Something of the lumberman’s enthusiasm found reflection in Sternford’s eyes.

“But Nature’s handed us a lemon in the basket of oranges,” Bat went on, with a shake of his head.  “It’s that woman in her again.  Y’see, she gives us just four months in the year to get our stuff out.  Oh, she don’t freeze the cove right up.  No.  That’s the tough of it.  The channel’s mostly open.  But storm, and fog, and ice, beats the ocean-going skipper’s power to navigate it with any sort o’ safety.  The headlands are desperate narrow, and—­well, there it is.  We’ve four months in the year to get our stuff out.  It’s a sum.  Figger it yourself.  Set us goin’ full.  Six thousand tons in the week.  What is it?  Three hundred thousand in the year.  How many trips at ten thousand tons?  Or put the average tonnage lower.  Say eight thousand.  Forty trips.  Four months.  A vessel making two trips on an average turn round.  We need a fleet of twenty ‘bottoms,’ to do it in the time.  And they’ll need to be our own.  You can’t help yourself to the world’s market, and fix prices, and all the while fight for shipping in the open market.  See?”

“Sure—­I see.”

Bat nodded approval.

“When we get that the rest can go through.  Meanwhile there’s sixty grinders idle, which leaves us workin’ half capacity.  As it stands it’s a dandy enterprise.  We’re making a swell balance sheet.  But profit ain’t the whole purpose.  There’s the rest.”

The super lumber-jack turned again to the window with that fascination that was almost pathetic.

“And the rest?”

Bull Sternford urged the other sharply, and Bat turned at once.

“Canada’s groundwood for the Canadian, inside the Empire,” he shot at him.

The other nodded.

“The world’s market for the country that can and should supply it,” he replied.

“The smashing of the darn Skandinavian ring,” cried Bat, his deep-set eyes alight.

“And drive them—­back over the sea.”

Bat suddenly leant across the table.

“That’s it, boy,” he cried.  “That’s it!  Hellbeam and all his gang.  The Skandinavia Corporation.  Smash ’em!  Drive ’em to Hell!  It ain’t profit.  It’s the trade.  The A’mighty made Canada an’ built the Canadian.  He set him right here to help himself to the things He gave him.  It’s being filched by these foreigners—­his birthright.  They’re fat on it.  Did we fight the world war for that?  Not by a darn sight.  We fought to hold a place on the map for ourselves.  And that’s a proposition we’ve all got to get our back teeth into.”

“It sure is.”

The mill manager sat back in his chair and chewed vigorously.

“That’s it,” he said.  “How?” he went on.  “Combination.  Finance—­and the interest of the little, great old country across the water.  It’s all planned and laid out by the feller that started up this proposition.  It’s scheduled for you.  Guess you’ll find the last word of it writ out in the locked book in this desk.  It’s clear and straight for the feller with the nerve.  That’s you.  Wal?”