The Man in the Twilight by Ridgwell Cullum

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He had found Bull transformed. The office suit was gone. The man's hair
was carefully brushed. He even suspected the liberal use of soap and
water. And then, too, the heavy, rough boots had given place to shining
patent leather. The youth and human nature of it pleased him. So he had
departed to the workshops below with a voiceless chuckle, and a greater
appreciation of the inevitability of the things of life.

Apart from Nancy's appreciation of that meeting, the woman in her sought
to appraise the man she beheld. Her impression was far deeper than she
knew. The height and muscular girth she beheld left her with a feeling
that she was gazing upon one of the pictures her school-girl mind had
created for the great men of Greek and Roman history. The clean-shaven,
clear-cut face, with its fine eyes and broad brow, its purposeful mouth;
these were details that had to be there, and were there. And somehow, as
she realised them, and the sense of the man's power and personality
forced itself upon her, her original confidence still further lessened,
and she wondered not a little anxiously as to the outcome of this
interview she had sought.

As for the man, his eyes had calmly smiled his spoken greeting. His
handshake had been conventionally firm. But behind the mask of it all
was one great surge of feeling. The vision of a beautiful, fur-coated
figure, with the peeping lure of pretty ankles, the warm cap pressed low
on the girl's head as though endeavouring to hide up the radiant framing
of the sweetest, most beautiful face he felt he had ever seen, dealt all
his preconceived purpose for the interview one final, smashing blow.

"I'm real glad to welcome you to Sachigo," he had begun. Then in a
moment, the conventional gave place to the man in him. "But say," he
added with a pleasant laugh, "we've a big piece of talk to make. You
best let me help you remove that coat. The stove we always need to keep
going here on Labrador makes this shanty hot as--very hot."

The manner of it sent convention, caution, business pose, scattering to
the winds. The girl laughed and yielded.

"Why, thanks," she said readily. "I'm glad you reckon we're to make a
big talk. You see," she added slyly, "I've been looking out of the
window, and there's quite a drop below. Up to now I felt my fur
might--be useful."

Bull laughed as he laid the coat aside. He had drawn up a comfortable
lounging chair which Nancy was prompt to accept. For himself he stood at
the window.

"Why, yes." He smiled. "I'd say it's a wise general who looks to his
retreat before the encounter. I'd sort of half forgotten you come from
the--Skandinavia."

"But I hadn't."

"No."

They both laughed. Nancy leant back in her chair. Her pose was all
unconscious. She had toiled hard to keep pace with the sturdy gait of
Bat in the ascent from the quay. Now she was glad of the ease the chair
afforded.

"Why did you say that?" Nancy asked a moment later.

Bull spread out his great hands.

"The Skandinavia don't usually let folks forget they're behind them."

"Now that's just too bad. It--it isn't generous," the girl said half
seriously.

"Isn't it?"

Bull left the window and took the chair that was usually Bat's. He set
it so that he could feast his eyes on the beauty he found so
irresistible.

"You see," he went on, "I've got a right to say that all the same. It's
not the--the challenge of a--what'll I say--competitor? I once had the
honour of drawing a few bucks a month on the paysheets of the
Skandinavia. And folks reckoned, and I guess I was amongst 'em, that
Skandinavia said to its people: 'Make good or--beat it.' That being so
it makes it a sure thing they're not liable to leave you forgetting
who's behind you."

His smile had gone. He was simply serious. This man had worked for her
people, and Nancy felt he was entitled to his opinion.

"That's going to make my talk harder," she said. "I'm sorry. But there,"
she went on. "It doesn't really matter, does it? Anyway I want to tell
you right away of the craze the sight of your splendid Sachigo has
started buzzing in my head. Say, Mr. Sternford, it beats anything I ever
dreamed, and I want to say that there's no one in the Skandinavia, from
Mr. Peterman downwards, has the littlest notion of it. It's not a mill.
It's a world of real, civilised enterprise. And it's set here where
you'd look for the roughest of forest life. I just had no idea."

It was all said spontaneously. And the pleasure it gave was obvious in
the man's eyes. He nodded.

"Yes," he said. "The construction of this mill, here on Labrador, isn't
short of genius by a yard. And the genius of it lies where you won't
guess."

Nancy's pretty eyes were mildly searching.

"You're the head of Sachigo," she suggested.

Bull's eyes lit.

"Sure," he cried, "an' I'm mighty proud that's so. But I'm not the
genius of this great mill. No. That grizzled, tough old lumberman who
toted you along up from the quayside is the brain of this organisation.
He's a--wonder. There's times I want to laff when I think of it. There's
times I'm most ready to cry. You see, you don't know that great feller.
I'm just beginning to guess I do. He's a heart as big as a house, and
the manner to scare a 'hold-up.' He's the grit of a reg'ment of soldiers
and the mutton softness of a kid girl. He's the brain of a Solomon, and
the illiteracy of a one day school kid. He's all those things, and he's
the biggest proposition in men I've ever heard tell about. It's kind of
tough. Don't you feel that way? He'll suck a pint of tobacco juice in
the day, and blaspheme till your ears get on edge. And while your folks
are guessing he'll put through a proposition that 'ud leave ha'f the
world gasping."

Nancy stirred. This man's whole-hearted appreciation of another was
something rather fine in her simple philosophy. The last thing she had
contemplated in approaching the head of a rival enterprise was such talk
as this. But somehow it seemed to fit the man. Somehow as she noted the
squarely gazing eyes, and the power in every line of his features, she
realised that whatever lines he chose to talk on, nothing could change
the decision lying behind it all. She liked him all the better for that,
and found herself drawing comparison between him and Elas Peterman to
the latter's detriment.

"I like that," she cried impulsively. Then the colour rose in her cheeks
at the thought of her temerity. "I guess he's all you say. Maybe some
day I'll hear his side of things. I'd like to. You see--I felt I'd known
him years when he brought me in here. Maybe you won't understand what
that implies."

"I think I do."

Bull stood up from his chair and passed round his desk.

"Here, say, Miss McDonald," he went on, in his keen fashion. "You come
from Skandinavia. And I guess you come on a pretty stiff proposition.
It's going to be difficult for you to hand it me. Maybe you're young in
the game. Well, it doesn't matter a thing. Now we're going to start
right in talking that proposition, and I'm going to help you. But before
that starts I just want to say this. You, I guess, are going right back
on the _Myra_ and she sails to-morrow, sundown. That means you'll stay a
night in Sachigo--"

"I'm stopping on the vessel. It's all fixed."

Bull sat down at his desk.

"I'm kind of glad," he said, with a shade of relief. "It isn't that you
aren't welcome to all the old hospitality Sachigo can hand you. You're
just more than welcome. But Bat hasn't built his swell hotel yet," he
laughed. "And as for us here, why, we 'batch' it. There isn't a thing in
skirts around this place, only a Chink cook, a half-breed secretary, and
a clerk or two, and a bum sort of decrepit lumber-jack who does my
chores. So you see I'm--kind of relieved. Anyway you sleeping on the
_Myra_ makes it easy. Now there's a mighty big conceit to me, and it's
all for this mill in our country's wilderness. And I just can't let you
quit to-morrow night without showing you all it means. You've simply got
to see the thing that's going to make the whole world's groundwood trade
holler before we're through. You're my prisoner until you've seen the
things I'm going to show you. Is it anyway agreeable?"

Nancy smiled delightedly.

"You couldn't drive me out of Sachigo till I've peeked into all your
secrets down there," she said.

Bull leant forward with his arms outspread across the desk.

"Great!" he cried. "And," he added, "you shall see them all. The things
I can't show you Bat will. And if I'm a judge that old rascal'll be
tickled to death handing his dope out to you. But--let's get to
business."

Nancy sat up. In a moment all ease was banished. She knew the great
moment had come when she must prove herself to those who had entrusted
her with her mission.

"Yes," she said, almost hurriedly. "I don't know the word Mr. Peterman
sent you. And anyway it doesn't matter. I must put things my way. You
are a great enterprise here. We are a great enterprise. It looks to us a
pretty tough clash is bound to come between us in the near future,
and--there should be no necessity for it. There's room--plenty of
room--for both of us in our trade--"

She paused. The keen eyes of Bull were closely observing. He realised
her attitude. Her words and tone were almost mechanical, as though she
had schooled herself and rehearsed her lesson. And her voice was not
quite steady. He jumped in with the swift impulse of a man whose rivalry
could not withstand that sign of a beautiful girl's distress.

"Here," he cried, with that command so natural to him. "Just don't say
another word. Let me talk. I guess I can tell you the things it's up to
you to hand me. It'll save you a deal, and it'll hand me a chance to
blow off the hot air that's mostly my way. This is the position.
Peterman's wise to the things doing right here. The Skandinavia's up
against years of cutting on the Shagaunty. The Shagaunty's played right
out. You folks have got to open new stuff. It's my job to know all this.
Very well. As I said, Peterman's at last got wise to us. He knows we
look like flooding the market, and jumping right in on him. So--you're a
mighty wealthy corporation--he figures to recognise us, and embrace
us--with a business arrangement. That so?"

"Yes. A business arrangement."

The girl's relief was almost pathetic. Bull smiled.

"That's so. A business arrangement. Should I entertain one, eh? That's
the question you're right here to ask. And you want to take back my
answer." He paused. "Well, you're going to take back my answer. And I
kind of feel it's the answer you'll like taking back. Say, Miss
McDonald, I'm only a youngster, myself, but I guess I know what it means
to set out on a work hoping and yearning to make good. Will it make good
for you to go back to Elas Peterman and say the feller at Sachigo is
coming right along down by the _Myra_ to-morrow, and would be pleased to
death to talk this proposition right out in the offices of the
Skandinavia? Will it?"

Nancy's eyes lit. Their hazel depths were wells of thankfulness.

"Why, surely," she said. "You mean you're going to sail to-morrow?"

Bull laughed and his laugh was infectious. The girl was smiling her
delight.

"That's so. I need to cross the Atlantic. I wasn't going till the
_Myra's_ next trip. I'll go to-morrow an' stop over in Quebec to see
your people. It just means hurrying my choreman packing my stuff while I
show you around to-morrow. That kind of fixes things, and if you'll hand
me that pleasure I'd just love to show you around some this afternoon.
There's a heap to see, and I don't fancy you missing any of it." He
passed round the desk, and picked up the girl's coat and held it out
invitingly. "Will you come right along?"

There was no denying him. Nancy looked up into his smiling eyes. She
felt there was a lot she wanted to say, ought to say, on the business
matter in hand. But it was impossible. And in her heart she was
thankful.

"Why, I'd just love to," she said, and stood up from her chair.

Very tenderly, very carefully the man's hands helped her into her coat.
And somehow Nancy was very glad the hands were big, and strong,
and--yes--clumsy.

CHAPTER IX

ON THE OPEN SEA

The _Myra_ laboured heavily. With every rise and fall of her high bows a
whipping spray lashed the faces of those on deck. The bitter
north-easterly gale churned the ocean into a white fury, and the sky was
a-race with leaden masses of cloud. There was no break anywhere. Sky and
sea alike were fiercely threatening, and the wind howled through the
vessel's top gear.

Bull Sternford had been sharing the storm with the sturdy skipper on
the bridge. He had been listening to the old man's talk of fierce
experience on the coast of Labrador. It had all been interesting to the
landsman in view of the present storm, but at last he could no longer
endure the exposure of the shelterless bridge.

"It's me for the deck and a sheltered corner," he finally declared,
preparing to pass down the iron "companion."

And the Captain grinned.

"I don't blame you," he bellowed in the shriek of the gale. "But I guess
I'd as lief have it this way. It's better than a flat sea an' fog, which
is mostly the alternative this time o' year. The Atlantic don't offer
much choice about now. She's like a shrew woman. Her smile ain't ever
easy. An' when you get it you've most always got to pay good. She can
blow herself sick with this homeward bound breeze for all I care."

"That's all right," Bull shouted back at him. "Guess you've lost your
sense of the ease of things working this coast so long. It 'ud be me for
the flat sea and fog all the time. I like my chances taken standing
square on two feet. So long."

He passed below, beating his hands for warmth. And as he went he glanced
back at the sturdy, oil-skinned figure clinging to the rail of the
bridge. The man's far-off gaze was fixed on the storm-swept sky, reading
every sign with the intimate knowledge of long years of experience. It
was a reassuring figure that must have put heart into the veriest
weakling. But Bull Sternford needed no such support. In matters of life
and death he was without emotion.

He scrambled his way to the leeward side of the engines where a certain
warmth and shelter was to be had, and where a number of hardly tested
deck chairs were securely lashed. It was the resting place of those few
beset passengers who could endure no longer the indifferent, odorous
accommodation of the _Myra's_ saloon. Only one chair was occupied. For
the rest the deck was completely deserted.

Bull's first glance at the solitary passenger was sufficient. The gleam
of red hair under the fur cap told him all he wanted to know, and he
groped his way along the slippery deck, and deposited his bulk safely
into the chair beside Nancy McDonald.

"Say," he cried, with a cheerful grin, as he struggled with his rug,
"this sort of thing's just about calculated to leave a feller feeling
sympathy with the boy who hasn't more sense than to spend his time
trying to climb outside more Rye whisky than he was built to hold. It
makes you wonder at the fool thing that lies back of it all. I mean the
fuss going on out yonder."

Nancy smiled round from amidst her furs.

"It does seem like useless mischief," she agreed readily. Then she
laughed outright. "But to see you crawling along the deck just now,
grabbing any old thing for support, and often missing it, was a sight to
leave one wondering how much dignity owes to personality, and how much
to environment. Guess environment's an easy win."

"Did I look so darn foolish?"

Bull's eyes were smiling, and Nancy laughed again.

"Just about as foolish as that fellow with the Rye whisky you were
talking about."

The man settled himself comfortably.

"That's tough. And I guess I was doing my best, too. Say," he went on
with a laugh, "just look at those flapping sea-gulls, or whatever they
are out there. Makes you wonder to see 'em racing along over this fool
waste of water. Look at 'em fighting, struggling, and using up a whole
heap of good energy to keep level with this old tub. You know they've
only to turn away westward to find land and shelter where they could
build nests and make things mighty comfortable for themselves. I don't
get it. You know it seems to me Nature got in a bad muss handing out
ordinary sense. I'd say She never heard of a card index. Maybe Her
bookkeeper was a drunken guy who didn't know a ledger from a scrap book.
Now if She'd engaged you an' me to keep tab of things for Her, we'd have
done a deal better. Those poor blamed sea-gulls, or whatever they are,
would have been squatting around on elegant beds of moulted feathers,
laid out on steam-heat radiators, feeding on oyster cocktails and
things, and handing out the instructive dope of a highbrow politician
working up a press reputation, and learning their kids the decent habits
of folk who're yearning to keep out of penitentiary as long as the
police'll let 'em. No. It's no use. Nature got busy. Look at the result.
Those fool birds'll follow us till they're tired, in the hope that some
guy'll dump the contents of the _Myra's_ swill barrel their way. Then
they'll have one disgusting orgy on the things other folks don't fancy,
and start right in to fly again to ease their digestions. It's a crazy
game anyway. And it leaves me with a mighty big slump in Nature's
stock."

Nancy listened delightedly to the man's pleasant fooling.

"It's worse than that," she cried, falling in with his humour. "Look at
some of them taking a rest, swimming about in that terribly cold water.
Ugh! No, if we'd fixed their sense we'd have made it so they'd have had
enough to get on dry land, like any other reasonable folk yearning for a
rest."

The man studied the girl's pretty profile, and a great sense of regret
stirred him that the Skandinavia had been able to buy her services. What
a perfect creature to have been supported by in the work he was engaged
on.

"That sounds good," he said. "Reasonable folks!" He shook his head.
"Nature again. Guess we're all reasonable till we're found out. No. Even
the greatest men and women on earth are fools at heart, you know."

The girl sat up as the vessel lurched more heavily and flung their
chairs forward, straining dangerously.

"How?" she questioned, glancing down anxiously at the moorings of her
chair.

"They're safe--so far," Bull reassured her. Then he leant back again,
and produced and lit a cigar. "Guess I'll smoke," he said. "Maybe
that'll help me tell you--'how.'"

The girl watched him light his cigar and her eyes were full of laughter.

"It's a real pity women can't sit themselves behind a cigar," she said
at last, with a pretence of regret. "It's the wisest looking thing a man
does. A cigarette kind of makes him seem pleasantly undependable. A pipe
makes you feel he's full of just everyday notions. But a cigar! My! It
sort of dazzles me when I see a man with a big cigar. I feel like a
lowgrade earthworm, don't you know. Say," she cried, with an
indescribable gesture of her gloved hands, "he handles that cigar, he
sort of fondles it. He cocks it. He depresses it. He rolls it across his
lips to the opposite corner of his mouth, and finally blows a thin,
thoughtful stream of smoke gently between his pursed lips. And that
stream is immeasurable in its suggestion of wise thought and keen
calculation. I'd say a man's cigar is his best disguise."

Bull nodded.

"That's fine," he cried. "But you've forgotten the other feller. The man
who 'chews.'"

Nancy laughed happily.

"Easy," she cried promptly. "When he of the bulged cheek gets around
just watch your defences. He's mostly tough. He's on the jump, and
hasn't much fancy for the decencies of life. The harder he chews the
more he's figgering up his adversary. And when he spits, get your
weapons ready. When the chewing man succeeds in life I guess he's
dangerous. And it's because his force and character have generally
lifted him from the bottom of things."

Bull shook his head in mock despair.

Nancy settled herself back in her chair.

"That's fixed it. Guess you'll need to tell _me_ 'how.'"

"No, sir," she cried. "You can't go back. 'The greatest men and women in
the world are fools at heart.' That's what you said."

"Yes. I seem to remember."

The man stirred and sat up. He folded the rug more closely about his
feet. Then he turned with a whimsical smile in his eyes.

"Well?" he cried. "And isn't it so? What do we work, and fight, and hate
for? What do we spend our lives worrying to beat the other feller for?
Why do we set our noses into other folks' affairs and worry them to
death to think, and act, and feel the way we do? And all the while it
don't matter a thing. Of course we're fools. We'll hand over when the
time comes, and the old world'll roll on, and it's not been shifted a
hair's-breadth for our having lived, in spite of the obituaries the
news-sheets hand out like a Sunday School mam at prize time. Say, here,
it's no use fooling ourselves. Life's one great big thing that don't
take shape by reason of our acts. What's the civilisation we love to pat
ourselves on the back for? I'll tell you. It's just a thing we've
invented, like--wireless telegraphy, or soap, or steam-heat; and it
hands us a cloak to cover up the evil that man and woman'll never quit
doing. Before we made civilisation a feller got up on to his hind legs
and hit the other feller over the head with a club; and if he was hungry
he used him as a lunch. Now we don't do that. We break him for his
dollars and leave him and his poor wife and kids hungry, while we buy a
lunch with the stuff we beat out of him. Why do we work? For one of two
elegant notions. It's either to fill ourselves up with the things we've
dreamt about when appetite was sharp set, and hate to death when we get,
or it's to satisfy a conceit that leaves us hoping and believing the
rest of the world'll hand us an epitaph like it handed no other feller
since ever it got to be a habit burying up the garbage death produces.
Why do we fight and hate? Because we're poor darn fools that don't know
better, and don't know the easy thing life would be without those
things. And as for settin' our noses into the affairs of other folk,
that's mostly disease. But it isn't all. No, sir. There's more to it
than that," he laughed. "If it was just disease it wouldn't matter a
lot, but it isn't. There isn't a fool man or woman born into this world
that doesn't reckon he or she can put right the fool notions and acts of
other fools. And when the other feller persuades them the game's not the
one-sided racket they guessed it was, then they get mad, and start
groping and scheming how to boost their notions on to a world that's
spent a whole heap of time fixing things, mostly foolish, to its own
mighty good satisfaction. I say right here we're fools if we aren't
crooks, which is the exception. There's a dandy world around us full of
sun to warm us and food to eat, and birds to sing to us, and flowers and
things to make us feel good. If we needed more I guess Providence would
have handed it out. But it didn't. And so we got busy with our own
notions till we've turned God's elegant creation into a home for crazes
and cranks. I could almost fancy the Archangels hovering around, like
those silly sea-gulls, with a bunch of straight-jackets to wrap about us
when we jump the limit they figger we've a right to. Fools, yes? Why, I
guess so--sure."

Nancy breathed a deep sigh.

"My, but that's a big say."

Then she broke into a laugh which found prompt response in the other. It
was cut short, however. A sea thundered against the staunch side of the
vessel and left her staggering. The girl's eyes became seriously
anxious. The straining chairs held, and presently the deck swung up to a
comparative level.

"I had visions of the--"

"Scuppers?" Bull laughed. "Yes. That sea's one of the elegant things
Providence handed out for our happiness."

Nancy nodded.

"So man built things like the _Myra_, which, of course, was--foolish?"

"An' set out sailing around in a winter storm off Labrador, instead of
basking in a pleasant tropical sun, which hasn't any--sense."

Bull chuckled.

"All because two mighty fine enterprises reckoned they'd common
interests which were jeopardised by rivalry, which was also--foolishly?"

Bull's cigar ash tumbled into his lap.

"But not ha'f so foolish as the notion that a girl has to suffer the
worries and dangers of one hell of a trip on the worst sea that God ever
made to try and square the things between them."

Nancy shook her head.

"I can't grant that," she cried quickly.

"No?"

"I mean--oh, psha! Don't you see, or does your cynical philosophy blind
you? We're fools, maybe. The things Providence sends us aren't the
things we've got a notion for. Maybe we know better than Providence, and
can't find happiness in the things it's handed us. What then? As you
say, we start right in chasing happiness in the way we fancy. It seems
to me the only real happiness in life is in doing. Ease, wealth, love,
all the things folk talk and write about are just dreams of happiness
that aren't real. Work, achievement, even if it's wrong-headed--that's
life; that's happiness. That's why I'd say there's nothing foolish in a
girl putting up with dangers and discomforts to bring two enterprises to
an understanding, calculated to promote a greater achievement for both.
It's my little notion of snatching a bunch of happiness for myself."

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