If Marcy and Bowen had fired at the man it would have been with the intention of missing him, but not so with the Home Guard on the left, who would have drawn a fine bead in the hope of winning a thirty days’ furlough. The latter was fighting mad. He shook his fist at Marcy and shouted in stentorian tones:
“Corporal of the guard, number ’leven!”
“By gracious!” gasped Marcy. “He’s going to report it.”
He glanced toward Bowen’s box, and knew by the way his friend shook his head at him that there was trouble in store for somebody; but how could he be blamed more than anyone else? than the Home Guard, for instance, who had as fair a chance to shoot as any blood-thirsty rebel could ask for? The corporal came promptly and went into the Home Guard’s box, and Marcy could see the angry man pointing out the position of the cup and flourishing his clenched hand in the air to give emphasis to something he was saying. After the corporal had heard his story he descended the ladder and came into Marcy’s box.
“Sentry, what were you put here for, anyway?” were the first words he spoke. “Why didn’t you shoot that man?”
“There were two reasons why I didn’t do it,” answered Marcy. “My orders are to shoot if I see a prisoner trying to get over or under the dead-line, but that man didn’t try to get over or under, for the cup wasn’t inside. It was under that strip of board.”
“No matter. It was at the dead-line, and it was your business to pop him over,” said the corporal. “I am afraid the old man will give you a taste of military discipline when you come off post.”
“Why should he? I haven’t disobeyed any order. And the other reason why I didn’t shoot was because I didn’t have time. That Yank was as swift as a bird on the wing, and before you could wink twice he was back among his friends, and I couldn’t see him.”
“Then why didn’t you shoot into the crowd?” demanded the corporal.
“And kill or wound somebody who hadn’t done a thing?” exclaimed Marcy.