"Maybe he is," he said, "I don't know about that. But he's one hell of a good man," he went on warmly. "Do you know him? But of course you do. Say, he's just father and mother to every darn lumber-jack that haunts the forests of Quebec, and it don't worry him if his children are hellhound or honest. There's that to him sets me just crazy. I'd like to see his thin, tired face, always smiling." He stirred. And the warmth died abruptly out of his manner. "Say, you knew me—at the wharf?"
"Sure. I knew you before you came along. We've a wireless out on the headland."
"I see. Father Adam warned you I was coming. He told you—"
"The whole darn yarn. Sure."
Bull laughed grimly.
"That he guessed to shoot me to small meat if I didn't do as he said?"
"If you didn't cut out homicide from your notions of—sport."
"Yes. It was tough," Bull regretted. "But I'm glad—now."
"Yep. Guess any straight sort of feller would feel that way—after."
The lumberman's regret was unnoticed by the other.