“Look here, you do it or it'll be the worse for you,” shouted the sergeant in his deep rasping voice.
“If ever Ah gits out o' the army Ah'm goin' to shoot you. You've picked on me enough.” Chrisfield spoke slowly, as coolly as Anderson.
“Well, we'll see what a court-martial has to say to that.”
“Ah doan give a hoot in hell what ye do.”
Sergeant Anderson turned on his heel and went out, twisting the corner button of his tunic in his big fingers. Already the sound of tramping feet was heard and the shouted order, “Dis-missed.” Then men crowded into the shack, laughing and talking. Chrisfield sat still on the end of the bunk, looking at the bright oblong of the door. Outside he saw Anderson talking to Sergeant Higgins. They shook hands, and Anderson disappeared. Chrisfield heard Sergeant Higgins call after him.
“I guess the next time I see you I'll have to put my heels together an' salute.”
Andersen's booming laugh faded as he walked away.
Sergeant Higgins came into the shack and walked straight up to Chrisfield, saying in a hard official voice:
“You're under arrest.... Small, guard this man; get your gun and cartridge belt. I'll relieve you so you can get mess.”
He went out. Everyone's eyes were turned curiously on Chrisfield. Small, a red-faced man with a long nose that hung down over his upper lip, shuffled sheepishly over to his place beside Chrisfield's cot and let the butt of his rifle come down with a bang on the floor. Somebody laughed. Andrews walked up to them, a look of trouble in his blue eyes and in the lines of his lean tanned cheeks.