Coyle had deteriorated steadily as the weeks passed. He was a thorn in the flesh to Gordon, Hamlin and Clark, for his frequent failures in class brought down the record, in spite of the good work of the majority. Coyle rejoiced that this was so. In no other way could he have so effectually annoyed and tormented these three, whom he hated more and more as he saw how their influence was growing in the school. They had even succeeded in arousing a feeble ambition in Barber, and consequently, Barber was “no fun at all,” these days. He insisted on pegging away at his lessons, and wouldn’t, half the time, help Coyle “make things a bit lively in class.” In short, Coyle considered himself decidedly aggrieved because the boys of section D were working for honors, or for solid acquirements, this year, instead of wasting their time in foolish tricks, or idling the hours away without accomplishing anything. True, there were still in Company C a few jolly chaps who went in for good times, but most of the fellows had taken up with that fol-de-rol about self-government, and wouldn’t so much as wink or “crack a smile” in drill, nor answer back, no matter what ridiculous order an officer might give them. All this was contrary to Coyle’s ideas, and he came to the conclusion at last that he would let them all see that he, for one, had a little spirit and independence, and didn’t choose to be ordered about by any of them. Wasn’t he battalion quartermaster, ranking as high as any of the captains? Long he pondered and planned, but he could not hit upon any way of asserting his independence and humiliating his brother officers at the same time.
He not only neglected his studies and fell steadily behind the class, but he attended so poorly to his duties as quartermaster that Gordon was finally obliged to speak to him on the subject, and though he took pains to speak privately, and in the most courteous way possible, Coyle was very angry, and answered so insolently that Gordon had hard work to control his temper.
A few days after this, the quartermaster’s accounts were sent to Gordon for approval, and finding several errors in them, he sent them back for correction. Without stopping to look over the accounts, Coyle went directly to Gordon and angrily accused him of picking flaws in the accounts on purpose to bring him—Coyle—into disgrace.
“The accounts are right to a penny, and you know it,” he shouted furiously. “You’ve been trying to find something against me all this year, and now you’ve hatched this up. If there is any error in the books you’ve changed the figures yourself, that’s all.”
Gordon turned fairly white in the strong effort he made to control himself, while Hamlin started to his feet with an indignant exclamation, and another officer who was standing by clenched his fists and took a step forward, looking as if he longed to knock the impudent fellow down.
There was a moment of silence, then Gordon turned to his adjutant, and said very quietly, “You will consider Mr. Coyle under arrest.”
“I’d like to see you try to arrest me,” blustered Coyle, who had lost all control of himself by this time. As he spoke, Prof. Keene entered the room.
“What is that, Coyle?” he said, sharply, “please repeat what you said.”
Coyle shrank a little before the professor’s stern eyes, but he repeated still angrily, “I said that I’d like to see Gordon arrest me. He’s finding fault with me about—”
“Silence, sir,” interrupted the professor; “if Major Gordon has ordered you under arrest, he must have had good reasons for so doing, and your case will be tried by court-martial.” And without another word, the professor left the room.