The Man in the Twilight by Ridgwell Cullum

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"Guess that's so. But not the way you figgered when you got that fool
notion of handing 'em a playhouse," he said roughly. "If you pass a hog
a feather bed, it's a sure thing he'll work out the best way to muss it
quick."

"How? I don't get you?"

There was no humour in Bat's eyes now.

"They call it a 'Chapel'," Skert said dryly. "They've surely got
preachers, but they don't talk religion. Maybe that's sort of new to
you, here. It isn't across the water where I come from. Guess you think
those boys are racing out to get a game of checkers, or billiards, or
cards, or some other fool play you reckoned to hand 'em to make 'em feel
good." He shook his head. "They're not. They've turned their 'Chapel'
into a sort of parliament. Every dinner hour there's a feller, different
fellers most all the time, gets up and hands 'em out an address. It's
short, but red hot. The afternoon shift in the mill is given up to
brightening up their fool brains on it. And when evening comes along,
and they've their bellies full of supper and beer, they get along to the
'Chapel' and they debate the address, handing out opinions and notions
just as bellies guide 'em."

"And the addresses. What are they mostly? On the work? The trade they're
working at?"

A world of pity looked out of Skert's eyes as he surveyed the man he
believed to be the greatest organiser the mill industry had ever seen.
He shook his head.

"Work? Not on your life! Socialism, Communism--Revolution!"

Bat spat out a stream of tobacco juice. He was startled.

"But I ain't heard tell of any sort of unrest gettin' busy. We're payin'
big money. It's bigger than the market. They got--"

"Best talk to Sternford when you get back up there to your office. He's
got the boys sized right up to the last hair of their stupid heads. But
I'll hand you something I've reckoned to hand you a while back, only I
wanted to be sure. There's nothing of this truck about the 'hands' of
the old mill. It's the new hands you've been collecting from the
forests. We've grown by two thousand hands in the past year or so. And
they're so darn mixed I wouldn't fancy trying to sort 'em. They come
from all parts. The world's been talking revolution since ever these
buzzy-headed Muscovites reckoned to start in grabbing the world's goods
for themselves. Well, it's a hell of a long piece here to Labrador, but
it's found its way, and the mutton-brained fools who're supposed to play
around that shanty you handed 'em are recreating themselves talking
about it in there. Here, come right over to that window. It's open."

Perhaps Skert was enjoying himself. Certainly his mournful eyes were
less mournful as he led his chief over to the open window. Bat had had
his innings with him. He was planning the game and hitting hard in his
turn.

"The enemy of the world, of more particularly the worker is
the--CAPITALIST!"

The words were hurled from the platform of the recreation room at the
heads of the listening throng below and reached the open window just as
Lawton and his chief came up to it. There was applause following this
profound announcement, and Skert turned on his companion.

"Well?" he demanded, in a tone of biting triumph.

They had reached the window at the psychological moment. Nothing could
have suited his purpose better.

Bat turned away abruptly. It was as if some fierce emotion made it
impossible for him to remain another second. His heavy brows depressed,
and his deep-set eyes narrowed to gimlet holes. Skert pursued him. Once
clear of the window, and beyond earshot, Bat flung his reply with all
the passionate force of his fighting nature.

"The lousy swine!" he cried. "I'll close that place sure as--hell."

Skert shook his head as they walked on.

"No, you won't," he said. "Guess you aren't crazy. You'll talk this over
with Sternford. And when you've talked it some, you'll keep that place
running, and let them talk. It's best that way. But I've got tab of most
of the speakers, and I've located where they come from. Most of them
have sometime worked for the Skandinavia. Maybe that's the reason of
their talk. Maybe even Skandinavia's glad they're talking that way here
on Labrador. I don't know. But--well, I'll have to quit you here.
They're setting up the two big new machines, and it don't do leaving
them long. So long. Anything else you need to know about that recreation
room, why, I guess I can hand it to you."

* * * * *

Bull Sternford laid the telegram aside while a shadowy smile hovered
about his firm lips. Then he settled himself back in his chair, and gave
himself up to the thoughtful contemplation of the brilliant sunlight,
and the perfect, steely azure of the sky beyond the window opposite him.

The change in the man was almost magical. The hot-headed, determined,
fighting lumber-jack whom Father Adam had rescued from furious homicide
had hidden himself under something deeper than the veneer which the
modest suit of conventional life provides. It was the subtle change that
comes from within which had transformed him. It was in his eyes. In the
set of his jaws. It was in the man's whole poise. His resources of
spiritual power; his mental force; his virility of personality. All
these things were concentrated. They were no longer sprawling, groping,
seeking the great purpose of his life as they had been in the lumber
camp of the Skandinavia.

A feeling akin to triumph filled the man's heart as he gazed out upon
the pleasant light of Labrador's late summer day. In something like
twelve months he had thrust leagues along the road he meant to travel.
And his progress had been of a whirlwind nature. It had been work,
desperate, strenuous work. It had been the double labour of intensive
study combined with the necessary progress in the schemes laid down for
the future of Sachigo. It had only been possible to a man of his amazing
faculties, combined with the fact that Bat Harker and the mournful Skert
Lawton had left him free from the clogging detail of the mill
organisation and routine.

In twelve months he had crystallised the dreams and projects of his
predecessor in the chair he was now occupying. In twelve months he had
built up the shell of the great combination of groundwood and paper
mills which was to have such far-reaching effect upon the paper trade
of the world. And now, ahead of him was spread out the sea of finance
upon which he must next embark. He felt that already giant's work had
been done. But his yearning could never be satisfied by a mere measure
of completion. He must embrace it all, complete it all.

Already he seemed to have lived with bankers and financial specialists,
but he felt it was only the beginning of that which he had yet to do. He
was unappalled. He was more than confident. He had discovered unguessed
faculties for finance in himself. He had surprised himself as well as
those others with whom he had come in contact. They had discovered in
him all that which Father Adam had been so prompt to realise. They had
found in him a young, untrained mind, untrained in their own calling,
whose natural aptitude was amazing, and whose courage and confidence
were beyond words. But greatest of all was the perception he displayed.
They realised he never required the telling of more than half the story.
Intuition and inspiration completed it for him without the labour of
their words. The result of those twelve months was there for all to see.
The lumberman had been translated into a hard, fighting, business man.

The train of the man's thought was broken by the unceremonious entry of
Bat Harker. Bull turned. One swift glance into the grizzled face warned
him his associate's mood was by no means easy. He, like everyone who
came into contact with Bat, had learned to appreciate the volcanic fires
burning under the lumberman's exterior.

Bull promptly fended any storm that might possibly be brewing. He held
up his telegram and his eyes were smiling.

"The Skandinavia's on the move," he cried. And Bat recognised the battle
note in the tone.

"How?"

Bull flung the message across the desk.

"The Skandinavia's representative is arriving on the _Myra_," he said.
Then he added, "Elas Peterman says so."

"What for?"

Bat had picked up the message and stood reading it.

The other searched amongst his papers.

"I kind of forgot putting you wise before," he said. "There were two
letters came along a week back. One was from Elas Peterman, of the
Skandinavia folk, and the other from Father Adam. That message was
'phoned on from the headland. The letters didn't just concern a deal, so
I set 'em aside. This message is different."

For the moment the affairs down at the recreation room were forgotten,
and Bat contented himself with the interest of the moment.

"How?" he demanded again in his sharp way.

Bull laughed.

"Here," he cried, holding out the letters he had found. "I best pass you
these. That's from Peterman. There's not much written, but a deal lies
under the writing. You'll see he asks permission for a representative of
the Skandinavia to wait on us. I wirelessed back, 'I'd just love to
death meeting him.' By the same mail came Father Adam's yarn. An' I
guess that's where the soup thickens. He says some woman's coming along
from the Skandinavia folk. He guesses they're going to put up some
proposition that looks like butting in on the plans laid out for
Sachigo. But that don't seem to worry him a thing. I guess his letter
wasn't written to hand us warning. He seems concerned for the woman.
You'll see. He asks me to treat her gently. Firmly, yes. But also,
'very, very gently.' He says, 'you see, she's a woman'."

Bull waited while the other perused both letters. Then, as Bat looked up
questioningly, he went on:

"That telegram got here half an hour back," he said. Then he shrugged.
"The woman's on the _Myra_, and the vessel's been sighted off the
headland. She'll be along in two hours."

"And what're you doin' about it?"

Bat's eyes were searching. Perhaps Father Adam's letter had told him
something it had failed to tell the other.

"I'll see her right away," Bull laughed. "If she feels like stopping
around and getting a sight of the things we're doin' she's welcome. She
can put up at the visitor's house. It 'ud do me good for her to pass the
news on to the folk she comes from."

But Bat's manner had none of the light confidence of the other. Bitter
hatred of the Skandinavia was deeply ingrained in him. He shook his
head.

"Keep 'em guessin'," he said. "It'll worry 'em--that way."

Then he passed the letters back, and dropped into the chair that was
always his.

"But this woman," he went on, in obvious puzzlement. "It's--it's kind of
new, I guess. Then there's Father Adam's message. That don't hand us
much."

Bull's lightness passed.

"No," he said, "that message is queer. He knows about it. Yet he hasn't
given her name or said a thing. Say--I like that phrase though. What is
it? He says, 'treat her very, very gently--you see, she's a woman.'
That's Father Adam right thro'--sure. But--well it's a pity he don't say
more."

Bat nodded.

"You'll go along down an' meet her?"

"No." Bull shook his head decidedly. "You will."

Bat's eyes twinkled with a better humour than they had hitherto
displayed.

"Why--me?"

"She comes from the Skandinavia. Guess Skandinavia would fancy me
meeting their representative at the quay--quite a lot."

The argument met with Bat's entire approval. He pulled out a silver
timepiece and consulted it.

"That's all right," he said, "I'll quit you in ha'f an hour. Say--I'm
kind of guessin' there's other representatives of the Skandinavia
around. I didn't guess ther' was much to Sachigo that I wasn't wise to.
But that boy, Skert Lawton, showed me a play I hadn't a notion about.
It's that darn play shanty I set up for the boys. I feel that mad about
it I got a notion closing it right down. It worried me startin' it. It
worries me more now. You see, I guess it's come of me lappin' up the
ha'f-baked notions you find wrote in the news-sheets. Folks seem to be
guessin' the worker needs somethin' more than his wage. They guess he's
gotten some sort of queer soul needin' things he can't pay for. I allow
I hadn't seen it that way myself. It mostly seemed to me a hell of a
good wage and a full belly was mostly the need of a lumber-jack, and a
dead sure thing all he deserved. But I fell for the news-sheet dope, an'
set up that cursed recreation shanty. Now we're goin' to git trouble."

"How?"

Bull's ejaculation was sharp.

"They hold meetings there. They dope out Capital and Labour stuff there,
instead of pushing games at each other. Guess they got the bug of
politics an' are scratching themselves bad. It ain't the old Labrador
guys, Skert says. It's mostly new hands passin' their stuff on. Skert
reckons we got a whole heap of the Skandinavia 'throw-outs,' around here
now. That don't say Skandinavia's workin' monkey tricks. Though they
might be. You see, this sort of dope's been talked most everywhere,
except on Labrador, years now. I guess we need to go through the bunch
with a louse comb. But maybe the mischief's done. I'm dead crazy to
shut that darn place down."

"Don't!" Bull was emphatic. "Shut it down and you'll make it a thousand
times worse. No, sir. Let 'em shout. Let 'em blow off any old steam they
need. Just sit tight. If it's the usual hot air there's nothing much
coming of it up here on Labrador. There's this to remember. We're a
thousand miles of hell's own winter, and a pretty tough sea, from the
politicians who spend their lives befooling a crowd of unthinking
muttons. Pay 'em well, and feed 'em well, and they've the horse sense to
know there ain't no electric stoves out in the Labrador forests in
winter. That way we don't need to worry. If it's the Skandinavia tricks
it's different. They'll play the game to the finish. It don't signify a
curse if you close down the recreation shanty or not. We've got to meet
it as a competition, and fight it the way we'd fight any other."

Bat's eyes snapped.

"That's the kind of dope Skert Lawton's handed me," he protested.

"And Skert's a wise guy," came the prompt retort.

Quite suddenly Bat flung out his gnarled hands.

"Hell!" he cried violently. "Have we got to sit around like mush-men,
while the rats are chawin' our vitals. Fifteen or sixteen year I've
handled this lay-out without a growl I couldn't kick plumb out o' the
feller who made it. Now--now, because of a fool play I made, I've got to
set the kid gloves on my hands, sayin' 'thank you,' while the boys git
up and plug me between the eyes. No, sir. It ain't my way. It's me for
the shot gun in the stern of the gopher all the time. It's me to mush up
the features of any hoboe who don't know better than to grin when I'm
throwin' the hot air. I can't stand for the politics of labour where I
hand out the wage. A man's a man to me, not one darn slobber of policy.
I'm goin' to jump in on that talk. And when I'm thro'--"

"You'll get all the trouble in the world plumb on your neck." Bull's
fine eyes were alight with humour. He revelled in the fighting spirit of
the older man. "Here, Bat," he cried, "I'm a fool kid beside you. I
don't begin to know my job when I think of you. But I'm up sides with
all the politics games. Politics are ideals, notions. They haven't real
horse sense within a mile. They're just the fool thoughts of folk who
haven't better to do than sit around and think, and talk, an' see how
they can make other folk conform to the things they think. That's all
right. It's human nature in its biggest conceit, or it's another way of
helping themselves without pushing a shovel. It don't matter which it
is. But what I want to impress on you is, it's the biggest thing in
life. It's the whole thing in life. Get a notion and think it hard
enough, and talk it hard enough, and you'll hypnotise a hundred brains
bigger than your own, and sweep the crowd with you. You'll even
hypnotise yourself into believing the truth of a thing your better sense
knows isn't true, never was true, an' couldn't be true anyway. And when
you're fixed that way you'll die for your notion. Oh, a politician ain't
yearning for any old grave. He wouldn't get an audience there.
Politicians 'ud hate to die worse than a condemned man. But that's the
queer of it; he'd die rather than give up a notion he's built up. He'd
hate to death to push a blue pencil through it and--try again. All of
which means, bar the doors of this recreation room parliament, and
you'll start up a hundred such parliaments, and worse, throughout your
enterprise here on Labrador, and you'll finish by wrecking the whole
blessed concern."

If Bull looked for yielding he was disappointed. But he appreciated the
twinkle that had crept into the lumberman's stern eyes. The answer he
received was a curiously expressive grunt as the man took out his
timepiece and consulted it. When he saw him rise abruptly from his
chair, Bull felt that if his talk had not had the effect he desired it
had not been wholly wasted.

"Guess I'll git goin'," Bat said shortly. Then he glanced out of the
window, where he could plainly see the stream of the _Myra's_ smoke as
she came down the cove. "I'll bring your lady friend right up. Maybe
she'll fancy the dope, which I 'low you can hand out good an' plenty."

With this parting shot he hurried from the room, and Bull fancied he
detected the sound of a chuckle as the man departed.

CHAPTER VIII

AN AFFAIR OF OUTPOSTS

The business of making fast the vessel had no interest for Nancy
McDonald. The thing that was about her, the thing that had leapt at her
out of the haze hanging over the waters of Farewell Cove, as the _Myra_
steamed to her haven, pre-occupied her to the exclusion of everything
else. Her feelings were something of those of the explorer suddenly
coming upon a new, unguessed world.

"Old Man" Hardy was at her side, waiting for the adjustment of the
gangway. He was quietly observing her with a sense of enjoyment at the
obvious surprise and interest she displayed. Besides, her beauty charmed
him for all his years. And then had she not been entrusted to his
especial care by those people who held powerful influence in all
concerning the coastal trade upon which he was engaged?

Sachigo was not only a mill. It was a--city. This was the sum of Nancy's
astonishing discovery. And the picture of it held her fascinated. She
commented little, she had questioned little of the old skipper at her
elbow. The thing she saw was too overwhelming. Besides, reticence was
impressed upon her by the nature of her visit.

"It's a mighty elegant place," the seaman said at last.

The girl nodded. Then she smiled.

"I've seen trolley cars on the seashore. I've seen electric standards
for lighting. What am I to see next on--Labrador?" she asked.

Captain Hardy laughed.

"You've to see the folks who've done it all," he replied. "And--there's
one of 'em."

He indicated the squat figure of Bat Harker leaning against some bales
piled on the quay. Nancy turned in that direction.

She discovered the rough-clad, almost uncouth figure of Bat. She noted
his moving jaws as he chewed vigorously. She saw that a short stubble of
beard was growing on a normally clean-shaven face, and that the man's
clothing might have been the clothing of any labourer. But the iron cast
of his face left her with sudden qualms. It was so hard. To her
imagination it suggested complete failure for her mission.

"Is he the--owner? Is he--Mr. Sternford?" Her questions came in a hushed
tone that was almost awed.

"No. That's Bat--Bat Harker. He's mill-boss."

"I see." There was relief in Nancy's tone. But it passed as the seaman
continued.

"Maybe he's waiting for you though. Are they wise you're coming along?
You don't see Bat around this quay without he's lookin' for some folk to
come along on the _Myra_."

The gangway clattered out on to the quay, and the man moved toward it.

"We best get ashore," he said. "You see, mam, my orders are to pass you
over to the folks waiting for you. That'll be--Bat. He'll pass you on
to Sternford. I take it you'll sleep aboard to-night. Your stateroom's
booked that way. We sail to-morrow sundown, which will give you plenty
time looking around if you fancy that way. I allow Sachigo's worth it.
One day it'll be a big city, if I'm a judge. Will you step this way?"

The seaman's deference was obvious. But Nancy remained oblivious to it.
To her it was just kindliness, and she was more than grateful. But his
final remark about Sachigo left her pathetically disquieted. For the
first time in her life she doubted the all-powerful position of the
people to whom she had sold her services.

"Yes, thanks," she returned, smiling to disguise her feelings. Then she
added, "I'm glad we don't sail till to-morrow evening. You see, I
couldn't leave--this, without a big look around."

* * * * *

The ship-master had hurried away.

Bat's deep-set eyes were steadily regarding the beautiful face before
him. He was gazing into the hazel depths of Nancy's eyes without a sign.
He had noted everything as the girl had come down the gangway. The
height, the graceful carriage in the long plucked-beaver coat which
terminated just above the trim ankles in their silken, almost
transparent, hose. Not even at Captain Hardy's pronouncement of her name
had he yielded a sign. And yet--

"Miss--Nancy McDonald?"

Bat's tone had lost its usual roughness. His mind had leapt back over
many years to a time when he had been concerned for that name in a way
that had stirred him to great warmth. He smiled. It was a baffling,
somewhat derisive smile.

"You're the lady representing the--Skandinavia?" he added.

"Why, yes," Nancy cried, "and I feel I want to thank you for the
privilege of obtaining even an outside view of your wonderful, wonderful
place here."

Bat raked thoughtfully at the stubble on his chin.

"If you feel that way, Miss, it'll hand me pleasure to show you and tell
you about things," he said. "You come right out of what the folks around
here like to call the enemy camp, but it don't matter a little bit. Not
a little bit. The whole of Sachigo's standin' wide open for you to walk
through." Then he dashed his hand across his face to clear the voracious
mosquitoes. "But if we stop around here mor'n ha'f another minute, the
memory you'll mostly carry away with you from Labrador'll be
skitters--an' nothing much else. Will you come right along up to Mr.
Sternford's office? It's quite a piece up the hill, which helps to keep
it clear of skitters an' things?"

Nancy laughed. Her early impression of the super-lumberjack had passed.
The man's smile was beyond words in its kindliness. His deep, twinkling
eyes were full of appeal.

"Why, surely," she assented. "If you'll show me the way I'll be glad.
The flies and things are certainly thick, and as I intend leaving
Sachigo with happy memories, well--"

"Come right along. I'm here for just that purpose."

As they made their way up the woodland trail they talked together with
an easy intimacy. Nancy was young. She was full of the joy of life, full
of real enthusiasm. And this rough creature with his ready smile
appealed to her. His frank, open way was something so far removed from
that which prevailed under the Skandinavia's rule.

For Bat, the walk up from the quayside was one of the many milestones in
his chequered life. He talked readily. He listened, too. But under it
all his thought was busy. The mystery of Father Adam's letter was no
longer a mystery. He understood. But he was also puzzled. How had this
thing come about? How had Father Adam learned of this visit? How had
this girl become representative of the Skandinavia? A hundred questions
flashed through his mind, for none of which he could find a satisfactory
answer. But he smiled to himself as he thought of that last line in
Father Adam's letter. "Treat her gently--firmly, yes--but very gently.
You see, she's a--woman."

* * * * *

It was a moment likely to live with both in the years to come. For Nancy
it was at least the final stage of her apprenticeship, the passing of
the portal beyond which opened out the world she so completely desired
to take her place in. Did it not mean the moment of shouldering the
great burden of responsibility she had so steadfastly trained herself to
bear? For Bull Sternford it had no such meaning. His powers had long
since been tested. As a meeting with the representative of a rival
enterprise it was merely an incident in the life to which he had become
completely accustomed. Its significance lay in quite another direction.

Bat had taken his departure. He had witnessed the meeting of Nancy with
this protege Father Adam had sent him from the dark world of the
forests. And his witness of it had been with twinkling eyes, and the
happy sense of an amusement he had never looked to discover in the
presence of a representative of the Skandinavia. In an unexpressed
fashion he realised he was gazing upon something in the nature of a
stage play.

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