Jean brushed the icicles from about his eyes.

"That's just it," he said. "An' meanwhile the cut's right plumb down. If this thing don't quit the mill's going to starve when the ice breaks.

I've lost nigh three weeks' full cut already. It's--it's h.e.l.l!"

"Yes."

The dark man moved away, and Jean sat on over the fire. But his troubled eyes watched the curious figure as it pa.s.sed over to its outfit. He saw the man stoop over the litter of his goods. He saw him disentangle some garment from the rest. When he came back the furs he had been clad in were either abandoned or hidden under fresh raiment. The man towered an awesome figure in the firelight. He was clad in black from head to foot, and his garment possessed the flowing skirts of a priest.

"I'm going right down to the boys now," he said. "You best stop around here. Just have an eye to the dogs. It's best you not being with me."

Jean nodded. He understood. Accompanied by the camp boss this man's influence with the boys would have been seriously affected. Alone he was well-nigh all powerful.

"Good," he said. "For G.o.d'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 rail of the stove, where the heavy leather soles of his boots were 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's luxurious att.i.tude. And so they sat silent, each regarding the thing between them from his own angle.

It was the night of Bull's return from his journey to England. He had completed the final stage only that afternoon. He had travelled overland from the south headland, where he had been forced to disembark from the _Myra_ under stress of weather. It was storming outside now, one of those fierce wind storms of Labrador's winter, liable to blow for days or only for a few hours.

He and Harker were closeted together in the warm comfort of the office on the hill. Here, without fear of interruption, in the soft lamplight, lounging at their ease, they were free to talk of those things so dear to them, and upon which hung the destiny of their enterprise.

Winter was more than half spent. Christmas and New Year were already seasons which only helped to swell the store of memory. Labrador was frozen to the bone, and would remain so. But there were still two months and more of snow and ice, and storm, to be endured before the flies and mosquitoes did their best to make life unendurable.

Bull's return home had been a time of great looking forward. Life to him had become full of every alluring possibility. He saw the approaching fulfilment of his hopes and aims. The contemplation of the pending war with the Skandinavia only afforded his fighting instincts satisfaction.

Then there was that other. That great, new sensation which stirred him so deeply--Nancy McDonald. So he had returned home full of enthusiasm and ready to tackle any and every problem that presented itself.

He had just completed the telling of the story he had brought back with him. It was a story of success that had stirred even the cast-iron emotions of Bat Harker. Nor had it lost anything in the telling, for Bull was more deeply moved than he knew.

The recounting of his dealings in London with the man, Sir Frank Leader, had been coloured by the enthusiasm with which the Englishman had inspired him. Sir Frank Leader was known as the uncrowned king of the world's pulp-wood trade. But Bull felt, and declared, that the appellation did not come within measurable distance of expressing the man's real genius. Then there were those others: Stanton Brothers, and Lord Downtree, and the virile, youthful creature, Ray Birchall. All of them were strong pillars of support for the ruling genius of the house of Leader & Company. But it was the man himself, the head of it, who claimed all Bull's admiration for his intensity of national spirit, and the wide generosity of his enterprise.

The story he had had to tell was simple in its completeness. Before setting out on his journey he had spent months in preparation of the ground by means of voluminous correspondence and doc.u.mentary evidence.

It was a preparation that left it only necessary to convince through personal appeal on his arrival in London. This had been achieved in the broad fashion that appealed to the men he encountered. His "hand" had been laid down. Every card of it was offered for their closest scrutiny, even to the baring of the last reservation which his intimate knowledge of the merciless climate of Labrador might have inspired.

The appeal of this method had been instant to Sir Frank Leader. And the appeal had been as much the man himself as the thing he offered. The result of it all was Bull's early return home with the man's whole organisation fathering his enterprise, and with a guarantee of his incomparable fleet of freighters being flung into the pool. Leader had swept up the whole proposition into his widely embracing arms, and taken it to himself. Subject to Ray Birchall's ultimate report, after personal inspection on the spot of the properties involved, the flotation was to be launched for some seventy million dollars, and thus the consummation of Sachigo's original inspiration would be achieved.

Bat had listened to the story almost without comment. He had missed nothing of it. Neither had he failed to observe the man telling it. The story itself was all so tremendous, so far removed from the work that pre-occupied him that he had little desire to probe deeper into it. But the success of it all stirred him. Oh, yes. It had stirred him deeply, and his mind had immediately flown to that other who had laboured for just this achievement and had staggered under the burden of it all.

Bull removed his pipe and gazed across the stove.

"And now for your news, Bat," he said, like a man antic.i.p.ating a pleasant continuation of his own good news.

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 your stuff. We just carried on, and we've worked big. We're in good shape for the darn sc.r.a.p with the Skandinavia you told me about. Guess I'll hand you my stuff to-morrow, when I'm goin' to show you things. This night's your night--sure."

His twinkling eyes were full of kindly regard, for all the brusqueness of his denial. And Bull smiled back his content.

"Well, it's your 'hand' Bat," he said easily. "You'll play it your way."

His eyes turned to the comforting stove again, as the howl 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 a worn-out chew of tobacco, "all this means one mighty big thing your way. You see, you got life before you. Maybe I've years to run, too. But it ain't the same.

No," he shook his grizzled head, "you can't never make nuthin' of me but a lumber-boss. You'll never be a thing but a college-bred fighter all your life. There's a third share in this thing for both of us. Well, that's goin' to be one a' mighty pile. I was wonderin'. Shall you quit?

Shall you cut right out with the boodle? What'll you do?"

Bull sat up and laughed. And his answer came on the instant.

"Why, marry," he said.

Bat nodded.

"That's queer," he said. "I guessed you'd answer that 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 your years 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 he sat up again and his eyes were full of reckless delight. "Here," he cried, "I guess it's mostly school-kids who shout the things they reckon to do--or a fool man. It doesn't matter.

Maybe I'm both. Anyway, I'm just crazy for--for--"

"Red hair, an'--an' a pair of mighty pretty eyes?"

"Sure."