Despite his stentorian commands, the fight went on. Clad only in his undergarments, his long fair hair wildly tousled, eyes two blue flames, blood trickling from his nose, Ignace was a sight to be remembered, as he launched a powerful blow at Bixton, his hated antagonist. Bixton looked even worse. The coat of his pajamas hung on him in shreds. His left eye was closed, and his nose was bleeding also. His face was a livid, infuriate mask against which the freckles stood out darkly.
The sergeant now took a hand in the fight. Leaping behind Ignace he wrapped both arms about the Pole’s body, and, exerting all his strength, jerked the belligerent violently backward. Beginning dimly to realize what was happening to him, Ignace retained just enough common sense not to resist, but allowed himself to be flung unceremoniously down on his cot.
“This is a nice state of affairs,” lashed out the sergeant, glaring down at Ignace, who had now raised himself to a sitting posture. “Now you stay where you’re put. Don’t you dare move an inch off that cot.” With this he whirled and bore down upon Bixton, who had been dragged to his own cot by another non-com.
“You’re a nice-looking specimen,” he blared forth at Bixton. “Get those rags off you quick, and go and wash your face. Move lively. Go with him, Quinn,” he directed, turning to the corporal, who stood at his elbow. “He’s not to be trusted. Get him back here on the jump, and don’t let him open his head. The nerve of two rowdies like that setting the squad room in an uproar at this time of night! Not another sound from you, you ruffian,” he warned Bixton. “You’ll get yours to-morrow.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” began Bixton hotly. “I started to get a drink of water and——”
“Hold your tongue!” roared the sergeant. “See to him, Quinn.” Turning on his heel the sergeant took the center of the floor, and issued a succession of sharp commands that sent the men to their bunks, and brought order and quiet out of the humming confusion. Finally satisfied with the result, he next took Ignace in tow and marched him off for repairs, sternly refusing to allow him to offer a word of explanation. “You can say what you’ve got to say at headquarters to-morrow,” was his grim ultimatum.
When at five minutes to twelve Roger, Jimmy and Bob stole quietly into the squad room, it was apparently wrapped in its usual midnight silence. Nor were any of the three aware of the many pairs of bright eyes that marked their entrance and followed them to their cots.
“Are you asleep, Iggy?” whispered Jimmy softly, as, smiling to himself, he bent over the Pole’s cot. He was wondering if Ignace had really taken Bob seriously.
In the darkness an arm reached out and drew his head down to a level with the Pole’s own. Into his ear was breathed the amazing words: “I have give Bixton the strong poonch. To-morrow mebbe no more solder. You no speak me more now. Morning I tell you.” The voice ceased and the grip suddenly relaxed, as Ignace flopped over on his side with a faint sigh.
Jimmy repressed the amazed ejaculation that sprang to his lips as he straightened up. Before sitting down on his own cot, he slid quietly over to Roger, who was engaged in removing his shoes. “Listen. Iggy’s done it,” he whispered. “Given Bixton a trimming. He doesn’t dare open his head. He’s in bad. Pass it on to Bob. I don’t know what started it, but, oh, Glory, I wish I’d been here!”