Jock's eyes grew glassy.
"No," he muttered; "make it another soda, Tate. Yes; I've got a job. Such a thundering big one that it's going to take about all the nerve I've got lying around loose."
"Bossing—maybe?" Tate cast a keen glance upon Filmer. Jock returned the look. The gleam had departed from his eyes—he was Tate's master now.
"That's about the size of it," he answered. "Bossing, and it's going to be a go, or you'll never see me again. Here's to you!"
Something of the old dash returned as Jock held his soda aloft.
"Anything happened up to Camp 7?" Tate was uneasy.
"Lord! It's further back than 7." Filmer set his glass down. "It's a new cut—started late, but it's worth trying. So long!"
The others stared after him.
When the door had closed upon the tall, swinging figure, the company turned upon themselves.
"Things are going to—" Tate did not designate the locality. After all, it was needless for him to go into particulars.