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Updated: June 20, 2025
It was a laugh of real amusement. "Why, that's queer. It's I'm going right on there from here. I'm going to meet this very man, Sternford. They tell me I've just time to get there and pull out again for home before winter freezes them up solid. So he is this great man, with this great notion. Tell me, what is he like?" "Oh, he's a big, strong man, as ready to laugh as to fight."
"Shake," he cried. And there could be no doubting his good will. "Glad to have you around, Mr. Bull Sternford." Bull Sternford was seated in the luxurious chair that had once known Leslie Standing. His pea-jacket was removed and his cap was gone. The room was warm, and the sun beyond the window was radiant.
Sternford wasn't the man to throw away such chances, either. He had fallen for the girl, and she doubtless had The picture he had witnessed at the Chateau had left him without any doubt. The driving up together from the docks, the telephone. Sternford had taken her to her apartment. Oh, it was all as clear as daylight.
But in a moment, all concern was swept from his mind. A sound leapt at him out of the stillness of the night. It was the whimper of dogs and the sharp command of a man's voice. He shouted a challenge and waited. And presently a dog train pulled up beside him. Bull Sternford was standing before the wood stove in the camp-boss's shanty. He had removed his snow-laden fur coat.
You'll talk this over with Sternford. And when you've talked it some, you'll keep that place running, and let them talk. It's best that way. But I've got tab of most of the speakers, and I've located where they come from. Most of them have sometime worked for the Skandinavia. Maybe that's the reason of their talk. Maybe even Skandinavia's glad they're talking that way here on Labrador.
The big hills and the big waterways that 'ud leave Quebec rivers looking like a leak in a bone dry bar'l. My name's Aylin P. Cantor, Vancouver, B.C. Maybe you know the name?" Bull shook his head. "I'm not " "Oh, it don't matter," interjected Mr. Cantor. "You see, the West's one hell of a long way west. I just didn't get your " "Oh, my name's Sternford." Mr. Cantor's face beamed.
He took the chair usually occupied by his visitors. "You will pay ha'f a million dollars for this thing?" he demanded, to re-assure himself. Self-satisfaction looked out of the eyes of the man behind the desk. "More if necessary." "By God! You must hate this boy, Sternford." Peterman's feelings had broken from under his control. "Sternford? Psha! It is not Sternford. No."
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