The corporal in charge, uttering one wild yell, bounced out of bed and glanced, bewildered, round the room. The men sat up in turn, making a thousand blasphemous comments. Was it fire or had another revolt broken out? The Marquis sent a shot between the corporal's agitated legs and accelerated his fire. That was enough. The corporal went to ground under his cot and the men followed his example.
Followed a moment's silence, painful after the uproar of the firing. Some of the men, putting forth venturesome heads, spotted the well-known figure, squatting on his bed like a pirate on a sea-chest, a smoking revolver in each hand, a devilishly happy smile on his handsome face.
"It's the Marquis, fellows!"
"You bet it is!" the Marquis grinned, showing his white teeth, "I'm in command of this-hic- outfit! Take cover!"
Once more the storm of bullets roared. Every head vanished as if shot back by a common string.
"Haven't any of you got a gun?" the corporal asked plaintively.
"Not me, corp. Not me," ran through the room.
"No, sir. I've got 'em all, Corporal!" laughed the Marquis, emphasizing his remark with a shot that gouged the floor near the N.C.O.'s bed.
This was a pretty situation. They were at the mercy of a drunken lunatic.
The Marquis began the National Anthem, firing a shot in the direction of a cot with each note. His own bed was in a corner, where it could not be assailed, commanded every window and faced the door. His strategical position was perfect.