"That's how I figgered. I've watched it in you, Les. Tell me the rest."

Bat chewed steadily. It was a safety-valve for his feelings.

"The rest?" Standing turned to gaze out at the house across the water.
"If it weren't for you, Bat, I'd close right down. I'd leave everything
standing and--get out," he went on slowly. "The whole thing's a
nightmare. Look at it. Look around. The forests of soft wood. The
township we've set up. The harnessed water power. That--that house of
mine. It's all nightmare, and I don't want it. I'm afraid. I'm scared to
death of it."

Bat moved away from the stump he had been propped against. He passed
across to the edge of the ledge and stood gazing down on the scenes
below.

"You needn't worry for me," he said. "It don't matter a cuss where or
how I hustle my dry hash. I was born that way. Fix things the way you
feel. Cut me right out."

The man's generosity was a simple expression of his rugged nature. His
love of that great work below him, in the creation of which he had taken
so great a part, was nothing to him at that moment. He was concerned
only for the man, who had held out a succouring hand, and led him, in
his darkest moments, to safety and prosperity.

Standing shook his head at the broad back squared against the grey,
wintry sky.

"I didn't mean it that way, old friend," he said.