“We've lots of grub, and we expect to be home by tomorrow night anyway, if things go all right. You are very welcome.”
The man laid down his frying-pan and tea-pail, and walked with Duff toward his camp.
“Are you goin'?” he enquired.
“Going?”
“To the war. Guess some of our Canadian boys will be goin' likely, eh?”
“Going,” cried Duff. “You bet your life I'm going. But, come on. We'll talk as we eat. And we can't stay long, either.”
Duff introduced the party.
“My name's McCuaig,” said the stranger.
“Scotch, I guess?” enquired Duff.
“My father came out with The Company. I was born up north. Never been much out, but I read the papers,” he added quickly, as if to correct any misapprehension as to his knowledge of the world and its affairs. “My father always got the Times and the Spectator, and I've continued the habit.”