"Into a firing squad? Don't be silly, lieutenant. I presume you won't slug me while I check the engine?"
The jaygee was looking around him. "My God, no," he said. "You may be a gangster, but—" He trailed off.
Orsino stiffened. Gangster was semi-dirty talk. "Listen, pirate," he said nastily, "I don't believe—"
"Pirate?" the jaygee roared indignantly, and then shut his mouth with a click, looking apprehensively about. The gesture wasn't faked; it alarmed Orsino.
"Tell me about your wildmen," he said.
"Go to hell," the jaygee said sulkily.
"Look, you called me a gangster first. What about these natives? You were trying to trick me, weren't you?"
"Kiss my royal North American eyeball, gangster."
"Don't be childish," Charles reproved him, feeling adult and superior. (The jaygee looked a couple of years younger than he.) He climbed out of his seat and lifted the hood. The damage was trivial; a shear pin in the transmission had given way. He reported mournfully: "Cracked block. The jeep's through forever. You can get on your way, lieutenant. I won't try to hold you."
The jaygee fumed: "You couldn't hold me if you wanted to, gangster. If you think I'm going to try and hoof back to the base alone in the dark, you're crazy. We're sticking together. Two of us may be able to hold them off for the night. In the morning, we'll see."