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

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

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 was the sound of a sack pitched upon the soft pile of the carpet.  And through the open doorway the harsh voice of Loale pursued the intruder in sharp protest.

“Say, do you think you’re stowing cargo in your darn, crazy old barge?” he cried.  “If you fancy throwing things around you best get out an’ do it.  Guess you ain’t used to a gent’s office, you darn sailorman—­”

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

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

“Well, well.”  Standing’s tone lost none of the aggravation of his smile.  “Say, I’d never have recognised you, Idepski, if it hadn’t been that I was warned you’d shipped on the Lizzie.”  He laughed outright.  “I can’t help it.  You wouldn’t blame me laughing if you could see yourself.  Last time I had the pleasure of encountering you was in Detroit.  That’s years ago.  How many?  Nearly seven.  It seems to me I remember a bright-looking ‘sleuth,’ neat, clean, spruce, with a crease to his pant-legs like a razor edge, a fellow more concerned for his bath than his religion.  Say, where did you raise all that junk?  From old man Hardy’s slop-chest?  Hellbeam makes you work for your money when you’re driven to wallowing in a muck-hole like the Lizzie.  It isn’t worth it.  You see, you’ve run into the worst failure you’ve made in years.  But I only wish you could see the sorry sort of sailorman you look.”