admithis visitor. His first impression startled him not a little.

It was the first time he had encountered the man fromSachigo.

Bull moved into the room with that large ease whichbig men so often display. And he paused and franklygripped the carefully manicured hand Peterman heldout to him.

"I'm real glad to meet you, Mr. Peterman," he saidquietly. Then he dropped into the chair set for him,while his eyes responded unsmilingly to the measuringgaze of the other.

"It's queer we've never met before," Bull said, leaningback in his chair.

Peterman laughed. He pushed a large box of cigarsclose to the visitor's hand.

"It's mostly that way with the high command in—war,"he said easily. "The opposing generals don't meet exceptat the—peace table. Those are Bolivars. Try one?"

Bull helped himself with a laugh that was about asreal as the other's.

"The pipe of—peace, eh?" he said.

"That's how I hope," Peterman replied.

Bull nodded as he lit his cigar.

"Most of us hope for peace, and do our best toaggravate war. That so?"

"It's damn fool human nature."

Peterman sat back in his chair, and laughed a littleboisterously. Then he turned to the window while Bullsilently consulted the white ash of his cigar.

"You're projecting a big thing in pulp," the Swedesaid a moment later. "You figger to split the Canadianpulp trade into two opposing camps. The Skandinaviaand the Labrador enterprises. It means one great, bigprolonged battle in which one or the other is to be beaten.Guess it's liable to be a battle in which the public'll gettemporary benefit, while we—who fight it—look likelosing all along the line. It seems a pity, eh?"

"War's a tough proposition, anyway," Bull repliedslowly. "Its only excuse is it's Nature's way of wipingout the fool mistakes and crimes human nature spendsmost of its time committing. If two sets of criminalsset out to grab, it's odds they'll do hurt to each other,and end by leaving the world easier when they're completelydespoiled."

Peterman laughed.

"Sure," he said. "And these fool criminals? Is thereneed for them to fall out?"

"None."

"That's how we of the Skandinavia feel. That's thenotion always in my mind. Say—"

"Yep?"

Bull's eyes were squarely gazing. Their clear depthslooked straight into the dark eyes of the man at the desk.Their regard was intense. It was almost disconcerting.

"What's the proposition?" he went on. And his firmlips closed over the last word and contrived to transformthe simple question into a definite challenge.

Peterman stirred uneasily. At that moment he beheldmore clearly than ever the picture of this man with hisgreat arms about the body of the woman he coveted,and feeling lent sharpness to his tone.

"What's the price you set on your enterprise up atLabrador?" he said.

Bull removed his cigar. He emitted a pensive streamof smoke. His eyes were again pre-occupied with thewhite ash, so firm and clean on its tip. Then quitesuddenly he looked up.

"If you'll tell me the price you set on the whole ofthe Skandinavia, I'll talk."

"What d'you mean?"

The Swede had less command of his feelings than theother. He had never learnt the methods of the forestas Bull had learned them.

"Why, I can't set a price on Sachigo till I know theprice you set on the Skandinavia," Bull's eyes were smiling."You see I should need to double it for—Sachigo."

The man from Labrador had driven home to the quick,and the Teutonic vanity of the Swede was instantlyaflame. Peterman had committed the one offence whichthe younger man could not forgive. He had dared, inhis vanity, to believe that the situation between themwas a question of price.

"I didn't invite you here to sell you—the Skandinavia,"Peterman blustered, giving way to anger he could notrestrain.

"No. And I didn't accept your invitation for thepurpose of selling—Sachigo. If there's any buying andselling going on you'd best understand quite clearly Iam the buyer."

There was a dangerous light in Bull's eyes levelled sosteadily on the angry face of the Swede.

"Then—it's war?"

Bull shrugged at the challenge.

"I'm quite indifferent," he said coldly.

There was a moment of tense silence. Then the Swedesmiled.

"You're ready then to let the fool public benefit atyour expense?"

"No." A smile of real humor flashed in Bull's eyes."At yours."

"You mean—you think to—smash us?"

"Just as sure as the sun'll rise to-morrow. Just assure as Providence set up forest and water powers onLabrador such as you've never dreamed of since youforgot your boyhood. Just as sure as your Shagaunty'splayed out and you need to start in on fresh limits youaren't sure of yet. Just as sure as they're going to costyou a heap more than when you were busy treating thefortune that Shagaunty handed you like the worst fool-headspendthrift who ever broke a bank at the gamblingtables."

Bull rose abruptly from his chair.

"I'm obliged for this interview, Mr. Peterman," hewent on. "It's suited me. That's why I came alongdown in a hurry. You're fortunate in that lady representative.Her tact and persuasion left me feeling youhad a real proposition that was worth considering. Iguess she'll go a long way for you, and if there's anylive person can help your ship along, she's that liveperson. But you can't buy me, and you can't smash me.I mean that. You see, I know your position. It's myjob to know the position of any possible competitor, andnaturally 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."

* * * * *

Bull was at the telephone again. He was again smilingat the insurance advertisem*nt. But now his smilewas of a different quality. It was full of delightedanticipation.

"Oh, yes," he was saying. "I spent quite a pleasantha'f hour with him. I enjoyed it immensely. Yes. Heseems to be the man to run an enterprise like yours. Hecertainly has both initiative and confidence. A littlehasty in judgment, I think. But—yes, I'd like to tellyou all about it. What are you doing this evening?Oh, resting. I suppose you eat while resting. Yes. It'snecessary, isn't it? Anyway I find it so. Eh? Oh,yes. You see, I've a big frame to support. Will youhelp me to support it this evening? I mean dinner here?Will you? Oh, that's fine. I'd love to tell you aboutit all. Fine. Right. Eight o'clock then. I'll go andarrange it all now. It shall be a very special dinner, Ipromise you. Good-bye."

He put up the receiver and turned away. His smileremained, and it had no relation to anything but hisdelight that Nancy McDonald had consented to dine withhim.

Chapter XII—At The Chateau

Nancy was standing before the mirror which occupiedthe whole length of the door of the dress-closet withwhich her modest bedroom had been provided by athoughtful architect.

She was studying the results of her preparations. Shewas to dine with Bull Sternford, the man who had caughtand held her interest for all she knew that they belongedto camps that were sternly opposed to each other. Shewanted to look her best, whatever that best might be,and she was haunted by a fear that her best could neverrank in its due place amongst the superlatives.

However, she had arrayed herself in her newest andsmartest party frock. She had spent hours, she believed,on her unruly masses of hair, and furthermore, she hadassiduously applied herself to obliterating the weatherstain which the fierce journey from Labrador had inflictedupon the beautiful oval of her cheeks. Now, atlast, the final touches had been given, and she wascritically surveying the result.

The longer she studied her reflection the deeper grewthe discontent in her pretty, hazel eyes. It was thesame old reflection, she told herself. It was a bit trickedout; a bit less real. It was a tiresome thing which gaveher no satisfaction at all. There was the red hair thatlooked so very red. There were the eyes, which, attimes, she was convinced were really green. There wasthe stupid nose that always seemed to her to occupy toomuch of her face. And as for her cheeks, the wind andsea had left them looking more healthy, but—Shesighed and hurriedly turned away. She felt that mirrorswere an invention calculated to upset the conceit of anygirl.

She moved quickly round the little room. Her gloves,her wrap. She picked them up. The gloves she waspainfully aware had already been cleaned twice, and hercloak had no greater merits than the modest-priced frockwhich had strained her limited bank roll. Then sheconsulted the clock on her bureau, and, picked up herscent-spray. This was the last, the final touch she couldnot resist.

In the midst of using it she set it down with a feelingof sudden panic.

She had remembered. She stood staring down at thedressing table with a light of trouble in her eyes. Thewhole incident had been forgotten till that moment. Sheremembered she had refused to dine with Elas Petermanthat night on a plea of weariness, and without athought had unhesitatingly accepted the invitation of theman whom the Skandinavia had marked down for itsvictim.

For some seconds the enormity of the thing she haddone overwhelmed her. Then a belated humour cameto her rescue and a shadowy smile drove the troublefrom her eyes.

Suppose—but no. Her chief would be dining at home,as was his habit. Then, anyway, there could be noharm. She was concerned in this thing. She had aright. She even told herself it was imperative she shouldknow what had transpired at the interview she hadbrought about. Besides, was there not the possibility ofcertain rougnnesses occurring between the two men whichit might be within her power to smooth down? Thatwas surely so. She had no right to miss any opportunityof furthering the ends of her own people.

Then she laughed outright. Oh, it was excuse. Sheknew. She was looking forward to the evening. Ofcourse she was. Then, just as suddenly all desire tolaugh expired. Why? Why was she looking forwardto dining with Bull Sternford?

Bull! What a quaint name. She had thought of itbefore. She had thought of it at the time when thelonely missionary of the forest had told her of him.

Swiftly her thought passed on to her meeting with theman himself. She remembered her nervousness whenshe had first looked into his big, wholesome face, withits clear, searching eyes. Yes, she had realised then thetruth of Father Adam's description. He would as soonfight as laugh. There could be no doubt of it.

And then those days on the Myra. She recalled theirtalk of the sea-gulls, and of the men of the forests, andshe remembered the almost brutal contempt for them hehad so downrightly expressed. Then the moment ofdisaster to herself. It was he who had saved her, hewho had fought for her, although he had been in littlebetter case himself.

What was it they had told her? He must be boughtor smashed. She wondered if they realised the manthey were dealing with. She wondered what they wouldhave felt and thought if they had listened to the confidentassurance of Father Adam. If they had listenedto Bull Sternford himself, and learned to know him asshe had already learned to know him. The Skandinaviawas powerful, but was it powerful enough to deal asthey desired with this man who was as ready to fight asto laugh?

She shook her head. And it was a negative movementshe was unaware of. Well, anyway, the game had begun,and she was in it. Her duty was clear enough. Andmeanwhile she would miss no opportunity to pull herwhole weight for her side, even when she knew that wasnot the whole thought in her mind.

But somehow there were things she regretted whenshe remembered the fight ahead. She regretted themoment when this man had saved her from almostcertain death against the iron stanchions and sides ofthe Myra. She regretted his fine eyes, and he hadfine eyes which looked so squarely out of their setting.Then, too, he had been so kindly concerned that sheshould achieve the mission upon which she had embarked.It would have been so easy and even exacting had hebeen a man of less generous impulse. A man whom shecould have thoroughly disliked. But he was the reverseof all those things which make it a joy to hurt. Hewas—

She pulled herself up and seized the pretty beadedvanity bag lying ready to her hand. Then the telephonerang.

It was the cab which the porter had ordered, and shehastily switched off the lights.

On the way down in the elevator her train of thoughtpersisted. And long before she reached the Chateau, afeeling that she was playing something of the part ofDelilah took hold of her and depressed her.

But she was determined. Whatever happened herservice and loyalty was in support of her early benefactors,and no act of hers should betray them.

* * * * *

The scene was pleasantly seductive. There was nodoubt or anxiety in Nancy McDonald's mind now. Howshould there be? She was young. She was beautiful.The man with whom she was dining was remarkableamongst the well-dressed throng that filled the greatdining-room. Then the dinner had been carefully considered.

But it was the delightful surroundings, the little excitementof it all that left the girl's thought care-free.The shaded table lights. The wonderful flowers. Thedark panelling of the great room constructed and designedin imitation of an old French Chateau. Then the throngof beautifully gowned women, and the men who purposedan evening of enjoyment. The soft music of thedistant string band and—oh, it was all dashed with atouch of Babylonic splendour with due regard for thedecorum required by modern civilisation, and Nancy wassufficiently young and unused to delight in every momentof it.

The first excitement of it all had spent itself, andlaughing comment had given place to those things withwhich the girl was most concerned.

"Folks can't accuse us of dilatoriness," she said. "Let'ssee. Why, we made land this morning after every sortof a bad passage, battered and worn, and in less thanhow many hours?—eight?—nine?—" she laughed."Why, I guess a sewing bee wouldn't have got throughtheir preliminary talk in that time."

"No." Bull too was in the mood for laughter. "Asewing bee's mighty well named. There's a big buzzmostly all the time, and the tally of work only needsto be figgered when the season closes. We've settled upthe future of two enterprises liable to cut big ice inthis country's history in record time."

"You've settled with Mr. Peterman?"

"Roughly."

The man's eyes were shining with a smile of keenenjoyment.

Nancy experienced a thrill of added excitement as shedisposed of her last oyster.

"I haven't a right to butt in asking too many questions,"she suggested.

Bull tasted his wine and thoughtfully set his glassdown. Then he looked across at the eager face alightwith every question woman's curiosity and interest couldinspire. He smiled into it. And somehow his smilewas very, very gentle.

"That's pretty well why we're here now though," hesaid. "You can just ask all you fancy to know, andI'll tell you. But maybe I can save you worry by tellingyou first."

"Why, yes," Nancy said eagerly. "You see, I'm onlya secretary. I'm not one of the heads of the Skandinavia.I sort of feel this is high policy which doesn'treally concern me. You're sure you feel like telling me?Was Mr. Peterman—friendly?"

"As amiable as a tame—shark."

"That's pretty fierce."

Bull shook his head.

"It's just a way of putting it. Y'see even a tameshark don't get over a lifetime habit of swallowing mostthings that come his way. Peterman figures to swallowme—whole."

Nancy's eyes widened. But the man's tone had beenundisturbed. There was a contented smile in his eyes,and an atmosphere of unruffled confidence about him thatwas rather inspiring. The girl felt its influence.

"You mean he figures to have you join up with theSkandinavia?"

Bull shook his head as the waiter set the next courseon the table.

"No. He guesses the Skandinavia can buy me."

"I—see."

Nancy waited. She remembered this man was asready to fight as to laugh. Somehow she scented thebattle in him now, for all the ease in his manner.

"I told him it couldn't. I pointed out if there wasany buying to be done I figgered to do it."

"You mean you would buy up—the Skandinavia?"

Bull's smile deepened. The girl's incredulity amusedhim. He understood. To her the Skandinavia Corporationwas the beginning and end of all things. In her eyesit was the last word in power and influence and wealth.She knew nothing beyond—the Skandinavia. A man inher place would have received prompt and biting retort.But she was a girl, and Bull was young, and strong, andat the beginning of a great manhood. He shook his head.

"Well, not just that," he said. "But say, let's get itright. How'd a woman feel if she'd an elegant babychild, thoroughbred from the crown of his dandy baldhead to the pretty pink soles of his feet? Just a smallbit of her, of her own creation. Then along comes somebig, swell woman, who's only been able to raise a noaccount, sickly kid, an' wants to buy up the first mother'sbit of sheer love. Wouldn't she hear the sort of thingsa woman of that sort ought to? Wouldn't she get hellraised with her?"

"But the Skandinavia's no—sickly kid."

The girl's eyes were challenging. There was warmth,too, in her retort. His words had stirred her as heintended them to stir her.

"You think that?" he said. "You think that theyhave the right to demand my—child? You approve?That was your desire when you came to me—thatthey should buy me up?"

Bull's smile still remained. There was no shadow ofchange in it. But his questions came in headlongsuccession.

Just for an instant a feeling of helplessness surgedthrough the girl's heart. Then it passed, leaving her quitefirm and decided. She looked squarely into the smilingeyes, and hers were unsmiling but earnestly honest.

"My approval isn't of any concern. I knew that wasthe Skandinavia's purpose when I came to you."

"And you called it a business arrangement?"

"No. You did."

The man broke into a laugh. It was a laugh of sheeramusem*nt.

"That's so," he said. "You were going to hand methe story of your mission, and I—and I butted in andtold it to you—myself."

The girl nodded.

"You were very good to me," she said. "You saw Iwas going to flounder, and you took pity on me."

Bull's denial was prompt.

"I just short-circuited things. That's all," he said.Then he laughed again. "And I'm going to do it againright now. Here, I want you to hear things the way theyseem to me. You think the Skandinavia's no sickly kid.Well, I tell you it is. Anyway, in this thing. Petermanwants to buy me. Why? Don't you know? I thinkyou do. The Skandinavia's got a mighty bad scare rightnow. The Shagaunty's played out. And I'm jumpingthe market. For the practical purposes of the momentthe Skandinavia's mighty sick. So Peterman and hisfriends reckon to buy me. You're wise to it all?"

Bull's eyes were levelled squarely at the girl's. Therewas a challenge in them. But there was no roughness.It was his purpose to arrive at the full measure of thegirl's feelings and attitude, so far as this effort on thepart of his rivals was concerned.

Nancy was swift to understand. In an ordinary wayher reply would have been prompt. There would havebeen no hesitation. But, somehow, there was reluctancein her now. She made no attempt to analyse her feelings.All she knew was that this man had a great appeal forher. He was so big, he was so strongly direct and fearless.Then, too, his manner was so very gentle, and hisexpressive eyes so kindly smiling, while all the whileshe felt the fierce resentment against her people goingon behind them.

After a moment decision came to her rescue. She wasof the opposing camp. She could not, and would not,pretend. It was clear that war lay ahead, and her positionmust be that of an honest enemy.

"Yes," she said simply. "I think I know all there isto know about the position."

She hesitated again. Then she went on in a fashionthat displayed the effort her words were costing.

"We're out to buy you or break you, and I shall playthe part they assign me in the game. Oh, I've nothingto hide. I've no excuse to make. You will fight yourbattle, and we shall fight ours. Maybe we shall learn tohate each other in the course of it. I don't know. Yetthere's nothing personal in the fight. That's the queerthing in commercial warfare, isn't it? I'd be glad forour two concerns to run right along side by side. Butthey can't. They just can't. And, as I understand,one or the other's got to go right to the wall before we'rethrough. Can't all this be saved? Must all this sort of—bloodshed—goon? We're two great enterprises, and,combined, we'd be just that much greater. Togetherwe'd rule the whole world's markets and dictate our ownterms. And then, and then—"

"We'd be doing the thing I'm out to stop—if it costsme all I have or am in this world."

For a moment the man's eyes forgot to smile, andNancy was permitted to gaze on the great, absorbingpurpose his manner had hitherto held concealed. Shewas startled at the passionate denial, and robbed of alldesire to reply.

"Here!" Bull set his elbows on the table and supportedhis chin on his hands. "Get this. Get it good,and all the time. I wouldn't work with the Skandinaviafor all the dollars this country's presses could print.I'm not going to hand you the reason. Some day, maybewhen your folks have smashed me, or I've smashedthem, I'll tell you about it. But I tell you this now,there's no sort of business arrangement I ever figgeredto enter into with Elas Peterman, and there's no sortof thing in God's world ever could, or would, induceme to come to any terms of his."

Then his manner changed again, and his passionatemoment became lost in a great laugh.

"Maybe you'll want to know why I changed my plansso 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 hislaugh had gone again. "Anyway, it served my purpose,and Peterman knows just how things stand—and aregoing to stand—between us."

"Then it's war? Ruthless, implacable—war?" Therewas awe in the girl's tone and her lips were dry. Shesipped her wine quickly to moisten them, and set theglass down with a hand that was not quite steady. Bullsaw the signs of distress.

"Oh, yes, it's war all right," he said quietly. "Maybeit's ruthless, implacable. But it's part of the game.Don't worry a thing. You're in the enemy lines. You'vegot your duty. So far you've done your duty; and you'vemade good, and will get the reward you need. Well,go right on doing that duty, and there isn't a justcreature on God's earth that'll have right to blameyou. I won't blame you. Go right on; and whenit's all through, I'll be ready to sit here with youagain, and talk and laugh over it, as we've beendoing—"

He broke off. A frightened look had leapt into Nancy'seyes. She was no longer attending to him. She waswatching the tall, squarely military figure of a manmoving down one of the aisles between the softly littables. The man's dark eyes were searching over theroom, as he followed the head waiter conducting him tothe table that had been reserved for him. Bull turnedand followed the direction of the girl's gaze. And as hedid so he encountered the cold, unsmiling glance of theother man's eyes. It was only for an instant. Thenhe turned back to the girl.

"Friend Peterman," he said.

Nancy made a pretence of eating.

"Yes," she said, without raising her eyes.

Nancy's emotion was painfully obvious. Bull realisedit. She was afraid. Why? A swift thought flashedthrough the man's mind, to be followed by a feelingsuch as he had never known before. Hitherto ElasPeterman had represented only a sufficiently worthyadversary who must be encountered and defeated. Now,all in a moment, that was changed into something fiercer,more furiously human and abiding.

"Does it matter?" he asked very quietly.

Nancy looked up from her plate. There was a flickerof a smile in the eyes that a moment before had expressedonly apprehension. She shook her head.

"I don't know—yet," she said. Her smile deepened."You see, I refused to dine with him here to-night. Iexcused myself on a plea of weariness. I really did wantrest. But—well, I didn't want to dine with him, anyway.He's seen me—with you."

"Do you often dine with him?"

The man had no smile in response, and his questioncame swiftly.

"I've never dined with him."

Bull sat back. His eyes were smiling.

"Well, I guess the answer's easy. You're here fightingfor the Skandinavia. And I'd say you've been doing itmighty well. Maybe Peterman'll feel sore, but he'll seeit that way after—awhile."

Chapter XIII—Deepening Waters

Nancy thought long and earnestly over her breakfast.She thought deeply as she proceeded to her office. Eventhe business of again taking up the thread of her workfailed to absorb her.

Apprehension disturbed, and a certain sense of guiltweighed upon her. The vision of the tall figure of ElasPeterman as it moved down the dining-room at theChateau remained with her. She had caught the glanceof his dark eyes. She knew he had recognised her; andthere had been neither smile nor recognition in the swiftexchange that had passed between them.

So she answered the usual morning summons of herchief without any pleasant anticipation. She expected abad time, and strove to prepare herself for it.

But alarm vanished the moment she ushered herselfinto the man's presence. He was not at his desk poringover his littered correspondence. She found him standingbefore his favourite window, gazing out reflectivelyupon the grey light of the early winter day. He turnedat the sound of her entry, and his smile of greeting lackednothing of its usual cordiality.

Had she observed him a moment before it must havebeen different. But she had been spared all sight of themood that had driven him to abandon urgent correspondencein favour of the drab outlook beyond the window.It was a bad expression. It was the expressionof a man of fierce cruelty. It was not an expression ofopen, hot anger, which flares up, passes, and is forgottenlike the fury of a summer storm. It was rather the slowlybanking clouds of winter, piling up for a climax thatshould be devastating. And through it all he had smiled,smiled with angry eyes that seemed to grow colder andharder every moment.

Nancy knew little of the world, and less of men andwomen. It could not have been otherwise. Vital witha youthful optimism and strong purpose, she had devotedherself to work to the exclusion of everything else. Andbefore that there had only been the scrupulous care ofthe good matrons of Marypoint. A wider experience, amaturer mind would have yielded her doubt as she beheldthe man's smiling greeting now. She would havereminded herself of her offence, and understood itsenormity in the eyes of a man. She would have hada better appreciation of her own attractions, and wouldhave long since understood this man's regard for her.

As it was she snatched at the relief his smile inspired.

The man laughingly shook his head as the girlapproached.

"Nancy, my dear, I hope Mr. Bull Sternford gave youas good a dinner as I would have given you, and—asgood a time generally. You look well rested, anyway."

There was a sting in the words that all the man's carecould not quite shut out. But the tone was of intendedgood-nature. In a moment Nancy was explaining.

"Oh, I know you must think me terribly mean," shecried impulsively. "You must think I was just lying toyou when you asked me to dine yesterday. But it wasn'tso. It surely wasn't. May I tell you about it?"

The man came back to his desk, and indicated theempty chair beside it.

"Sure, if you feel that way," he said, droppinginto his seat while Nancy took hers. "But I'm notangry. Truth I'm not." For a moment he gazedsmilingly into the girl's troubled eyes. "Here," hewent on. "I'll tell you just how I think. Maybe youwon't figger it flattering, but it's just plain truth. NowI'm a married man and you're a young girl. Well, theChateau isn't the sort of place for you and me to be seentogether in. I didn't think of it when I asked you. Ijust wanted to hand you a good time for the good workyou've done. Sort of prize for a good girl, eh? I hadn'tanother thought about it. And when you refused me,and I thought it over, I was kind of glad—I might havecompromised you, and I certainly would have compromisedmyself. You get that? You understand me?Of course you do. That's what I like. You're so darnsensible. Now you tell me—if you fancy to?"

Nancy sighed her relief. Her last cloud had passedaway.

"Oh, yes," she began at once. "I do want to tellyou. You see I think it's all-important."

"Yes."

The man's smile was unchanged. But there was adryness in his monosyllable that only Nancy could havemissed.

"Mr. Sternford 'phoned me after his interview withyou."

"He had your 'phone number?"

"Surely, I gave him that before he left me afterdriving up from the docks."

"I see. Of course. You drove up together after landing.I forgot."

Nancy laughed.

"I don't think I told you," she said. "But it doesn'tmatter, anyway. Yes, he drove me up. And the wholeof this affair was so interesting I just had to hear theresult of the interview with you. So I told him my 'phonenumber. Well, right after he'd seen you he rang me up.He told me he couldn't speak over the 'phone the thingsthat passed, and asked me to dine. I just had to fallfor that. You see, this thing meant so much to me.It was the first big thing I'd handled, and—and I was socrazy to make good for you. So I promised. And itwasn't till after it was all fixed I realised the mean wayI'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 todeath. But I had to hear about the things you'd fixed."

"And you heard?"

The man was leaning on the desk with one hand supportinghis head. Not one shadow of condemnation orresentment was permitted in voice or look. And thegirl was completely disarmed. But her smile died outand a swift apprehension, that had no relation to herself,replaced it. In a moment her mind had gone back tothe declaration of war which was to involve the twoenterprises.

"Yes. He told me."

"And—?"

"Oh, it's all wrong. It's all foolish, and wrong, andjust terrible," she broke in impulsively. Then she becamecalmly thoughtful, and her even brows drew togetherin an effort to straighten out the things she wantedto say. She shook her head. "I'm sure he can behandled," she went on deliberately. "Oh, yes. In spiteof the things they say of him."

"What's that?"

"Why he's as ready to fight as to laugh."

"Who says that?"

"That's the way they speak of him."

"Who speaks that way?"

Nancy laughed.

"It was just a queer sort of missionary who told me.I met him when I was at Arden Laval's camp. A manthey call Father Adam."

Peterman nodded.

"And you guess he can be handled?"

"I think so." Nancy spread out her hands. "Oh,it's not for me to talk this way to you, Mr. Peterman,but—but—"

"Go on." The man was patiently reassuring as thegirl hesitated. "It's good to hear you talk. And thenit was you who got him to listen to our proposal at all."

The compliment had prompt effect. The girl's cheeksflushed, and a light of something approaching delightshone in the hazel depths of her eyes.

"I don't know," she cried. "But it seems to me he'ssort of reasonable. He's kind of full of ideals and thatsort of notion. He's out for a big purpose and all that.But I don't believe he'd turn down any business arrangementthat would hand him the thing he wants—"

"Business arrangement?" Peterman sat up. Thelaugh accompanying his words was full of amiablederision. He shook his head. "If he won't sell he's gotto be smashed. That's the only business arrangement thatsuits us. We're far too big for compromise. No, mydear. He won't sell. He asked to buy us. He—thisdarn fool man from Sachigo. He thinks to buy theSkandinavia like he's buying up all the mills he can layhands on. But he bit off a chunk when he handed thatstuff 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'llget it plenty."

"Then you mean to—smash him?"

"Just as sure as it's started to snow right now," theman exclaimed, pointing at the window.

Nancy's gaze followed the pointing finger. But it wasnot the snow she was thinking of. It was the man whomshe beheld staggering under the tremendous weight ofthe Skandinavia's might. She felt pity for him. Andincautiously she permitted Elas Peterman to realise herpity.

"Can't anything be done?" she ventured gently."Have you handled him? I mean—Oh, I'm sure he'sreasonable. Can't the offer be made—more suitable?More—?"

Peterman's eyes suddenly hardened.

"What do you mean? I haven't handled him right?I've blundered? I—" He laughed without any mirth."See here, Nancy, my dear, you're a bright girl, but don'thand me your worry for this darn fool. You're kind oftender-hearted. You guess it's a pretty tough thing tosee a good-looker boy go down in a big commercial fight.That's because you're a woman. This sort of thing'spart of business. It's harsher, more ruthless than evenwar on the battlefield with guns, and bombs, and stinkinggas. We're going to fight this thing just that way.There's no mercy for Mr. Bull Sternford. He'll get allI 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 thosethings that are going to make you big in the Skandinavia,and don't give a thought for the feller who's handed mestuff I don't stand for in any man. There's liable to bebig work for you in this fight, and I'd say you'll makeas good in fight as in peace. You've got my goodwillanyway, my dear, just for all it's worth. That's all."

* * * * *

The door had closed behind the girl. Elas Petermanwas on his feet pacing the thickly carpeted floor. Therewas no longer any attempt at disguise. A surge ofjealous fury was raging through his hot heart and drovehim mercilessly.

The picture of Nancy, radiantly beautiful, seated atdinner with Bull Sternford had lit a fire of bitter hatredin his Teutonic heart. So he paced the room and permittedthe fierce tide to flood the channels of sanity andset them awash with the ready evil of his impulse.

From the first moment of the girl's story of hersuccessful effort with this man, Sternford, this vauntingrival, Peterman had been bitterly stirred. Theman's change of plans at her bidding he had understoodon the instant. The man from Labrador had not changedhis plans at the bidding of the Skandinavia. It was thegirl who had induced him. It was she who had attractedhim. Then the boat trip, and the girl's confession of hishaving, perhaps, saved her life. What had precededthat incident? What had followed it? And when ElasPeterman asked himself such questions it was simplefor him to find the answer. He had seen Sternford, andhad judged the position. He knew what would havehappened had he been in this man's place. Sternfordwasn't the man to throw away such chances, either. Hehad fallen for the girl, and she doubtless had—Thepicture he had witnessed at the Chateau had left himwithout any doubt. The driving up together from thedocks, the telephone. Sternford had taken her to herapartment. Oh, it was all as clear as daylight. Thenthe girl's pity for the man who was to feel the weight ofthe Skandinavia's wrathful might. She had said he wasreasonable. She had hinted that he, Peterman, hadblundered. There was only one reasonable interpretationto the position. And it did not leave him guessing forone single moment.

Once he passed a fleshy hand up over his forehead andbrushed back his dark hair. Once he came to a pausebefore his window and stood gazing out at the fallingsnow with hot eyes. No such fury of jealousy had everentered into his life before. Never had he dreamedbefore of the tremendous hold this girl had obtainedupon him. His claim on her had all seemed so natural,so easy. He had looked upon her as property that wasindisputably his. He might have learned something fromhis feelings when he had paraded her before Hellbeam.But he had not done so. Now he knew. Now he knewthe whole measure of them. And the bitterness of hisawakening was maddening.

Well, Bull Sternford should get away with no play ofthat sort at his expense. He warned himself that he wasno simple fool to be played with. And if Nancy wantedthe man— But he broke away from under the lash ofimpotent fury, and turned to a channel of thought whichwas bound to serve a nature such as his in his presentmood.

He returned to his desk and flung himself into thechair. And after a while his mind settled itself to thetask his mood demanded. He sat staring straight aheadof him, and presently the heat passed out of his eyes, andthey grew cold, and hard. Later, they began to smileagain—but it was a smile of cruelty, of evil purpose. Itwas a smile more unrelenting in its cruelty than anyfrown could have expressed.

* * * * *

For the first time Nancy's eyes were open to the thingsof life as they really were. She had tasted a certainbitterness in the early days of her girlhood. But up tillnow the world had seemed something of a rose gardenin which it was a delight to labour. Up till now she hadseen no reverse to the picture of life as youth had paintedit for her. Now, however, it was borne in upon herthat there was a reverse, a reverse that was ugly andpainfully distressing. It was this declaration of warbetween her own people and the man from Labrador.

She lay in her bed that night thinking, thinking, andwithout any desire for sleep. Strive as she would tosearch the position out logically, to estimate the truemeaning of it all, to fathom the chances of this war, andto grasp the necessity for it, all these efforts only resultedin a tangle of thought revolving about the picture of ayouthful man of vast stature, with eyes that were alwaysclear-searching or smiling, and with a head of hair thatreminded her of a lion's mane. And as she gazed uponthis mental picture there were moments when it seemedto her there was grave trouble in the clear depths whichso appealed to her. The smile in her eyes seemed to fadeout, to be replaced by a look that seemed to expressthe 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, thesigns of defeat she discovered in the man's eyes gaveher no joy, no satisfaction.

She felt that the battle could end only one way. Themight of the Skandinavia was too great for anythingbut 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—smashed. That wasthe word they used—smashed.

How she hated the word. The big soul of him withhis ready kindliness. Oh, it was a pity. It was a distractingthought. And why should it be? For the lifeof her she could see no need. A little yielding on hispart. Just a shade less iron stubbornness. The wholething could have been avoided she was sure. The olivebranch had been held out by the Skandinavia. But hehad deliberately refused it.

No. He had made himself their enemy. Then surelythere could be no complaint at the disaster that wouldovertake him. He was clearly to blame. So why letthe contemplation of it distract her?

She strove a hundred times to dismiss the whole thingfrom her mind. She courted sleep in every conceivableway. But it was all useless. The man's fine eyes andgreat body haunted her. They pursued her to her lastwaking thought. And, at last, she fell asleep, thinking ofthe strong supporting arms that had held her safe fromthe fury of Atlantic waves.

Chapter XIV—The Planning Of Campaign

Nathaniel Hellbeam sat ominously calm and unruffledwhile Elas Peterman told of his meeting with Bull Sternford.He gave no sign whatever. There was just theflicker of a smile of appreciation of Bull's effronterywhen he heard of his response to Peterman's invitationto sell. That alone of the whole story seemed to affordhim interest. For the rest, it had only been the sort ofthing he expected.

He waited until the other had finished. Then hestirred in his chair. It was an expression of relief thathis long, silent sitting had ended.

"So," he said. "We do not buy him. No. Wesmash him."

There was obvious satisfaction that the more peacefulprocess was to be set aside.

He sat blinking at his subordinate in the fashion of aman who is thinking hard, and has no interest in theobject upon which he is gazing.

"It is as I think—all the time," he said at last. "Thatis all right. I make no cry out. It is easy to fight. Iwould fight always with an enemy. It is good. Nowmy friend, you have acted so. You bring the man fromSachigo to tell you to go to hell. Eh? Well you havethought much? You have planned for the fight? Howis it you make this fight?"

Elas was standing before the desk. He had, yieldedhis place to this man who was master of the Skandinavia.Now he looked down at the square-headed creature withhis gross, squat body. It was a figure and face bristlingwith venom and purpose; and somehow he was consciousof a sudden lack of his usual assurance.

"Oh, yes," he replied thoughtfully. "I've planned—sure.But I guess I'm in the dark a bit. It's going tocost a deal. It's not going to be easy. You were readyto buy. It was not necessarily to be the Skandinaviawho bought. Well, are you—going to vote the creditfor this fight?" He smiled uncertainly. "And to whatextent?"

"The limit. Go on."

Peterman nodded.

"There's no commercial enterprise that can stand idleness.His work must stop. His—"

"That is the A.B.C. of it."

There was sharp impatience in the financier's bitingtone.

"Just so. It is the A.B.C. of it."

Hellbeam set back in his chair. He clasped his handsacross his stomach.

"I will tell you," he said, a wicked smile lighting hisdeep-set eyes, his cheeks rounding themselves in hissatisfaction. "His work will stop. His mill is faraway. There is no protection from attack except thatwhich he can set up himself. He is going away. He willhave eighteen hundred miles of water between him andhis mill. It should be easy with a good plan and all themoney. Listen.

"His work must stop. How? There are ways. Hismill may burn. His forests may burn. His men mayrevolt. They may refuse to work for him. All, or anyof these things may serve. There are men at all timesready to carry out these things. You can tell them, oryou need not, the way they must act." He shook hishead. "You say to them his work must stop; and youpay them more than he can pay them. So his work willstop. That is so? Yes? Very well. There is ha'f amillion dollars that will pay for his work to stop. I saythat."

Peterman was startled. He had not been prepared forso sweeping a proposal. He had understood that theman had been prepared to stand at almost nothing inhis desire to achieve some end, the nature of which stillremained somewhat obscure to him. For all his ownlack of scruple in his dealings with those who offended,the calm, fiendish purpose of this man shocked him nota little.

He took the chair usually occupied by his visitors.

"You will pay ha'f a million dollars for this thing?"he demanded, to re-assure himself.

Self-satisfaction looked out of the eyes of the manbehind the desk.

"More—if necessary."

"By God! You must hate this boy, Sternford."

Peterman's feelings had broken from under his control.

"Sternford? Psha! It is not Sternford. No."

The smile had gone from Hellbeam's eyes. They werefiercely burning. They were the hot, passionate eyes ofa 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.

Hellbeam sat forward in his chair. His forearms wereresting on the desk, and his hands were clenched so thatthe finger-nails almost cut into the flesh of their palms.His massive face was flushed, and the coarse veins athis temples stood out like cords.

"Here, I tell you," he cried gutturally, returning in hisfury to the native Teuton in him. "Can you hate—yes?Have you known hate? Eh? No. You the white liverhave. You cannot hate. It is not in you. Oh, no. Itis for me. Yes. It has been so for years. And I tellyou it is the only thing in life. Woman? No. I haveknown them. They mean little. They are a pleasure thatpasses. Money? What is it when you play the marketas you choose? The day comes when you can helpyourself. And you no longer desire so to do. Hate?That lives. That feeds on body and brain. That consumestill there is only a dead carcase left. Ah! Hateis for the lifetime. It can leave all those others as nothing.In it there is joy, despair, all the time, every hour of life."

He held up one hand and opened his fingers. Thenhe slowly closed them with a curious expressive movementof ruthless destruction.

"You hate and you think. You see your vengeance inoperation. You see him there in your hand; and yousee the blood sweat as you squeeze and crush out thelife that has offended. Man, it is a joy that never leavesyou till you accomplish this thing. Then, after, youhave the memory. And while you think, even thoughhe is dead, smashed in your grip, he still suffers as youthink. Oh, yes."

"And you hate—that way?"

A feeling of sudden fear had taken possession ofPeterman. This gross, squat man had become somethingterrible to him.

"Ja!"

The Teuton leapt in the furious emphasis hurled.

"Oh, ja! I hate. I tell you of it."

The man with the insane eyes picked up a pen. Heturned it about in his fingers. Then, suddenly, butslowly, the fingers began to break it. The wood splitunder their pressure, and the pieces littered the table.He gazed at them for a moment. Then one hand clenchedand came down with a crash on the blotting pad. Thenhe sat back in his chair again, with his cruel eyes gazingstraight out at the window opposite.

"It is years now. Oh, yes." A deep breath escapedfrom between the man's coarse lips. "I ruled the markets.I ruled them so that they obeyed me. I was the moneypower 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 woketo find I was beaten of ten million dollars; and that WallStreet, the markets of the world, were laughing that thisschoolmaster, 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 tellit 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 tohate."

The narrowed eyes came back to the face of the manbeside the desk. There was a sharp intake of breath.

"This mill, this Sachigo, was built out of my money.And the man who built it was the man who robbed mewhile I slept."

A world of fierce bitterness lay in the final words, andthe man listening realised the enormity of the offence, asthis man saw it. But he was left puzzled.

"But you would have—bought this Sachigo?" he said,said.

Hellbeam's eyes were again turned to the window.

"Oh, yes," he said. "I would have bought. It wouldbring me to meet this man. It is that I ask. That only.My hands would close upon him. And I would see theblood sweat of his heart ooze under them."

Hellbeam had finished. Peterman understood that.The passion had passed out of his eyes and the veins ofhis forehead were no longer distended. He remainedgazing at the window.

For some moments the younger man made no attemptto intrude further. He had little desire to, anyway.Without scruple himself, he still found little pleasure inprobing the heart of this man, who was so powerful inhis own destiny. That which he had witnessed hadserved 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 wellbeingin the Skandinavia, that he must make no mistakein the warfare he must wage against the people of Sachigo.It was for him to wage the battle with every faculty thatwas in him; and any failure of his would mean disasterfor himself. This was no commercial warfare. It wasthe insane purpose of a monomaniac.

In those silent moments Elas Peterman thought with arapidity inspired by the urgency he felt to be drivinghim. And the fertility of his imagination served himunfailingly. Oh yes. Necessity was driving. But so,too, was his own personal feelings. He saw in the positionthat this man had revealed an advantage to himselfhe had never looked for. With the necessary moneyforthcoming, and no directors to concern himself with,literally a free hand, he could employ a power which, inthese days of unrest and hatred between capital andlabour, would be well-nigh overwhelming. The moralityof it, the ultimate consequence of it mattered nothing.The smashing of Sachigo would mean the smashing ofBull Sternford. And he saw a way whereby the smashingof Bull Sternford could be achieved through—

His mind focused itself, as it was bound to do, uponthis thing as it affected his own desires. He, too, was apassionate hater, for all Hellbeam's denial. His thoughtleapt at once to Nancy McDonald and the man who hadthrust himself between him and his desires. Whateverinsane hatred lay behind Hellbeam's purpose, it was notone whit more insensate than Elas Peterman's feelingsagainst the man who had come down from Sachigo atNancy's bidding.

Suddenly he looked up and glanced at the man occupyingthe chair that was his. Hellbeam was still gazingat the window, pre-occupied with his own thoughts.

"You can leave this thing in my hands, sir," he said."Our organisation has been working steadily to underminethe Sachigo people for months past. That hasalways been part of our policy. I'd say the whole thing'sgoing to fit very well. You say, if necessary, you'll findhalf a million dollars for the business. We shan't needa tithe of that. However, it's well to know it. Andnone of it needs to worry our directors. I'll set about itright away—in my own fashion—and I'll promise you aquick result. We'll smash these folk all right. But howit's to hand you the man you need I'm not wise—"

"No." Hellbeam's eyes were certainly derisive as theyturned back from the window. "This man, Martin,will show himself when he sees the—destruction. Mypeople will do the rest."

"Unless he leaves it—to Sternford. They tell us thisman would as soon fight as laugh. That's how MissMcDonald said the missionary, Father Adam, told her."

"Father Adam?" The derision in the financier's eyeshad deepened. "That's the man that other fool talks of."

Peterman shrugged. The sting in the financier's wordsstirred him to resentment.

"I don't know about that. Anyway—"

"How is it you say? Get busy. Yes."

Hellbeam rose stiffly from his seat and picked up hishat. He was quite untouched by the other's changeof tone.

"Do it how you please. Break that mill. I care nothingfor the means. Smash 'em, and leave the rest tome. And when you that have done you can do the thingyou please. You will have my good will. I say that.Now I go."

* * * * *

Peterman picked up the 'phone the moment the doorhad closed behind the one man in all the world he reallyfeared, and at the other end of it Nancy took the messagesummoning her to his presence. The man spoke withunusual urgency. But his tone was pleasant, and morethan conciliatory. He wanted her at once. She couldleave her reports. She could leave everything. He hadsome news for her of the pleasantest nature. Oh, yes.He had determined big things for her. She had earnedthem all. But a thing had happened whereby thereneed be no limit to her advancement if she would takethe chance of a big work offered her. Would she kindlycome up right away.

Nancy listened to this message with a stirring of heart.What was the great work that was to place no limit onher advancement? It was a feeling rather than a thought.For a moment she stood in her glass-partitioned officeafter she had received the message and a smile of greathappiness lit her eyes.

She was desperately earnest with a singleness of purposewhich had in it something of the recklessness of thefather before her. She was a child in all else. A widevision of achievement was spread out before her. Shecould see nothing beyond. She could see nothing to giveher pause, nothing even to bestir a belated caution.So she left her office for the interview Peterman haddemanded without suspicion, and with a heart and mindready to plunge her headlong into any labours whichthe Skandinavia demanded of her.

She had completely forgotten, in that moment ofexultation, the squarely military figure that had passeddown the dining-room of the Chateau, and the coldlyunsmiling eyes with which it had regarded her as she satwith her companion over their memorable meal.

Chapter XV—The Sailing Of The Empress

Bull Sternford was reading over the telegram he hadjust written. Its phraseology was curious. But it expressedthe things he wanted to say, and he knew it wouldbe understood by the man to whom it was addressed.

He smiled as he looked up from his reading. Anacquaintance passed through the hall of the hotel. Henodded to him. Then the smile died out of his eyes, andit was like the passing of a gleam of sunshine. He passedthe message across the counter to the attendant and paidfor it.

War! It was only an added development in the courseof the ceaseless work of life. The thought of it disturbedhim not one whit. It was the element in which he thrived.But for all that his mood had lost much of its usualequanimity.

For two weeks he had applied himself assiduously tothe work upon which he was engaged. He had travelledhundreds of miles to the other capital cities of the countryin pursuit of his affairs. He had worked in that expressfashion which was characteristic of him. But under itall, through it all, a depressing disappointment hung likea shadow over every successful effort he put forth. Thememory of an evening at the Chateau haunted him.The vision of smiling hazel eyes and a radiant crowningof vivid hair filled every moment of his waking dreaming.He had not seen or heard of Nancy McDonald since thatfirst night in Quebec.

To-morrow he sailed for England. The thought of itafforded him none of the satisfaction with which he hadalways looked forward to that journey. Yet it meantno less to him now. On the contrary. It really meantmore. It meant that his work was marching forwardto the great completion which was to crown his labours,and the work of those others who had conceived thetask.

It should have been a wonderful moment for him. Thehouse of Leader and Company of London had thrownits doors open to him in welcome. Sir Frank Leader withhis millions, his shipping, his great power, and the confidencewhich his name inspired in British commercialcircles, would not fail. The prospect lying ahead, forall the threatened war, should have stirred him to a keenenthusiasm that achievement was within his grasp. Butnone of these emotions were stirring.

He felt if he could only see Nancy McDonald, that perfectcreature with her amazing beauty and splendidcourage, just to exchange a few words, just to receiveher smiling "bon voyage," and even to hear her laughingdeclaration of her frank enmity, why—it would—Butthere was no chance now—none at all. He sailed to-morrow.

He had dreamed a wonderful dream since first he hadbeheld the charming fur-clad figure enter his office atSachigo. He had realised, even in those first moments,the impish act of Fate. Nancy McDonald was the onewoman in the world who could mean life—real life tohim, and they were definitely arrayed against each otherin the battle for commercial supremacy in which theywere both engaged.

But Fate's act had only added to his desire. Thewhole thing had appealed to his combative instinct. Ithad left him feeling there was not alone the storming ofthe Skandinavia's stronghold to be achieved. There wasalso a captive, a fair, innocent captive held bound andprisoned within the citadel for him to set free. Hewanted Nancy as he wanted nothing else in the world.Sachigo? Canada for the Canadians? These thingswere cold, meaningless words. He only thought of thedawning of the day that should see Nancy his wife, hiseverything in life.

He betook himself out on to the Terraces overlookingthe slowly freezing waterway of the great St. Lawrenceriver. It was keenly cold, and the white carpet ofwinter'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, likehimself, had found leisure for a half hour of one of thefinest views in the world.

He paced leisurely down the great promenade towardsthe old Citadel with all its memories of great men, andthe old time Buccaneers who had made history aboutit* walls. He gazed upon it and wondered. Were theysuch bad old days? Were the men who lived in thosetimes great men? Were they scoundrelly Buccaneers?Were their scruples and morals any more lax than thoseof to-day? Were they any different from those whowalked under the shadow of the old walls? They werethe questions doubtless asked a thousand times in asmany minutes by those who paused to think as theycontemplated this fine old landmark.

Bull found his own prompt answers. There was nodifference, he told himself. The men and women of to-daywere doing the same things, enduring the same emotions,fighting the same battles, living and loving, and hatingand dying, just as life had ordained from the beginningof time. And as he stood there he wondered how longthis round of human effort and passion must continue.How long this—

"Why, I hadn't an idea you were so interested in ourold history as to be wasting precious time out here inthe snow, Mr. Sternford."

The challenge was full of pleasant, even delightedgreeting. And Bull snatched his cigar from his lips andbared his head.

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 downinto eyes that had never ceased from their haunting.

He shook his head.

"If you'll believe me I wasn't wasting time," he said."I came out here for a very definite purpose. I've donethe thing I hoped. Do you know I guessed I'd have tosail to-morrow without seeing you again?"

Nancy's eyes sobered. And without their smile Bullthought he detected a cloud of trouble in them.

"I didn't know you were sailing to-morrow," she said."It's just a chance I couldn't help that let me meet younow."

"You mean you avoided me—deliberately?"

Bull's smile had passed. But there was no umbragein his manner. The girl's appeal for him was never sogreat as at that moment. She had never been more beautifulto him. He had first seen her in that same longfur coat, and had gazed into her pretty eyes under thesame fur cap. He was glad she was so clad now. To hismind no other costume could have so much charm forhim.

"Yes."

The simple downrightness of the admission might havedisconcerted another. But its honesty and lack of subterfugeonly pleased the man.

"That's what I thought. It's this business standingbetween your folk and me?"

Nancy nodded.

"Yes. We are enemies."

"That's so," Bull agreed. "That's the pity of it. Ifyou were on my side—"

"But I'm not. No." Nancy's denial was almost sharp.It certainly was hurried. "I'm kind of glad I've seenyou, though," she went on. "I've had it in mind I wantedto say things to you." A smile came back to her eyes."You see, there are enemies and enemies. There's theenemy you can regard well. There's the enemy you canhate and despise. Well, I just want to say we're enemieswho don't need to hate and despise—yet. I don't knowhow things'll be later. Maybe you'll learn to hate megood before we're through. But that's as maybe. I'mgoing to do my work for all I know for my folks. I'mgoing to be in this fight right up to my neck. I've beenwarned that way. Well, that being so, I'm going to fightwithout looking for quarter, and I shall give none. Thatsounds tough, doesn't it? But I mean it. And I wantedto say it before things start. I'm glad I've had the chance—againstmy notions of things."

Bull laughed. He was in the mood to laugh—now.

"It sounds fine. Say—"

"Are you laughing at me?"

"There isn't a thing further from my thoughts."Bull's denial was sincere and prompt. "I'm glad youhappened along. I'm glad you said those things. Fightthis war—as I shall—with all that's in you. It don'tmatter a thing if you're right or wrong. Fight it squareand hard for your folk, and there isn't a right man orwoman, but who'll respect you, and think the better ofyou for it. A good fight's no crime when you're convincedyou're right."

The girl drew a deep breath, and, to the man, it seemedin the nature of relief. A great anxiety for her stirredhim.

"I'm glad you said that," she said. Then she gazedreflectively up at the old ramparts. "No. It's nocrime to fight when you're convinced. Besides it's right,too, to fight for your side at any time. That's how I seeit. You'll fight for yours—"

"Any old how." Bull's eyes were deeply regarding.They were very gentle. "Here," he went on, "fight hasa clear, definite meaning for me. I fight to win. I'llstop at nothing. It's always a game of 'rough andtough' with me. Gouge, chew, and all the rest of it.Frankly, there's a devil inside me, when it's fight. I wantyou to know this, so your scruples needn't worry you."

"Yes."

Nancy's gaze was turned seawards.

"And you sail—to-morrow? When do you return?"she asked a moment later.

Bull smilingly shook his head.

"We are at war," he said.

The girl's eyes came back. She, too, smiled.

"I forgot." Then she added: "You go by the Empress?"

"Yes."

They had both contrived to make it difficult. Thebarrier was growing. Both realised it, and Nancy wasstirred more than she knew. She had seen this manand hurried over to him. She had purposely denied himfor two weeks, but the sight of him on the promenade hadbeen irresistible. Now—now she hardly knew what tosay; and yet there were a hundred things struggling inher mind to find expression. She was paralysed by thememory of the recent interview she had had with heremployers—the great financial head of her house included—whereinshe had learned all that the coming warmeant personally to herself. She would have given worldsat that moment to have been able to blot out that memory.But she had no power to do so. It loomed almost tragicallyin its significance in the presence of this man.

Bull found it no less difficult. He had striven to makethings easy for her. He had no second thought. Andnow he realised the thing he had done. His words hadonly served to fling an irrevocable challenge, and thus,finally and definitely, made the longed-for approach betweenthem impossible.

He drew a deep breath.

"Yes. I sail on the Empress."

"And you are glad—of course?"

Bull laughed.

"Some ways."

"You mean—?"

"Why, I shouldn't be sailing if things weren't goingmy way," he said. Then he turned about and his movementwas an invitation. "But let's quit it," he said."Let's forget—for the moment. You don't know whatthis meeting has meant to me. I wanted to see you, ifonly to say 'good-bye.' I thought I wasn't going to."

They moved down the promenade together.

Nancy did her best. They talked of everything butthe impending war, and the meaning of it. But thebarrier had grown out of all proportion. And a greatunease tugged at the heart of each. At length, as theycame back towards the hotel, Nancy felt it impossible togo on. And with downright truth she said so.

"It must be 'good-bye'—now," she said. "This is allunreal. It must be so. We're at war. We shall be ateach other's throats presently. Well, I just can't pretend.I don't want to think about it. I hate to rememberit. But it's there in my mind the whole time; and itworries so I don't know the things I'm saying. It's bestto say 'good-bye' and 'bon voyage' right here. Andwhatever the future has for us I just mean that."

She held out her hand. It was bare, and soft, andwarm, as the man took possession of it.

"I feel that way, too," he said. "But—" he brokeoff and shook his head. "No. It's no use. You've theright notion of this. Until this war's fought out thereis nothing else for it. You'll go right back to yourcamp and I'll go to mine. And we'll both work out howwe can best beat the other. But let's make a compact.We'll do the thing we know to hurt the other side themost we can. If need be we'll neither show the othermercy. And we'll promise each to take our med'cine asit comes, and cut out the personal hate and resentmentit's likely to try and inspire. We'll be fighting machineswithout soul or feeling till peace comes. Then we'll bejust as we are now—friends. Can you do it? I can."

For all the feeling of the moment Nancy laughed.

"It sounds crazy," she exclaimed.

"It is crazy. But so is the whole thing."

"Yes. Oh, it surely is. It's worst than crazy."Passion rang in the girl's voice. Then the hazel depthssmiled 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."

Their hands fell apart. Bull had held that hand, sosoft and warm and appealing to him, till he dared holdit no longer.

"Thanks," he said. "Good-bye. I can set out witha good heart—now."

* * * * *

It was again the luncheon hour. It was also the hourat which the Empress was scheduled to sail. Nancy wasagain on the Terrace. But now she was standing on theedge of the promenade—alone. She was gazing downat the grey waters of the great river, searching witheager eyes, and listening for the "hoot" of the vessel'ssiren. This was the last departure the Empress wouldmake from Quebec for the season. By the time shereturned across the ocean the ice would deny herapproach, and she would make port farther seawards.

Nancy had come there in her leisure just out of simpleinterest, 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 bravea man's hopes must be crushed and all his plans broken,but that was all. She told herself these things verydeliberately.

And so she had hurried over her mid-day meal, lestshe should miss the sight of the Empress steaming out,with Bull Sternford aboard.

The day was cold and grey. There was snow in theheavy clouds, and the north wind was bitter. But itmattered nothing. Waiting there the girl's feet in theirovershoes grew cold. Her hands were cold. Even herslim, graceful body under its outer covering of fur wasnone too warm. But her whole interest was absorbed andshe remained so till the appointed time.

Oh, yes. It was simply interest in the departure ofthe vessel that held her. Just the same, as it was simplyinterest that stirred her heart and set it a-flutter, as thesound of the ship's siren came up to her from below. Andsurely it was only a 'God-speed' to the departingvessel that was conveyed in the fluttering handkerchiefshe held out and waved, as the graceful giant passed outinto the distant mid-channel.

Chapter XVI—On Board The Empress

It was the second day out and the passengers on theEmpress had already settled down to their week's trip.

The sea was calm, with just that pleasant, lazy swellwhich the Atlantic never really loses. The decks werethronged with a happy company of men and womendetermined not to lose one single moment of the bodilyease which the clemency of the weather vouchsafed tothem.

Bull Sternford was amongst them. Engulfed in aheavy fur overcoat, he stood lounging against the lee railof the wide promenade deck, contemplating the oilyswell of the waters. His great stature was somewhatmagnified by his voluminous coat, with its deep, upturnedstorm-collar. There was that about him toattract considerable attention. But he remained unconsciousof it, and his aloofness was by no means studied.

Deep emotion was stirring. A man of iron nerve andpurpose, a man of cool deliberation under the harshestcirc*mstances, just now Bull was afflicted like the veriestweakling with alternating hope and doubt, and somethingapproaching indecision. The youth in him wasplunged in that agony of desire which maddens withdelight and drives headlong to despair. His wholehorizon of life had changed. Old scenes, old dreams, hadbeen suddenly blotted out. And in their place was thewonderful vision of a girl with vivid hair and gentle eyes.Nancy—Nancy McDonald. The name was always withhim now, unspoken, unwhispered even; but occupyingevery waking thought.

It was a time of reckless resolve, of hot-headedplanning. He knew in his sober moments how almostimpossible was the position. But these were not sobermoments. He told himself, in his headlong way, that ifNancy was chained in the heart of Hell he would seekher out, and claim her. She should be his even thoughevery infernal power were arrayed against him. His eyeswere alight with a fierce smile, as he contemplated thegrey waters. It was a smile of conscious strength, ofreckless purpose. Well, he was ready. He was—

"Guess we'll git this sort of stuff all the way."

Bull started and swung around. A fur-coated man witha dark close-cropped beard was leaning over the railbeside him. He was expensively clad. His astrachancollar was turned up about his neck to shut out somethingof the biting winter air; and a cap of similar fur waspressed low down over his dark head. Bull noted theman's appearance, and his reply was promptlyforthcoming.

"Maybe," he admitted without interest.

"Sure we will. It's always that way with theEmpress's last trip of the season from Quebec. I mostgenerally make it for that reason. Your first trip?"

"No."

"It's my nineteenth. You see," the stranger went on,"I can't spare summer time. I'm too full gettin' ordersout. I'm in the lumber business. It's only with thefreeze up I can quit my mills. Have a cigar?"

Bull had no alternative. The man was there to talk,and his desire to do so was frankly displayed.

"I won't smoke, thanks," Bull replied without offense."It's too near dinner."

"Dinner? There's a ha'f hour to the dressing bugle."The stranger returned the elaborate case stuffed full oflarge, expensive cigars to his pocket, and drew out a goldcigarette case instead. "Still I don't blame you a thing.Cigars? Me for a cigarette all the time. I don't guessany feller ever heard tell of tobacco, till he'd inhaled agood, plain Virginia Cigarette."

Bull looked on while the man wasted half-a-dozenmatches lighting his beloved cigarette. He was notwithout interest. There was a slightly Jewish casteabout his face which was frankly smiling, and lit withshrewd, twinkling dark eyes. He conveyed, too, somewhatblatantly, an atmosphere of abounding prosperity.

Bull laughed as the cigarette was finally lighted.

"That's better," he said. "Now—you can inhale."

"Sure I can." The man's smile was full of amiability."Inhale anything. Say, up in the camps I've inhaledtea-leaves rolled in cracker paper before now. Ever hita lumber camp?"

"Yes."

"But not out West? British Columbia?"

"No. Only Quebec."

The stranger shook his head disparagingly.

"Quebec! Psha! Quebec ain't a thing. It ain't acirc*mstance," he said complacently. "No, sir. TheWest. That's the place for lumbering. B.C. West ofthe Rockies. Man, it's the world's greatest proposition.The place you can spend a lifetime cutting ninety footbaulks, and lose track of where you cut. Quebec'smostly small stuff," he went on contemptuously, "pulp-woodan' that." He shook his head. "It's no place forcapital. And, anyway, the Frenchies have got the wholedarn place taped out. Oh, they're wise—the Frenchies.If a feller's lookin' to get ahead of 'em he needs to stakeout the Arctic, where you'd freeze the ears of a brassimage. The Frenchies got it all. The only big stuff lieson Labrador, anyway. I know. I prospected. No, it'sme for the big hills, West. The big hills and the bigwaterways that 'ud leave Quebec rivers looking like aleak in a bone dry bar'l. My name's Aylin P. Cantor,Vancouver, B.C. Maybe you know the name?"

Bull shook his head.

"I'm not—"

"Oh, it don't matter," interjected Mr. Cantor. "Yousee, the West's one hell of a long way—west. I justdidn't get your—"

"Oh, my name's Sternford."

Mr. Cantor's face beamed.

"Why I'm glad to know you, Mr. Sternford," heexclaimed. Then a quick, enquiring upward glance ofhis shrewd eyes suggested recollection. "But say—youain't Sternford of Labrador? The groundwood outfitup at—up at—"

"Sachigo?"

"That's it, sure. Guess I'd lost the name a moment."

Bull nodded amusedly.

"Yes. That's where I hail from. And, as you say,there's big stuff up there, too."

"Big? Why I'd say. Well, now! That's fine!I've heard tell big yarns of Labrador. It's just greatmeeting—"

The man broke off at the sound of the first blast of thedressing bugle.

"Why, it's later than I guessed," he said. "Anyway,you'll take a co*cktail with me? This vessel's good andwet, thanks be to Providence, and the high seas beingpeopled with fish instead of cranks. I hadn't a notionI was goin' to run into a real lumberman on this trip.It's done me a power of good."

* * * * *

Aylin P. Cantor was a diverting creature for all hisappearance of ostentatious prosperity. Good fortunehad undoubtedly been his, and his whole being seemedto have become absorbed in the trade which had sogenerously treated him. Before the co*cktail was consumedBull had listened to a long story of BritishColumbia, and forests of incomparable extent. He hadalso learned that a country estate, miles in extent, outsidethe city of Vancouver, and the luxuries associatedwith the multi-millionaire had fallen to the lot of AylinP. Cantor. But somehow there was no offence in it all.The man was just a bubbling fount of enthusiasm anddelight that this was so. He simply had to talk of it.

But the acquaintance was not to terminate over aco*cktail. Shipboard offers few avenues of escape to theman seeking to avoid another. So it came that Bullfound himself sipping a brandy, reputed to be one hundredyears old, over his coffee after dinner, while Aylin P.Cantor told him the story of how it came into hispossession at something far below its market value.

Later, again, while the auction pool was being sold, hefound himself ensconced on a lounge in a far corner ofthe smokeroom beside his fellow craftsman, still listeningchiefly, and absorbing fact and anecdote pertaining to asuccessful lumberman's life. And it was nearly eleveno'clock, and the pool had been sold, and the bulk of theoccupants of the smoking-room were contemplating theirlast rubber of Auction Bridge, when the busy-mindedwesterner consented to abandon his particular venue fora brief contemplation of the despised East.

"Oh, I guess there's money in your territory, too," hecondescended at last. "I ain't a word to say againstthe stuff I've heard tell of Labrador. But you're frozeup more'n ha'f the year. That's your trouble."

"Yes."

Bull nodded over the latter portion of his third cigarwhich Mr. Cantor had not permitted him to escape.

"Sure," the man laughed. "Oh, the stuff's there.I know that. But Labrador needs a mighty big nerve toexploit. I heard it all from a feller I met when I wasprospecting Quebec. You see, I had the notion of playinga million dollars in the Quebec forests once. But Iweakened. I kind of fancied my chance against theFrenchies 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 ofLabrador, if it hadn't been for the feller who put mewise."

"Who was that?" Bull had lost interest, but theman invited the enquiry.

"Oh, a sort of missionary crank," Cantor returnedindifferently. "You know the sort. We got 'em outWest, too. They hound the boys around, chasin' themheavenwards by a through route they guess they knowabout." He laughed. "But the boys bein' just boys,the round up don't ever seem to make good; and thatthrough trip looks most like a bum sort of freight in thewash-out season. Outside his missioner business I guessthe guy was pretty wise, though. And his knowledgeof the lumber play left me without a word. He knew itall—an' I guess he told it to me."

Bull laughed. But the laugh was inspired by thethought that there could be found in the world a man whocould leave Aylin P. Cantor without a word on thesubject of lumber.

"I'd like to make a guess at that feller," he said."There's just one man I know who's a missionary inQuebec who knows anything about Labrador. Did hecall himself, 'Father Adam?'"

"That's the thing he did."

"Ah, I thought so." Bull's smile had passed."Where did you meet him?" he went on after amoment.

"On the Shagaunty. The Skandinavia Corporationterritory. He told me he'd just come along throughfrom Labrador."

"Oh, yes?"

Mr. Cantor laughed.

"Why he took me to his crazy shanty and handed mecoffee. And he talked. My, how he talked."

"Did he know you were—prospecting?"

There was no lack of interest in Bull now. His steadyeyes were alight, as he watched the stewards movingamongst the tables, setting the place straight for thenight.

"Yes. I told him."

Cantor's dark eyes were questioning. As Bullremained silent he went on.

"Why? Is he interested for the Skandinavia to keepfolk out?"

Bull shook his head.

"No. It isn't that. He's a queer feller. No, I'dsay he's got just one concern in life. It's the boys.But you're right, he knows the whole thing—the wholegame of lumbering in Eastern Canada. And if he toldyou and warned you, I'd say it was for your good ashe saw it. No. He's no axe to grind, and though youfound him on the Skandinavia's territory, I don't thinkhe likes them. I'm sure he doesn't. Still, he's not concernedfor any employer. He just comes and goeshanding out his dope to the boys, and—You know theforest-jacks. They're a mighty tough proposition. Well,it's said they feel about Father Adam so if a hair of hishead was hurt they'd get the feller who did it, and they'dcut the liver out of him, and pass what was left feed forthe coyotes."

Mr. Cantor nodded.

"Yes, I sort of gathered something of that from thefolks I hit up against. It seems queer a feller devotinghis life to bumming through the forests and seekin' shelterwhere you couldn't find shelter from a summerdew. He's got no fixed home. Maybe he's sort ofcrazed."

Bull was prompt in his denial.

"Saner than you or me," he said. "You know I'd wantto smile if I didn't know the man. But I know him,and—but there we all owe him a deal, we forest men.And maybe I owe him more than anyone."

"How's that?"

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 ofthe lumberman speculatively. Then he smiled, andpicked up his glass and drained the remains of his whiskyand soda.

"Why, he's more power for peace with the lumber-jacksof Quebec than if he was their trade leader," hesaid, setting his empty glass down on the table. "Weemployers owe him there's never any sort of trouble withthe boys."

"I see." Mr. Cantor gazed out across the nearlyempty room, and a shadowy smile haunted his eyes."And if there was trouble? Could you locate him intime?"

"We shouldn't need to. He'd be there."

The lumberman stirred, and persisted with curiousinterest.

"But he must have a place where you folks can gethim? This coming and going. It's fine—but—"

Bull stood up and stretched himself.

"Oh, he's got a home, all right. It's the forests."

Mr. Cantor threw up his hands and laughed.

"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—yousay he ain't—or he's dodging daylight."

But Bull had had enough. Deep in his heart was afeeling that no man had any right to pry into the lifeof Father Adam. Father Adam had changed the wholecourse of his life. It was Father Adam who had madepossible everything he was to-day—even his associationwith Nancy McDonald. He shook his head unsmilingly.

Father Adam's one good man," he said. "And Iwouldn't recommend anyone to hand out anything to thecontrary within hearing of the men of the Quebec forests.Good-night."

He strode away. And Mr. Cantor followed him,slight and bediamonded in his evening clothes. Andsomehow the dark eyes gazing on the broad back ofthe man from Labrador had none of the twinklingshrewdness the other had originally observed in them.They were quite cold and very hard. And there was thatin them which suggested the annoyance inspired by a longevening of effort that had ended in complete failure.

The man's dark, foreign-looking features had lostevery semblance of their recent good-natured enthusiasm.

Chapter XVII—The Lonely Figure Again

The laden sled stood ready for the moment of startingon the day's long run. Five train dogs, lean, powerfulhuskies, crouched down upon the snow. They gave nosign beyond the alertness of their pose and the watchfulnessof their furtive eyes. Their haunches weretucked under them. And their long, wolfish muzzles,so indicative of their parentage, were pressed downbetween great, outstretched forepaws.

The man studied every detail of his outfit. He knewthe chances, the desperate nature of the long wintertrail. He had no desire to increase the hardship of itall by any act of carelessness.

Behind him lay the mockery of a camping ground.It was a minute, isolated bluff of stunted, windswepttrees, set in a white, wide wilderness of barren land.Perhaps there was some half a hundred of them. Butthat was all. They had served, but only by reasonthat their shelter had satisfied habit, which, even in themen of the long trail, will not be denied.

He turned away. Everything was to his satisfaction.So his tall, fur-clad figure passed in amongst the dwarftrees.

The dogs remained crouching, their fierce eyes gazingout over the desolate expanse of winter's playground.It lay at a great altitude, several thousands of feetabove the level of the sea. The sky was drab. It wasbitter with threat. It was unrelieved by any break inthe menacing winter cloud. It was a snow sky whichonly refrained from releasing its burden by reason of thehigh, top wind that drove the heavy masses relentlessly.The earthly prospect was no more inviting. It waswide, and flat, and devoid of vegetation. There wereno hills anywhere, and the skyline was just a vanishingpoint 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.

When the man re-appeared he was armed with asturdy "gee-pole," and at his belt was coiled a heavy-thonged,short-stocked driving whip.

Without a word he thrust the pole under the front ofthe sled runners, and a sharp command broke from hislips. The effect was instantaneous. Each dog sprangat his "tug." The man heaved on his pole. Therewas a moment of straining, then the holding ice gaveup its grip, and the sled shot forward.

The man stood for a moment beating his mitted hands.Then he took his place on the sled, buried his legs andfeet under the heavy seal robes set ready, and so thelong-waited command to "mush" was hurled at thewaiting beasts.

The dogs leapt at their work and the sled swept forwardwith a rush. A blinding flurry of snow dust rosein its wake, enveloping it, and the dogs raced on, yelpingwith the joy of activity. Their great muscles wereaquiver with the eager spirit which is bred of the wild.And so they would continue to run, for their load waslight, and the heavy-thonged whip was playing in skilfulhands, and they knew, and feared, and obeyed itsconstant threat.

The way lay across the frozen bosom of a great lake,no less than an inland sea, and a hundred miles must betravelled before night, or the snow, overtook them. Itwas a hard run. But it must be accomplished. Failure?But failure must not be considered. No man couldcontemplate failure and face the winter trail in thebarren desolation of the lofty interior of Labrador's untrackedwild.

The austerity of the country was well-nigh overwhelming.The nakedness of it all suggested a skeleton worldrobbed of everything that could make existence possible.It suggested a world that was sick, and aged, and too unfruitfulto harbour aught but the fierce elemental stormsof the northern winter. And the cold of it ate into thebones of the lonely figure passing through the greatsilence like a ghost.

* * * * *

The night was deathly still. A thermometer wouldhave registered something colder than sixty degreesbelow zero. Not a breath of wind stirred. The onlysound that came was the doleful note of a prowling wolfin the forest belt near by, and the booming protest ofthe trees against the bitterness of winter.

The sky was ablaze with a myriad jewels in a velvetsetting. And a cold wealth of aurora lit the northernheavens. Camp had been pitched well wide of the nearbyforests, and three men sat crouching over the fire. Therewas little enough to differentiate between them. Theywere white men, and all were clad, from their headsto the soles of their seal hide moccasins, in heavy furs.The dark outlines of two sleds showed up a few yardsaway, but the dogs, themselves, were not visible. Wearywith their day's run they had betaken themselves totheir nightly snow burrows to dream over past battles,past labours.

The men were talking earnestly in the low, slow toneswhich the silence of the forests seems to inspire. Threepairs of bare hands were outheld to the welcome blazeof the fire. Three pairs of clear gazing eyes searchedthe heart of it. None were smoking. It would havebeen a burden to keep the pipe stem from freezing even inthe vicinity of the fire, and none of them were in anymood to accept any added burden.

A blue-eyed, beardless youth shifted his gaze to thedark face directly opposite him beyond the fire.

"Oh, we got that guy—good," he said. There waslaughter in his eyes but not in his tone. "We got himplumb at the game. He was chock full of kerosene andtinder, and he'd fired the patch in several places. We wereon 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 alucifer, and his body's likely handed plenty feed to anywolf straying around."

The dark man across the fire nodded.

"Did he hand a squeal before—he went?"

"Not a word. Hadn't time. Peter here didn't ast athing either."

The youth laughed softly, and the man called Petertook up the story.

"Tain't no use arguin' with a feller loaded with kerosenein these forests," he said, in a low grumbling way. Thenhe reached down and snatched a brand from the fire andflung it out on the snow. His action was followedswiftly by a wolfish howl of dismay. Then he againturned his grizzled, whiskered face to the dark man beyondthe fire. "You see, Father, it's our job keepingthese forests from fire, an' it ain't easy. It don't muchconcern us who's out to fire 'em. That's for otherfolks. 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'."

Bob laughed

"We sure have," he said. "But we don't allerspull it off. No. We've had ten fires on our range intwo weeks. We've beat the fires, but we ain't smashedthe 'bugs' that set 'em."

"Would they be all one feller? The feller that gotit?" The dark man's eyes were serious. His tonewas troubled.

Peter shook his head.

"No, sir. There's more'n one, sure. An' from thethings I've heerd tell from the boys on the neighbourin'ranges it's happening all along through our limits. Theytell me there's queer things doin' an' no one seems tolocate the meaning right."

"What sort of things?"

The dark man spoke sharply. Peter's reply came afterprofound deliberation.

"Oh, things," he said. Then he thrust a gnarledbrown hand up under his fur hood, and scratched hishead. "There's our forest 'phones. They're bein'cut. It's the same everywhere. There's most alwaysthings 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 thejacks 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 athing to help that way. You see, it's their living, it'stheir whole life. We got so we can't depend a thing onthe 'phones. An' cut our forests 'phones and we'regropin' like blind men."

"Yes."

The leaping flames were dropping, and Bob movedout to the store of fuel. He returned laden, and packedthe wood carefully to give the maximum blaze. Thenhe squatted again, and again his hands were thrust outto the warmth which meant luxury.

Peter had no more to add. His grey eyes searchedthe heart of the fire as he reflected on the things whichwere agitating his mind.

"I want to get word down, but I can't depend onthe 'phones," he said presently. "If they ain't cut Ican't tell who's gettin' the message anyway. Maybethe wires are bein' tapped."

The man across the fire nodded.

"I'm going down," he said.

"I'm glad." Peter's acknowledgment came with anair of relief. "I'll hand you a written report before youpull out."

"It's best that way."

The fire was leaping again. Its beneficent warmth wasvery pleasant. Bob turned his eyes skyward.

"You'll get a good trip, Father," he said. "Thatsnow's cleared out of the sky. It 'ud ha' been hell if ithad caught you out on the lake."

"Yes. I wouldn't have made here. I wouldn't havemade anywhere if that had happened." The dark manlaughed.

Peter shook his head.

"No. You took a big chance."

"I had to."

"So?"

"Yes. I had to get through. There's a big piece oftrouble coming."

"To do with these fires?"

"I guess so."

"I see."

Peter's comment was full of understanding. Afterawhile the other looked up.

"Guess I need a big sleep," he said. "I've got topull out with daylight. Anything you want besidesthat written report passed on down?"

Peter shook his head and sat on awhile blinking silentlyat the firelight. Then the dark man scrambled to hisfeet. He stood for a moment, very tall, very bulky inhis fur clothing, and nodded down at the others.

"So long," he said. And he moved off to his sleepingbag which was laid out to receive his tired body.

* * * * *

The man stood just within the shelter of the twilitforests. He was a powerful creature of sturdy build,hall-marked with the forest craft which was his life. Hewas clad in tough buckskin from head to foot. Evenhis hands, which he frequently beat in a desire forwarmth, were similarly clad. His weatherbeaten facewas hard set, and his eyes were narrowed to confrontthe merciless snow fog which the rage of the blizzardoutside hurled at him.

The cold was almost unendurable even here in thewooded shelter. Outside, where the storm raged unrestrainedlyover its fierce playground, only blind hopelessnessprevailed.

There was nothing to be done. He could only wait.

He could only wait, and hope, or abandon his vigil,and return to his camp which was far back in the heartof the forests. Away out there, somewhere lost in theblinding fog of the blizzard, which had only sprung upwithin the last hour, a lonely fellow creature was makingfor the shelter in which he stood. He was driving headlongtowards him. Oh, yes. He knew that. He hadseen the moving outfit far off, several miles away, overthe snowy plains, before the storm had arisen. Now—wherewas he? He could not tell. He could not evenguess at what might have happened. Blinded, freezing,weary, how long could the lonely traveller endure andretain any sense of direction?

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 wayalong a life-line lest the slightest deviation in directionshould carry him out into the storm to perish of cold,blinded and lost?" Oh, yes. This understanding wasthe alphabet of his life.

As he stood there watching and wiping the snow fromhis eyes, he reminded himself not only of his ownexperience but of every story of disaster in a blizzard hehad ever listened to. And so he saw no hope for the poorwretch he had seen struggling to make the shelter.

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 beimparted without delay, news which his employers musthear at the earliest possible moment.

His trouble grew as he waited. He searched his mindfor anything calculated to aid the doomed traveller. Hecould find nothing. He thought to call out, to burst hislungs in a series of shouts on the chance of being heard inthe chaos of the storm. But he realised the uselessnessof it all, and abandoned the impulse. No puny humanvoice could hope to make impression on the din of theelemental battle being fought out on the plain. No.His only service must be to stand there beating life intohis numbing hands, ready to act on the instant shouldopportunity serve.

He was eaten up by anxiety, and so took no cognisanceof time. He had forgotten the passing of daylight.Therefore sudden realisation flung him into headlongpanic. The forest about him was growing dark. Thesnow fog outside had changed to a deeper hue. Nightwas coming on. The man in the storm was beyond allaid, human or otherwise.

The impulse of the moment was irresistible. Hemoved. He passed out from behind the long limbs ofhis leafless shelter. He went at a run shouting withall the power of his lungs. Again and again his prolongedcry went up. And with each effort he waitedlistening, listening, only to receive the mocking replyof the howling storm. But he persisted. He persistedfor the simple human reason that his desire outran hispower to serve. And in the end exhaustion forced himto abandon his hopeless task.

It was then the miracle happened. Far away, itseemed, a sound like the faintest echo of his own voicecame back to him, but it came from a direction all utterlyunexpected. For a moment he hesitated, bewildered,uncertain. Then he sent up another shout, and waitedlistening. Yes. There it was. Again came the faintlyechoing cry through the trees. It came not from theopen battle ground of the storm, but from the shelter ofthe forests somewhere away to the north of him.

* * * * *

A tall, fur-clad figure stood nearby to the sledwhich was already partly unloaded. A yard or twoaway a fire had been kindled, and it blazed comfortinglyin the growing dusk of the forest. It was the momentwhen the forest man came up somewhat breathlesslyand flung out a mitted hand in greeting.

"I guessed you were makin' your last run for shelter,Father," he cried. "I just hadn't a hope you'd makethrough that storm. You beat it—fine."

The tall man nodded. His dark eyes were smiling acordiality no less than the other's.

"I guessed that way, too," he said quietly. "ThenI 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?"

"Bad."

The two men looked squarely into each others eyes,and the gravity of the forest man was intense. The manwho had just come out of the storm was no less serious,but presently he turned away, and for a second his gazerested on the group of sprawling dogs. The beasts lookedutterly spent as they blinked at the fire which they werenever permitted to approach. He indicated the fire.

"Let's sit," he said. "It's cold—damnably cold."

The other needed no second invitation. They bothmoved back to the fire and squatted over it, and theforest man pointed at the dogs.

"Beat?" he said.

"Yes. But they hauled me through. They're a greatoutfit. I fed 'em right away and now they need rest.They'll be ready for the trail again by morning. AnywayI can't delay."

"No. You've got to get through quick."

Both were holding outspread hands to the fire. Bothwere luxuriating in the friendly warmth.

"Well?" The tall man turned his head so that hisdark eyes searched the other's face again. "You'd besttell it me, Jean. If the storm lets up I pull out withdaylight. I've come through every camp, and this is thelast. Maybe I know the stuff you've got to tell. It'sbeen the same most all the way."

Jean looked up from the heart of the fire.

"Trouble?" he enquired.

"Every sort." The tall man's eyes were smiling."There's jacks quitting and pulling out, and nobodyseems to know how they're getting, seeing it's winter.Others are going slow. There's others grumbling forthings you never heard tell of before. There's fire-bugsat work, and the forest 'phones are being cut or otherwisetampered with all the time. We've lost hundreds ofacres by fire already."

"My yarn's the same." Jean nodded and turned backto the fire. "Say," he went on, "have you heard of thethings going on? The thing that's happening?"

"You mean the outfit working it?"

"Yes. It's a political labour gang. Leastways that'sthe talk of 'em. They call 'em 'Bolshies,' whateverthat means. They're chasing these forests through.They make the camps by night, and get hold of the boysright 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 theway they want it, they pull out right away before the daylightcomes. We never get a chance at 'em. Our boysare all plumb on the buck. I was just crazy for you tocome along, Father. Guess you're the one man to fixthe boys right. An' when I see you caught up in thatdarn storm—"

"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 gotto lay this spook that worries the boys at night. It's noBolshie outfit." He shook his head. "Anyway if it isit's got another thing behind it. It's the Skandinavia."

He sat on for a few minutes in silence. He squattedthere, hugging his knees. He was weary. He wasweary almost to death with the incessant travel thathad already occupied him weeks.

Quite abruptly his hands parted and he stood up.Jean followed his movements with anxious eyes.

"You goin' down to talk to the boys?" he asked atlast.

The man nodded.

"Yes. Right away. I'll do all I know."

"They'll listen to you."

The other smiled.

"Yes. Till the spook comes back."

Jean brushed the icicles from about his eyes.

"That's just it," he said. "An' meanwhile the cut'sright plumb down. If this thing don't quit the mill'sgoing to starve when the ice breaks. I've lost nighthree weeks' full cut already. It's—it's hell!"

"Yes."

The dark man moved away, and Jean sat on overthe fire. But his troubled eyes watched the curiousfigure as it passed over to its outfit. He saw the manstoop over the litter of his goods. He saw him disentanglesome garment from the rest. When he cameback the furs he had been clad in were either abandonedor hidden under fresh raiment. The man towered anawesome figure in the firelight. He was clad in blackfrom head to foot, and his garment possessed the flowingskirts of a priest.

"I'm going right down to the boys now," he said."You best stop around here. Just have an eye to thedogs. It's best you not being with me."

Jean nodded. He understood. Accompanied by thecamp boss this man's influence with the boys would havebeen seriously affected. Alone he was well-nigh allpowerful.

"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."

Chapter XVIII—Bull Sternford'S Vision Of Success

"I'd say it's best story I've listened to since—since—Say,those fellers are pretty big. They surely are."

Bat Harker stirred. He shifted his feet on the railof the stove, where the heavy leather soles of his bootswere beginning to burn.

Bull's shining eyes were raised to his.

"Big?" he echoed. "I tell you that feller, Leader,has the widest vision of any man I know."

He leant back in his chair and imitated his companion'sluxurious attitude. And so they sat silent, eachregarding the thing between them from his own angle.

It was the night of Bull's return from his journey toEngland. He had completed the final stage only thatafternoon. He had travelled overland from the southheadland, where he had been forced to disembark fromthe Myra under stress of weather. It was stormingoutside now, one of those fierce wind storms of Labrador'swinter, liable to blow for days or only for a fewhours.

He and Harker were closeted together in the warmcomfort of the office on the hill. Here, without fear ofinterruption, in the soft lamplight, lounging at their ease,they were free to talk of those things so dear to them, andupon which hung the destiny of their enterprise.

Winter was more than half spent. Christmas andNew Year were already seasons which only helped toswell the store of memory. Labrador was frozen tothe bone, and would remain so. But there were stilltwo months and more of snow and ice, and storm, to beendured before the flies and mosquitoes did their bestto make life unendurable.

Bull's return home had been a time of great lookingforward. Life to him had become full of every alluringpossibility. He saw the approaching fulfilment of hishopes and aims. The contemplation of the pendingwar with the Skandinavia only afforded his fightinginstincts satisfaction. Then there was that other.That great, new sensation which stirred him so deeply—NancyMcDonald. So he had returned home full ofenthusiasm and ready to tackle any and every problemthat presented itself.

He had just completed the telling of the story he hadbrought back with him. It was a story of success thathad stirred even the cast-iron emotions of Bat Harker.Nor had it lost anything in the telling, for Bull was moredeeply moved than he knew.

The recounting of his dealings in London with the man,Sir Frank Leader, had been coloured by the enthusiasmwith which the Englishman had inspired him. Sir FrankLeader was known as the uncrowned king of the world'spulp-wood trade. But Bull felt, and declared, that theappellation did not come within measurable distanceof expressing the man's real genius. Then there werethose others: Stanton Brothers, and Lord Downtree,and the virile, youthful creature, Ray Birchall. All ofthem were strong pillars of support for the ruling geniusof the house of Leader & Company. But it was theman himself, the head of it, who claimed all Bull's admirationfor his intensity of national spirit, and thewide generosity of his enterprise.

The story he had had to tell was simple in its completeness.Before setting out on his journey he hadspent months in preparation of the ground by means ofvoluminous correspondence and documentary evidence.It was a preparation that left it only necessary to convincethrough personal appeal on his arrival in London.This had been achieved in the broad fashion that appealedto the men he encountered. His "hand" had beenlaid down. Every card of it was offered for their closestscrutiny, even to the baring of the last reservation whichhis intimate knowledge of the merciless climate ofLabrador might have inspired.

The appeal of this method had been instant to Sir FrankLeader. And the appeal had been as much the manhimself as the thing he offered. The result of it allwas Bull's early return home with the man's wholeorganisation fathering his enterprise, and with a guaranteeof his incomparable fleet of freighters being flung intothe pool. Leader had swept up the whole propositioninto his widely embracing arms, and taken it to himself.Subject to Ray Birchall's ultimate report, after personalinspection on the spot of the properties involved, theflotation was to be launched for some seventy milliondollars, and thus the consummation of Sachigo's originalinspiration would be achieved.

Bat had listened to the story almost without comment.He had missed nothing of it. Neither had hefailed to observe the man telling it. The story itselfwas all so tremendous, so far removed from the workthat pre-occupied him that he had little desire to probedeeper into it. But the success of it all stirred him. Oh,yes. It had stirred him deeply, and his mind had immediatelyflown to that other who had laboured for justthis achievement and had staggered under the burden ofit all.

Bull removed his pipe and gazed across the stove.

"And now for your news, Bat," he said, like a mananticipating a pleasant continuation of his own goodnews.

Bat shook his head decidedly.

"No," he said, in his brusque fashion. "Not to-night,boy. Guess I ain't got a thing to tell to match yourstuff. We just carried on, and we've worked big. We'rein good shape for the darn scrap with the Skandinaviayou told me about. Guess I'll hand you my stuff to-morrow,when I'm goin' to show you things. Thisnight's your night—sure."

His twinkling eyes were full of kindly regard, for allthe brusqueness of his denial. And Bull smiled backhis content.

"Well, it's your 'hand' Bat," he said easily. "You'llplay it your way."

His eyes turned to the comforting stove again, as thehowl of the storm outside shook the framing of the house.

Presently the other raised a pair of smiling eyes.

"You know, boy," the lumberman said, ejecting aworn-out chew of tobacco, "all this means one mightybig 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 nevermake nuthin' of me but a lumber-boss. You'll neverbe a thing but a college-bred fighter all your life. There'sa third share in this thing for both of us. Well, that'sgoin' to be one a' mighty pile. I was wonderin'. Shallyou quit? Shall you cut right out with the boodle?What'll you do?"

Bull sat up and laughed. And his answer came on theinstant.

"Why, marry," he said.

Bat nodded.

"That's queer," he said. "I guessed you'd answerthat way."

"Why?"

Bat folded his arms across his broad chest.

"You're young," he replied.

Bull laughed again.

"Better say it," he cried. "An' darn foolish."

"No, I hadn't that in mind. No, Bull. If I had youryears I guess I'd feel that way, too. I wonder—"

"You're guessing to know who I'd marry, eh?"Bull's pipe was knocked out into the cuspidore. Then hesat up again and his eyes were full of reckless delight."Here," he cried, "I guess it's mostly school-kids whoshout the things they reckon to do—or a fool man. Itdoesn't matter. Maybe I'm both. Anyway, I'm justcrazy for—for—"

"Red hair, an'—an' a pair of mighty pretty eyes?"

"Sure."

Bat nodded. A deep satisfaction stirred him.

"I reckoned that way, ever since— Say, I'm glad."

But Bull's mood had sobered.

"She's in the enemy camp though," he demurred.

"It'll hand you another scrap—haulin' her out."

"Yes."

Bat rose from his chair and stretched his trunk-likebody.

"Well," he said, "it's me for the blankets." Thenhe emitted a deep-throated chuckle. "You get at it,boy," he went on. "An' if you're needin' any help Ican pass, why, count on it. If you mean marryin'I'd sooner see you hook up team with that red-hairedgal than anything in the world I ever set two eyes on.Guess I'll hand you my stuff in the morning if the stormquits."

* * * * *

The dynamos were revolving at terrific speed. Therewere some eighteen in all, and their dull roar was rackingupon ears unused. Bat was regarding them withoutenthusiasm. All he knew was the thing they represented.Skert Lawton had told him. They represented theharnessing of five hundred thousand horse power of theBeaver River water. The engineer had assured him,in his unsmiling fashion, that he had secured enoughpower to supply the whole Province of Quebec withelectricity. All of which, in Bat's estimation, seemed tobe an unnecessary feat.

Bull was gazing in frank wonder on the engineer'scompleted work. It was his first sight of it. The placehad been long in building. But the sight of it in fullrunning, the sense of enormous power, the thought andlabour this new power-house represented, filled himwith nothing but admiration for the author of it all.

Bat hailed one of the electricians serving the machines.

"Where's Mr. Lawton?" he shouted.

"He went out. He ain't here," the man shouted back.

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 offthe engineer's office. They passed to the quiet beyondit.

It was quite a small room without any elaborate pretensions.There was a desk supporting a drawingboard, with a chair set before it. There was also arocker-chair which accommodated the lean body ofSkert Lawton at such infrequent moments as it desiredrepose. Beyond that there was little enough furniture.The place was mainly bare boards and bare walls. Batsat himself at the desk and left Bull the rocker-chair.

"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 froma buck louse."

Bull nodded.

"That's all right," he said. "Maybe he's held up downat the mill. He'll get—"

"Held up—nuthin'!"

The lumberman was angry. But his anger was notat the failure of his arrangements. Back of his head hewas wondering at the thing that claimed the engineer.He felt that only real urgency would have kept himfrom his appointment. And he knew that urgency justnow had a more or less ugly meaning.

"Lawton's a pretty bright boy—" Bull began. But theother caught him up roughly.

"Bright? That don't say a thing," Bat cried. "Guesshe's a whole darn engineering college rolled into the worstshape of the ghost of a man it's been my misfortune everto locate. He's a highbrow of an elegant natur'. Hecalls this thing 'co-ordination,' which is another way ofsayin' he's beat nigh a hundred thousand dollars out ofour bank roll to hand us more power than we could useif we took in Broadway, New York, at night. But it'selegant plannin' and looks good to me. Your folks overthe water'll maybe see things in it, too. It's them blastfurnaces we set up for him last year made this play possible.Them, and the swell outfit of machine shops hesqueezed us for. He figgers to raise all sorts of hellaround. An' his latest notion's to build every darn machinefrom rough-castin' to a shackle pin, so we don'thave to worry with the world outside. He's got a longview of things. But—"

He pulled out his timepiece, and the clouds of volcanicanger swept down again upon his rugged brow.But it was given no play. The door of the office wasthrust open, and the lean figure of the engineer, clad ingreasy overalls, came hurriedly into the room.

Bat challenged him on the instant.

"What's the trouble, boy?" he demanded in his uncompromisingfashion.

"Trouble?" Skert's eyes were wide, and his tone wassavage. "That's just it. I reckoned to show Sternfordall this stuff," he went on, indicating the machine hall witha jerk of his head. "But we'll have to let it pass. Say,"he glanced from one to the other, his expression developingto something like white fury. "They started. It'sbusiness this time. I got a message up they were stoppingthe grinders. It's the 'heads' gave the order. Oh, they'reall in it. They got a meeting on in that darn recreationparliament place of theirs, and every mother's son on themachines was called to it. They've shut down! You getthat? There isn't even a greaser left at the machines.It's set me with a feeling I'm plumb crazy. I've beendown, and they're right there crowding out that hall.And—"

"I guessed something that way," Bat interrupted withominous calm. He turned to Bull, who was closely regardinghis lieutenants.

"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 withus openin' the new mill on this north shore. We wereforced to collect our labour just where we could. An'they got in like the miser'ble rats they are. Gee! Itmakes me hot—hot as hell! The leaders of this thingain't workers. I don't guess they done a day's workwith anything but their yahoo mouths in their dirty lives.They're part of the crowd that's paid from Europe toget around and heave up this blazin' world of ours justanyway they know. The only thing I don't get is theircoming along here, which is outside most all the rest ofthe world. If Labrador can hand 'em loot I'd like toknow 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,' andif we're beat it looks like leaving Sachigo a thingforgotten."

Bull stood up. He laughed without the least mirth.

"It's the Skandinavia," he said decidedly. "War'sbegun. I'm going right down to that meeting."

Bat leapt to his feet.

"No," he said. "This is for Skert an' me—"

"Is it?"

Bull brushed his protest aside almost fiercely. Thenhe turned as the door opened and a small man hurried in.The fellow snatched his cap from his head and his eyessettled on Skert Lawton, the man he knew best.

"It ees a document," he cried, in the broken Englishof a French Canadian. "They sign him, oh, yes. Youno 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."

"Who's this?" Bull demanded.

"One of my machine-minders. He's a good boy," theengineer explained.

Bull nodded.

"That's all right We want all we can get of his sort."He turned to Bat. "Are there others? I mean boys wecan trust?"

"Quite a bunch."

"Can we get them together?"

"Sure."

"Right. This is going to be the real thing. The sortof thing I'd rather have it."

He turned to Skert who stood by, watching the lightof battle in his chief's eyes.

"Here, shut down the dynamos. Set them cleanout of action. Do you get me? Leave the machinesfor 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."

* * * * *

The recreation room was crowded to suffocation. Menof 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-voicedargument which mainly expressed feeling. At the farend of the hall, on the raised platform designed for thosewho fancied their vocal attainments, a group of men weregathered about a table upon which was outspread thefolios of an extensive document. The men at the tablewere talking eagerly.

The gathering had listened to the furious oratory ofa pale-faced man, with long black hair and a foreignaccent. It had listened, and agreed, and applauded. Forhe had talked Communism, and the overthrow of theCapitalists, and the possession of the wealth creating millsfor those who operated them. It had listened to an appealto the latent instinct in every human creature, freedomfrom everything that could be claimed as servitude,freedom, and possession, and independence for those whowould once and for all rid themselves of the shackleswhich the pay-roll and time-sheet imposed upon them.

They had been called together to witness the iniquityof spending their lives in the degrading operation offilling the pockets of those who laboured not, by the toilin which their lives were spent. They had been told everyflowery fairy tale of the modern communistic doctrine,which possesses as much truth and sanity in it as is to befound in an asylum for the mentally deficient. And theyhad swallowed the bait whole. The talk had been by thetongue of a skilled fanatic, who was well paid for hiswork, and who kept in the forefront of his talk that alluringpromise of ease, and affluence, and luxury, whichnever fails in its appeal to those who have neverknown it.

But something approaching an impasse had beenreached when the would-be benefactors passed over thedemand that their deluded victims should sign the rollof Communal Brotherhood. The bait that had beenoffered had been all to the taste of these rough creatureswho had never known better than an existence with athreat of possible unemployment overshadowing theirlives. But in the signature to the elaborate documentthey scented the concealed poison in the honeyed potion.There was hesitation, reluctance. There was argumentin a confusion of tongues well-nigh bewildering. A surgeof voices filled the great building.

The agents were at work, men who posed as workersto attain their ends. And the pale, long-haired creatureand his satellites waited at the table. They understood.It was their business to understand. They knew theminds they were dealing with, and their agents wereskilled in their craft. The process they relied on wasthe unthinking stupidity of the sheep. Every man thatcould be persuaded had his friends, and each friend hadhis friend. They knew friend would follow friendwell-nigh blindly, and, having signed, native obstinacy andfear of ridicule would hold them fast to their pledge.

Presently the signing began. It began with a burlyriver-jack who laughed stupidly to cover his doubt. Hewas followed by a machine-minder, who hurled tauntsat those who still held back. Then came others, otherswhose failure to think for themselves left them contentto follow the lead of their comrades.

The stream of signatures grew. A pale youth, whosefoolish grin revealed only his fitness for the heavy, unskilledwork he was engaged upon, came up. The penwas handed him, and the name of Adolph Mars wasscrawled on the sheet. The long-haired man at the tablelooked up at him. He smiled with his lips, and pattedthe boy's hand. Then something happened.

It was movement. Sudden movement on the platform.The babel in the body of the hall went on. But thelong-haired man and his supporters at the table turnedwith eyes that were concerned and anxious. A dozenmen had entered swiftly through the door in rear of theplatform. Bull Sternford led them. And he movedover to the table, with the swift, noiseless strides of apanther, and looked into the unwholesome face of theBolshevist leader.

It was only for the fraction of a second. The manmade a movement which needed no interpretation. Hishand went to a hip pocket. Instantly Bull's great handsdescended. The man was picked up like a child. He waslifted out of his seat and raised aloft. He was bornetowards the window where he was held while the masterof the mill crashed a foot against its wooden sash. Thenext moment the black-clothed body was hurled withterrific force out into the snowdrift waiting to receive it.It was all so swiftly done. The whole thing was amatter of seconds only. Then Bull Sternford was backat the table, while his comrades, Bat and Lawton, andthe men of loyalty they relied on, lined the platform.

As Bull snatched up the document and held it aloft, adeathly silence reigned throughout the hall, and everyeye was turned angrily upon the intruders. Bull yieldednot a moment for those witless minds to recover fromtheir shock. His voice rang out fiercely.

"Here," he cried, "d'you know what you're doing,listening to that fool guy I've thrown through thatwindow, 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 tosteal the property that hands you your living. You reckonyou've got all you need of our brains, and your ownbrute force and darnation foolishness can run these greatmills which are to hand you the big money you reckonit hands us. That means war. Maybe you fancy it'sthe one-sided war you'd like to have it. Maybe you fancythere's about a dozen of us, and we're going to be madeto work for the wage you figger to hand us. You'redead wrong. It's going to be a hell of a war if you swallowthe dope these fellows hand you. You've begun it,and we're taking up the challenge. We've fired the firstshot, too. It's not gun-play yet. No. Maybe it'll cometo 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 ofSachigo. The vital parts of the power station have beenremoved, and you can't get 'em back. I've only to givethe word and the penstocks on the river will be cut so youcan't repair them. It's forty degrees below Zero out there,where I've shot that crazy Bolshie, and so you knowjust how you stand here on Labrador with no means ofgettin' away until the thaw comes. You and your wivesand kiddies'll have to pay in the cold for the crime oftheft you reckon to put through. We're ready for you,whether it's gun-play or any other sort of war you wantto start. That's the thing I've come here to tell you."

He paused for a moment to watch the effect of hiswords. It was there on the instant. A furious hubbubarose. There was not a man in the room who did notunderstand the dire threat which the coup of the mastermind imposed. Power cut off! Light! Heat! Power!Forty degrees below Zero! The terror of the Labradorwinter was in every man's mind. Life would be unendurablewithout heat. There were the forests. Oh,yes. They could get heat of sorts. The sort of heatwhich the men on a winter trail were accustomed to.Their electrically-heated houses were without stoves inwhich they could burn wood.

Bull listened to the babel of tongues while his menwatched for any act that might come. Every man onthe platform was armed ready.

"Here!"

Bull's voice rang out again, but he was interrupted.

A man shouted at him from the back of the hall.

"Who the hell are you, anyway? You ain't the guyowning these mills. We know where you comefrom—"

Like lightning Bull took him up.

"Do you?" he shouted back. "Then we know whereyou come from. The man who knew me before I becameboss here must belong to the Skandinavia. That's theonly place any lumber-jack could have known me. Here.Come up here. Stand out. Show yourself. And I'llhand the boys your pedigree. It'll be easy. It's thetrouble with us just now, we've got too many stiffs fromthe Skandinavia, and you've got our own good boysparalysed. They haven't the guts to stand on the notionsthat have handed them the best wages in the pulp tradethese fifteen years. Guess you've persuaded them theyain't got swell houses, and good food, and cheap heatand light, and, instead are living like all sorts of swinein their hogpens. It's the way of the Skandinavia justnow. The Skandinavia's out for our blood. They wantto smash us. Do you know why? Because they're analien firm who wants to steal these forests from theCanadians to fill their own pockets with our wealth. We'refor the Canadians, and we've built up a proposition that'sgoing to beat the foreigner right out into the sea. Butthat 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 rightover to 'em. Help 'em. Sign every darn document theyhand 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 themills are closed down. You're locked out."

He turned without waiting a second and passed throughthe back door by which he had entered. And his menfollowed on his heels.

* * * * *

Bull was in his office. For all the storm of the morningthe rest of the day had passed quietly. Now itwas late at night. His stove was radiating a luxuriousheat. He was quite unconcerned that the electrically-heatedsteam radiators were cold. He was alone. Harkerand the engineer were still down at the mill. He wasawaiting the report they would bring him later.

He had passed some time in reading the pledge ofCommunal Brotherhood which he had brought away withhim from the recreation room, and he had read thesignatures that had been affixed to it. The latter werefew, 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 peoplewho should be kept under restraint. If it were not honest,then hanging or shooting was far too lenient a fate tobe meted out to them. It was Communism in its wildest,most unrestrained form.

In his final disgust he flung the papers on his desk.And as he did so a sound reached him from the outeroffice, which had long since been closed for the nightby the half-breed, Loale.

He leapt to his feet. Without a second thought hemoved over to the door and flung it wide.

"What the—?" He broke off. "Good God!" hecried. "You, Father?" He laughed. "Why I thoughtit was some of the Bolshies from down at the mill."

He withdrew the gun from his coat pocket in explanation.Then he stood aside.

"Will you come right in?"

The man Bull had discovered made no answer. Butas he stood aside, tall, clad in heavy fur from head tofoot, Father Adam strode into the room.

Bull watched him with questioning eyes. Then heclosed the door and his visitor turned confronting himin the yellow lamplight.

"I've made more than a hundred miles to get youto-night," Father Adam said.

Then he flung back the fur hood from his head, and rana hand over his long black hair, smoothing it thoughtfully.

"Yes?"

Bull's eyes were still questioning.

"Won't you shed your furs and sit?" he went on."The Chink's abed, but I'll dig him out. You must getfood."

The other glanced round the pleasant office, and hiseyes paused for a moment at the chair at the desk.

"Food don't worry, thanks," he said, his mildly smilingeyes coming back to his host's face. "I've eaten—tenmiles back. I rested the dogs there, too. I've maybe aha'f hour to tell you the thing I came for. There'strouble in the woods. Bad trouble. If it's notstraightened out, why, it looks like all work at yourmills'll quit, and you're going to get your forest limitsburnt out stark."

Chapter XIX—The Hold-Up

Ole Porson took a final glance round his shanty. Thelast of the daylight was rapidly fading. There was stillsufficient 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 andunderstood. It was at once his office, and his livingquarters; a shanty with a tumbled sleeping bunk, a woodstove, and a table littered with the books and papers of hisNo. 10 camp. He was a rough creature, as hard of soulas he was of head, who could never have found joy insurroundings of better condition.

He solemnly loaded the chambers of a pair of heavyguns. Then he bestowed them in the capacious pocketsof his fur pea-jacket. He also dropped in beside thema handful of spare cartridges. In his lighter momentshe was apt to say that these weapons were his only friends.And those who knew him best readily agreed. Drawingup the storm-collar about his face, he passed out intothe snow which was falling in flakes the size of autumnleaves. There was not a breath of wind to disturb thedeathly stillness of the winter night.

Minutes later he was lounging heavily against the roughplanked counter of Abe Risdon's store. He was talkingto the suttler over a deep "four-fingers" of neat Rye,while his searching eyes scanned the body of the ill-litroom. The place was usually crowded with drinkerswhen the daylight passed, but just now it was almostempty.

"Who's that guy in the tweed pea-jacket an' lookslike a city man?" he asked his host in an undertone,pointing at one of the tables where a stranger sat surroundedby four of the forest men.

Abe's powerful arms were folded as he leant on thecounter.

"Blew in about noon," he said. "Filled his belly withgood hash an' sat around since."

"He's a bunch o' the boys about him now, anyway.An' I guess he's talking quite a lot, an' they're doing mosto' the listening. Seems like he's mostly enjoying hisself."

Abe shrugged. But the glance he flung at the mansitting at the far-off table was without approval.

"It's mostly that way now," he said, with an air ofindifference his thoughtful eyes denied. "There's toomany guys come along an' sell truck, an' set around, an'talk, an' then pass along. Things are changing aroundthis lay out, an' I don't get its meanin'. Time was Ihad a bunch of boys ready most all the time to hand methe news going round. Time was you'd see a strangeronce in a month come along in an' buy our food. Timewas they mostly had faces we knew by heart, and weknew their business, and where they came from. Tain'tthat way now. You couldn't open the boys' faces fernews of the forest with a can-opener. These darn guysare always about now. They come, an' feed the boys'drink, an' talk with 'em most all the time. An' they'remostly strangers, an' the boys mostly sit around withtheir faces open like fool men listenin' to fairy tales.How's the cut goin'?"

Porson laughed. There was no light in his hard eyes.

"At a gait you couldn't change with a trail whip."

The other nodded.

'"That's how 'nigg*r' Pilling said. He guessed thecut was down by fifty. What is it? A buck? Wages?"

Porson's hand was fingering one of the guns in hispocket. His eyes were snapping.

"Curse 'em," he cried at last. "I just don't get it.They're goin' slow."

He pushed his empty glass at the suttler who promptlyre-filled it.

"Young Pete Cust," Abe went on confidentially,"handed me a good guess only this mornin'. He'd hadhis sixth Rye before startin' out to work. Maybe hewas rattled and didn't figger the things he said. He wasastin' fer word up from the mills. I didn't worry tothink, and just said I hadn't got. I ast 'why'? Theboy took a quick look round, kind o' scared. He said,'jest nothin'.' He reckoned he'd a dame somewherearound Sachigo. She'd wrote him things wer' kind ofbad with the mills. They were beat fer dollars, andlooked 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'sgot 'em all rattled. Maybe they're goin' slow on the cut,worryin' for their pay-roll. You can't tell. They don'tsay a thing. Seems to me we want Sternford right hereto queer these yarns. Father Adam's around an' talkedsome. But—"

Porson drank down his liquor, and his glass hit thecounter with angry force.

"They're mush-faced hoodlams anyway," he criedfiercely. "Ther' ain't a thing wrong with the mills. I'dbet a million on it."

He stood up from the counter and thrust his handsdeep in the pockets of his coat. He was a powerfulfigure with legs like the tree trunks it was his work tosee cut. Quite abruptly he moved away, and Abe'squestioning eyes followed him.

He strode down amongst the scattered tables and cameto a halt before the tweed-coated stranger. All the menlooked up, and their talk died out.

"Say, what's your bizness around here?"

Ole Person's manner was threatening as he made hisdemand. The stranger dived at the bag lying on thefloor beside his chair. He picked it up and flung itopen.

"Why, I got right here the dandiest outfit of swelljewellery," he cried, grinning amiably up at the man'sthreatening eyes. "There's just everything here," he wenton, with irrepressible volubility, "to suit you gents of theforest, an' make you the envy of every jack way downat Sachigo. Here, there's a be-autiful Prince Albert foryour watch. This ring. It's full o' diamonds calculatedto set Kimberly hollerin'. Maybe you fancy a locketwith it. It'll take a whole bunch of your dame's—"

"You'll light right out of this camp with daylightto-morrow!"

The tone of the camp-boss banished the last shadowof the pedlar's cast-iron smile.

"Oh, yes?" he said, his eyes hardening.

"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 likelyworry you. Get it. An' get it good."

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.

He passed down the store re-fastening his coat. Hepaused at the door as a chorus of rough laughter reachedhim from the little gathering at the table. But it wasonly for an instant. He looked back. No face wasturned in his direction. So he passed out.

* * * * *

The night outside was inky black. The heavy fallingsnow made progress almost a blind groping. But Porsonknew every inch of the way. He passed down the linesof huts and paused outside each bunkhouse. His reasonwas obvious. There was a question in his mind as to thewhereabouts of the crowd of his men who usuallythronged the liquor store at this hour of the evening.

It was at the last bunkhouse he paused longest. Hestood for quite a while listening under the double glassedwindow. Then he passed on and stood beside the tightlyclosed storm-door. The signs and sounds he heard wereapparently sufficient. For, after a while, he turned backand set out to return to his quarters.

For many minutes he groped his way through theblinding snow, his mind completely given up to the thingshis secret watch had revealed. His brutish nature, beingwhat it was, left him concerned only for the forcefulmanner by which he could restore that authority which hefelt to be slipping away from him under the curiouschange which had come over the camp. His positiondepended on the adequate output of his winter's cut andon nothing else. That, he knew, was desperately falling,and—

But in a moment, all concern was swept from hismind. A sound leapt at him out of the stillness of thenight. It was the whimper of dogs and the sharp commandof a man's voice. He shouted a challenge andwaited. And presently a dog train pulled up beside him.

* * * * *

Bull Sternford was standing before the wood stovein the camp-boss's shanty. He had removed his snow-ladenfur coat. He had kicked the damp snow from hismoccasins. Now he was wiping the moisture out of hiseyes, and the chill in his limbs was easing under thewarmth which the stove radiated.

Ole Porson's grim face was alight with a smile of genuinewelcome, as he stood surveying his visitor across theroaring stove.

"It's surely the best thing happened in years, Mr.Sternford," he was saying. "I'm more glad you madeour camp this night than any other. Maybe I'd ha' gotthrough someways, but I don't know just how. We'redown over fifty on our cut, an', by the holy snakes, Ican't hand you why."

Bull put his coloured handkerchief away, and removedthe pea-jacket which he had worn under his furs.

"Don't worry," he said with apparent unconcern. "Ican hand it you. That's why I'm here."

The camp-boss waited. He eyed his chief with nolittle anxiety. He had looked for an angry outburst.

Bull pulled up a chair. He flung the litter of books itsupported on to the already crowded table and sat down.Then he filled his pipe and lit it with a hot coal from thestove.

"Here," he said, "I'll tell you. I've been the roundof four camps. I've been over a month on the trail, andI've heard just the same tale from every camp-boss weemploy. I've three more camps to visit besides yours,and when I've made them maybe I'll get the sleep I'mabout crazy for. Night and day I've been on the deadjump for a month following the trail of a red-hot gangthat's going through our forests. If I come up withthem there's going to be murder."

He spoke quietly without a sign of emotion. But thelight in his hot eyes was almost desperate.

"I want to hand you the story so you'll get it allclear," he went on after a moment. "So I'll start by tellingyou how we stand at the mill. Get this, an' holdit tight in your head, and the rest'll come clear asday. Sachigo's right on top. We've boosted it sky highon to the top of the world's pulp trade. In less thantwelve months we'll have grabbed well-nigh the wholeof this country's pulp industry, and we'll beat the foreignersright back over the sea to their own country. TheSkandinavia folk are rattled. They know all about usand they've done their best to buy us out of the game.We turned 'em down cold, and they're mad—mad ashell. It means they're in for the fight of their lives.So are we. And we know Peterman an' his gang wellenough to know what that means. It's 'rough an'tough.' Everything goes. If they can't gouge oureyes they'll do their best to chew us to small meat.But we've got 'em every way. This forest gang is sentby the Skandinavia. If they can't smash us by fire orlabour trouble next year'll see us floated into a seventymillion dollar corporation with the whole Canadian wood-pulpindustry lying right in the palms of our hands.That's the reason for the things doing."

He paused, and the camp-boss nodded his rough head.It was a story he could clearly understand. Then therewere those figures. Seventy million dollars! They sweptthe last shadow of doubt from his mind.

"That's the position," Bull went on. "Now for thetrouble as it is in the forests right now. The thing that'shad me travelling night an' day for a month. There's anoutfit going right through these forests. I can't locateits extent. Only the way it works. There's two objectsin view. One is to fire our limits. The other reckonsto paralyse our cut. So far these folks have failed againstthe fire-guard organisation, and I guess they'll likely missmost of their fire-bugs when they call the roll. Theother's different."

Bull knocked out his pipe on the stove and gazedthoughtfully at the streak of brilliant light under theedge of the front damper.

"I've a notion there's an outfit of pedlars at work, aswell as others," he went on presently.

The camp-boss nodded.

"Sure," he said.

Bull looked up.

"You think that way?" he asked. Then he nodded."Yes, I guess we're right. They're handing the boysdope to keep 'em guessing—worrying. They're telling'em we're on the edge of a big smash at Sachigo. Thatwe can't see the winter through. We're cleaned outfor cash, and the mill folk are shouting for their wagesand starting in to riot. It's a swell yarn. It's the sortof yarn I'd tell 'em myself if I was working for theSkandinavia. It's the sort of dope these crazy forest-jacksare ready to swallow the same as if it was Rye.Do you see? These fools are being told they won'tget their pay for their winter's cut. So, being whatthey are, the boys are going slow. They're going slow,and drawing goods at the store against each cord theycut. Well, do you see what's going to happen if thegame succeeds? With our forests ablaze, and our cutfifty down, and the whole outfit on the buck, when springcomes, Skandinavia reckons our British financiers, whenthey come along to look our land over will turn thewhole proposition of the flotation down, and quit uscold. But that's not just all. No, sir. Elas Petermanisn't the boy to leave it that way. He's handing outthe story that when Sachigo smashes the Skandinavia'sgoing to jump right in and collect the wreckage cheap.Then they'll start up the mill, and sign on all hands ontheir own pay-roll, only stipulating that they won't payone single cent of what Sachigo owes for their cut. So,if they're such almighty fools as to cut, it's going to betheir dead loss and the Skandinavia's gain. Do youget it? It's smart. I guess there's a bigger brain behindit than Peterman's."

The camp-boss spat into the stove. It was his oneexpression of disgust.

Bull rose from his chair.

"Here, I need food. So does my boy out there with thedogs. We'll take it after I'm through with the men. It'ssnowing like hell, but I pull out two hours from now.You see, I'm on a hot trail, an' don't fancy losing aminute."

"You're goin' to talk to 'em—the boys?" Porson'seyes lit with a gleam of satisfaction. "Can you—twist'em?"

Bull thrust a hand into his breast pocket and drew outa sealed packet. He held it up before the other's questioningeyes.

"I haven't failed yet," he said quietly. "In nine ofour camps back on the river the work's running fullalready. I've a whole big yarn for our boys. Butright here I've got what's better. It's the only thingthat'll clinch the yarn I'm going to hand 'em. This," hewent on, indicating the parcel in his hand, "is the bunchof dollars representing the price of this camp's full wintercut, and the price of a bonus for making up all leewayalready lost. I'm going to have the boys count it. ThenI'm going to have them hand it right over to Abe Risdonto set in his safe, with a written order from me topay out in full the moment the winter cut is complete.Is it good? Can the Skandinavia's junk stand in faceof it? No, sir. And so I've proved right along. Idon't hold much of a brief for the intelligence of theforest-jack, but his belly rules him all the time. Yousee, he's human, and no more dishonest than the restof us. Have him guessing and worried and you'll gettrouble right along. Show him the lies the Skandinavia'sbeen doping him with, and he'll work out of sheer spiteto beat their game. You get right out and collect thegang."

* * * * *

The snowfall had ceased. And with its passing thetemperature had fallen to something far below its averagewinter level. The clouds had vanished miraculously, andin their place was a night sky ablaze with the light ofmyriad stars, and the soft splendour of a brilliant moon.

It was a scene of frigid desolation. Away on thesouthern horizon lay the black line which marked the tremendousforest limits of the Beaver River. For the restit was a world of snow that hid up the rugged undulationsof a sterile territory.

The dog train was moving at a reckless gait over theuntracked, hardening snow. The man Gouter wasdriving under imperative orders such as he loved. BullSternford had told him when he left the shelter of No.10 Camp: "Get there! Get there quick! There's dogsand to spare at all our camps, and I don't care a curseif you run the outfit to death."

To a man of Gouter's breed the order was sufficient.Half Eskimo, half white man, he was a savage of thewild, born and bred to the fierce northern trail, one ofLabrador'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 somethingaccomplished which he could tell of over the campfire to his less fortunate brethren. So he accepted thewhite man's order and drove accordingly.

Bull Sternford sat huddled in the back of the sledunder the fur robes which alone made life possible. Hiswork at No. 10 Camp had left him satisfied, but everynerve in his body was alert for the final coup he contemplated.He was weary in mind as well as body. Andin his heart he knew that the need of his physical resourceswas not so very far off. But he was beyond care. Hehad said he was crazy for sleep, but the words gave noindication of his real condition. His eyes ached. Hishead throbbed. There were moments, even, when thethings he beheld, the things he thought became distorted.But he knew that somewhere ahead a ghostlyoutfit of strangers was pursuing its evil work againsthim, and he meant to come up with it, and to wreak hisvengeance in merciless, summary fashion. His purposehad become an obsession in the long sleepless days andnights he had endured.

It was war. It was bitter ruthless war on the barrenhinterland of Labrador, where civilisation was unknown.Mercy? Nature never designed that terrible wildernessas a setting for mercy.

The dogs had been running for hours when Gouter'svoice came sharply back over his shoulder.

"Dog!" he cried, in the laconic fashion habitual to him.

Bull knelt up. His movement suggested the nervousstrain he was enduring. It was almost electrical.

"Where?" he demanded, peering out into the shiningnight over the man's furry shoulder.

The half-breed raised a pointing whip ahead and to thesouth.

"Sure," he said. "I hear him."

Bull had heard nothing. Nothing but the hiss of thesnow under their own runners, and the whimper of theirown dogs.

"It wouldn't be a wolf or fox?" he demurred.

The half-breed clucked his tongue. His vanity wasoutraged.

Bull gazed intently in the direction the whip hadpointed. He could see only the far-off forest line, andthe soft whiteness of the world of snow.

"Hark!"

The half-breed again held up his whip. This time itwas for attention. Bull listened. Still he could hearnothing, nothing at all but the sounds of their ownprogress.

"Man! Him speak with dog. Oh, yes."

Gouter had turned. His beady black eyes were shiningwith a smile of triumph into the white man's face.

"By the forest?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then in God's name swing over and run to headthem off!"

Gouter obeyed with alacrity. He had impressed hiswhite chief. It was good. A series of unintelligibleejacul*tions 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, asthe great dogs were set racing with their lean bellieslow to the ground.

Bull wiped the icicles from about his mouth and nose.

"Now have your guns ready," he cried. "The driverof that team is your man. The other's mine. If heshows fight kill him. There's five hundred dollars foryou if you get 'em."

"I get 'em."

The half-breed's confidence was supreme. Bulldropped back into the sled. He sat with a pair of automaticpistols ready to his hand and gazed out over thesled rail.

It was a terrific race and all feeling of weariness hadpassed under the excitement of it. The dogs were silentnow. Every nerve in their muscular bodies were straining.The pace seemed to increase with every passingmoment, and up out of the horizon the dark line of theforest leapt at them, deepening and broadening as it came.

For some time the less practised white man saw andheard nothing of his enemies. He was forced to rely onthe half-breed. He observed the man closely. He notedhis every sign and read it as best he could. PresentlyGouter leant forward peering. Then he straightened upand his voice came back triumphantly.

"I see dem," he exclaimed. And pointed almostabreast. "Dogs. One—two—five. Yes. Two man.Now we get him sure."

Down fell the whip on the racing dogs. The manshouted his jargon at them. The sled lurched and swayedwith the added spurt, and Bull held fast to the rail. Aglad thrill surged through his senses.

It was a moment of tremendous uplift. Bull hadyearned for it for weeks. But the short days and longnights of deferred hope had had their effect. He hadalmost come to feel that this thing that was now at handwas something impossible.

Yes. There was the outfit growing plainer and plainerwith every moment. He could see it clearly. He couldeven count its details as the other's sharper eyes hadcounted them minutes before. There were five dogs.And they were running hard. They, too, were beingflogged, and the man driving them was shouting furiouslyin his urgency.

Suddenly there was a leap of flame and a shot rangout. It came from the driver of the fleeing dog train.It was replied to on the instant by Gouter who lost not asecond. His own shot sped even as the enemy's bulletwhistled somewhere past his head. He fired again. Athird shot split the air. And with that last shot theenemy's sled seemed to leap in the air. There was amoment of hideous confusion. Then the wreckagedropped away behind the pursuers, sprawled and still inthe snow.

A fierce shout from Gouter and his dogs swung round.The sled under him heeled over, and took a desperatechance on a single runner. But the half-breed's skillsaved them from catastrophe. It righted itself, and thedogs slowed to a trot. Then they halted. And the occupantsof the sled flung themselves prone, with their gunsready for the first sign of movement in the tangled massof their adversary's outfit.

* * * * *

Two of the dogs lay buried under the overturned sled.Three others were sprawling at the end of their rawhidetugs. They were alive. They were unhurt. They laythere taking full advantage of the situation for rest.

But for the moment interest centred round the bodyof a white man lying some yards away. A groan ofpain came up to the two men standing over him.

Bull dropped on his knees. He reached down andturned the body over. The eyes of the man were visiblebetween the sides of his fur hood. But that was all.

There was a moment of silent contemplation. Thenthe injured man struggled desperately to rise.

"Sternford?" he ejacul*ted

Gouter was on him in a moment. He heard the toneof voice, and interpreted the man's movement in hisown savage fashion. He knew the man to be the driverof the team, whom his boss had told him was his man.So he threw him back and held him.

Bull stood up. The man's voice told him all he wantedto know.

"Laval, eh?" he said quietly. "A second time. Ididn't expect it. No."

Then he laughed and turned away. And the sound ofhis laugh possessed something terribly mocking in thenight silence of the wilderness.

He passed back to the sled. There had been two menin it. He had seen that for himself.

The wreckage looked hopeless. The sled was completelyoverturned and its gleaming runners caught andreflected the white rays of the moon. It had been thrownby reason of the fallen bodies of the dogs which layunder it, pinned by its weight, and additionally held fastby their own tangled harness.

Bull had no thought for anything but the purpose inhis mind. So he reached out and caught the steel runnersin his mitted hands and flung the vehicle aside.

Yes, it was there in the midst of a confusion of baggageand lying cheek by jowl with the mangled remains of thedogs. He cleared the debris, and dragged the dogs aside.Then he stood and gazed down at the figure thatremained.

It was clad in a voluminous beaver coat. It washooded, as was every man who faced the fierce Labradortrail. But—

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 theface which was ghastly pale in the moonlight.

He flung himself on his knees, and tenderly supportedthe swaying figure.

"God in Heaven!" he cried. "Nancy! You?"

Chapter XX—On The Home Trail

Nancy's eyes were desperately troubled as she gazed outacross the great valley of the Beaver River. Somewherebehind her, in the shelter of the woods, a mid-day camphad been pitched, and the men who had captured her red-handin the work of their enemies were preparing the,rough food of the trail. But she was beyond all suchconcern.

Far out on every hand lay the amazing panorama ofthe splendid valley, but she saw none of it. The mightyfrozen waterway, the depths of virgin snow, the far-reachingwoodlands its gaping lips embraced; they werethings of frigid beauty for her eyes to gaze upon, but theirmeaning was lost upon a mind tortured with the vivid,hateful pictures it was powerless to escape.

From the moment of that dreadful night when shehad witnessed the ruthless climax of the work to whichshe had given herself she had known no peace. It wasno thought of her failure, her capture, that inspired hertrouble. She could have been thankful enough for that.It was the only mercy, she felt, that had been vouchsafedto her.

No, long before her capture, a deep undermining ofregret had set in. She had been without realisation ofit, perhaps. But it had been there. In yielding to thedemands of those she served, in her self-confidence shehad forgotten the woman in her. She had forgotteneverything but the crazy ambition which had blindedher to all consequences. Yes, even in the excitement ofthe work itself she had forgotten everything but theachievement she desired. But through it all, under itall, the woman in her had been slowly awakening, andan unadmitted regret at the destruction of work whichmeant 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 thedemand of her cause, the last vestige of her dreaminghad been swept away, and she told herself it was murder,murder at her bidding!

Now her soul was afire with the bitterness of repentance,with passionate self-accusation. Murder had beendone through her. Murder! The horror of it all haddriven her well-nigh demented when she gazed from thedistance while the two men disposed of Arden Laval'sbody under the snow. The dogs? They had beenleft where they fell. The living had been cut loose fromtheir trappings to roam the forests at their will, whilethe dead had remained to satisfy the fierce hunger ofthe savage forest creatures. Even the sled had beendestroyed, and its wood used to make fire that the livingmight endure on those pitiless northern heights. Thememory of it all was days old now, but its horror showedno abatement. The agony was still with her. She feltthat never again could she know peace.

So she had moved away out from camp, as she haddone at every stopping they had made on the longjourney from the highlands down to Sachigo. Somehowit seemed to her impossible to do otherwise. She feltshe must hide herself from the sight of those others whowere her captors, and who, in their hearts, she felt, mustdeeply abhor the presence of so vile a creature in theircamp.

How long she had been standing there, while the menprepared the mid-day meal, she did not know. It wasa matter of no sort of consequence to her anyway. Nothingreally seemed of any consequence now. Her jadedmind was obsessed by a horror she could not shake off.There was nothing, nothing in the world to do but nursethe anguish driving her.

"You'll come right along and eat, Nancy?"

The girl almost jumped at the gentle tones of the man'svoice, and glanced round at Bull Sternford in an agonyof sudden terror.

"I—I—" she stammered. Then composure returnedto her. "If you wish it," she said submissively. "But Idon't need food."

Bull regarded the averted face for moments. Sympathyand love were in his clear gazing eyes. He understoodsomething of the thing she was enduring, and thetone of his voice had been a real expression of his feelings.This girl, with the courage of twenty men, withher radiant beauty, and in her pitiful, heartbroken condition,was far more precious to him than any victory hehad set himself to achieve. He knew that the world heldnothing half so precious.

He came a step nearer.

"I wonder if you'll listen to me, Nancy," he said, witha hesitation and doubt utterly foreign, to him. "Youknow, for all that's happened, for all we're mixed upagainst each other in this war, I'm the same man youfound me on the Myra and in Quebec. I—"

"Don't."

The girl flung out her hands in a piteous appeal. AndBull recognised the hysteria lying behind the movement.

"I know," she cried. "Oh, I know. But—don't youunderstand? You must know what I am. It's my doingthat Laval has gone to his death. I'm responsible, justas surely as if I'd fired the gun that robbed him of hislife. Oh, why, why didn't I refuse the work? Why didthey send me? And those dogs. Those poor helplessdogs. They, too. I must have been mad—mad. Howcan you come near me? How can you stand there summoningme to eat food—with you? It's useless. It's—Iwho sent that man to his death—I who—"

"Why, I thought it was Gouter."

Bull's manner had suddenly changed. The dangersignal in the girl's eyes had determined him. So hesmiled, and there was laughter in his challenge.

"Say," he went on rapidly, "if you told that toGouter he'd be crazy mad. He's the boss running shoton Labrador, and if you claimed responsibility for thekilling of Laval you'd be dead up against it with him."He shook his head. "No, he's sort of grieved he didn'tdrop him plumb on the instant as it is. It won't do youtalking that way with him around."

He watched for the effect of his words and realised aslight relaxing of the strained look in the hazel eyes.Forthwith he plunged into the thing he contemplated.

"I'm going to make a big talk with you before weeat," he said. "You see, I've wanted to right along,Nancy, but—Well, I want to tell you you're no moreresponsible for Laval's life, and the lives of those dogs,than I am. We're each playing our little parts in thethings of life like the puppets we are. Our hands areclean enough, but it's not that way with the skunks thatcould send you, a girl, almost a child, to do the work, andlive the life that boys like Gouter hardly know how toget through. That man, Peterman, is going to get itone day from me if I have luck. And I won't call itmurder when I get my hands on his dirty alien throat.But never mind that. I want to ease that poor achinghead of yours. I want to try and get you some peace ofmind. That's why I tell you you've nothing to chideyourself for, nothing at all. It's true. You've playedthe game like the loyal adversary you are. And, for themoment, I'm top dog. You've handed me a bad nightmareby the wonderful courage and grit you've well-nighshamed me, as a man, with. True, true you haven'ta thing to blame yourself with. You've fought a mightybig fight I'd have been pleased to fight. It's just circ*mstancespitched you into the muss up, and let yousee the thing your folks have brought about. It'sthat that's worrying. Think, Nancy, think hard. Thisis their fight. Not yours. The blood of Laval is onElas Peterman's head. His, and those other creatureswho are ready to commit any crime to steal our countryfrom us. Oh, I'm not preaching just my side. It'strue, true. We at Sachigo were content to competeopenly, honestly. Peterman and those others saw disasterin our competition. And so they got ready to murder—ifnecessary. It's the soulless crime of a gang ofunscrupulous foreigners, and those hounds of hell haveleft you to suffer for it just as sure as if they'd seared yourpoor gentle heart with a red hot iron. Say, Nancy," hewent on, with persuasive earnestness, "put it all out ofyour mind. Forget it all. You're out of the fight now.And it just hurts me to see your eyes troubled, and thatpoor tender heart of yours all broken up. Won't you?"

The girl had turned away to the gaping valley again.But she answered him. And her tone was less dull, andit was without the dreadful passion of moments ago.

"I—I've tried to tell myself something of that," shesaid, with the pathetic helplessness of a child.

"Then try some more."

Bull had drawn nearer. He laid one hand gently onher shoulder. It moved down and took possession ofthe soft arm under her furs. Nancy shook her head.But there was no decision in the movement.

"Oh, I wish—" she began.

But she could get no further. Suddenly she buried herface in her hands, and broke into a passion of weeping.

Bull stood helplessly by. He gazed upon the shakingwoman while great sobs racked her whole body. Therewas nothing he could do, nothing he dared do. He knewthat. His impulse was to take her in his arms and protecther with his body against the things which gave herpain. But—somehow he felt that perhaps it was goodfor her to weep. Perhaps it would help her. So he waited.

Slowly the violence of the girl's grief subsided. Andafter a while she turned to him and gazed at him throughher tears.

"I'm—I'm—"

But Bull shook his head.

"Come. Shall we go and eat?"

He still retained his hold upon her arm. And as hespoke he led her unresistingly away towards the camp.

Chapter XXI—The Man In The Twilight

Bat Harker passed out of the house on the hillside.Muffled in heavy furs he stood for a moment filling up thestorm doorway, gazing out over a desolate prospect, ascene of grave-like, significant stillness.

The mills he loved were completely idle. But thatwas not all. He knew them to be at the mercy of anarmy of men who had abandoned their work at the callof wanton political and commercial agitators. It wasdisaster, grievous disaster. And he told himself he wasabout to beat a retreat like some hard-pressed general,hastily retiring in face of the enemy from a position nolonger tenable.

There was no yielding in the lumberman. But to a manof his forcefulness and headstrong courage the thoughtof retreat was maddening. He was yearning to fightin any and every way that offered. He knew that hewas going to fight this thing out, that his present retreatwas purely strategic. He knew that the whole campaignwas only just beginning. But it galled his spiritthat his first move must be a—retreat.

The late winter day was fiercely threatening, fit settingfor the disaster that had befallen. The cold was bitterlyintense, but no more bitter than the lumberman's presentmood. There down below were the deserted quayswith their mountains of baled wood-pulp buried deepunder white drifts of snow. And the voiceless millswere similarly half buried. Look where he would thescene was dead and deserted. There was not one singlestirring human figure to break up the desolation of it all.

It was a sad, white, desolate world, which for overfifteen years he had known only as a busy hive. Roadwaysshould have been clear. Traffic should have beenspeeding, every service, even in the depth of winter,should have been in full running. The mills—thosewonderful mills—should have been droning out theirchorus of human achievement in a world set out forNature's fiercest battle ground.

From the moment of that first encounter in the recreationhall Bat had known the strike to be inevitable.Bull's swift action at the outset had had its effect. Forthe moment it had checked the movement, and reduced itto a simmer. Heat and power had been restored, andwork had been resumed, and outwardly there had beenpeace. But it was artificial, and the lumberman andthe engineer had been aware that this was so.

Brief as was the respite it was valuable time to themen in control, and they used it to the uttermost. Theleaders of the strike had been robbed of the advantagethey had sought from a lightning strike. But they wereby no means defeated. It was only that they had losta move in the game they had prepared.

At the end of a week Bat awoke one morning to findthe mills and all traffic at a standstill, and the workersskulking within the shelter of their own homes.

Then it was that the benefit of a week's respite wasmade plain. Every plan that had been prepared wasforthwith put into operation. Power and heat wereagain cut off. The loyalists, which included a largenumber of the engineering staff, and the staff of the executiveoffices, were equipped with such weapons as wouldserve, and set guard over the food and liquor stores, andthe essentials of the mills. And the power house wasfortified for siege.

But the strikers gave no sign. There was no attemptat violence. There was no picketing, and no apparentattempt at coercion of the loyalists. It almost seemedas if the objects of the leaders had been achieved by thesimple cessation of work.

This silent condition of the strike had gone on fordays with exasperating effect upon the defenders. Batendeavoured by every means in his power to bring theleaders of the movement into the open to discuss thesituation. But every effort ended negatively. The menwould not contemplate the conference table, and finally,in headlong mood, the lumberman had committed thegrave mistake of provocation. He threatened to cut offfood supplies if the leaders continued in their refusalto confer.

Two weeks elapsed before his threat reacted. Twoweeks of continued silence and apparent inaction by thestrike leaders. The men's first terror at the loss of heatand power seemed to have passed. As Bull had suggestedthey had resorted to the methods of the trail, andday and night mighty beacon fires burned along the fore-shoresof the cove upon which their homes were built.The men and women came and went peaceably but silentlybetween the food stores and their homes, purchasingsuch provisions as they needed. And the manner ofit all, the cold silence, should have served a warning of theiron hand in exercise behind the strike.

The bombshell came at the end of the third week. Itcame in the form of a message crouched in the flamboyantphraseology beloved of the Communist fraternity.It was conveyed by a small youth some ten years ofa*ge, as though its authors were fearful lest a full grownbearer should be made to suffer for the temerity.

Bat had received it at the office, and his manner hadbeen characteristic.

"Fer me, laddie?" he had said, as he took possessionof the official-looking envelope. Then he gently pattedthe boy's shoulder. "All right, sonny," he added. "Youget right back to your folks. Pore little bit."

With the boy's departure he had lost no time in readingthe ultimatum the message contained.

At the finish of his reading Bat had looked up intothe dark face of Pete Loale who was standing by.

"Leo Murko?" he said, in an ominously restrainedtone. "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 namewhy in hell didn't he break that skunk's neck?"

The week's grace had expired. It had been a week offurther hasty preparations. Every day had been usedto the uttermost, and even far into the night the workhad gone on. The office on the hill, as well as the executiveoffices down at the mill, had been cleared out. Documents,cash, books, safe. Everything of real importancehad been removed to the citadel power house. Themining of the penstocks had been completed, and leftready to be blown sky high at a moment's notice. Whateverbefell, the men who had given their lives to the buildingof the mills were determined that only a useless huskshould fall into the hands of the strikers.

Now had come the Communists' final declaration ofwar. The message had been brought less than an hourago by the same youth, who had again departed withBat's smiling expression of pity. The letter was ominouslybrief.

"The Order of the Soviet of the Workers will be enforcedforthwith. No mercy will be shown in the event of resistance."

Bat's fury had blazed as he read the message. Again itwas signed "Leo Murko." How he hated that name.He had been alone in the office when the letter came, andhad seized the 'phone and called up the engineer at thepower house, and read the message to him. Skert Lawton'sreply was as instant as it was characteristic.

"That's all right," he said. "We're fixed for the scrap.Just come right over."

It was this last act that Bat contemplated now. Andhe hated it. He knew well enough he must go. Therewas no sane alternative. The power station was theprepared fortress. It had everything in it that must beguarded and fought for. But his fierce regret was nonethe less for the knowledge.

Then, too, his regret was for something else. Itwas at the absence of Bull Sternford. This was noexpression of weakness. It was simply he desired theman's companionship. They had worked together. Theyhad planned and built together. And, now, in the momentof battle, it seemed to him they should still be together.

But he knew that was impossible. When Bull's callto the forest had come in the night there had been noopportunity for explanation. He, Bat, had been engageddown at the mill, and the other had been rushedin his preparations. Bull had made his farewell to himin a great hurry. He had outlined briefly the thinghappening in the forests. That had been all. That anda few words on the affairs of the mill.

How the news had reached Bull, and who the messenger,had never transpired between them. PerhapsBull had forgotten to mention it. Perhaps, in the hurryof it all, Bat had forgotten to ask. Perhaps, even, themessenger himself had impressed secrecy for his visit,which had been timed for the dead of night. At anyrate Bat knew none of these things, and was in no wayconcerned for them. All he was concerned for was theabsence of the man who was something more to him thana mere partner.

Thinking of him now Bat remembered the other'sfinal words, and the memory stirred him deeply.

"Remember, old friend," he had said, "young RayBirchall will be over from England at the break of winter.On his report to his people depends the whole thing we'vebuilt up. We've got to have these mills running full whenthat boy gets around. There's not a darn thing elsematters."

It was the final spur. The mills running full. Batspat out his chew, and turned and locked the door behindhim. Then he moved away hurriedly, gazing straightin front of him as though he dared not even think of theplace he was leaving.

* * * * *

On the foreshore of the Cove, out towards the guardingheadlands, half a hundred fires were burning. Theywere immense beacon fires of monstrous proportions.Belching columns of smoke clouded the whole regiontill the water-front looked to be in the grip of a forestfire.

Men, and women, and children were gathered aboutthem. They were basking in a moderation of temperaturesuch as their homes could no longer afford them.But it was a curious, silent gathering, indifferent to everythingbut the feeding of the fires on which they felt theirvery existence depended.

The forests which supplied the fuel came down to theedge of the now idle trolley track. Already acres andacres had been felled to feed the insatiable fires. Thewoodland decimated, and the devastation was going onin every direction.

About the houses there were others engaged in homelychores. There were men, and women, too, clad heavilyin the thick sheepskin clothing which alone could defeatthe fierce breath of winter. Here again was silence andgloom, and even the children refrained from their accustomedpastimes.

A tall, fur-clad figure was moving through the settlement.His feet were encased in moccasins, and thickfelt leggings reached up just below his knees. For therest his nether garments were loose fur trousers, and hisbody was covered by a tunic reaching just below hismiddle, with a capacious hood attached to it almost completelyenveloping his head.

He moved slowly and without any seeming object.He passed along, and paused when he encountered eitherman, woman, or child. With the men he spoke longest.But the women claimed him, too. And generally heleft behind him a change of expression for the better inthose with whom he talked.

He paused beside a small party of elderly men. Theywere at work upon a prone tree trunk of vast girth. Theywere cutting and splitting it, fresh feed for the fires whichmust never be permitted to die down.

The men had ceased work on his approach. But theywent on almost immediately, all except one. He wasa grizzled veteran, a man just past middle life. His facewas deeply lined, and a scrub of whisker protected it fromthe cold. He had been seated on the log, but he stood upas the tall man addressed him by name.

"You'll be there, Michael," he said, brushing the frostfrom his darkly whiskered face, and breaking the icicleshanging from his fur hood where it almost closed overhis mouth.

The man's grey eyes were smiling as they looked intothe wide black eyes so mildly encouraging.

"Sure, Father," came his prompt reply. "We gotto be ther' anyway. That don't matter. But we're foryour lead, an' we'll stand by it, sure. There's going tobe no sort of damn fool mistake this time."

The tall man nodded.

"There must be no mistake this time," he said keenly."Say, how many years is it since I sent you along herewith a promise of good work and better wages, and asquare deal?"

"Nigh five years, Father."

"And you got all—those things?"

"Sure. More."

Father Adam nodded.

"And those are the things a man's entitled to. Justthose," 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 thehonesty that entitles him to hold his head up in the world.There's no honesty in the things these men propose."

"That's so, Father."

There was decision in the man's agreement. But evenas he spoke his gaze wandered in the direction of twosmall children, like bundles of fur, playing in the snow.

"Poor little kids," he said. "Say, it's hell for themwith heat cut off."

Again the tall man nodded as he followed the other'sgaze.

"That's so. But I don't blame the mill-bosses. Thisgang is trying to steal from the men who've always handedout a straight deal. Do you blame them for defendingthemselves?"

Michael shook his head.

"I don't see I can. After all—"

"No. Listen. You boys have it in your own hands.These crooks from the Skandinavia got a strangle holton the youngsters of this outfit who've no kiddies likethose. You older boys let 'em get it. You weren'tawake. Now you find yourselves caught in the tide.We've got to make a break for it. There'll be heat inplenty when you break free. Seven o'clock. That's thetime your masters ordered the meeting for. Seveno'clock. That's the time they intend to commit their greatcrime—with you helping them."

Father Adam smiled as he drove his satire home.

"Not on your life!" The man's grey eyes were fierce."Give us the lead, Father," he cried. "We—we justgot to have that. Ther' ain't a real lumber-jack in theseforests won't follow it. It'll be a scrap. A hell of ascrap. Oh, I know. Maybe some of us'll never see thelight of another day. But sure it's got to be. We oughtto've gone over from the start, and stood by our jobs.But I guess none of us with wives and kiddies had theguts. They threatened our women and children, an' weweakened. But it's different now, sure. We've learned ourlesson. It's themselves they're out for, an' we'll be theirdogs to be kicked and bullied as they see fit. We'llfollow your lead, Father, an' it don't matter a cuss whenthe scrap comes."

Father Adam nodded. His dark eyes were alight withsomething more than the smile shining in them.

"Good," he said. "I shall be there."

He moved away and Michael rejoined his companions.They talked together for a moment or two while theireyes followed the receding figure. They saw it stop andspeak to one of their wives. She had a small child withher. They saw it bend down into a squatting attitudeand draw the child towards it. Then they saw a leanhand draw out of its mit and proceed to touch a swellingon the little mite's neck. They understood. Andwhen the figure finally passed on out of sight, they returnedto their work, each man absorbed in his ownthought, each man with a surge of deep feeling for thatlonely figure. For they were all men who knew, andunderstood the man who lived in the twilight of theforests.

* * * * *

The recreation room was packed to suffocation, packedfrom end to end with a human freight. The bencheswere crowded, and the tables groaned under the weightof as many rough-clad creatures as could crowd themselvesthereon. Every inch of floor space was occupied,and even the recesses in the log walls which containedthe windows were utilised as sitting places for the audiencewhich had gathered at the imperative order of theSoviet of the Workers.

Kerosene lamps had replaced the brilliant electric lightto which the men were accustomed. A haze of tobaccosmoke created a sort of fog throughout the length of thebuilding, and contrived to soften the harsh lines of thesea of human faces turned towards the raised platformwhereon sat the members of the ruling Soviet. Thetemperature of the room was cold for all the warminginfluence of the human gathering, and every man worehis fur-lined pea-jacket closely buttoned.

Once, in a light moment, Bull Sternford had declaredthat male human nature in the "bunch" was the ugliestthing in the world. Had he witnessed that sea of faces,so intently, so anxiously turned towards the leadersthey had presumably elected, he must have been wellsatisfied with the truth of his conviction.

Such was the ascendancy and power the Bolshevistleaders had gained in the brief month since the firstrumble 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 ofmany hundreds waited outside. It was the hour of Fatefor all. They understood that. It was the hour of thatFate which had been decreed by men, who, under theguise of democratic selection had usurped a power overthe rest of the community such as no elected parliamentof the world had ever been entrusted with.

It was doubtful if the majority fully realised thesignificance of what was being done. It is certain that afeeling of deep regret stirred voicelessly in many hearts.But every man there was a simple wage earner whosehorizon was bounded by that which his wage openedup. For the rest he was left guessing, but more oftenfearing. So, with his muscles of iron, his human desires,and his reluctance to apply such untrained reasoning ashe possessed, he was ripe subject for fluent, unscrupulous,political agitators, and ready to sweep along with anytide that set in.

The leaders on the platform understood this wellenough. It was their business to understand it. Theothers, the leaders' immediate supporters, were men offiery youth, or those whose work it was to wreck at allcosts, and snatch to themselves, in addition to pay fortheir fell work, such loot as the wreckage afforded them.

The hum of talk snuffed right out as the leader roseto address the meeting. It was Leo Murko, the sameman, a hard-faced, foreign-looking Hebrew whom amonth before Bull's great arms flung through thebroken window into the snowdrift beyond. His positionnow, however, was far different from that which ithad been when his endeavours had been concentratedupon enrolling a Communist following. All that hadbeen achieved or sufficiently so. Now he was the dictatorwhose orders could be backed by an irresistible force.His whole manner had changed. The velvet glove ofpersuasion had been discarded, and he hurled his commandswith deep-throated authority, and the smile ofencouragement and persuasion was completely abandoned.

His preliminary was brief. A phrase or two of flatteryand acknowledgment to those on the platform supportinghim dismissed that. Then he passed on to the objectsin view. In five minutes he had dismissed also the ultimatedestiny of the mills, and the manner in which theWorkers were to benefit by its administration. Then heflung himself into a fiery denunciation of all capitalists,and particularly those who had dared to employ hisaudience on good wages for something like fifteen years.That completed he passed on to the plans for takingover the mills forthwith.

During the earlier part of his address the audiencelistened with grave attention. Here and there littleoutbursts of applause punctuated his sentences. Butwhen he came to the task which had been set for thatnight a deathly silence prevailed everywhere. Theintensity was added to rather than broken by the harshclearing of throats that came from almost every part ofthe hall.

"The whole thing needs cleaning up before daylight,"he hurled at them. "Our organisation is complete.Here," and he indicated the table nearby littered withpapers and surrounded by four or five men who weremembers of the elected Soviet, "we have the lists ofthe names of every comrade, and the numbers of men tobe used in every detail of the work before us. They havebeen carefully drawn up with a view to the task requiredto be put through. Some tasks will be simple. Somewill be less so." A grim light that was almost a smileshone in his black eyes. "But we have carefully discriminatedin our personnel. That is as it should be.There will be certain bloodshed. Knowing the temperamentand preparations of your late masters this seems tobe inevitable. But again we have provided. Ourgreatest and most important task is the possessionof the power station, and for the capture of that we havemachine guns which will quickly reduce the enemy tocapitulation. The strength of the enemy we know to thelast fraction—"

"Do you?"

The challenge came from the back of the hall. It camein a quiet, refined voice that swept through the hall withthe cold cut of a knife. Someone had risen from a sittingposition on a table. He stood up. It was the tall, darkfigure of Father Adam clad in a garment which envelopedhim from head to foot like the black cassock of a priest.

"Do you?" he cried again, as the startled leaderstared stupidly at the interrupter.

Every eye turned to the back of the hall on the instant.The men on the platform looked up from theirwork to witness the daring of one who could interruptthe elected leader of the people. One man, slight,foreign-looking, who had been seated at the back of theplatform stood up and leant against the wall.

"You know nothing of these people you are determinedto destroy with machine guns," Father Adamwent on. "You know nothing of the men with whomyou are dealing, either the owners of the mill, or themen who have found an ample livelihood under theirorganisation. How can you know them? You aredastardly agents of an alien company, sent and paid towreck a wholly Canadian enterprise. This is yourfirst object. Your second is even more sinister, for youare the agents of that mad Leninism which has destroyeda whole race of workers in a vast country like Russia.You are a supreme pestilence seeking to destroy suchhuman nature as will listen to your vile doctrines. It isI, I, Father Adam, tell you so. The men here to-night,whom you are inciting to theft and brutal murder, knowme. They know me as their servant, as their loyalcomrade and helper, ready to answer their call whentrouble overtakes them, ready to yield them of my bestservice in the day of prosperity or the night of theirwoe. And as it is with them so it is with their women andtheir babes. That's the reason I am here to-night, theblack night of their woe. And so I ask them to listento me now as they have listened many times before inthe woods and the mills, which is the world to whichwe all belong. If they do that, if only reason assertsitself, they'll here and now turn on you, and rend you,you and your wretched gang. They'll cast you out oftheir midst, and fling off a foreign yoke, as they wouldcast out any other unclean pestilence for the purificationof their homes. They'll pack you out into thenorthern night where no foul germs can exist. Are theyto become thieves at your bidding? Are they to becomemurderers because your foreign money has boughtthem machine guns? Would they go back to theirwomen, and their innocent babes, wiping their blood-stainedhands to ask them to rejoice in the brutal crimecommitted in the name of brotherhood and fellowship?No, sir. I know them. You don't—"

The Bolshevist flung out a denouncing hand andbellowed in his seething wrath:

"Traitor! He is of the Cap—"

But immediate uproar drowned his denunciation anda great voice shouted in the din.

"Let him speak."

A dozen other voices strove to make themselves heard,and a wild pandemonium was rising when clear and sharpFather Adam's voice rang out again above it.

"I tell you they'll have no more of you," he cried asthe leader dropped back to his seat, and the dark manat the back of the platform further bestirred himself."Order them now to man your machine guns and murderthe men in the power house! Give your orders here andnow! Read out your list of names and see—"

A shot rang out. The flame of a gun leapt somewhereat the back of the platform, to be followed by complete,utter silence.

Then came a sound. It was a hardly-suppressedmoan. Father Adam reeled slowly. He half turnedabout. Then he crumpled and dropped to his kneesand fell forward into hands outstretched to catch him.

Paralysis seemed to grip that dense-packed humanthrong. But it was only for a second. Then the avalancheleapt for the abyss.

"Father! Father Adam!"

The cry went up seemingly from a thousand throats.And with a roar the crowd surged forward. It hurleditself at the platform.

* * * * *

Bull stared up at the house. He moved away andglanced over the windows. Then his eyes turned tothe valley below, and his gaze settled itself on the greatfires burning on the northern foreshore of the Cove.

For some moments he stood contemplating the thinghe beheld. Then, at last, he turned back to the lockeddoor of his office. Without a word he raised one foot,and, with all his force, crashed its sole against the lock.

The lock gave and the door fell back into the pitchdarkness beyond. He passed within. After a whilea light appeared in the office window. It passed. Then itreappeared in each window of the building in succession.Presently it remained stationary and fresh lightsappeared in several of the windows. Minutes later hereappeared in the doorway.

He stepped out into the snow and came over to thewaiting dog train.

"It's a cold sort of welcome," he said quietly. "But—willyou please come right in, and I'll see how I canfix you up for comfort. I guess things have happenedsince I've been away. They've turned off heat. However—"

Nancy McDonald rose from her place in the sled. Sheflung back the wealth of furs under which she had beenwell-nigh buried and stepped out. She made no reply,but stood waiting while Bull gave orders to his driver.

"Get those dogs fixed, Gouter," he said. "Thencome right along back here. You'll need to gatherfuel and set those stoves going."

* * * * *

A great fire was roaring in the wood stove in the office.Nancy and Bull were standing before it seeking to driveout the cold which seemed to have eaten into theirbones. Bull had drawn up his own rocker-chair for thegirl but she had not availed herself of it.

"You are not going to keep me here, prisoner in—yourhouse?"

The girl spoke in a low, hushed tone. In the indifferentlamp-light she looked ghastly pale and utterly weary-eyed.She had removed her furs, revealing herself cladin the heavy clothing which alone could have servedon her desperate journey through the camps. It robbedher figure of much of its usual grace.

"I'm afraid I am." Bull smiled gently, for all thedecision of his words. "You see, Nancy, we're still atwar. Still fighting the battle that others have forcedon us."

Nancy inclined her head.

"I'd forgotten," she said almost humbly. "Butyou have no women folk around you," she went onurgently a moment later. "Does war mean that—that Imust submit even—to that?"

It was the woman in her that had taken alarm. Herhands were pressed together as she held them over thestove. The man understood. She moved away to thewindow, over which the curtains had not been drawn,and Bull watched her.

"Every respect will be paid you," he said. "You'venothing to fear. When Gouter returns he'll get food,and we'll make the best preparations we can. I'veto consider others with more at stake than even I."

"Look!"

The girl had turned. Her eyes were wide with terror.She was pointing at the window, and Bull hurried to herside.

A great fire was raging on the north shore of the Cove.It was the recreation room, that room which Bat hadso bitterly come to hate. It was ablaze from end toend, and lit up its neighbourhood so that the scene wasof daylight clearness. A horde of human figures weregathered about it, in a struggling, seething mass, andthe man realised that a battle was raging, a humanbattle, whilst the demon of fire was left to work its will.

He stood there, held speechless by the thing he beheld.

"What is it? What does it mean?"

Panic drove the questions to the girl's lips. And sheturned in an agony of appeal to the man beside her.

"It means the work of the Skandinavia has been welland truly done."

Chapter XXII—Dawn

The hush of dawn was unbroken. The shadows ofnight receded slowly, reluctantly renouncing their longreign in favour of the brief winter daylight. The shoresof the Cove lay hidden under a haze of fog.

There were no sounds of life. The world was desperatelystill. No cry of wild fowl rose to greet the day.There was not even the doleful cry of belated wolf, orthe snapping bark of foraging coyote to indicate thoseconditions of life which never change in the northernwilderness. It was as if the world of snow and ice werewaking to a day of complete mourning, a day of bitterreckoning for the tumult of furious human passions,which, under the cloak of night, had been loosed to workthe evil of men's will.

With the first gleam of the rising sun a breeze leapt outof 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 sceneof wreckage which the rage of battle had produced.

It was a scene for pity and regret. Gone was thebuilding which had been set up for the workers' recreation.Only a smoking ruin remained in its place. A dozenother buildings in the neighbourhood bore the scars offire, which they would doubtless carry for all time oftheir service. The mill, however, was safe. The workof more than fifteen years remaining intact. But it hadbeen so near, so very near to complete destruction.

With the passing of the fog further disaster was revealed.It was the wreck of human life which the nighthad produced. Daylight had made it possible to dealwith the injured and those beyond all human aid. Andthe work was going forward in the almost voicelessfashion which the presence of death ever imposes onthe living.

Viewed even from a distance there could be no mistakingthe meaning, the hideous significance of it all. AndNancy, gazing from a window in the house on the hill,shrank in terror before that which she believed to be theresult of the cruel work to which she had lent herself.

It had been a dreary, heartbreaking night of sleeplesswatching and poignant feeling. Nancy was alone in herprison, a beautiful apartment, the best in the house. BullSternford had conducted her thither personally, and, indoing so, had told her the thing he was doing, and of hisreal desire to save her unnecessary distress.

"You see," he had explained, with a gentleness whichNancy felt she had no right to expect, "there's justabout the best of everything right here. It's as it wasleft by the feller who designed and decorated it for thewoman he loved better than anything in life. No one'sever used it since. I'd be glad for you to have it. We'veonly a Chink servant to wait around on us, and a roughchoreman, and I guess they don't know a thing aboutfixing things for a woman. But they've kept it cleanand wholesome, and that's all I can say. Can you makeout in it to-night?"

He smiled. Then his steady eyes had turned awayto the window where the light of the raging fire could beseen. And after a moment he went on.

"You're a prisoner. I can't help that. That's gotto be. But no lock or bolt will be set to keep you here.You're free to come and go as you choose. You canmake the doors of the room fast against intrusion, if youfeel that way. But there'll be none. To-night you'lljust be dead alone in the place. You see, I've got toget out and pull my weight down there."

So he had left her. He had left her to a punishmentmore desperate than anything he could have designed.Her windows looked out over the mill. And a subtleforce attracted her thereto, and held her sleepless anddespairing the whole night long. She had been forced tosit there watching the tragedy being enacted. A tragedywith which she knew she was connected, and for which,in her exaggerated self-condemnation, she believed herselfresponsible.

The agony of that prolonged vigil would never be forgotten.Fascinated, dreading, every act of it seared thegirl's soul as with a red hot brand. It was the Skandinavia'swork. The agents of the Skandinavia. And sheknew that she, perhaps, was their principal agent. Therattle of machine guns. The human slaughter. She hadwitnessed the terror of it all in the fierce light of theconflagration which looked to be devouring the wholeworld of the mills. She could never forget it. She couldnever forgive herself her share in the ghastly plans for thathideous destruction. But more than all she knew shecould never forgive, or again associate herself with thosewho had designed the inhuman work of it all and plungedher into the maelstrom of its execution.

Now, in the daylight, she was still at the window.There was no relief. On the contrary. With the smokecleared from the smouldering ruins she saw the full extentof the wreckage. It was sprawling everywhere,human and material. An army of men, it seemed, wassearching the battlefield. It was searching and collectingamongst the ruins. And she watched the bearing awayon improvised stretchers, of still, helpless, human burdenswhich none could mistake. She could bear no more of it.She shut out the sight and fled from the window, coveringher eyes with her hands.

But she was recalled almost instantly. The sound ofmen's rough voices startled her. Whence came the soundshe could not judge. But it seemed to her it was fromsomewhere outside. So she stealthily peered out. It wasa small group of fur-clad figures. They were approachingthe house over the snowy trail that came up from themill.

New terror leapt. They were supporting a prone,human body! They were bringing it up to the house!Who—who could they be bringing up to that house, whichwas the home and the office of the master of the mill?In that supreme moment all that which had gone beforewas completely forgotten. She stood clutching at thewindow casing, in a desperate effort to steady herself.

She knew. Oh, yes, it could be no other. It must beBull Sternford they were bringing up. Bull Sternford—theman who—The agents of the Skandinavia haddone him to death! The agents of the Skandinavia!

* * * * *

Bat Harker was standing at the window of the officeon the hill. His hard, grey eyes were searching the distancebelow, and his square jaws were busy on their usualoccupation. Bull was sitting in a rocker-chair. He wasleaning forward, gazing down at the thickly carpetedfloor, and his hands were clasped between his outspreadknees. Both men were dishevelled. Their clothing wasstained, and their hands and faces were begrimed as aresult of the fierce work of the night.

Bat suddenly turned from his silent scrutiny.

"He'll pull around? You think so?" he demanded.

There was an appeal in his harsh voice such as Bullhad never heard in it before, and he looked up with astart.

"That's how Jason reckoned," he said.

"Oh, to hell with Jason!" Bat's retort was fiercelyuncompromising. "Who's Jason anyway? A medicalstudent who hadn't the guts for his job. Leastways hegot on the crook. It's the thing you reckon I want toknow."

"I reckon he'll pull around," Bull returned quietly.Then he stirred wearily. "But you're hard on youngJason, Bat. He's bright enough. I like the way hehandles his job. And anyway he's the only feller aroundthis layout with any knowledge of a sick man. He'squalified you know. He wasn't just a student. He practisedbefore he went down and out and took to theforests. We've got to rely on him till we get a man upfrom Montreal, which won't be for weeks. He'll bethrough along from fixing him in a while. Then we canhear the thing he's got to say. Maybe we'll be able tojudge better then."

"I wired Montreal," Bat said sharply.

"Good."

The lumberman turned again to his window, and Bullcontinued to regard the carpet which had no interest forhim. Both were weary, utterly weary in body as well asmind.

It was full, broad daylight now, with the low, northernsun gleaming athwart the scene which these men hadso recently left. They were conscious of the victorygained. They rejoiced in the complete defeat of anenemy who had come so near to defeating all their plans.But the cost appalled them. They had both faced the playof machine guns. They had seen their men fall to thescythe-like mowing of a cruel weapon of which its victimshad no understanding. Then, when the machine guns hadbeen silenced, they had witnessed the rage with which thesehard-living jacks had meted out their ideas of justpunishment upon the murderers of their comrades.

The wanton inhumanity of the whole thing had sickenedthem both. Both knew and were indifferent to the roughnessof the fierce northland. But the ordeal through whichthey had passed was something far beyond the darkestvision of conflict they had ever contemplated.

Neither had been present to witness the shooting ofFather Adam. But both had been there within minutesof the beginning of the battle which it had started. Fromthe power house Bat had discovered the thing happening,just as Bull had seen from the window of his office theleaping flames which had threatened the mill. It had beenlargely due to their timely leadership that ultimate victoryhad been snatched. But the work of it had been terrible.

Now they had returned to their quarters, their night'swork completed. Down below comrade was attending tocomrade in such fashion as lay to hand, and those beyondearthly aid were being disposed to their last rest.Thus these men had been left free to succour the woundedcreature whose timely lead had made possible the defeatthat had been inflicted.

Bat had but one concern just now. Father Adam.The man whose secret he held. The man who countedfor everything in his rugged life. He raised his blood-shoteyes to his companion's face.

"If—Father Adam—passes, I'm done with Sachigo,Bull," he declared almost desperately. "It 'ud break meto death. You can't know the thing that feller means tome. You know him for the sort of missioner all thesefolks 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 ashe is."

Bull nodded. He made no reply. He knew the lumbermanwas well-nigh beside himself, and he gazed back intothe hot eyes and wondered.

But Bat had nothing more to say. He even felt hehad said more than he had any right to say. So heturned again to the window.

A few moments later the door communicating withthe house was unceremoniously thrust open. The twomen looked round. It was a youngish man dressed in theoveralls of an engineer who hurried in. He was alertand full of business; a condition which he seemed toappreciate.

"It's all right, boss," he cried cheerfully, addressinghimself to Bat. "Guess the good Father'll get away withit. He's out of his dope an' smiling plenty. I jerkedthat darn plug that holed him right out, an' it's a soft-nosedswine. I left it back there for you to see. Thefeller who dropped him deserves rat poison. I hope toGod they got him. Anyway I got the wound cleaned upand fixed things. Now we just got to keep it clean andopen, and watch his temperature. Then we don't need toworry a thing. I'll do that. But someone'll have to sitaround and nurse him. I'll have to get along down.There's nigh a hundred needin' me. Gee I An' after allthese years, too. It makes me wonder."

There was a smile of keen appreciation in the eyesthat looked into those of the lumberman. And the lookdeepened when Bat thrust out a large and dirty handat him.

"Thanks, boy," he said, in obvious relief. "I'm goin'to nurse that pore feller. Maybe I ain't much in thatline. But I'll promise he don't lack a thing I can handhim. Here, shake. You'll be along to fix him again?"

"Right on time," was the quick rejoinder.

Jason had readily enough gripped the outstretchedhand. Then he hurried away. And neither of the menbegrudged him the obvious vanity which his momentaryimportance had inflamed.

With the man's going Bull passed a hand back overhis ample hair.

"God!" he exclaimed wearily. "It's been a toughnight."

"Tough?"

Bat's response spoke a whole world of feeling. Hemoved from his window and flung himself into a chair.

"He saved us," he went on. "Father Adam. Hesaved the whole of our darn outfit. How he did it I don'tjust know. Maybe I'll never know. He don't talk a lot.I gathered something of it from the boys. But therewasn't time for talk." He shook his grizzled head. "Yousee, I didn't even know he was around. And you nevertold me it was him brought you word from the camps.He must have been at work around from the start. Hemust have got hold of a bunch of the boys he knew. Andwhen he got 'em right, why—Say, I'd have given athousand dollars to have heard him fire his dope at thatlousy gang. It must have been pretty. But they gothim. And I guess that was the craziest thing they did.The fool man who could shoot up Father Adam in faceof the forest-boys could only be fit for the bughouse."

He sighed. It was not for the man's madness inshooting, but for the hurt inflicted. Then a grim, vengefulsmile lit his eyes.

"Why, I guess there ain't a single agent of the Skandinaviadown there left with a puff of wind in his rottencarcase. The boys were plumb crazed for their bloodan' got right up to their necks in it. I'm glad. I'm—"

"Oh, forget it, man." Bull spoke sharply. "There'sthings we can take a joy in remembering. But this isn'tone of 'em. No. The thing for us now is work. Plentyof work. The mill needs to be in full work inside aweek. We haven't an hour to lose, with young Birchallcoming along over. Skert's promised us power in twenty-fourhours. He's at it right now. The camps on theriver'll be working full, and making up lost time. Therest's up to us right here. But—but," he added, passinga hand nervously across his forehead, "I've got to getsleep or I'll go stark crazy."

Bat eyed the younger man seriously. It was the firsttime he had realised his condition. His sympathy foundthe rough expression of a nod.

"You had a hell of a time up there," he said.

Bull laughed. There was no mirth in his laugh.

"It was tough all right. I wonder if you'd guess howtough." He shook his head. "No. You wouldn't. Youreckon Father Adam's a pretty good man, but I tell youright here you don't know how good, or the thing he didfor us single-handed. I know—now. He set me wiseto it all, and didn't leave me a thing to do but make thetrail he'd set for me. It was an easy play dealing with thefool forest-jacks who'd swallowed the Skandinavia's dope.Yes. That was easy," he added thoughtfully. "But thatwas just the start of the game. Father Adam had locatedthe trail of the outfit the Skandinavia had sent and it wasmy job to come right up with 'em and silence 'em."

He broke off and sat staring straight in front of him.His fine eyes were half smiling for all the weariness hecomplained of. He yawned.

"Well, I hit that trail," he went on presently. "I hitit, and hung to it like a she-wolf out for offal. I justnever quit. It was that way I forgot sleep. It wasn'ttill between No. 10 and 11 Camps we got sight. We wereout in the open, up on the high land. We'd a run of fiftymile ahead of the dogs. When we got sight that boyGouter was after 'em like a red-hot devil. Drive? Gee,how he drove!"

Again came the man's mirthless laugh.

"There's things in life seem mighty queer at times.It was that way then. There was a man I wanted to killonce bad. Guess I've never quit wanting to kill him,though I'm glad Father Adam saved me from doing it.He was Laval—Arden Laval, one of the Skandinavia'scamp-bosses. Well, I saw him killed on that trip, and Ihelped bury him in the snow. Gouter drew on him on thedead run at fifty yards. He dropped him cold, andwrecked the outfit the feller was driving. There were twoin the bunch that the Skandinavia sent there to raisetrouble for us. Laval and another. Laval's dead, andthe other we brought right along as prisoner. Thatother's here in this—"

A light knock interrupted the story. Bull turned witha start. Then he sprang to his feet, every sign of wearinessgone. He stood for a moment as though in doubt.And the lumberman, watching him, remarked the completetransformation that had taken place. He was smiling.His straining eyes had softened to a tenderness the onlookerfailed to understand.

He moved swiftly across the room and flung openthe door.

"Will you come right in?"

The lumberman heard the invitation. The tone wasdeep with a gentleness he had never before discovered init. And in his wonder he craned to see who it was whohad inspired it.

Bull moved aside.

It was then that Bat started up from his chair, and asharp ejacul*tion broke from him. Nancy McDonaldwas standing framed in the doorway.

Chapter XXIII—Nancy

Bat was hurrying down the woodland trail. For oncein his hard life he knew the meaning of rank cowardice.The sight of Nancy McDonald had completely robbedhim of the last vestige of courage. The atmosphere ofthe office, that room so crowded with absorbing memoriesfor him, had suddenly seemed to threaten suffocation.He felt he must get out. He must seek the cold, crispair of the world he knew and understood. So he had fled.

Now he was alone with a riot of thought that wasalmost chaotic. There was only one thing that stoodout clearly, definitely, in his mind. It was the Nemesisof the thing that had happened. It was Nemesis witha vengeance.

His busy jaws worked furiously under his emotion. Hespat, and spat again, into the soft white snow. Oncehe stopped abruptly and gazed back over the circuitoustrail. It was as though he must look again upon thething that had so deeply stirred him, as though he mustlook upon it to reassure himself that he was not dreaming.That the thing had driven him headlong was real,and not some troublesome hallucination.

Nancy McDonald! The beautiful stepdaughter ofLeslie Standing, with her red hair and pretty eyes, wasthe agent of the Skandinavia, paid to wreck the greatwork he and Leslie had set up. She was paid to achievethe destruction at—any cost.

It was amazing. It was overwhelming. It was even—terrible.

He pursued his way with hurried steps. And as hewent his mind leapt back to the time when he had madehis great appeal for the poor, deserted child shut up inthe coldly correct halls of Marypoint College. What anirony it all seemed now. Then he remembered her firstcoming to Sachigo, and the mystery of the letter fromFather Adam heralding her arrival. He had understoodthe moment Nancy had announced her name to him on thequay. He had understood the thought, the hope whichhad inspired the letter.

In his rugged heart he had welcomed the letter whichFather Adam had written. He had welcomed the girl'sfirst coming to the place he felt should be her inheritance.He had seen in those things the promise of the belatedjustice for which years ago he had appealed. FatherAdam had asked Bull to receive her well. Why? Therewas 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 thatBull should do the same.

But that was all past and done with now. All thethings he had dreamed of, and so ardently desired, hadbeen lost through a mischievous Fate. The neglected stepdaughterof Leslie Standing was body and soul part oftheir enemy's armament of offence. It was all too crazy.It was all too devilish for calm contemplation.

The sight of the girl's pathetic eyes, so weary, sotroubled, had been sufficient. Bat could not have remainedin that room another minute. No. Down at themill were the things he understood. They were the thingshe was bred to, and could deal with. These others weresomething that left him hopeless and helpless. So hewent, determined to lay the ghost of the thing behind himin the tremendous effort the necessities of the mill demandedhe should put forth.

* * * * *

Bull's emotions were deeply stirred. He gazed intothe tired eyes of the girl, so beautiful for all their completedejection. He marked the cold pallor of her cheeks,and realised the dishevelled condition of her gloriousmasses of hair. An intense pity left him gravely troubled.

As Nancy stood gazing up at the man, complete hopelessnessoppressed her. She remembered well enoughthe 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 itcould mean, or how nearly it could bring them into real,personal conflict.

She had been wholly unprepared for the demand thathad been thrust upon her by the man, Peterman. It hadfrightened 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, atrying journey, perhaps, but one to be made with all thecomfort he could provide. And then to preach to thoseignorant forest-men the disaster towards which theiremployers were heading. As Peterman had put it, it hadalmost seemed a legitimate thing to do. Convinced asshe had been of the disaster about to fall on Sachigo, ithad seemed as if she were even doing them a service.

Had she been able to search Peterman's mind she wouldnever have taken part in the dastardly thing he hadplanned. Had she been able to read him she would havequickly discovered the real motive he had in sending her.She would have discovered the furious jealousy andwounded vanity which meant her to be a prime instrumentin the wrecking of Bull Sternford and his mills. Shewould have realised the devilish ingenuity with which heintended to wreck her friendship with another man so thathe might the more truly claim her for himself. But shehad no suspicion, and had blindly yielded herself to theduty she believed to be hers.

After Bat's hurried departure Bull cast about in hismind for the thing to say to her. And somehow, withoutrealising it, the right words sprang to his lips.

"We won!" he said. And the smile accompanyinghis words was one of gentle raillery, and suggested nothingof the real tragedy of the thing that had happened.

The girl's eyes widened. She strove to understand thedreadful lightness with which Bull spoke. Victory?Defeat? At that moment they were the two thingsfurthest from her mind.

Bull drew forward a chair, and gently insisted. AndNancy, accepting it, realised in a dull sort of way thatit was the chair she had occupied at the time of her firstvisit, which now seemed so far, far back in her memory.Bull sat again in his rocker. He leant forward.

"Sure," he went on, "we've won out. Your Skandinavia'sbeaten. Beaten a mile. We've won, too, at lesscost than I hoped. Does it grieve you?"

There was no softness or yielding in his tone. It wasas he intended; the tone of a man who cares only thatvictory has been won. Nancy shook her head.

"I'm—I'm glad," she said desperately.

"Glad?" Bull was startled.

The girl made a little involuntary movement. Sheaverted her gaze to the window through which the wintrysunlight was pouring.

"Oh, don't you understand? Can't you? Is the victoryso much to you that you have no thought, no feeling, forthe suffering it has brought? Are you so hard set on yourpurpose 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, nowthat I know the thing it means I feel I—I want to die."

Bull took a strong hold upon himself.

"I know," he said slowly. "You see, Nancy, you'rejust a woman. You're just as tender and gentle—and—womanly,as God made you to be. He gave you a beautifulwoman's heart, and a courage that was quite wonderfultill it came into conflict with your heart. You had noright to be flung into this thing. And only a man ofPeterman's lack of scruple could have done such a thing.Well, I'm not going to preach a long sermon, but I wantto tell you some of the things I've got in my mind beforeI get the sleep I need. God knows that none of this thingyou're blaming yourself for lies at your door. It wouldall have happened without you. Peterman designed it,and put it through for all he was worth. Now I want tosay I'm glad—glad of it all. I've no pity for the Bolshevicdregs of Europe he employed. They were out for loot,they were out to grab the things and the power that otherfolks set up. Any old death that hit them they amplydeserved. As for our folk who've gone under—well, wemustn't think too deeply that way. We all took ourchances, and some had to go. I was ready to go. So wasBat. So were we all. We wanted victory, and wewanted it for those who survived. We honour our dead,but our lives must not be clouded by their going. It'swar—human war. And just as long as the world laststhat war will always be. Good and bad men will die, andgood and bad women will suffer at the sight. But forGod's sake have done with the notion that you—you haveanything to take to yourself, except that you've fought agood fight, and—lost. It sounds like the devil talking,doesn't it? Maybe you'll think me a monster of heartlessness.I'm not."

"Oh, I wish I could feel all that," Nancy exclaimedwith an impulse which a few moments before must havebeen impossible.

"You can." Bull nodded. "You will."

"You think so?" Nancy sighed. "I wish I could."Suddenly she spread out her hands in a little patheticgesture. "Oh, it all seems wrong. Everything. Whatam I to do? What can I do? I—I can't even think.Whichever way I look it all seems so black and hopeless.You think I can—will?"

Bull's sympathy would no longer be denied. He rosefrom his chair and moved to the window. His facewas hidden from the troubled eyes that watched him.But his voice came back infinite in its gentleness.

"You want to do something," he said. "You want togive expression to the woman in you. And when thathas happened it'll make you feel—better. I know."

He nodded. Suddenly he turned back to her, and stoodsmiling down into her anxious eyes.

"Tell me," he went on, "what is it you want to do?You're no prisoner now. The war's finished. You'rejust as free as air to come and go as you please. Youcan return to Quebec the moment you desire, and the Myracomes along up. And everything I can possibly arrangeshall be done for your happiness and comfort. Whenwould you like to go?"

The girl shook her head.

"I wasn't thinking of that."

"I knew that," Bull smiled.

"Father Adam. He's in the house there sick andwounded," Nancy hurried on. "I know him. I—may Inurse him back to health and strength. May I try thatway 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'vedone so much to bring about."

The girl's hands were thrust out, and her eyes wereshining. Never in his life had Bull experienced such anappeal. Never in his life had he been so near to recklessdisregard for all restraint. He came nearer to her.

"Surely you may do that," he said. "And I just wantto thank you from the bottom of my unfeeling heart forthe thought that prompts you. We haven't a soul hereto do it right—to do it as you can. And Father Adam isa mighty precious life to us all—in Sachigo."

Chapter XXIV—The Coming Of Spring

It had been a hard day. Bull Sternford had spent itdealing with complicated financial schedules, an amazing,turbulent sea of figures, until his powers and patiencehad temporarily exhausted themselves.

In a final fit of irritation he had flung his work aside,and risen from his desk. The insufferable heat of theroom, and the reek of his own pipe disgusted him. Sohe had moved over to the window where the cold air ofearly spring drifted in through the open ventilating slotin the storm sash.

His gaze was on the Cove below, where the snow-ladenice was discoloured by the moist slush of thaw, andthe open waters, far down towards the distant headlands,had so deeply encroached upon the claims of winter.

A great, premature thaw had set in. It was the realspring thaw a month or more early. Skert Lawton, whocontrolled the water power of the mill, had warned himof its coming. Bat too had spoken out of his years ofexperience of the moods of Labrador's seasons. Butsomehow the sight of it all gave him none of the joy withwhich it had inspired the others.

The evil night of threatened disaster had become onlya memory. Nearly six weeks had passed since NancyMcDonald had craved the privilege of caring for the manwho had so nearly given his life in the saving of the milland all the great purpose it represented. Now he wasmercifully returned to health and strength under the devotedcare that had been bestowed upon him. The millwas again in full work. And the human army it employedhad returned to their peace-time labours in the full determinationto undo the grievous hurt which the mischief ofthe Skandinavia's agents and their own folly had inflicted.In the relief of reaction, they, no less than their employers,had redoubled their efforts.

All outward sign of the trouble through which themill had passed had long since been cleared away underthe driving power of the forceful Bat Harker. The scarsof fire remained here and there. But they were no morethan a reminder for those who were ready to forget thefolly they had once committed.

Everything was moving on now as Bull and his comradeswould have had it. Only that morning word hadcome through that Ray Birchall was on his way fromLondon for the purpose of his report, and expected toreach Sachigo in three weeks' time. Could anything,then, be better than this early thaw? It was a veritableact of Providence that the London man's inspection ofthe mills, and all the property involved would take placeunder the most active conditions.

It should have been a time of rejoicing and mentalease. It should have been a time of stirring hope. Amoment for complaisant contemplation of a great purposeachieved. But the man at the window regarded thething he looked upon without any display of pleasurablefeeling. The sight of it literally seemed to deepen theunease which looked out of his eyes.

In the midst of Bull's pre-occupation the door fromthe outer office was thrust open, and Bat Harker's harshvoice jarred the silence of the room.

"Gettin' a peek at things," he cried, stumping heavilyacross the thick carpet. "Well, it looks good to me, too.Say, if this lasts just one week we'll be as clear of snowas hell's sidewalks." Then he flung open his rough pea-jacketand pushed his cap back from his lined forehead."Gee, it's hot!"

The lumberman was standing at Bull's side, and hisdeep-set eyes were following the other's gaze with twinklingsatisfaction. Bull nodded and moved away.

"Yep," he ejacul*ted. "It should be good for us."

He passed over to the radiators and shut them off.Then he went over to the wood-stove and closed down thedampers. Then, with a curious absent-mindedness, hestood up and held out his hands to the warmth radiatingfrom the stove.

Bat was watching him interestedly. And at sight ofhis final attitude he broke into one of his infrequentchuckles and flung himself into a chair.

"Say, what in—? Feeling cold?" he demanded.

Bull's hands were promptly withdrawn, and, in spiteof his mood, a half smile at his own expense lit his troubledeyes.

"That's all right," he said. "It's on me, sure. Iguess my head must be full of those figures still."

He returned to the window and stood with his backto his companion. Bat watched him for some moments.

Bull had changed considerably in the last few weeks.The lumberman had been swift to observe it. Somehowthe old enthusiasm had faded out. The keen fightingnature he had become accustomed to, with its tendency toswift, almost reckless action, had become less marked.The man was altogether less buoyant.

At first it had seemed to Bat's searching mind as ifthe effects of that desperate trip through the forests,and the subsequent battle down at the mill, had left itsmark upon him, had somehow wrought one of thosecurious, weakening changes in the spirit of the manwhich seemed so unaccountable. Later, however, he dismissedthe idea for a shrewder and better understanding.

He helped himself to a chew of tobacco and kicked acuspidore within his reach.

"The fire-bugs are out," he said. "The last of 'em.I jest got word through. It's the seventh. An' it's thetally."

It was a sharp, matter-of-fact statement. He wastelling of a human killing, and there was no softening.

Bull nodded. He glanced over his shoulder.

"You mean—?"

"They shot five of 'em to death. The last two theyhanged." A grim set of the jaws, as Bat made theannouncement, was his only expression of feeling.

"Makes you wonder," he went on, after a pause."Makes you think of the days when locomotives didn'trun. Makes you think of the days when life was just apretty mean gamble with most of the odds dead againstyou. It don't sound like these Sunday School dayswhen the world sits around, framed in a fancy-colouredhalo, that couldn't stand for any wash-tub, talkin' brotherhoodan' human sympathy. It's tough when you thinkof the bunch that sent those boys to fire our limits. Theyknew the full crime of it, and knew the thing it wouldmean if we got hands on 'em. Well, there it is. Wegot 'em. An' now ther' ain't a mother's son of 'em leftalive to tell the yarn of it all. It's been just cold, bloodymurder. An' the murder ain't on us. No, I guess the darnsavage eatin' hashed missioner ain't as bad a propositionas the civilised guys who paid the price to get thosetoughs killed up in our forests. I can't feel no sort ofregret. It won't hand me a half-hour nightmare. Butit makes me wonder. It surely does."

He spat accurately into the cuspidore.

"Does the report hand you anything else?" Bull asked,without turning. The other noticed the complete lackof real interest. He shrugged.

"The camps are all in full cut. They're not a cordbehind."

Bat looked for a word, the lighting of an eye. Therewas none. And he stirred in his chair, and exasperationdrove him.

"Don't it make you feel good?" he demanded sharply."It's the last guess answered, unless there's a guess whenthat boy, Birchall, comes along. Anyway, you don't figgerther'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'swon to the last detail. Can't you feel good? Can't youfeel like a feller gettin' out into the light after years ofthe darkest hell? Don't it make you want to holler?Ain't there a thing I can say to boost you? The boysdown at the mill are hoggin' work. The groundwood'son the quays like mountains. The mills are roaring likeblast furnaces. Can you beat it? Spring. The flies an'skitters, an' shipping. Why, in a week I guess FatherAdam'll be hittin the trail for the forests, an'—"

"Nancy McDonald will be sailing for Quebec."

Bat was no longer gazing on the other's broad backand the mane of hair which did its best to conceal hismassive neck. Bull had turned. His strong face wasflushed. His fine eyes were hot. There could be no mistakingthe passionate emotion which the other had stirred.

The two men gazed into each other's eyes. Then witha curiously expressive gesture of his great hands Bullturned to the chair standing near, and flung himself into it.

The lumberman's eyes twinkled. He had done thething he desired. "An' you don't want her to?" he saiddeliberately.

Just for a moment it looked as though a headlongoutburst 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.

"No," he said in simple denial. "If she goes it meansthe end of Sachigo for me."

"You reckon you'll quit?"

In a moment the lumberman remembered a scene whichhad been enacted years ago on the high ground on thenorth shore of the Cove. He would never forget it. Ithad been the final decision of another to quit Sachigo.And the reason had been not dissimilar.

There was no reply. Bull sat staring blankly in frontof him. His eyes were on the wintry sky which was stillbroad with the light of day beyond the window.

Presently his gaze lost its abstraction and came againto the strong, lined face of the older man.

"Yes, Bat," he said calmly, almost coldly, "I'd haveto quit. I just couldn't stand for it. Nancy's got rightinto my life. She's the only thing I can see—now."

"Fer all she's a kind of prisoner right here, caughtred-hand doin' the damnedest she knows to break us infavour of the outfit that pays her?"

Bat smiled as he flung his challenge. But his tone,his words, were no indication of his mood, or of the rapidthought passing behind his shrewd eyes. A great senseof pleasure was asurge within him. He wanted to tellof it. He wanted to reach out and grip the other's hand,and tell him all that his words meant to him. But herefrained. Another man's secret was involved, and thatwas sufficient. His lips were sealed.

Bull stirred restlessly.

"Oh, psha!" he cried at last, with a force that displayedthe tremendous feeling he could no longer deny."I know what you think, Bat. I'm crazy. Well, maybeI am. Most men get crazy one time in their lives whena woman gets around. It's no use. I just can't help it.I know all you're thinking. Nancy McDonald belongs toour enemies. As you say she's done her damnedest tobreak us. Maybe you reckon I ought to feel for her likethe devil does about holy water. Well, I don't. I'mplumb crazy for her, and when spring clears up the watersof the Cove, and the Myra comes alongside, she's goingright aboard, and will pass out of Labrador and out ofmy 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—Hell! What's the use.Oh, I know it all. You've no need to tell me. We'vemade good. We've fought and won out. My contract'scomplete, and everything's looking just as good for usas it knows how—now. This mill. It's ours. Yours, andmine, and that other's, who I don't know about. All I'veto do is to sit around with the plums lying in my lap.Well, I don't want those plums without Nancy. That'sall. I don't want a thing—without Nancy. All the dollarsin America can burn in hell for all I care, and as forgroundwood pulp it's a damp mess of fool stuff thatdon't signify to me if it finds its way to the bottom of theNorth Atlantic. An added month of open season? Whatdoes it mean to me? Work. Only work, and flies, andskitters. An added month of 'em. Father Adam's awhole man again now, thanks to that dandy child. He'llpull right out to the forests again, and—she'll pull outtoo. I—"

"That's all right," Bat broke in drily. "I get all that.But why not marry the gal? Marry her an' quit all thisdarn argument. I guess this mill's goin' to hand you allyou need to keep a wife on. That seems to me thenatural answer to the stuff that's worryin' you."

His eyes twinkled as he regarded the other's troubledface.

"Is it?"

Bull was on his feet. Hot, desperate irritation lay behindthe retort which Bat's gentle sarcasm had drawnforth. His eyes were alight, and he passed an unsteadyhand across his forehead in a superlatively impatientgesture.

"Marry her?" he exploded. "Say, are you every sortof darn fool on God's earth, man? How can I hope tomarry her? What sort of use can a girl like that have forthe man who's beat her right out of everything she everhoped to achieve? I've had to treat her like any oldcriminal, and hold her prisoner. I've brought her rightdown here leaving her in a man's household withoutanother woman in sight. Say, these cursed mills havemade it so I've had to commit every sort of rotten act aman can commit against a high-spirited girl. And you askme why I don't marry her? You've been too long in theforests, Bat. Guess you've lost your perspective. NancyMcDonald's no sort of chattel to be dealt with any way wefancy. Get sense, man, an' talk it."

Bat's regard was unwavering before the other's angryeyes.

"Sense is a hell of a good thing to have an' talk," hesaid quietly. "I most generally notice the feller yearnin'for someone else to get it an' talk that way, mostly hasleast use for the thing he's preachin'. Maybe Nancyfeels the way you reckon. But that don't seem to meto worry a deal. Still, maybe things have changed aroundsince the days when I hadn't sense to keep out of gunshotof a pair of dandy eyes. And anyway I don't seem toremember the boys bein' worried with the sort of argumentyou're handing out. If my memory's as good as Ireckon, the boys most gener'ly married the gal first, an'got busy wonderin' about things after. All of whichseems like so much hoss sense, seem' the natur' of thingsis that most gals needs their minds made up for 'em. Yousee, Bull, I kind o' fancy womenfolk ain't just ord'nary.They got a bug that makes 'em think queer wher' men areconcerned. Now Nancy's all sorts of a gal, an' that bein'so I don't reckon she sees the hell-fire crimes you've committedagainst her just the way you see 'em. I allowthey're pretty darn tough. Shootin' up her outfit an'dumpin' her into a snowdrift up on Labrador's mightyhard sort of courtin'. Grabbin' her up an' settin' herhospital nurse to her enemies, in a house full of a bunchof tough men don't seem the surest way to make her smileon the feller that did it. Then most generally beatin' thegame she set out to play looks like makin' fer troubleplenty. It sure seems that way. But you never can tellwith a woman, Bull. You just can't."

Bat shook his grizzled head in solemn denial, but hiseyes were laughing. Bull smothered his resentment. He,too, shook his head, and somehow caught the infectionof the other's smile.

"But she's ambitious," he said. "And she isn't thesort of girl to take that easily. No."

Bat nodded and rose from his chair. Something ofhis purpose had been achieved and he was satisfied. Hefelt he had said all that was needed for the moment. Sohe prepared to take his departure.

"Maybe that's so, boy," he agreed readily. "But ambition'sa thing that changes with most every wind. Thatdon't worry me a thing. Say, you've sort of opened outabout this thing to me, an' I ain't sure why. But I kindof feel good about it. You're younger than me by yearsI 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 herether's just one ambition in a woman's life that counts.And she mostly gits it when she hits up against the fellerthat's got the guts to make her think his way. When thathappens I guess you can roll up every other old schedule,an' pass it into the beater to make new paper. It's the onlyuse for it. See? But I 'low I don't know women like Ido groundwood, which was the stuff that fetched me hereright 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 twofevers at the same time in a man's body. When you'veset Nancy McDonald figgerin' your way, your temperature'sliable to go up on the other. So long, boy."

Chapter XXV—Nancy's Decision

With the lengthening days the world of Labrador wasalready donning its brief, annual smile. But the passingof winter was no easy thing. There had been rain and"freeze-up," and rain again. And the whole countrysidewas a dripping, melting sea of wintry slush. Thesun was rising higher in the steely heavens with eachpassing day, but winter was still reluctant. It passed onto its dissolution only under irresistible pressure.

Nancy, no less than Father Adam and those others, towhom the early thaw meant so much, watched the passingof winter with the closest interest. But her interest owedits origin to a far different inspiration. She knew itmeant that her time at Sachigo was nearing its end, andthe future with all its barrenness was staring at her.

She moved restlessly about the large kitchen whilethe Chinaman, Won-Li, was preparing toast over thecook stove. She stood awhile at the window and watchedthe winging of a seemingly endless flight of early geesepassing up from the South. Then she turned away andglanced about the scrupulously clean and neat apartment.It was so very different from the place she had firstdiscovered weeks ago.

After awhile she took up her position against the kitchentable, and stood there with her gaze upon the bent figureof the cook in its long, blue blouse. But she was scarcelyinterested in the man's labours. She was not even waitingfor him to complete them. She was just thinking,filled with apprehension and without confidence. Hermind was made up to a definite purpose whose seemingimmensity left her staggered.

Nancy was no longer the distraught creature who hadwitnessed the terrible night of fire and battle down atthe mill. Many weeks had passed since then. Weeksfull of mental, bodily, and spiritual effort. From thefirst dark moments when she had begged the privilegeof nursing the wounded missionary, broken in spirit, abeautiful creature well-nigh demented with the horror ofthe thing she believed herself to be, the woman soul of herhad found a measure of peace.

It had been slow in coming. There had been momentswhen she had nearly broken under the burden of conscience.There had been moments when the weight ofunutterable depression, and the sense of guilt, had comenear to robbing her of her last shred of mental balance.But the woman's mission of nursing had saved her in theend. That, and the physical effort to which she hadapplied herself.

It was all so single-minded and simple. It was all sobeautifully pathetic. Nancy had found a careless householdrapidly decaying through mannish indifference tocomfort. She understood. These men were completelyabsorbed in the service of the great mills, and nothingelse mattered to them. Oh, yes, that was understandable.She knew the feeling. She knew how it robbed its victimof every other consideration in life. So she had flungherself into the task of re-ordering the household of whichshe had been forced to become a part, that she might yieldthem comfort in their labours and help herself in her owneffort to obtain peace of mind.

She had transformed an untidy, uncared-for bachelorhabitation into a wholesome, clean establishment of well-orderedlife. She had lifted a lazy Chinaman into areasonable specimen of comparative energy, and saw toit that meals were well and carefully served, and partakenof at regular hours by men who quickly discovered thefutility of protest.

But her work by no means ended there. From oneend to the other the house was swept and garnished, andthe neglect of years disposed of. Bedrooms were transformedfrom mere sleeping places to luxury. Linen wasduly laundered, and clothing was brushed, and folded, andmended in a fashion such as its owners had never thoughtpossible. She was utterly untiring in her labours, andin the process of them she steadily moved on towards thething she craved for herself.

The men realised the tremendous effort of it all. AndBull Sternford, for all his absorption in his work, hadwatched with troubled feelings. His love for Nancy hadperhaps robbed him of that vision which should havetold him of the necessity, in her own interests, for thatwhich the girl was doing. So there were times whenhe had protested, times when he felt that simple humanitydemanded that she should not be permitted to submitherself to so rough a slavery. But Nancy had counteredevery protest with an irresistible appeal.

"Please, please don't stop me," she had cried, almosttearfully. "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—Ah, no. Let mego on in my own way. Let me nurse him back to health.Let me do these things. However little I'm able to dothere's some measure of peace in the doing of it."

So the days and weeks had dragged on, and now thetime of Nancy's imprisonment was drawing to its inevitableclose. With Spring, and the coming of theMyra, she would have to accept her freedom and all itmeant. She would be expected to return to her home inQuebec, and to those who had employed her and sent heron her godless mission. She understood that. But shehad no intention of returning to Quebec. She had nointention of returning to the Skandinavia.

During the long hours of her labours she had searcheddeeply for the thing the future must hold for her. Itwas the old process over again. That great searchingshe had once done at Marypoint. But now it was alldifferent. There had been no sense of guilt then, andthe only man who had been concerned in her life hadbeen that unknown stepfather, whom, in her child'sheart, she had learned to hate. It had been simpleenough then. Now—now—

But she had faced the task with all the splendid, impetuouscourage that was hers. There was no shrinking.Her mind was swiftly and irrevocably made up. Shewould abandon the Skandinavia for ever. She wouldabandon everything and follow those dictates which hadprompted her so often in the past. Father Adam's self-sacrificingexample was always before her. The forests.Those submerged legions which peopled them. Was therenot some means by which she could join in the work ofrescue? She would talk to Father Adam. She felt hewould help her. She wanted nothing for herself. If onlythe rest of her life could be translated into some smallimitation of the life of that good man, then, indeed, shefelt her atonement might be counted as something commensurate.

It was not until her decision had been taken that shepermitted herself to seek beyond it. But once it wastaken the crushing sense of added desolation well-nighparalysed her. Somehow, never before had she understood.But now—now the sacrifice of it all swept uponher with an overwhelming rush. Bull Sternford. BullSternford, the man whom with all her power she hadstriven to defeat, the man whose strength and force ofcharacter had so appealed to her, the man who must hateher as any clean-minded man must hate a loathsome reptile,she would never see him again.

Oh, she knew now. She made no attempt at denial.It would have been quite useless. She loved him. Fromthe moment she had looked into his honest eyes, andrealised his kindly purpose on her behalf at their firstmeeting, she had loved him. She must cut him out ofher life. It was the penalty she must pay for her crimes.

And now the moment had arrived when she must puther plans into operation. Time was pressing. The seasonwas advancing. So she had chosen the hour at which sheserved tea to Father Adam as the best in which to seekhis advice and support.

* * * * *

The light tap on Father Adam's door was answeredinstantly. Nancy passed into the room with trepidationin her heart, but the hand bearing the tea tray waswithout a tremor.

The man whose life belonged to the twilight of thenorthern forests was seated in a deep rocker-chair underthe window through which the setting sun was pouringits pleasant spring light. He had been reading. Buthis book was laid aside instantly, and he stood up andsmiled the thanks which his words hastily poured forth.

"You know, Nancy, you're completely spoiling me,"he said. "I'm going to hate my forest coffee out of arusty pannikin. I don't know how I'm going on when Ipull my freight out of here."

The girl's responsive smile faded abruptly as she setthe tray on the table beside the chair.

"When are you going to—pull your freight?" sheasked, with a curious, nervous abruptness.

For a moment the man's eyes were averted. Then hestraightened up his tall, somewhat stooping figure. Heflung his lean shoulders back, and opened his arms wide.And as he did so he laughed in the pleasant fashion whichNancy had grown accustomed to.

He was the picture of complete health. His dark facewas pale. His black hair and sparse beard were untouchedby any sign of the passage of years. Therewas not an ounce of superfluous flesh under the curiouslyclerical garments he lived in.

"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 thehighlands inside there'll be snow and ice for six weeks ormore. I told Sternford this morning I was ready topull out. You see, thanks to you I've cheated the folkwho reckoned to silence me. I'm well, and strong, andthe boys of the forest are—needing me. Every day Iremain now I'll be getting soft under the unfailing kindnessof my nurse."

Nancy poured out the tea. There were two cups onthe tray and the man was swift to notice it. She smiledup at him.

"Won't you sit down?" she urged. "You see, I'vebrought a cup for myself. I—I want to have a longtalk with you. I, too, have got to 'pull my freight.'"

Father Adam obeyed. His dark eyes were deeplyobservant as he surveyed the pretty face with its redglory of hair. That which was passing in his mindfound no betrayal. But his thought had suddenly leapt,and he waited.

Nancy passed him his cup and set the toast withinhis reach. Then she pulled up a chair for herself andsat down before the tea tray.

"Yes," she went on, "that's why I brought my cup. Imust get away." She smiled a little wistfully. "Myimprisonment is over. Mr. Sternford set me free longago, but—well, anyway I'm going now, and that's whyI wanted to talk to you."

She seemed to find the whole thing an effort. But asthe man's dark eyes remained regarding her, and noword of his came to help her, she was forced to go on.

"You know my story," she said. "You've heardit all from Mr. Sternford. I know that. You told meso, didn't you?"

The man inclined his dark head.

"Yes," he said. "I know your story—all of it."

"Yes." The girl's tea remained untouched. Suddenlyshe raised one delicate hand and passed her fingertips across her forehead. It was a gesture of uncertainty.Then, quite suddenly, it fell back into herlap, and, in a moment, her hands were tightly clasped."Oh, I best tell you at once. Never, never, never aslong as I live can I go back to the Skandinavia. All theyears I've been with them I've just been lost in a sortof dream world of ambition. I haven't seen a thingoutside it. I've just been a blind, selfish woman whobelieved in everybody, and most of all in herself and herselfish 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, haswell-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 whenI think of the blood that has been shed as the result ofmy work—"

"No." The man's voice broke in sharply. "Putthat right out of your mind, child. None of the bloodshed is your doing. None of it lies at your door. Itlies at the door of others. It lies at the door of two menonly. 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 owesits inception to those things that happened years ago.I tell you solemnly, child, no living soul but those two, andchiefly the first of the two, are to blame for the thingsthat have happened to-day. Set your mind easy. Noone blames you. No one ever will blame you. Not eventhe great God to whom we all have to answer. I knowthe whole story of it. It is my life to know the story ofthese forests. Set your mind at rest."

"Oh, I wish I could think so. I wish I could believe.I feel, I feel you are telling me this to comfort me. Butyou wouldn't just do that?"

The man shook his head.

"It's the simple truth," he said. Then he reachedfor his tea and drank it quickly. "But tell me. Youwill never go back to the Skandinavia? I—am glad.What will you do?"

"That's why I've come to you now."

The tension had eased. Nancy's distress gave waybefore the man's strong words of comfort. She, too,drank her tea. Then she went on.

"You know, Father—"

The man stirred in his chair. It was a movement ofsudden restlessness as if that appellation on her lipsdisturbed him.

"—I want to—I want to—Oh, how can I tell you?You are doing the thing I want to help in. All my lifeI felt the time would come when I must devote myselfto the service and welfare of others. I think it's bredin me. My father, my real father, he, too, gave up hislife to those who could not help themselves. Well,I want to do the same in however humble fashion. Thesem*n, these wonderful men of the forests whom youspend 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 amstrong 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'mjust a woman with no strength to withstand the rigoursof the winter. I couldn't stand that. I have the strength,and I have the will. Can you? Will you help me?"

The girl's appeal was spoken with all the ardour ofyouthful passion. There was no sham in it. No hystericalimpulse. It was irresistibly real.

The man's eyes were deeply regarding her. But hewas 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. Thesethings held him, and his mind travelled swiftly back overyears to other scenes and other emotions.

When at last he spoke his words came slowly and werecarefully considered.

"I think, perhaps, I can help you," he said. "Youare determined? You want to help those who needhelp? The men of the forests?" He shook his head."I don't see why you shouldn't help the men of theseforests who—need your help."

Nancy drew a deep breath. A wonderful smile spranginto her pretty eyes. It was a glad smile of thanks suchas no words of hers could have expressed.

"Oh, thank you, Father—thank you."

Again came the man's restless movement at the word"Father." He abruptly leant forward and held hiscup out for replenishment.

"May I?" he asked. Then his smile broke out again."But tell me," he went on. "What have you done aboutthe Skandinavia?"

"Nothing."

Nancy returned him his cup with an unsteady hand.

"Nothing? But you must communicate with them.You should write and tell them of your decision. Youshould tell them you don't intend to return to them."

Father Adam sipped his tea. He was watching intentlybut unobtrusively the transparent display ofemotions which his words had conjured.

"I hadn't thought about it," Nancy said at last, notwithout some disappointment. "Do you really thinkI should write? But it will take so long to reach them.I can't wait for that. It—"

"Wire."

"Yes. I suppose I could—wire."

"Sternford will have it sent for you."

In a moment the light of hope died out of the girl'seyes. The excited flush on her cheeks paled. And theman saw, and read the sign he beheld.

He waited. But Nancy remained silent, crushedunder the feeling of utter desolation to which the mentionof Bull Sternford's name had reduced her.

Father Adam set his cup down.

"Don't let the sending of that message worry, child,"he said quickly. "These people deserve no better treatmentafter the thing they've done to you. All you needsay is, 'You will accept my resignation forthwith.'"Write that out on a piece of paper, and sign it. Thentake 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—why, after that, if you stillfeel the same about things, and want to turn missionaryin the lumber camps, come right back to me here, andI'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 oflife, without comfort or earthly reward. Once the twilightof 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—and send just that message?"

Nancy inclined her head.

"Yes. I'll go right away, just as soon as I've takenthis tray back."

She rose abruptly. She gathered the remains of themeal on to the tray and picked it up. And the mannerof her movements betrayed her. She stood for a moment,and the man saw the struggle for composure that wasgoing on behind her pretty eyes.

"Father," she said at last, and the man abruptlyrose from his chair and moved away, "I just can't thankyou—for this. It's given me fresh hope. A hope I neverthought would be mine. Some day—"

Her voice broke and the man turned at once. He wassmiling again.

"Don't say a word, my dear. Not a word. Go andwrite that message, and take it to Sternford. And then—why—"

He moved over to the door and held it open for her.As she passed out he nodded kindly, and looked afterher till she vanished into the kitchen at the end of thepassage.

* * * * *

Father Adam was alone again in the room that hadbeen his for so many weeks. The door was closed andhe stood at the window gazing out at the dreary worldbeyond. But he saw nothing of it. He was thinkingwith the speed of a mind chafing at delay. He waswondering and hoping, and—fearing.

Chapter XXVI—The Message

It was a woman of desperately fortified resolve whoturned the handle of the office door in response to BullSternford's peremptory summons. The thought of thecoming interview terrified Nancy, and her terror hadnothing whatever to do with the sending of her message.

Bull failed to look up from the mass of papers thatlittered his desk. His sharp "Well," as Nancy approachedhim, was utterly impatient at the interruption. And itseffect was crushing upon the girl in her present dispiritedmood. She felt like headlong flight. She stood herground, however, and the sound of her little nervousclearing of the throat came to the man at the table.

Bull looked up. In an instant his whole attitudeunderwent a complete change. His eyes lit, and hesprang from his seat behind the desk. He came towardsthe shrinking girl, eager and smiling with thewelcome his love inspired.

"Why, say, Nancy," he cried. "I just hadn't anotion it was you. I was up to my neck in all this stuff,"he said, indicating the litter on his desk, "and I hadn'ta thought but it was the darn Chink come to worrywith food." He laughed. "You certainly have handedme 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. Willyou come right over to the window and sit? There'sdaylight enough still. We don't need to use Skert'selectric juice till we have to. I'm real glad you camealong."

The man's delight was transparent. Nancy remainedunresponsive, however. She was blind to everythingbut the thing she had come to do, and the hopelessnessthat weighed so heavily upon her.

"I'm sorry," she said simply, accepting the chair heset for her. "I didn't think you'd—you see, I waitedtill I guessed you'd be through. But I won't keep you.It's just a small favour, that's all."

Bull observed her closely. She was so amazingly andcompletely charming. She was no longer clad in the rough,warm garments of the trail. Even the cotton overallshe used in the work of the house had been removed.Now a dainty frock, that had no relation to the rigoursof Labrador, displayed the delicate beauty of her figure,and perfectly harmonised with the colouring of herwonderful hair. Somehow it seemed to the man her beautyhad intensified in its appeal since the day of hersupreme confidence in the cause for which she had sodevotedly fought.

"A favour?" he laughed. "Why, I'm just glad."

Even while he spoke Bull remembered his talk withBat Harker when he had listened to a wealth of pityingcomment upon the feelings and opinions he had thenlaid bare. The girl's unsmiling eyes troubled him.

"What's the favour?" he asked simply, as Nancyremained silent.

The girl started. She had turned to the eveninglight pouring in through the window. Her thought hadwandered to that grim, dark future when the twilit forestswould close about her, and the strong tones of this man'svoice would never again be able to reach her.

She drew a folded paper from the bosom of her frock.

"Would you let them send it for me—wireless?" sheasked timidly. "It's—it's to Mr. Peterman."

All Bull's desire to smile had passed. He nodded.

"Yes," he said. "If you wish it. It shall be sentright off."

His tone had suddenly lost its warmth. It seemed asif the mention of Peterman's name had destroyed hisgoodwill.

Nancy searched his face anxiously. The man's browshad depressed and his strong jaws had become set. Sheknew that expression. Usually it was the prelude touncompromising action.

She drew a deep breath.

"Oh, I know," she cried. "I know the thing you'rethinking. You're reminding yourself of all I've done,and of the injury I've striven to inflict on you. You'rewondering at my temerity in asking you to help me communicatewith your enemies. But please, please don'tthink worse of me than you can help. I'm not justtrying to use you. It's not that. Will you read themessage? Maybe it'll tell you better than any wordsof mine."

The paper was held out to him in an unsteady hand.Bull ignored it. He shook his head.

"No," he said.

Nancy sprang to her feet.

"But you must read it," she cried. "If you don't I—oh,I won't send it. I couldn't. Don't make me sorryI asked this favour. It is so little to you, and—andit means so much to me."

She stood waiting, but Bull showed no sign of yielding.He was thinking of the man, Peterman. He rememberedhis good-looking Teutonic face, and the favourwith which Nancy had seemed to regard him. Asmouldering jealousy had suddenly blazed up within him.

Nancy turned away in desperation. She moved todepart.

"I'm sorry," she said. And even in her trouble therewas a coldness in her tone no less than his.

Bull choked down his feelings.

"Please don't go," he cried, urgently. "It wouldplease me very much to have that message sent. Say,I wasn't thinking the way you reckoned. I wasn'tthinking of the message at all."

"Then you will read it?" The girl came back readily.

"Why should I?" Bull asked smilingly. "Say, afriend asking me to send a message for him, a messageno concern of mine, what would you think, what wouldhe feel, if I demanded to read its contents?"

He ran the fingers of one hand through his mane ofhair and stood smiling down into the girl's pretty eyes.

"You know this thing makes me want to talk. I'vejust got to talk. The position's sort of impossible asit stands. Maybe you don't guess the thing I'm feeling,and maybe I don't just know how it is with you. We'vegot to talk right out and show down our hands. If wedon't—"

He turned away and glanced out of window. Thenhis eyes came back claimed by the magnetism which thegirl exercised.

"You know, Nancy, our war is over. The war betweenyou and me. We declared war, didn't we? Wedeclared it in Quebec, and we both promised to do ourbest, or—worst. It was a sort of compact. We madeit meaning it, and understanding the meaning of it.If you got the drop on me you were to use it. Thesame 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 whatevercame along. Well, we fought our battle. It's over.It's done. Now for God's sake let's forget it. It'seasy for me. You see, I'm a rough, hard sort of productof these forests that doesn't worry with scruples andthings. I'm not a woman who's full of the notionsbelonging to her sex. I can wipe the whole thing outof 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. Maybeit's different with you, being a woman. I guess it'snot going to be easy forgiving the way I had to handleyou back out there on the trail. Or the way you wereforced to live our camp life on the way down here. Orhow I've had to hold you prisoner in a rough householdof rougher men. I get all that. I know the thing itis to a woman. All it means. Still, it must have beenplain to you the chances of that sort of thing before youstarted in. That is if I was worth my salt as a fighter.Well, can you kind of forgive it? Can't you try toforget? Can't you figger the whole darn thing's pastand done with, and we're back at where we were in thosedays in Quebec, when you didn't hate me to death, andfelt good taking dinner in my company? Say, do youremember the old Myra you'll soon be boarding again?You remember our talk on the deck, when the howlinggale hit us? We were talking of the sense of thingsin Nature, and how she mussed them up. And howwe'd have done a heap better if the job had been ours.Well?" His smile deepened. "Here we are standingin the sort of fool position of—what'll I call it? Antagonism?Anyway we agreed to fight, and stand for allit meant to us, and we're both feeling all broken up atthe way we had to act to hurt each other most." Heshook his head. "Where's our boasted sense of things?We ought to be sitting right here talking it over, andlaughing to beat the band, that I had to treat you likea dangerous bunch of goods li'ble to get me by thethroat, and choke the life out of me, while you werechasing every old notion folks could stuff into yourdandy head to set me broke and busted so I wouldn'tknow where to collect a square feed once a week. That'swhat we ought to be doing, if we had the sense we guess.Instead of that you're feeling badly at me for the thingsI had to do to you. And I'm worried to death I'llnever get a laugh from you for the fool talk I don't knowbetter than to make. You need me to send that messageto Peterman. Why, sure I'll send it, even if it's to tellhim how mighty glad you are to be quitting the prisonI'd condemned you to, and the joy it's going to handyou to see his darnation Teuton face again. Sure I'llsend it. It's the least I can do to make up to you forthose things I've done to you. But—but for God's sakedon't ask me to read it."

The man concluded with a gesture that betrayed hisreal feelings. He was in desperate earnest for all hisattempt at lightness. His words came swiftly, in thatheadlong fashion so characteristic of his most earnestmood. And Nancy listening to him, caught somethingof that which lay behind them. The faintest shadowof a smile struggled into her eyes. She shook her head.

"I haven't a thought in my head about you—thatway," 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 andsuffering—But I can't talk about it even now. It'sall too dreadful still. I'm quitting when Father Adamgoes, and—and—But believe me no judgment youcan pass on me can begin to express the thing I feelabout myself. Please don't think I bear one single hardthought against you."

The man laughed outright. The buoyancy of thatmoment was supreme. Bat Harker was again in hismind. Bat, with all his quaint, crude philosophy.

"Say, that beats everything," Bull cried. "My judgmentof you. And all this time I've been guessing—Oh,hell! Say, do you know, it gets me bad when Ithink 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 tomyself virtues I don't possess, and have no right toanyway. I wanted to win out in the fight against theSkandinavia because I'm a bit of a fighting machine.I wanted to win out for the dollars I'm going to helpmyself to. But I also wanted to win out because of thegreat big purpose that lies behind these mills of Sachigo.I want you to get right inside my mind on that thing soyou'll know one of the reasons why I hate that you'resending word to Peterman. You'll maybe understandthen the thing that made me fight you, a woman, as wellas the others, and treat you in a fashion that's made mehate myself ever since. I'm going to say it as bluntlyas I know how. It'll be like beating you, a helplessvictim, right over the head with a club. I've acted thebrute right along to you, an' I s'pose I best finish upthat way. You were doing your best to sell your birthright,my birthright, to the foreigner. You were helpingthe alien, Peterman, and his gang, to snatch the wealthof our forests. Why? You didn't think. You didn'tknow. There was no one to tell you. You simply didn'tknow the thing you were doing.

"This man Peterman was good to you. He held outprospects that glittered. It was good enough. And allthe time he was looking to steal your birthright. Thebirthright of every Canadian. That makes you feelbad. Sure it does. I can see it. But I got to tell itthat way, because—Here, I'm on the other side. Itwas chance, not virtue set me there. But once therethe notion got me good. Sachigo was built to defendthe great Canadian forests against the foreigner. Thatslogan got a grip on me. Yes, it got me good. I couldscrap with every breath in my body for that. Well,now we've got the Skandinavia beat, and in a year orso they'll be on the scrap heap, ready to sell at scrapprice. That's so. I know. Sachigo will be the biggestthing of its kind in the world next year, and there won'tbe any room for the Skandinavia. That's a reason Ihate for you to go back to Peterman—one reason."

"But I'm not going back," Nancy cried vehemently.

Bull stared wide-eyed.

"You're not going back?" he echoed stupidly. Thenof a sudden he held out his hand. "Say, pass thatmessage right over. Why in—Guess I'm crazy toread it—now."

Nancy held the paper out to him. There was somethingso amazingly headlong in his manner. All thegirl's apprehensions, all her depression, were sweptaway, and a rising excitement replaced them. A surge ofthankfulness rose up in her. At least he would learnthat she had no intention of further treachery to theland of her birth.

"Accept my resignation forthwith."

Bull read the brief message aloud. It was addressed toPeterman, and it was signed "Nancy McDonald." Theforce, the coldness of the words were implacable. Herevelled in the phrasing. He revelled in the thing theyconveyed. He looked up. The girl was smiling. Shehad forgotten everything but the approval she sawshining in his eyes.

Suddenly he reached out and his great hands camegently down upon her softly rounded shoulders. It wasa wonderful caress. They held her firmly while hegazed into her eyes.

"Say, Nancy," he cried, in a voice that was deep withemotion. "You mean that? Those words? You'vequit the Skandinavia? What—what are you going todo?"

"I—I'm going to the forests with Father Adam. I'mgoing to help the boys we've so often talked about.I'm—"

"Not on your life!"

The man's denial rang out with all the force of hisvirile nature.

"Say, listen right here. You've quit them. You'vequit Peterman. And you reckon from one fool playyou're going right over to another. No, sir, not onyour life. It's my chance now, and by God I don'tpass it. I'm kind of a rough citizen and don't knowthe way a feller should say this sort of stuff. But I'mcrazy to marry you and have been that way ever sinceyou came along, and sat right in this office, and invitedme to take tea in the parlour of that darnation bug,Peterman. Do you know all that means, Nancy? Itmeans I'm just daft with love for you, and have beenever since I set eyes on you, for all I had to treat youworse than a 'hold-up.' Say, my dear, will you giveme the chance to show you? Can you forget it all?Can you? I'll raise every sort of hell to fix you goodand happy. And you and me, together, we'll just sendthis great Sachigo of ours booming sky high, and in ayear I promise to hand you the wreckage that was oncethe Skandinavia. Marry me, dear, and I'll show youthe thing a man can be and do. And I'll make you forgetthe ruffian I've had to act towards you. Will you letme help you to forget? Will you—?"

Nancy's eyes were frankly raised to the passionategaze which revealed the depths of the man's great heart.

"I have," she said in a low voice. "I've forgotteneverything but—but—you."

She moved as she spoke. There was no hesitation.All her soul was shining in her eyes, and she yielded tothe impulse she was powerless to deny. She came tohim, releasing herself from the great hands that heldher shoulders. She reached up and placed her soft armsabout the neck that rose trunk-like above his shoulders.In a moment she was caught and crushed in his arms.

"Why—that's just fine!"

The exclamation broke from the man out of sheerdelight and happiness. And the while he bent downand kissed the smiling upturned face, and permitted onehand to wander caressingly over the girl's wealth ofbeautiful hair.

Chapter XXVII—Lost In The Twilight

A fierce wind swept down off the hills. So it hadblown all night and all the day before. The sky wasovercast, and the thermometer had dropped below zero.It was one of those brief "freeze-ups" such as FatherAdam had awaited, and it might last two or three days.Then would come prompt reaction, and the rapidity ofthe thaw would be an hundred-fold increased.

The sun was hidden, and the sky looked to be heavilyburdened with snow. The earth was frozen solid, andthe wide flung forests were white with the hoar frosts ofSpring.

Father Adam was standing beside the crouching teamof dogs. There were five of them; great huskies,shaggy of coat and fiercely wolfish. They were fatand soft from idleness. But they would serve, forthe sled was light, and a few days' run would swiftlyharden them.

The outfit was waiting just beyond the kitchen doorof the house on the hill, and the view of the busy Covebelow was completely shut out. The position for thewaiting sled had not been calculated by the man whoowned it, but by the shrewd, troubled mind of BatHarker.

He was standing beside the tall figure of the missionarynow, squat and sturdy, looking on with half-angry,wholly anxious eyes. His expression was characteristicof the man when he was disturbed. Father Adam's darkeyes were surveying his outfit. There was no emotionin them. They were calm, and simply searching, inthe fashion of the practised trail man.

"Say, Les, this is just the craziest thing of all yourcrazy life," Bat said at last, in a tone kept low for all thefeeling that lay behind it. "I tell you they're waitingon you. They've got you set. Just as sure as Godthis'll be your last trip. It's kind of useless talkin' itagain out here, I know. We've talked an' talked it inthat darn sick room of yours till I'm sick to death tryingto git sense into you. We know the game from A to thehindmost letter of the darn alphabet. We haven't shoutedit, you an' me, because there wasn't need. But Idepski'sbeen right here since ever he got his nose on your trail.It was his gun that took you weeks back, an' sent yousick. If I know a thing he meant just to wing you,and leave you kind of helpless, so he could get handson you when he fancied. He wants you alive, and he'sgoin' to git you. Ther's word got round you're pullingout. It's clear to me. A bunch of boys hit the trailout of here three nights gone, and I've a notion Idepskiwent with 'em. Are they wise you're pulling out?Sure they are. Why, in God's name, don't you quit it?"

The man whom the forest world knew as Father Adam,but whom Bat knew as Leslie Standing, shrugged hisshoulders.

"Why should I?" he said, his dark eyes mildly enquiring,"you can't tell me a thing I don't know aboutIdepski. I knew it was he who dropped me. I sawhim that night down there and knew him right away.Maybe he can fool you with his disguises. He can'tfool me. I'd been watching him days before that."

"Why didn't you show yourself? Why didn't yousay?"

Bat spoke fiercely in his exasperation.

The missionary smiled.

"You'd have had him shot up," he said. "I know.No. If you'd known I was around it would have queeredthe hand I was playing. Here, Bat, let's get this thingright. You could shoot up a dozen Idepskis, and there'dbe others to replace 'em. Hellbeam's dogs'll never letup." He shook his head. "It's a play that'll go on tothe—end. I know that. I tell you I've got past caringa curse about things. When the end comes, what doesit 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 thegame till it can't be played longer. And when I've got toI'll throw my hands up. Not before. But Idepski can'tfollow my trail."

"But he ken cut it," Bat cried, desperation findingexpression in a clenched, out-held fist.

"Can he?"

The missionary smiled confidently. And Bat suddenlyflung out both hands.

"Say, Les," he cried, "do you think I want to see mypartner, and best friend, hounded to a life of hell by thatswine, Hellbeam? It breaks me to death the thoughtof it. Man, man, it sets me nigh crazed thinking thatway. Don't I count with you? Don't the others youcame along to help count? That dandy gal I've heardyou wish was your own daughter? Don't she count?Say, we're all for you, Bull an' Nancy, an' me, just thesame as the rest of the folk of the forest. Stop righthere, man. Take your place again, an' we'll fight Hellbeamas we've fought his Skandinavia. Say, we'll fightfor you as we've never fought before. We'll fight him,and beat him, and keep you safe from that hell he's gotwaitin' for you. Just say the word, and stop righthere. And I'll swear before God—"

Leslie Standing raised a protesting hand. His eyeswere unsmiling.

"It's useless, old friend," he said with irrevocabledecision. "You don't know the thing you're trying topledge yourself to. You think me a crazy man. Youthink I'm just asking for the trouble Hellbeam figuresto hand out to me. I'm not. I've got the full measureof the whole thing. And I know the thing I'm doingdoesn't matter. I'm not going to change the plan oflife I've laid down. I've learnt happiness in the forests.The twilight of it all has been my salvation. Time waswhen I had other desires, other delights. They've longsince passed. Now there's only one appeal to me in life.It's the boys, the scallawags, who haunt the forest likeI do. I love them. And my life's theirs as long as Hellbeamleaves it to me. Get just that into your thick,old head, Bat, and for our last five minutes togetherwe can talk of things more pleasant than Hellbeam."

The missionary smiled down into the strong face ofhis companion. And the lumberman realised the uselessnessof further protest. He yielded grudgingly. Heyielded because he knew and loved the man. By a greateffort he turned his mind from the dread haunting it.

"You've got me beat, Les," he growled. Then hespat in his disgust.

The missionary nodded, and, with a gesture of thehand, he indicated the hidden mills below them.

"It's queer the way the whole thing's completed itselfas I hoped and dreamed so long ago," he said thoughtfully."You know, Bat, that yellow streak in me was a betterthing than either of us knew. If I hadn't had it I'd havestood my ground. I'd have fought to the end, and I'dhave been beaten, and Sachigo would have crashed. Doyou see that? No. That's because you look at thingswith the obstinate eyes of great courage. While I,through fear, see things as they are. We won't debateit now. The accomplished fact is the thing. You'veset Sachigo on top. Sachigo will rule the Canadian forestindustry. The foreigner is on the scrap heap. We'vehelped to build something for this great old Empire ofours, and so our lives haven't been wholly wasted. It'sgood to feel that when the time comes to pay our debts.That boy Sternford's a great feller. I'm glad abouthim. Say, I felt I could cry last night when he andNancy came along like two school-kids to tell me of thething they'd fixed. I felt like handing them my storyand claiming my place as Nancy's stepfather. But Ididn't. You see, she's glad about me as Father Adam,a dopey missionary. But I can see her eyes blaze upred-hot with anger at the man who took her motherfrom her, and denied her existence. No, it's best thatway. 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—andmore."

Bat inclined his stubborn head. He was still thinkingof the dogs, and the sled, and all they meant to him justnow.

"Does she know about her share in the mills?" heasked brusquely.

The other shook his head.

"Not yet. But I've sent word to Charlie Nisson. He'llbe along up on the Myra. And when he comes she'llknow." He laughed quietly. "Say, I'd be glad to seethem when they know about it—she and Bull. They'regoing to be married right after Birchall's been along andfinally fixed things. It'll be a great day. I wonder.You know, Bat, I'd like to think Nancy—my Nancy—knowsall about this. I wonder if she does. Do youthink so?"

Bat turned away. His eyes were on the surroundingforest, and the white gossamer of the hoar-frost clingingto the dark foliage. He dared not trust himself to reply.

Again came the missionary's quiet laugh.

"I wonder," he said. Then, in a moment, a curiousflicker marred the calm of his eyes. "Bat, old friend,"he went on, after a pause, "there's just one thing I'mgoing to ask you before I pull out. It's a promise Iwant. When the time comes for me to pay, will youtell her? Will you tell them both? If I'm gone willyou tell them the thing you know—all of it? Don'tmake me out to be any old angel I guess you'd like topaint me. Just hand 'em the story of the white-liveredcreature I am, without the nerve of a jack-rabbit. Willyou do that?"

He held out a hand from which he removed his furmitt. Bat turned. He saw the hand, and disregardedit in a surge of feeling.

"Tell 'em? Tell 'em?" he cried. "Say, Les, for GodAlmighty's sake don't you pull out. You're my friend.You're the one feller in the world that matters a curseto me. Quit boy. Stop right here, an'—"

"Will you tell 'em?"

The hand was thrust further towards the lumbermanso that he could no longer ignore it.

"Hell! Yes!" he cried, in fierce mental anguish.I'll tell 'em—if I have to." He seized the outstretchedhand in both of his and gripped it with crushing force."You're goin'—now?"

"Sure."

Their hands fell apart. Bat's dropped to his sidelike leaden weights.

"So long," he said dully, as the other took his placein the sled. Then he added, "So long, Les."

The sled needed breaking out, and the lumbermanwatched the operation of it without a word. His emotionswere too real, to deep for anything more. Helooked on while the first sharp order was flung at thedogs. He watched them leap to their feet and standready, great, powerful, untamed souls eager for their,task. Then the man in the sled looked round as hestrung out the long lash of his short-stocked whip.

"So long, Bat," he cried smilingly. And his farewellwas instantly followed by the sharp command to "mush."

* * * * *

Far out on the desolate highlands the dogs broke trailover a waste of virgin snow. The cold had abated, andthe flurry of snow that rose up under their feet was wetand melting. The way lay through the maze of woodlandbluffs which lined the upper slopes of the courseof the Beaver River. Beyond them, northward, lay thewindswept barrens of the highlands.

Father Adam knew the trail by heart. The maze ofbluffs through which he was passing afforded him nodifficulties or anxieties. He read them with the certaintyof wide and long experience. There was nothing new thatLabrador had to show him. He knew it all, and revelledin the wide freedom its fierce territory afforded. Themoods of the country concerned him not at all. Furiousor gentle, tearful or hard with the bitterness of desperatewinter, it was all one to him. He loved the twilight ofits mysterious, fickle heart. It was as much his home asany place on earth.

The dogs swept on at a steady gait. The cruel whipplayed over furry backs, a never-ceasing threat. And sothe miles were hungrily devoured. It was the first dayof freedom for dogs and man alike, and each moment ofit yielded a sense of almost fierce joy.

The bluffs narrowed in, and the softer snow slowedthe going. Instantly a sharp command hurled the leadingdog heading for the open where the surface was hard anddry. The team swung away behind him and the sledpursued. Then the silence broke.

A shot rang out. It came from the shelter of a bluffdirectly ahead. The leading dog floundered. Then thebrute fell with a fierce yelp, and sprawled in the snowwhile the others swept over his inert body. The manin the sled strove to brake the sled with the "gee-pole"which he snatched to his aid. There was a moment ofdesperate struggle. Then the sled flung tail up in the airand the man was hurled headlong amidst his dogs.

* * * * *

Father Adam stood with mitted hands thrust up abovehis head. He was gazing into the smiling eyes of a manno less dark than himself. There were three others confrontinghim, and each was armed with a stubby, automaticpistol which covered his body.

"Guess Hellbeam's waiting for you over the other side,Mr. Leslie Martin, or Standing, or Father Adam, as youchoose to call yourself. He's waited a long time. Butyou ain't tired him out. Guess your game's up."

"Oh, yes?"

The missionary smiled back into Idepski's derisiveeyes.

"You can drop your hands," the agent went on."We've got your gun. And I guess you'll be kind oftired before we get you to the coast. You're going tofind things a heap tougher than No. 10 Camp—whereyou sent me. You surely are."

"The coast?"

The missionary was startled.

"Yep. There's going to be no play game this time.Hellbeam's yacht's waiting on you. You'll take the seatrip. It's safer that way."

"Yes."

The mitted hands had dropped to the missionary'ssides. He moistened his lips, which seemed to havebecome curiously dry. Once, and once only, there wasa flicker of the eyes as he looked into the face of hiscaptor. 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 againstthese men who had finally hunted him down.

"How do we travel?" he asked quietly. "You've shotup my leader."

The other nodded. He understood the tone of complaintand regret in which the trail man spoke of his dog.He grinned maliciously.

"We'll shoot up the rest for you. They'd only feedthe wolves if we left 'em. We've two dog trains with us.Don't let that worry. You best get your kit loosed fromyour sled."

The prisoner turned to obey, but the agent changedhis mind. He laughed.

"No. Guess the boys can fix that. It's safer thatway. You move right on into yonder bluff. And youbest not try making any break. There ain't only Hellbeamin this. I haven't forgotten—No. 10 Camp. Yourgame's plumb up."

"Yes, plumb up."

Father Adam obeyed. He moved away, followedclosely by the man who had hunted him for so many years.There was no escape. He knew that. The reckoninghe had always foreseen had overtaken him. So, withouta word of protest, he passed for the last time intothe twilight of the woods.

THE END