wakened up to what
it means. There's a fish supply in this northland large enough to feed
the world, and that little rim of lakes that I've mapped out along the
edge of the coming railroad represents a money value of millions. That
was the idea that came to me in the middle of the night, and then I
thought--if I could get a corner on a few of these lakes, secure
fishing privileges before the road came--"

"You'd be a millionaire," said Gregson.

"Not only that," replied Philip, pausing for a moment in his restless
pacing. "I didn't think of money, at first; at least, it was a
secondary consideration after that night beside the camp-fire. I saw
how this big vacant north could be made to strike a mighty blow at
those interests which make a profession of cornering meatstuffs on the
other side, how it could be made to fight the fight of the people by
sending down an unlimited supply of fish that could be sold at a profit
in New York, Boston, or Chicago for a half of what the trust demands.
My scheme wasn't aroused entirely by philanthropy, mind you. I saw in
it a chance to get back at the very people who brought about my
father's ruin, and who kept pounding him after he was in a corner until
he broke down and died. They killed him. They robbed me a few years
later. They made me hate what I was once, a moving, joyous part
of--life down there. I went from the north, first to Ottawa, then to
Toronto and Winnipeg. After that I went to Brokaw, my father's old
partner, with the scheme. I've told you of Brokaw--one of the deepest,
shrewdest old fighters in the Middle West. It was only a year after my
father's death that he was on his feet again, as strong as ever. Brokaw
drew in two or three others as strong as himself, and we went after the
privileges. It was a fight from the beginning. Hardly were our plans
made public before we were met by powerful opposition. A combination of
Canadian capital quickly organized and petitioned for the same
privileges. Old Brokaw knew what it meant. It was the hand of the
trust--disguised under a veneer of Canadian promoters. They called us
'aliens'--American 'money-grabbers' robbing Canadians of what justly
belonged to them. They aroused two-thirds of the press against us, and
yet--"

The lines in Whittemore's face softened. He chuckled as he pulled out
his pipe and began filling it.

"They had to go some to beat the old man, Greggy. I don't know just how
Brokaw pulled the thing off, but I