“Come on, boys,” he yelled. “We're going through to-night.”
“Oh, hold up, Knight!” said Duff. “What the hell's eating you? We'll grub first anyway.”
“No,” said Knight. “The next rapid is a bad bit of water, and if we're going through to-night, I want that bit behind me, before it gets too dark. So come along!”
“Oh, cut it out, Knight,” said Duff, in a gruff but conciliatory tone. “We'll camp right here.”
“It's all the same to me,” said Knight, flinging his pack down. “When you want to go on, say the word. You won't have to ask me twice.”
Duff looked over the six feet of bone and sinew and muscle of the young rancher, made as if to answer, paused a moment, changed his mind, and said more quietly:
“Don't be an ass, Knight. I'm not trying to hang your shirt on a tree.”
“You know damned well you can't,” said Knight, who was still white with passion.
“Oh, come off,” replied Duff. “Anyway, I don't see what young Dunbar is to you. We must get through to-morrow night. The overseas contingent is camping at Valcartier, according to these papers and whatever happens I am going with that contingent.”
Knight made no reply. He was a little ashamed of his temper. But during the past two days he had chafed under the rasp of Duff's tongue and his overbearing manner. He resented too his total disregard of Barry's weariness, for in spite of his sheer grit, the pace was wearing the boy down.