Bull nodded over the latter portion of his third cigar which Mr. Cantor had not permitted him to escape.
"Sure," the man laughed. "Oh, the stuff's there. I know that. But Labrador needs a mighty big nerve to exploit. I heard it all from a feller I met when I was prospecting Quebec. You see, I had the notion of playing a million dollars in the Quebec forests once. But I weakened. I kind of fancied my chance against the Frenchies didn't amount to cold water on a red hot cookstove. I cut it out and hunted my own patch, West, again. But I guess I'd have fallen for the stories of Labrador, if it hadn't been for the feller who put me wise."
"Who was that?" Bull had lost interest, but the man invited the enquiry.
"Oh, a sort of missionary crank," Cantor returned indifferently. "You know the sort. We got 'em out West, too. They hound the boys around, chasin' them heavenwards by a through route they guess they know about." He laughed. "But the boys bein' just boys, the round up don't ever seem to make good; and that through trip looks most like a bum sort of freight in the wash-out season. Outside his missioner business I guess the guy was pretty wise, though. And his knowledge of the lumber play left me without a word. He knew it all—an' I guess he told it to me."
Bull laughed. But the laugh was inspired by the thought that there could be found in the world a man who could leave Aylin P. Cantor without a word on the subject of lumber.
"I'd like to make a guess at that feller," he said. "There's just one man I know who's a missionary in Quebec who knows anything about Labrador. Did he call himself, 'Father Adam?'"
"That's the thing he did."
"Ah, I thought so." Bull's smile had passed. "Where did you meet him?" he went on after a moment.
"On the Shagaunty. The Skandinavia Corporation territory. He told me he'd just come along through from Labrador."
"Oh, yes?"