housand 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?"

Bat was watching--searching. He was looking for that flicker of an
eyelid he had learned to dread in the past. But he failed to discover
it. The wide, clear eyes of the younger man returned his regard
unwaveringly. The uncultured lum