The man who had stopped him was not, sometimes, much afraid of revolvers. But he had seen something in the glint of Private Overton's eyes which had made him realize that the young soldier would not tolerate any nonsense whatever.
As Hal stepped inside the place his gaze swept around through the fog of the smoke-laden atmosphere.
It was a saloon of the worst description, as was amply testified by the appearance of the rough-looking customers there.
Overton was the only man in sight who wore the United States uniform.
However, the soldier boy walked down the length of the room, for it was within the range of possibilities that a soldier starting in on a carouse might first exchange his uniform for a suit of civilian clothing.
Not a face in the assemblage was that of a B Company man.
"The sneak!" Hal heard a voice say, and knew that the epithet was applied to himself. But he paid no heed.
"Club him," advised another.
"No wonder soldiers desert," growled still another sodden fellow, "when they send anything like that, with a gun, after another soldier that's out for a good time."
To not one man in the place did the clean-cut face, the evident manliness and fine soldierliness of Private Overton appeal. Hal was not of their kind, and these creatures could not appreciate the higher kind of manhood in this young soldier.