"Oh, cut it out, Knight," said Duff, in a gruff but conciliatory tone.

"We'll camp right here."

"It's all the same to me," said Knight, flinging his pack down. "When you want to go on, say the word. You won't have to ask me twice."

Duff looked over the six feet of bone and sinew and muscle of the young rancher, made as if to answer, paused a moment, changed his mind, and said more quietly:

"Don't be an ass, Knight. I'm not trying to hang your shirt on a tree."

"You know damned well you can't," said Knight, who was still white with passion.

"Oh, come off," replied Duff. "Anyway, I don't see what young Dunbar is to you. We must get through to-morrow night. The overseas contingent is camping at Valcartier, according to these papers and whatever happens I am going with that contingent."

Knight made no reply. He was a little ashamed of his temper. But during the past two days he had chafed under the rasp of Duff's tongue and his overbearing manner. He resented too his total disregard of Barry's weariness, for in spite of his sheer grit, the pace was wearing the boy down.

"We ought to reach the railroad by six to-morrow," said Duff, renewing the conversation, and anxious to appease his comrade. "There's a late train, but if we catch the six we shall make home in good time. Hello, what's this coming?"

At his words they all turned and looked in the direction in which he pointed.

Down a stream, which at this point came tumbling into theirs in a dangerous looking rapid, came a canoe with a man in the centre guiding it as only an expert could.

"By Jove! He can't make that drop," said Knight, walking down toward the landing.

They all stood watching the canoe which, at the moment, hung poised upon the brink of the rapid like a bird for flight. Even as Knight spoke the canoe entered the first smooth pitch at the top. Two long, swallow-like sweeps, then she plunged into the foam, to appear a moment later fighting her way through the mass of crowding, crested waves, which, like white-fanged wolves upon a doe, seemed to be hurling themselves upon her, intent upon bearing her down to destruction.

"By the living, jumping Jemima!" said Fielding, in an awe-stricken tone, "she's gone!"

"She's through!" cried Knight.

"Great Jehoshaphat!" said Fielding. "He's a bird!"

With a flip or two of his paddle, the stranger shot his canoe across the stream, and floated quietly to the landing.

Barry ran down to meet him.

"I say, that was beautifully done," he cried, taking the nose of the canoe while the man stepped ashore and stood a moment looking back at the water.

"A leetle more to the left would have been better, I think. She took some water," he remarked in a slow voice, as if to himself.

He was a strange-looking creature. He might have stepped out of one of Fenimore Cooper's novels. Indeed, as Barry's eyes travelled up and down his long, bony, stooping, slouching figure, his mind leaped at once to the Pathfinder.

"Come far?" asked Duff, approaching the stranger.

"Quite a bit," he answered, in a quiet, courteous voice, pausing a moment in his work.

"Going out?" enquired Duff.

"Not yet," he said. "Going up the country first to The Post."

"Ah, we have just come down from there," said Duff. "We started yesterday morning," he added, evidently hoping to surprise the man.

"Yes," he answered in a quiet tone of approval. "Nice little run! Nice little run! Bit of a hurry, I guess," he ventured apologetically.

"You bet your life, we just are. This damned war makes a man feel like as if the devil was after him," said Duff.

"War!" The man looked blankly at him. "Who's fightin'?"

"Why, haven't you heard? It's been going on for a month. We heard only three days ago as we were going further up the country. It knocked our plans endways, and here we are chasing ourselves to get out."

"War!" said the man again. "Who's fightin'? Uncle Sam after them Mexicans?"

"No. Mexicans, hell!" exclaimed Duff. "Germany and Britain."

"Britain!" The slouching shoulders lost their droop. "Britain!" he said, straightening himself up. "What's she been doin' to Germany?"

"What's Germany been doing to her, and to Belgium, and to Servia, and to France?" answered Duff, in a wrathful voice. "She's been raising hell all around. You haven't seen the papers, eh? I have them all here."

The stranger seemed dazed by the news. He made no reply, but getting out his frying-pan and tea-pail, his only utensils, he set about preparing his evening meal.

"I say," said Duff, "won't you eat with us? We're just about ready.

We'll be glad to have you."

The man hesitated a perceptible moment. In the wilds men do not always accept invitations to eat. Food is sometimes worth more than its weight in gold.

"I guess I will, if you've lots of stuff," he said at length.

"We've lots of grub, and we expect to be home by tomorrow night anyway, if things go all right. You are very welcome."

The man laid down his frying-pan and tea-pail, and walked with Duff toward his camp.

"Are you goin'?" he enquired.

"Going?"

"To the war. Guess some of our Canadian boys will be goin' likely, eh?"

"Going," cried Duff. "You bet your life I'm going. But, come on. We'll talk as we eat. And we can't stay long, either."

Duff introduced the party.

"My name's McCuaig," said the stranger.

"Scotch, I guess?" enquired Duff.

"My father came out with The Company. I was born up north. Never been much out, but I read the papers," he added quickly, as if to correct any misapprehension as to his knowledge of the world and its affairs. "My father always got the Times and the Spectator, and I've continued the habit."

"Any one who reads the Times and the Spectator," said Barry, "can claim to be a fairly well-read man. My father takes the Spectator, too."

As they sat down to supper, he noticed that McCuaig took off his old grey felt and crossed himself before beginning toast.