"What-in-hell's-th'-matter?" he angrily demanded, glaring around him, a pistol upraised in one hand, the other gripping a seasoned piece of ash. "Answer-me-I-say-what-in-hell's-th'-matter-down-here?"
"There was a fight," carefully explained the weary officer.
"Hell's-bells-I-thought-it-was-a-prayer-meetin'!" yelped the captain. "Who-was-fightin'?"
"They was," answered the officer, waving both hands in all directions.
"What-about?"
The officer looked blank and scratched his head, carefully avoiding the twin knobs rising over one ear. "Damned if I know, sir!"
"Were you fightin', Flynn?" demanded the captain aggressively and with raging suspicion. "Come, up with it, were you?"
"No, sir; I was a-stoppin' it."
"My G-d! Then don't you never dare start one!" snapped the captain, staring around. "You look like the British at N'Orleans," he told the line-up. "What was it all about? Hell's bells! It must 'a' had a beginning!"
"Yessir," replied the officer. "It sorta begun all at once, right after th' explosion."