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 mind leaped at once to
the Pathfinder.

"Come far?" asked Duff, approaching the stranger.

"Quite a bit," he answered, in a quiet, courteous voice, pausing a
moment in his work.

"Going out?" enquired Duff.

"Not yet," he said. "Going up the country first to The Post."

"Ah, we have just come down from there," said Duff. "We started
yesterday morning," he added, evidently hoping to surprise the man.

"Yes," he answered in a quiet tone of approval. "Nice little run! Nice
little run! Bit of a hurry, I guess," he ventured apologetically.

"You bet your life, we just are. This damned war makes a man feel like
as if the devil was after him," said Duff.

"War!" The man looked blankly at him. "Who's fightin'?"

"Why, haven't you heard? It's been going on for a month. We heard only
three days ago as we were going further up the country. It knocked our
plans endways, and here we are chasing ourselves to get out."

"War!" said the man again. "Who's fightin'? Uncle Sam after them
Mexicans?"

"No. Mexicans, hell!" exclaimed Duff. "Germany and Britain."

"Britain!" The slouching shoulders lost their droop. "Britain!" he said,
straightening himself up. "What's she been doin' to Germany?"

"What's Germany been doing to her, and to Belgium, and to Servia, and
to France?" answered Duff, in a wrathful voice. "She's been raising hell
all around. You haven't seen the papers, eh? I have them all here."

The stranger seemed dazed by the news. He made no reply, but getting out
his frying-pan and tea-pail, his only utensils, he set about preparing
his evening meal.

"I say," said Duff, "won't you eat with us? We're just about ready.
We'll be glad to have you."

The man hesitated a perceptible moment. In the wilds men do not always
accept invitations to eat. Food is sometimes worth more than its weight
in gold.

"I guess I will, if you've lots of stuff," he said at length.

"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