A week had passed since Bat had witnessed the voiceless agony of his
friend. A week of endless labour and unspoken fears. He knew Standing as
it is given to few to know the heart of another. His sympathy was real.
It was of that quality which made him desire above all things to render
the heartbroken man real physical and moral help. But no opening had
been given him, and he feared to probe the wound that had been
inflicted. During those first seven days Standing seemed to be obsessed
with a desire to work, to work all day and every night, as though he
dared not pause lest his disaster should overwhelm him.

Now it was Sunday. Night and day the work had gone on. No less than ten
freighters had been loaded and dispatched since Bat's return, and only
that morning two vessels had cast off, laden to the water-line, and
passed down on the tide for the mouth of the cove. At the finish of the
midday meal Standing had announced his intentions for the afternoon.

"We need to get a look into the lumber on the north side, Bat," he said.
"You'd best come along with me. How do you think?"

And Bat had agreed on the instant.

"Sure," he said. "There's a heap to be done that way if we're to start
layin' the penstocks down on that side next year."

So they had spent the hours before dusk in a prolonged tramp through
the forests of the Northern shore. And never for one moment was their
talk and apparent interest allowed to drift from the wealth of
long-fibred timber they were inspecting.