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"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."
"Any one who reads the Times and the Spectator," said Barry, "can claim
to be a fairly well-read man. My father takes the Spectator, too."
As they sat down to supper, he noticed that McCuaig took off his old
grey felt and crossed himself before beginning toast.
As a matter of courtesy, Barry had always been asked to say grace before
meals while with the Howland party.


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