“Who was that?” Bull had lost interest, but the man invited the enquiry.

“Oh, a sort of missionary crank,” Cantor returned indifferently.  “You know the sort.  We got ’em out West, too.  They hound the boys around, chasin’ them heavenwards by a through route they guess they know about.”  He laughed.  “But the boys bein’ just boys, the round up don’t ever seem to make good; and that through trip looks most like a bum sort of freight in the wash-out season.  Outside his missioner business I guess the guy was pretty wise, though.  And his knowledge of the lumber play left me without a word.  He knew it all—­an’ I guess he told it to me.”

Bull laughed.  But the laugh was inspired by the thought that there could be found in the world a man who could leave Aylin P. Cantor without a word on the subject 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 in Quebec who knows anything about Labrador.  Did he call 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 a moment.

“On the Shagaunty.  The Skandinavia Corporation territory.  He told me he’d just come along through from Labrador.”

“Oh, yes?”

Mr. Cantor laughed.

“Why he took me to his crazy shanty and handed me coffee.  And he talked.  My, how he talked.”

“Did he know you were—­prospecting?”

There was no lack of interest in Bull now.  His steady eyes were alight, as he watched the stewards moving amongst the tables, setting the place straight for the night.

“Yes.  I told him.”

Cantor’s dark eyes were questioning.  As Bull remained silent he went on.

“Why?  Is he interested for the Skandinavia to keep folk out?”

Bull shook his head.

“No.  It isn’t that.  He’s a queer feller.  No, I’d say he’s got just one concern in life.  It’s the boys.  But you’re right, he knows the whole thing—­the whole game of lumbering in Eastern Canada.  And if he told you and warned you, I’d say it was for your good as he saw it.  No.  He’s no axe to grind, and though you found him on the Skandinavia’s territory, I don’t think he likes them.  I’m sure he doesn’t.  Still, he’s not concerned for any employer.  He just comes and goes handing out his dope to the boys, and—­You know the forest-jacks.  They’re a mighty tough proposition.  Well, it’s said they feel about Father Adam so if a hair of his head was hurt they’d get the feller who did it, and they’d cut the liver out of him, and pass what was left feed for the coyotes.”

Mr. Cantor nodded.

“Yes, I sort of gathered something of that from the folks I hit up against.  It seems queer a feller devoting his life to bumming through the forests and seekin’ shelter where you couldn’t find shelter from a summer dew.  He’s got no fixed home.  Maybe he’s sort of crazed.”