Max, directly, recovered consciousness, and raised his head and dazedly looked about him. Finding that his head was pillowed in Billy’s lap, Max struggled to free himself from the sheltering embrace of the arm that put him down and out.
Recovering speech, the way he expressed his chagrin and humiliation was enough to make the air blue.
Jacob told him that he ought to be satisfied now, and Billy offered truce by extended hand. Max, however, was far from the mood that finds any consolation in defeat.
“Here comes the lieutenant,” announced Henri; “we’d better skip, Billy, and patch up that face of yours before we are put on the question rack.”
All the boys scattered in pairs, or several more together, except Max, and he walked alone, brooding, sullen, and implacable.
Billy had been washed clean of blood and holding a washer-plate of cold steel against the bump on his forehead, when Jacob came into the hangar with the information that the lieutenant had been calling for his pair of late recruits, and wanted them forthwith.
“He’s heard about the fight,” was Henri’s first surmise.
“Do I look like a pug?” Billy inquired, lifting the plate from the bruised spot.
“You will likely go into training on bread and water,” gloomily predicted Henri.
“Oh, quit croaking,” advised Billy. “Come ahead, and we’ll take the medicine, whatever it is.”