“Telegram for you, Joe,” said Jack, taking the yellow envelope from the maid.
“May I?” said Joe, and tore it open. His face became a thunder-cloud. He bit back the words that rose to his lips.
“What is it?” asked Jack anxiously. “Not bad news?”
“Couldn’t be much worse.” He held out the slip of yellow paper. She read:
Camp burnt out. McCane’s crew. Wire instructions.
—MacNutt.
Joe tore a leaf from a note-book and scribbled:
Hold men together and build new camp. Rushing supplies.
Coming at once.
“I’ve got to have that camp going again in a week,” said he grimly. “That means hustle. I shan’t see you again before I go up.”
“You’re going yourself,” she said with approval. “Good boy, Joe. Oh, how I wish I were a man!”
“If you were I’d have you for a partner,” he declared. “But I’m glad you’re not. I like you best this way. Good-bye, little girl, and thanks for many pleasant evenings. I’ll tell you all about the war when I come back.”