Chapter 6 - Page 2

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.

"We ought to reach the railroad by six to-morrow," said Duff, renewing the conversation, and anxious to appease his comrade. "There's a late train, but if we catch the six we shall make home in good time. Hello, what's this coming?"

At his words they all turned and looked in the direction in which he pointed.

Down a stream, which at this point came tumbling into theirs in a dangerous looking rapid, came a canoe with a man in the centre guiding it as only an expert could.

"By Jove! He can't make that drop," said Knight, walking down toward the landing.

They all stood watching the canoe which, at the moment, hung poised upon the brink of the rapid like a bird for flight. Even as Knight spoke the canoe entered the first smooth pitch at the top. Two long, swallow-like sweeps, then she plunged into the foam, to appear a moment later fighting her way through the mass of crowding, crested waves, which, like white-fanged wolves upon a doe, seemed to be hurling themselves upon her, intent upon bearing her down to destruction.

"By the living, jumping Jemima!" said Fielding, in an awe-stricken tone, "she's gone!"

"She's through!" cried Knight.

"Great Jehoshaphat!" said Fielding. "He's a bird!"

With a flip or two of his paddle, the stranger shot his canoe across the stream, and floated quietly to the landing.

Barry ran down to meet him.

"I say, that was beautifully done," he cried, taking the nose of the canoe while the man stepped ashore and stood a moment looking back at the water.

"A leetle more to the left would have been better, I think. She took some water," he remarked in a slow voice, as if to himself.

He was a strange-looking creature. He might have stepped out of one of Fenimore Cooper's novels. Indeed, as Barry's eyes travelled up and down his long, bony, stooping, slouching figure, his