virtues I don’t possess, and have no right to anyway.  I wanted to win out in the fight against the Skandinavia because I’m a bit of a fighting machine.  I wanted to win out for the dollars I’m going to help myself to.  But I also wanted to win out because of the great big purpose that lies behind these mills of Sachigo.  I want you to get right inside my mind on that thing so you’ll know one of the reasons why I hate that you’re sending word to Peterman.  You’ll maybe understand then the thing that made me fight you, a woman, as well as the others, and treat you in a fashion that’s made me hate myself ever since.  I’m going to say it as bluntly as I know how.  It’ll be like beating you, a helpless victim, right over the head with a club.  I’ve acted the brute right along to you, an’ I s’pose I best finish up that way.  You were doing your best to sell your birthright, my birthright, to the foreigner.  You were helping the alien, Peterman, and his gang, to snatch the wealth of our forests.  Why?  You didn’t think.  You didn’t know.  There was no one to tell you.  You simply didn’t know the thing you were doing.

“This man Peterman was good to you.  He held out prospects that glittered.  It was good enough.  And all the time he was looking to steal your birthright.  The birthright of every Canadian.  That makes you feel bad.  Sure it does.  I can see it.  But I got to tell it that way, because—­Here, I’m on the other side.  It was chance, not virtue set me there.  But once there the notion got me good.  Sachigo was built to defend the great Canadian forests against the foreigner.  That slogan got a grip on me.  Yes, it got me good.  I could scrap with every breath in my body for that.  Well, now we’ve got the Skandinavia beat, and in a year or so they’ll be on the scrap heap, ready to sell at scrap price.  That’s so.  I know.  Sachigo will be the biggest thing of its kind in the world next year, and there won’t be any room for the Skandinavia.  That’s a reason I hate for you to go back to Peterman—­one reason.”

“But I’m not going back,” Nancy cried vehemently.

Bull stared wide-eyed.

“You’re not going back?” he echoed stupidly.  Then of a sudden he held out his hand.  “Say, pass that message right over.  Why in—­Guess I’m crazy to read it—­now.”

Nancy held the paper out to him.  There was something so amazingly headlong in his manner.  All the girl’s apprehensions, all her depression, were swept away, and a rising excitement replaced them.  A surge of thankfulness rose up in her.  At least he would learn that she had no intention of further treachery to the land of her birth.

“Accept my resignation forthwith.”

Bull read the brief message aloud.  It was addressed to Peterman, and it was signed “Nancy McDonald.”  The force, the coldness of the words were implacable.  He revelled in the phrasing.  He revelled in the thing they conveyed.  He looked up.  The girl was smiling.  She had forgotten everything but the approval she saw shining in his eyes.