going to jump right into the groundwood pulp business when the time comes.  And out of that I mean to build a name that folks won’t easily forget.  Well, I guess you won’t find much that’s interesting in all this.  It don’t sound anything particularly bright or new.  But for what it is it’s my notion, and—­I’m going to put it through.  That’s why I’m here.  I’m learning my job from the bottom.”

The decision and force of the man were remarkable.  The conciseness of his story, and his indifference to the tragedy of his birth, indicated a level mind under powerful control.  And Father Adam knew he had made no mistake.

“It’s the best story I’ve heard in years,” he replied, a whimsical smile lighting his dark eyes.

“Is it?”

Bull’s smile was no less whimsical.

“Yes.  You’ve guts of iron, boy.  And I’ve been looking years for just such a man.”

“That sounds—­tough,” Bull laughed, but he was interested.  “What’s the job you want him for?  Are you yearning to hand out a killing?  Is it a trip—­a trip to some waste space of God’s earth that ’ud freeze up a normal heart?  Do you want a feller to beat the laws of God and man?  Guts of iron!  It certainly sounds tough, and I’m not sure you’ve found the feller you’re needing.”

“I am.”

Father Adam was no longer smiling.  The gravity of his expression gave emphasis to his words.

Bull was impressed.  His laugh died out.

“I don’t know I’m yearning,” he said deliberately.  “Anyway I don’t quit the track I’ve marked out.  That way there’s nothing doing.  It’s a crank with me; I can’t quit a notion.”

“You don’t have to.”

“No?”

They were regarding each other steadily.

“Here, it’s not my way to beat around,” the missionary exclaimed suddenly.  “When you find the thing you need you’ve got to act quick and straight.  Just listen a while, while I make a talk.  Ask all you need as I go along.  And when I’ve done I’d thank you for a straight answer and quick.  An answer that’ll hold you, and bind you the way your own notions do.”

“That’s talk.”

Bull nodded appreciatively.  The missionary let his gaze wander to the pleasant sunlight through the doorway, where the flies and mosquitoes were basking.

“There was a fellow who started up a groundwood mill ’way out on the Labrador coast.  He was bright enough, and a mighty rich man.  And he’d got a notion—­a big notion.  Well, I know him.  I know him intimately.  I don’t know if he’s a friend to me or not.  Sometimes I think he isn’t.  Anyway, that doesn’t matter to you.  The thing that does matter is, he set out to do something big.  His notions were always big.  Maybe too big.  This notion was no less than to drive the Skandinavians out of the groundwood trade of this country.  He figured his great mill was to be the nucleus of an all-Canadian and British combination, embracing the entire groundwood industry of this country.  It was to be Canadian trade for Canada with the British Empire.”