The States which form the northern border of the United States westward from the Great Lakes to the Pacific coast include an area several times larger than France and could contain ten Englands and still have room to spare. The distance from the head of the Great Lakes at Duluth to the Pacific coast in the State of Washington is greater than the distance from London to Petrograd or the distance from Paris to Constantinople, and three times the distance from Washington, D.C., to Chicago. Fifty years ago these States, with the single exception of Wisconsin, were practically a wilderness in which only the Indian and buffalo gave evidences of life and activity. No railroads penetrated the forests or the mountain ranges. Far southward some progress in the march of civilization had been made; the Union Pacific had linked the West with the East before the eighth decade of the century began, and the Northern Pacific project was being painfully pushed through the intermediate tier of States during the seventies. But the material resources of the Great Northwest had still to be discovered. When the Northern Pacific Railway failed in 1873, the crash involved a little railroad known as the St. Paul and Pacific, running out of St. Paul for a couple of hundred miles westward, with a branch to the north joining the Northern Pacific at Brainerd, Minnesota. The St. Paul and Pacific had been acquired in the interest of the Northern Pacific some years earlier but was now regarded as a property so worthless that its owners would be glad to get rid of it, if only they could find a purchaser rash enough to take it over. During the three years following the panic of 1873 the crops of Minnesota were practically eaten up by the grasshoppers, and poverty reigned among the farmers. At that time a short, stocky man with long hair, one blind eye, and the reputation of being the greatest talker in town, kept a coal and wood store in St. Paul. His name was James J. Hill. For years he had been a familiar figure, sitting in his old chair in front of his store and discoursing on current events. This man was not only an interesting talker; he was a visionary, a dreamer--and one of his dreams was to buy the St. Paul and Pacific Railroad and to transform it into a real railway line. Nearly twenty years had passed since he had drifted in, an eighteen-year-old Scotch-Irish boy from Ontario, and had begun work in a steamship office on the levee at St. Paul. Now, in 1876, he was thirty-eight years old and a town character. And the town felt that it had his measure. He had already tried a variety of occupations, and at this time was agent for lines of steamboats on the Mississippi and the Red River. Everybody knew him and liked him, but no one took him very seriously. The idea of his controlling the St. Paul and Pacific was even amusing.