The room was thick with smoke, and redolent of fumes of wine. Mechanically I led the chorus, straining every nerve to hear a sound from outside. I was growing dizzy with the movement, and, overwrought with the strain on my nerves. I knew a few minutes more would be the limit of endurance, when at last I heard a loud shout and tumult of voices.
“What’s that?” exclaimed the major, in thick tones, pausing as he spoke.
I dropped his hand, and, seizing my revolver, said:
“Some drunken row in barracks, major. Let ‘em alone.”
“I must go,” he said. “Character—Aureataland—army—at stake.”
“Set a thief to catch a thief, eh, major?” said I. — “What do you mean, sir?” he stuttered. “Let me go.”
“If you move, I shoot, major,” said I, bringing out my weapon.
I never saw greater astonishment on human countenance. He swore loudly, and then cried:
“Hi, stop him—he’s mad—he’s going to shoot!”
A shout of laughter rose from the crew around us, for they felt exquisite appreciation of my supposed joke.