of the workers who had come at the mill-owner's call to share in his
great adventure.

Then there was shipping in the cove. A fleet of merchant shipping
awaiting cargoes. There was a built inner harbour, with quays, and
warehouses. There were travelling cranes, and every appliance for the
loading of the great freighters with all possible dispatch. There were
light railways running in every direction. There were sheltering "booms"
in the river mouth crammed with logs, and dealt with by an army of river
men equipped with their amazing peavys with which they thrust, and
rolled, and shepherded the vast mass of hewn timber towards the
slaughterhouse of saws. Then, immediately surrounding the mill, there
was a veritable town of storehouses and offices and machine shops of
every description. There were power-houses, there were buildings in the
process of construction, and the laid foundations of others projected.
It was a world of active human purpose lost in the heart of an immense
solitude which it was nevertheless powerless to disturb.

"Yes, it's all too good to have things happen, Bat," Standing went on
presently. "Hark at the roar of the falls. What is it? Five hundred
thousand horsepower of water, summer and winter. Listen to the drone of
the grinders." He shook his head. "It's a great song, boy, and they
never get tired of singing it. There's only thirty-six of 'em at
present. Thirty-six. We'll have a hundred and thirty-six some day. Look
down there at the booms." He stood pointing, a tall, lean figure on the
hillside. "Tens of thousands of logs, and hundreds of men. We'll
multiply those again and again--one day. It's fine. The freighters lying
at anchor awaiting their cargoes. Some day we'll have our own ships--a
big fleet of 'em. See the smoke pennants floating from our smoke stacks.
They're the triumphant pennants of successful industry, eh? We can't