"Do him like Soggy did!" Before them was a jostle of blue backs. Across these, on the farther side of the plank bar, they saw Matthews, facing the crowd. His left hand held the cigar-box against his chest, his right was up and empty.
"Hold on, boys!" It was Lounsbury.
As if he had caught a cue, the foremost trooper—he who had been the disturbing element—repeated the cry, and directed the eyes of his comrades to the door.
There was a sudden lull. The men in blue wavered. Here and there, a revolver was covertly returned to place.
Lounsbury pushed forward to the stove, Fraser beside him. "Hold on, boys," he said again, and pointed at Matthews; "hold on—I've got a message for that man."
The lull became a dead silence. To the troopers, the sight of shoulder-straps was discomfiting. For the officer at once became the personification of the guard-room, chilly, poorly bedded, and worse provisioned, of all places the one to be dreaded in raw weather. To Matthews, the interruption was welcome. His right hand slowly lowered to join its mate.
"I'm going to ask you to call your little differences with that gentleman off," continued Lounsbury.
Matthews fairly blinked. The storekeeper's voice was soft, confidential, ingratiating.
"Mr. Fraser and I have come to say that Mr. Matthews is wanted to serve as interpreter for Colonel Cummings."
"Interpreter?" queried Matthews.