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

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

“That all your baggage?”

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

“Guess I’ve a trunk back there in the hold somewhere,” Bull replied indifferently, taking his interrogator for a quayside porter.

“That’s all right.  I’ll have one of the boys tote it up.  Best come right along.  It’s quite a piece up to the office.  You’ve a letter for me?”

“I’ve a letter for Mr. Bat Harker.”

The doubt in Bull’s tone set a genuine grin in the other’s eyes.

“Sure.  That’s me.  Bat Harker.  Maybe you don’t guess I look it.  Don’t worry.  Just pass it over.”

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

“I’m kind of sorry,” he said.  “I surely took you for some sort of—­porter.”

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

“Wal, that ain’t new,” he said.  Then his eyes resumed their keen regard.  “We don’t need to wait around though.  The skitters are mighty thick down here.  Sachigo’s gettin’ a special breed I kind o’ hate.  That letter, an’—­we’ll get along.”

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

“Shake,” he cried.  And there could be no doubting his good will.  “Glad to have you around, Mr. Bull Sternford.”

* * * * *

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

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