“You interest me extraordinarily, Mr. Bainbridge,” the older man said, in his crisp, decisive way, when at last they paused at the point several miles below the scene of the last jam, where Sears had to branch off to reach his camp. “Things of this sort always do, for it’s only those one has to struggle for which are really worth while. You’ve certainly had to fight hard in this case, but you’ve practically won out, haven’t you? After this last fracas I shouldn’t suppose there’d be much chance for further interference.” Bob shrugged his shoulders and smiled a little. “You sadly underestimate the power of the trust, Mr. Sears. I shan’t be beyond the chance of interference until the drive is safe in our mill booms at Lancaster, and even then it wouldn’t surprise me if they’d try to work some dirty trick.” Sears frowned indignantly; then his face brightened. “In spite of everything I think I should bet on you.” he chuckled. “There’s a certain vigor in your method of dealing with these people which makes for success. I really believe you’ll win, Mr. Bainbridge, and I surely hope so. It has been a great pleasure to meet you, and I trust one to be repeated. I shall be hereabouts for some time yet, and may run across you before I leave.” Bob warmly reciprocated his feeling, and, after a hearty handshake, turned south along the river, while Sears disappeared in the undergrowth to the westward. “Fine man,” commented the younger man aloud. “Hope I do run into him again. Meanwhile, however, the rear isn’t coming along half quick enough, and I haven’t seen a darn thing all afternoon of the wangan. I hope nothing’s happened to it and the grub. That would be one awful blow!” It was one that was spared him. Within half an hour the clumsy scow hove in sight. It tied up to the bank a little later, and before dark preparations for supper were going on merrily. Bob did not get in till later. Assured that all was well with the cook and his staff, he went on downstream to see how Peters and his gang were progressing. On his return he discovered a stranger warming himself by the drying fire. He looked like an old-time woodsman, and the instant Bainbridge appeared he was on his feet, extracting an envelope from the interior of his hat. “From Mr. Tweedy, sir.” The young lumberman ripped it open without a premonition of the blow in store for him. It was natural for Tweedy to write. He would be reporting his success in the matter of credit, of course, and probably gloating over the amount of manufactured lumber he had sold in so short a time. Bainbridge noted that it had been written in the Bangor office the night before. Then, settling himself by the fire, he proceeded to read: