The lumberman turned sharply. He spat out a stream of tobacco juice and
waited.

"Bat, old friend, it's no use." Standing had swung himself into a
sitting posture. He was leaning forward on the tree-trunk with his
forearms folded across his knees. "We've done a lot of talk, and we've
searched these forests good. And it's all no use. None at all. There's
going to be no penstocks set up this side of the water next year--as far
as I'm concerned. I've done. Finished. Plumb finished. I'm quitting.
Quitting it all."

The lumberman ejected a masticated chew and took a fresh one.

"You see, old friend, I'll go crazy if I stop around," Standing went on.
"I've been hit a pretty desperate punch, and I haven't the guts to stand
up to it. When it came I set my teeth. I wanted to keep sane. I reminded
myself of all I owed to the folks working for us. I thought of you. And
I tried to bolster myself with the schemes we had for beating the
Skandinavians out of this country's pulp-wood trade. Yes, I tried. God,
how I tried! But my guts are weak, and I know what lies ahead. For
nearly six weeks I've been working things out, and for a week I've been
wondering how I should tell you. I brought you here to tell you.

"I want you to understand it good," he went on, after the briefest
pause. "I can't stand to live on in the house that Nancy and I built up.
Every room is haunted by her. By her happy laugh, and by memories of the
hours we sat and talked of the boy-child we'd both set our hearts on. I
just can't do it without going stark, staring, raving mad. I can't."