he looked upon without any display of pleasurable feeling. The sight of
it literally seemed to deepen the unease which looked out of his eyes.

In the midst of Bull's pre-occupation the door from the outer office was
thrust open, and Bat Harker's harsh voice jarred the silence of the
room.

"Gettin' a peek at things," he cried, stumping heavily across the thick
carpet. "Well, it looks good to me, too. Say, if this lasts just one
week we'll be as clear of snow as hell's sidewalks." Then he flung open
his rough pea-jacket and pushed his cap back from his lined forehead.
"Gee, it's hot!"

The lumberman was standing at Bull's side, and his deep-set eyes were
following the other's gaze with twinkling satisfaction. Bull nodded and
moved away.

"Yep," he ejaculated. "It should be good for us."

He passed over to the radiators and shut them off. Then he went over to
the wood-stove and closed down the dampers. Then, with a curious
absent-mindedness, he stood up and held out his hands to the warmth
radiating from the stove.

Bat was watching him interestedly. And at sight of his final attitude
he broke into one of his infrequent chuckles and flung himself into a
chair.

"Say, what in--? Feeling cold?" he demanded.

Bull's hands were promptly withdrawn, and, in spite of his mood, a half
smile at his own expense lit his troubled eyes.

"That's all right," he said. "It's on me, sure. I guess my head must be
full of those figures still."

He returned to the window and stood with his back to his companion. Bat
watched him for some moments.

Bull had changed considerably in the last few weeks. The lumberman had
been swift to observe it. Somehow the old enthusiasm had faded out. The
keen fighting nature he had become accustomed to, with its tendency to
swift, almost reckless action, had become less marked. The man was
altogether less buoyant.

At first it had seemed to Bat's searching mind as if the effects of that
desperate trip through the forests, and the subsequent battle down at
the mill, had left its mark upon him, had somehow wrought one of those
curious, weakening changes in the spirit of the man which seemed so
unaccountable. Later, however, he dismissed the idea for a shrewder and
better understanding.

He helped himself to a chew of tobacco and kicked a cuspidore within his
reach.

"The fire-bugs are out," he said. "The last of 'em. I jest got word
through. It's the seventh. An' it's the tally."

It was a