"I'm not going to argue with you and I'm not going to have traitors in my command. If you remain in my battalion from this point on, it's because I permit you to do it. I can have you transferred or bob-tailed. I don't want to do either. You have made a good soldier. I don't want to ruin you for a personal reason."
"Do ye reckon," the private's voice broke out like an explosion, "thet ye kin buy me off with fair talk thet-a-way? Ye couldn't do hit ef ye made me a major-general."
Falkins smiled grimly.
"Why should I buy you off?" he inquired. "Do you imagine I am afraid of you?"
He rose abruptly from the cot, and, as his enemy stood twitching frenziedly in every feature and muscle, unbuckled his belt and tossed it with its saber and revolver to the table half-way between them.
"There," curtly announced the commissioned officer, "you are as close to that gun as I am. Why don't you pick it up?"
With a snarl like an unleashed wild-cat and a swift noiseless movement, Private Newt Spooner leaped forward. His eyes were still burning into the face of his superior and his right hand crept out slowly until its fingers had caressingly touched and closed around the grip of the service pistol.
Then, in a forward-leaning and strained attitude, he paused and stood statuesquely holding the pose.
Falkins had put his arms at his back and stepped forward until the two were directly across the table, then the officer suggested quietly,
"You'd better hurry. We'll be interrupted."