“Here’s who I made you wait for, boys!” he cried. “You didn’t know—eh?”
The two men in the room sprang to salute, surprise and unmistakable pleasure in their faces.
Stacey felt a sudden touch of gratitude, that was like the warm trickle of a brook into an ice-bound lake. Yet he said little enough to the men in the way of greeting—only a word or two, and shook their hands. Then he plunged at once into business.
“Mills,” he said, “can you and Jackson corral all the men of your company and of D Company too, and get them around here to see me, without obligation to anything—say at noon sharp—that all right, Lieutenant?” Traile nodded.
“Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.
“All right. Let’s make out a list, Lieutenant.”
“Now what’s to do?” Traile remarked impatiently when the men had departed. He was walking nervously about the room.
“Do?” said Stacey. “Nothing,—unless you can give me a drink.”
“You bet I can!” the other cried boyishly, and pushed a bell in the wall. “Leagues and leagues of wine-cellar. Family away in Maine. Whole house to myself. Great! Come in, Blake. Scotch, please,—V.O.P.—and glasses and ice and all that sort of thing.” He flung himself down in a chair. “Funny! Ever since I got back I feel as though I had to be doing something all the time, and yet there isn’t a damned thing I really want to do. You feel that way at all, Captain?”
“Yes,” said Stacey, smoking moodily. “Now let’s see,” he added in a different tone. “Where do we stand? What’s the state of affairs in town?”