Nancy sat up.

“What are you doing?  That great Sachigo!” she demanded challengingly.  “You’re building, building one magnificent enterprise.  Is there happiness in it for you?”

“Sure,” Bull admitted frankly.  “Oh, yes.  But I’ve no illusions,” he said.  “I don’t go back on the things I said.  Nature as she dopes out life couldn’t hand me a hundredth part of the happiness I get that way.  But when I’m through, like that lumber-jack who’s struck off the pay roll, how’s it going to be with me?  A trained mind without the bodily ability to thrust on in the game of life.  It’ll be hell—­just hell.  The one hope is to die in harness.  Like the forest-jack who drowns under the logs on the river, or who gets up against the other feller’s knife in a drunken scrap.  That way lies happiness.  The rest is a sort of passing dream with the years of old age for regret.”

The girl spread out her hands.

“I can’t believe you feel that way,” she cried, with something very like distress.  “Oh, if I had your power, your ability.  Why, I’d say there’s no end to the things you could achieve, not only now, but right through, right through that time when you’re old in body, but still strong in brain.  A limited goal for achievement isn’t the notion in my foolish head.  Why, if I’d only the strength to knit socks for the folks who need them, there’d still be happiness and to spare.  But let’s keep to our own ground.  The forest-jack.  I guess you’re one big man who employs thousands.  What of those boys when they’re struck off the—­pay roll.  Is there nothing to be achieved that way—­nothing to last you to your last living moment?  Think of their needs.  Think of the happiness you could hand yourself in handing them comfort and happiness when they’re—­through.  It’s a thing I’ve promised myself, if luck ever hands me the chance.  You’ve got the pity of their lives.  Your words tell that.  Well?”

The man had forgotten the storm.  He had forgotten everything but the charm of the girl’s hot enthusiasm.  And the picture of superlative beauty she made in her animation.

He shook his head.

“It’s a bully notion,” he demurred, “but it’s not for me.  No.  You see, I’m just a tough sort of man who’s big for a scrap.  I haven’t patience or sympathy for the feller who don’t feel the same.  You’ve seen the forest boys?”

“I’ve been through the Shagaunty.”

“Ah!”

Bull Sternford’s ejaculation was sharp.  The problem of Father Adam’s letter was partially solved.

“Well, I guess you’re a woman,” he went on.  “And I’d like to say right here a woman’s sympathy is just about the best thing on this old earth.  That’s why I’d like to cry like a kid when I see it going out to the things that haven’t any sort of excuse for getting it.  It’s good to hear you talk for those boys.  It isn’t they deserve it, but—­as I said, you’re a woman.  Talk it all you fancy, but leave it at talk.  Don’t let it get a holt.  Don’t waste one moment of your hard earned happiness on ’em.  I was a forest-jack.  I know ’em.  I know it—­the life.  And if you knew the thing I know you wouldn’t harden all up as you listen to the things I’m saying:—­”