Flitch stared at the carpet, crushing his cloth cap in his hand, and uttered the most unexpected reply that had ever entered Bullard's ears.
"No, mister."
An appreciable time passed before Bullard's gape became modified to a grin. "I see! You want me to keep it till you sail. Wise man! But upon my word, you took me aback—refusing money!—you! When do you want it, then? You had better tell me where to send it, as next week I may—"
Flitch, having moistened his lips, interrupted quietly with—
"I don't want yer money, mister,—now or ever."
"What the devil do you mean?"
"I've joined the army."
Bullard burst out laughing. "Was the sergeant sober?"
Flitch made an attempt, not very successful, to draw himself up and face the scoffer. "The Salvation Army, I was meanin'," he mumbled.
Bullard stopped laughing. Flitch spoke again awkwardly and in jerks.
"That night up yonder about finished me. I've turned over a new leaf. The
Captain said it wasn't too late, if—if I repented of all my many sins."