"The north-west!" he gasped, when Joe told him of their immediate destination. "But—but that's where there are always little wars and skirmishes."
"Precisely," observed the Major, with cutting abruptness. "Our best soldiers are bred there. I've had a dose of the north-west myself. Keeps you alive, sir. And if you aren't lively, why——"
"Ahem!" lisped Dick. "You're dead, dead as a herring."
"And you go there?" stuttered the magnate, his face paling, his fat cheeks trembling.
"Certainly!" declared Joe.
"But supposing something happened, supposing——"
"It won't, I hope," came the answer.
"But it might," chimed in Dick, grinning. "Then there'd be a ruction. Say, Mr. Andrew, ain't they fond of torturing folks first?"
It was too bad to tease the wretched and craven Mr. Reitberg. But there was no suppressing Dicky or his boon companion Alec. While in their secret heart of hearts the Major and perhaps Joe and Mr. Andrew were not altogether sorry. Nor did they say much to comfort the unhappy magnate. Indeed, that stout and crafty gentleman was thrown into a violent flutter two days later. For the wireless apparatus aboard suddenly picked up a message.