"Pay me, you swindling old rogue!" shouted Mariquita, in a shrill voice. "I won't go till I get my rights."
"You won't!" cried Joe, as he seized her roughly by the collar and dragged her towards the door.
"Villain! Thief! Murder! Help, help! He is killing me!" cried Mariquita, now at the top of her voice, and this frenzied appeal had the exact effect she hoped. A crowd of camp-followers quickly gathered around the door of the shanty, and with it came a couple of stalwart assistants of the provost-marshal.
"What's all this?" asked one of them, in a peremptory tone. "Leave that lad alone, you old rascal!"
"What's he doing to you?" asked the other.
"He won't pay me my wages," said Mariquita, in a whining, piteous voice. "He owes me three shillings."
"I don't, you lying little ragamuffin! I only took you on trial."
"He does; and he was beating me, ill-using me," went on Mariquita.
"We can't have no disturbance here," said one of the provost-marshal's men. "You must come before the provost, both of you; he'll settle your case in a brace of shakes. Bill, you bring the old man; I'll take charge of the youngster."
And the two guardians of order marched their prisoners through the hut-town to a wooden building at the end, where Major Shervinton dealt out a simple, rough-and-ready justice to the turbulent characters he ruled.