There was naturally a tremendous lot to tell, but certain facts stood out. Hugh had been a journalist a long time now—Hector knew this already, having watched his career with a good deal of interest—and when the editor of his paper in Toronto looked for a man to send Westward with the Press Association, his choice had fallen upon Hugh. Why had he kept his coming secret? Oh, he wanted to give Hector a real surprise.
"Well, you've done that, all right," Hector declared. "You're the first man from home I've seen since I came West, Hugh!"
Speaking of home inevitably led to a cross-examination covering all the latest doings of Hector's mother—Cousin John—Allen—and the others. Hugh, to satisfy Hector's craving, described everything in detail. Then, suddenly, he was struck with an inspiration:
"But look here, Hec'. You've earned a holiday, God knows. Why not come back with me and see it all for yourself? I can't possibly do it justice, you know. Now, Hec'!"
The suggestion brought a light to Hector's eyes. But presently he shook his head.
"I can't, Hugh," he said. "We're up to the neck just now. I can't be spared. Don't argue. There's no-one to take my place."
"Oh, bosh!" laughed Hugh. "You're not so darned important. Of course they can spare you! You've got swelled head, old boy."
Hector rapped him playfully.
"Yes, haven't I?" he replied. "Never mind—it can't be done. No such word as 'can't' in the Police vocabulary? There is, in this case!"
Hugh thereafter exhausted his arguments. Hector was a Gibraltar.