Sir Galahad's face flushed crimson. He caught his little friend up in his arms and held him close to his burning cheek. "Hush, Jimmy boy. He meant nothing, and soldiers never repeat such nonsense. Run to sister Ada and help her get everything ready for papa's coming. Think, Jimmy, he'll be here by tattoo." And with a parting hug he set the youngster down at his doorstep and started him on his way. Then, courteously raising his cap to the gathering on the nearest porch, and noting, as did they, that Mrs. Winn had disappeared within her hall, Barclay quickly entered his own portal, and nabbed Brayton as he was making a palpable "sneak" for the rear door. The youngster found escape impossible. Will he, nill he, the boy told the story as it had been told to him, Barclay standing looking straight into his eyes, as though reading his very soul, yet never saying a word beyond the original, "You heard what Jimmy said. It is another instance of 'out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,' Brayton. Now, tell me exactly what you know."
It was a warm May evening. A hot south-wester had been blowing from the broad valley of the Rio Bravo, and the few men in the club-room at nine o'clock were demanding cooling drinks. Bralligan was there, looking somewhat solemn and sheepish. He knew that nothing but the presence of senior officers had prevented a serious fracas as the result of his asinine bray that morning, but, now that Winn was out of the way and the matter in the hands of his captain, he had no dread of the thrashing he deserved, and was disposed to an exhibition of bravado. A drink or two added to his truculence, as well as to his desire to resume the game interrupted that morning. There were always in those days a few reliable gamblers at the big frontier posts, and presently Bralligan, in his shirt-sleeves, was contemplating a sizable pile of chips and bantering a burly captain to "see his raise," when suddenly he became aware of a distracted look in the eyes of the group about the table, and, glancing towards the door, his own blood-shot orbs lighted upon the trim figure of Captain Barclay, standing calmly surveying the party,—Barclay, who never smoked, drank, or played cards, and who was reported to have started a movement for prayer-meetings among the enlisted men. His very presence in that atmosphere was ominous, especially as the gaze of his usually soft brown eyes was fixed on Bralligan. One or two men said, "Good-evening, captain," in an embarrassed way, but the Irish subaltern only stared, the half-grin on his freckled face giving place to an uneasy leer. On a bench to the left of the entrance stood a huge water-cooler, with gourds and glasses by its side. Underneath the spigot was a big wooden pail, two-thirds full of drippings and rinsings. Without a word, the new-comer stepped quietly within the room, picked up the bucket, and, striding straight to the table before Bralligan could spring to his feet, deftly inverted the vessel over the Irishman's astonished head, deluging him with discarded water and smashing the rim well down on his unprotected shoulders. An instant more, and Bralligan sent the bucket whirling at his assailant's head, which it missed by a yard, then, all dripping as he was, followed it in a furious charge. Sir Galahad "side-clipped" with the ease and nonchalance of long but unsuspected practice, and let fly a white fist which found lodgement with stunning crash straight under the Irishman's ear, felling him like an ox.
CHAPTER VIII.
And so Ned Lawrence got back to Worth to find it far livelier than when he left it. The stage with its joyous escort had come trundling in just before tattoo, and first and foremost the returning wanderer was driven to his own doorway and left for half an hour with Ada and Jimmy—the one sobbing with joy, the other laughing with delight—on the father's knees. Then Mrs. Blythe stole in to bid them to the waiting supper, and, pending Lawrence's reappearance somewhere along the line, the officers gathered in low-voiced groups discussing the startling event of the evening. Bralligan, raging for the blood of the double-dashed, triple-adjectived hound who had assaulted him, had been lugged home by two or three of his kind, consoled by Captain Mullane with the assurance that he'd see that the preacher gave him full satisfaction in the morning, for, with native love of a ruction, Mullane stood ready to bear the subaltern's challenge, even though his better nature told him the ducking was richly deserved: with Irish honor in question, Mullane was for fight. Frazier and Brooks, of course, said the seniors present, must not be allowed official knowledge of what had taken place, though in those benighted days of magnificent distances from the centre of civilization and the exploring grounds of reporters of the press, many a stirring row was settled without its ever being heard of beyond the limits of the garrison in which it occurred. Captain Barclay, contenting himself with the one blow, despite an unchristian impulse to follow it up with a kick at the sprawling figure, had stood calmly by when Bralligan's associates lifted him, half stunned, to his feet, then, addressing himself to Mullane, with just the least tremor in his voice and twitching to his muscles, remarked, "Of course you know what led to this, sir. If your lieutenant desires to follow it up, you can find me at my quarters." Then, looking very deliberately around upon the little circle of flushed or pallid faces,—there were only five officers present,—he slowly turned, walked away, and shut himself in his room.
A light was still burning there when Brayton tiptoed in at half-past ten. He, with several other cavalrymen, had been sitting in the major's parlor, listening to Lawrence's tale of His experiences in Washington. Winn had rejoined the party late, and one glance at his face was enough to tell Brayton that somewhere he had heard of the fracas at the club-room. Brayton's boyish heart was bubbling over with pride and delight in this new and unlooked-for side to his captain. Every day of his service with that officer only served to strengthen the regard and admiration Brayton felt for him. Barclay had made no pretence of being a cavalryman on the strength of his assignment to that arm. He started with the assertion that he had everything to learn, and then surprised his subaltern by an extensive knowledge of what we then called "the tactics." He was certainly not as much at home in saddle as on foot, and did not pretend to be, but he was by no means a poor or ungraceful rider. He had a light, gentle hand, at least,—a thing much harder for most men to acquire than a good seat. He was very cool, just, and level-headed with the members of the troop, not a few of whom thought to "run it" on the "doughboy" captain; but all such projects had flattened out within the fortnight after his coming. Barclay might not know horses, but he did know men, and the first sergeant was the first to find it out,—the new captain calmly and almost confidentially pointing out to him, after ten days of apparently casual glancings over the mess-room and kitchen, that the men were not getting their proper allowance of coffee, and that the savings made on the rations did not all go where they belonged.
"Boy an' man, sorr," began Sergeant Sullivan, oratorically and with fine indignation, "I've sarved in the dragoons or cavalry the best fifteen years of me life, and this is the furrst time me honor's been called into account. I shall tindher me resignation at wanst."
"I have had its acceptance in contemplation for some days, sergeant," was the calm response. "But first we'll overhaul the accounts."