“I don’t,” said Gray, glad enough to escape the other question. “And you hate card parties, you know you do. It’s a go, is it? I’ll see Gordon at once.” And off he went, leaving Brooke to wonder why he should be so bent on the arrangement.
But Gordon proved an unexpected foe to the plan. “Can’t be done, Billy,” said he, sententiously. “Canker watches those details like a hawk. He hasn’t forgotten you only came off two days ago, and if I were to mount you to-night he’d mount me—with both feet.”
“Think there’s any use in asking him?” queried the boy, tossing a backward glance toward Canker’s tent. “Not unless you’re suffering for another snub. That man loves to say ‘no’ as much as any girl I ever asked, and he doesn’t do it to be coaxed, either. Best leave it alone, Billy.”
And then the unexpected happened. Into the tent with quick, impetuous step, came the commanding officer himself, and something had occurred to stir that gentleman to the core. His eyes were snapping, and his head was high.
“Mr. Gordon,” said he, “here’s more of this pilfering business, and now they’re beginning to find out it isn’t all in my camp by a damned sight. I want that letter copied at once.” Then with a glance at Gray, who had whipped off his cap and was standing in respectful attitude, he changed his tone from the querulous, half-treble of complaint. “What’s this you’d best leave alone?” he suddenly demanded. “There are a dozen things you’d best leave alone and a dozen you would do well to cultivate and study. When I was—however, I never was a lieutenant except in war-time, when they amounted to something. I got my professional knowledge in front of the enemy—not at any damned charity school. You’re here to ask some new indulgence, I suppose. Want to stay in town over night and fritter away your money and the time the government pays for. No, sir; you can’t have my consent. You will be back in camp at twelve o’clock, and stop and report your return to the officer-of-the-guard, so that I may know the hour you come in. Who’s officer-of-the-guard to-night, Mr. Gordon?”
“Mr. Brooke, sir.”
“Mr. Brooke! Why, I thought I told you he was to take those prisoners in town to-morrow. He has to testify before that court in the case of Sergeant Kelly and it saves my sending another officer and having two of our lieutenants away from drill and hanging around the Bohemian Club. Detail somebody else!”
“All right, sir,” answered Gordon imperturbably. “Make any odds, sir, who is detailed?”
Canker had turned to his desk and was tossing over the papers with nervous hand. Gray impulsively stepped forward, his eyes kindling with hope. It was on the tip of his tongue to launch into a proffer of his own services for the detail, but Gordon hastily warned him back with a sweep of the hand and a portentous scowl.
“No. One’s as bad as the other. Next thing I know some of ’em will be letting prisoners escape right under my nose, making us the laughing stock of these damned militia volunteers.” (Canker entered service in ’61 as a private in a city company that was militia to the tip of its spike-tailed coats, but he had forgotten it.) “I want these young idlers to understand distinctly, by George, that the first prisoner that gets away from this post takes somebody’s commission with him. D’you hear that, Mr. Gray?” And Canker turned and glared at the bright blue eyes as though he would like to blast their clear fires with the breath of his disapprobation. “Has that young fellow, Morton, been put in irons yet?” he suddenly asked, whirling on Gordon again.