While the soldiers—who appeared to entertain no doubt and to have no hesitancy whatever about obeying Thorne’s orders, the latter evidently the military man of the two and his voice and bearing, to say nothing of his uniform, telling heavily against a civilian like Arrelsford—were taking the revolver out of his hands, Thorne once more turned to the telegraph table. His blood was up and he would send the despatch now before the whole assemblage, before the Confederate Government or its Army, if necessary.
Arrelsford burst out in a last vain attempt to stop him:
“Listen to me, Sergeant,” he pleaded desperately, “he is going to send out a false telegram and——”
“That’ll do,” gruffly said the Sergeant of the Guard, shaking his fist in Arrelsford’s face, “what is it all about, Captain!”
“All about? I haven’t the slightest idea. He says he comes from some office or other. I was sending off some important official despatches here and he began by letting off his gun at me. Crazy lunatic, I think.”
“It’s a lie!” said Arrelsford furiously. “Let me speak—I will—prove——”
“Here!” said the Sergeant of the Guard, “that’ll do now. What shall I do with him, Captain?”
“I don’t care a damn what you do with him. Get him out of here, that’s all I want.”
“Very well, sir. Are you much hurt?”
“Oh, no. He did up one hand, but I can get along with the other all right,” said Thorne, sitting down at the table and seizing the key.