"Yes, she's getting in, Bat," he said. "But I just wanted to get a peek
at things. Well, I've seen all I want, old friend. Now I'm ready. Fight?
Oh, yes, I'm ready to fight. Come on." And he laughed as he hurried down
the woodland trail to the water-side.

* * * * *

The two men had reached the quay-side, which was lined with bales of
wood-pulp stacked ready for shipment. Farther down its length the cranes
were rattling their chains, swinging their burdens out over the holds of
the vessel taking in its moist cargo. The stevedores were vociferously
busy, working against time. For, in the brief open season, time was the
very essence of the success demanded for the mills. The noise, the babel
of it all was usually the choicest music to Standing and his manager.

But just now they were less heeding. Their eyes were turned upon the
small steamer plugging its deliberate way over the water towards them.
It was a small, heavily-built tub of a vessel calculated to survive the
worst Atlantic storms.

Bat's face was without any expression of undue emotion. But the hard
lines about his clean-shaven mouth were sharply set. Standing was asurge
with an excitement that fired his dark eyes. His wide-brimmed hat was
thrust back from his forehead, and he stood with his hands thrust deeply
in the pockets of his moleskin trousers. His nervous fingers were
playing with loose coins and keys which they found irresistible.

The _Lizzie_ came steadily on.

"We'll know the whole game in minutes now."