"Can't say that I've got a friend left in camp," he said, with a curious grimace. "What in thunder do you mean, Phil? I've tried to reason something out of it, but I can't!"
Philip was hanging up his cap and coat on one of a number of wooden pegs driven into the long wall. He turned quickly.
"Reason something out of what?" he said.
"Your instructions from Churchill," replied MacDougall, picking up a big, black-bowled pipe from the table.
Philip sat down with a restful sigh, crossed his legs, loaded his pipe, and lighted it.
"Thought I made myself lucid enough, even for a Scotchman, Sandy," he said. "I learned at Churchill that the big fight is going to be pulled off mighty soon. It's about time for the fireworks. So I told you to put the sub-camps in fighting shape, and arm every responsible man in this camp. There's going to be a whole lot of gun-work before you're many days older. Great Scott, man, don't you understand NOW? What's the matter?"
MacDougall was staring at him as if struck dumb.
"You told me—to arm—the camps?" he gasped.
"Yes, I sent you full instructions two weeks ago."
"MacDougall tapped his forehead suspiciously with a stubby forefinger.