It took McCuaig some days to discover that in these frequent fatigues
and special duties, he was undergoing punishment, but once made, the
discovery wrought in him a cold and silent rage, which drove him to
an undue and quite unwonted devotion to the canteen, which in turn
transformed the reserved, self-controlled man of the wilds into a
demonstrative, disorderly and quarrelsome "rookie" aching for trouble.
Under these circumstances, an outburst was inevitable. Corporal Ferry,
in charge of the canteen, furnished the occasion.
"No more for you, McCuaig. You've got more aboard now than you can
carry."
To the injury of being denied another beer was added the insult
of suggesting his inability to carry what he had. This to a man of
McCuaig's experience in every bar and camp and roadhouse from Edmonton
to the Arctic circle, was not to be endured.
He leaned over the improvised bar, until his face almost touched the
corporal's.
"What?" he ejaculated, but in the single expletive there darted out
such concentrated fury, that the little corporal sprang back as from a
striking snake.
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