"A'right, Sergeant, a'right!" Randall shrank back in alarm. "But it's an awful waste o' good Scotch!"
He drove off lamenting.
Hector's mistake had been in securing only one witness to the destruction of the whiskey. He was to pay for it later.
IV
Soon after this, Hector noticed a distinct falling off of the respectful regard held for him by the officers, the men, the civilians. They did not force the change upon him but they hinted at it in a thousand ways.
At a loss for an explanation, he did the wisest thing possible—ignored the change and went on his way in silence.
One day came light, when Inspector Denton summoned him and revealed the truth in a private interview.
"You sent for me, sir?" said Hector, entering the Inspector's sitting-room and saluting smartly.
Inspector Denton was a big man, much inclined to fatness. He had a ruddy face eloquent of good living, a drooping, luxuriant moustache, and an eye-glass which he hardly ever used. Ignorant recruits, judging by appearances, took him for a brainless martinet. As a matter of fact, the strength of a lion, the heart of a Viking and the endurance of a grizzly were hidden beneath his deceptive exterior and when action demanded those who doubted it were rapidly disillusioned.
The Inspector, as Hector entered, was seated by the stove, his tunic open, his feet in gaudy carpet slippers.