time, at least, the cowardice Standing claimed for himself was entirely
swamped. He was stirred by the headlong excitement of battle in a manner
that left Bat more than satisfied.

Once Bat turned from his contemplation of the piled-up country beyond
the valley. It was at the sound of Standing's fiercely scratching pen.
And his quick gaze took in the luxury of the setting for the little
drama he felt was about to be enacted.

It was a wide, pleasant room, built wholly of red pine, and polished as
only red pine will polish. There was a thick oriental carpet on the
floor, and all the mahogany furniture was upholstered in red morocco.
There were a few carefully selected pictures upon the walls, hung with
an eye to the light upon each. But it was not an extravagant room. It
suggested the homeland of Scotland, from which the owner of it all
hailed. The Canadian atmosphere only found expression in the great steel
stove which stood in one corner, and the splendid timber of which the
walls of the room were built.

But Bat's eyes swiftly returned to their allotted task, and his reeking
pipe did its duty with hearty goodwill. There was the sound of strident
voices in the outer room, and the rattle of the door handle turning with
a wrench.

The door swung open. The next moment there was the sound of a sack
pitched upon the soft pile of the carpet. And through the open doorway
the harsh voice of Loale pursued the intruder in sharp protest.

"Say, do you think you're stowing cargo in your darn, crazy old barge?"
he cried. "If you fancy throwing things around you best get out an' do