Like most of his compeers, Jerry had a character which was one of action rather than of thought. In the sleepless thought of those forty-eight hours his boyishness slipped from him forever, and he attained the full stature of his manhood—God help us!—as most of humanity does so attain in the forcing-house of suffering!
Twilight had come the second time when Captain Blount knocked at the door of Jerry’s quarters.
'I think the lieutenant is asleep—and it’s the first rest he has had, sir'—Jackson hesitated.
'I’ve news for him that he will like better than sleeping! His arrest is over!' Blount cried, entering.
Jerry lay back, unawakened, in the only armchair the unluxurious room possessed. Blount stared down at the haggard young face, with a blending of affection and resentment which made a very complete perplexity. Not until he touched the sleeper’s shoulder did the heavy lids lift slowly.
'I’ve nothing to say,' Jerry murmured half consciously.
'I am sure of it, you donkey! Pryor, however, has said something, and the whole crowd of us must beg your pardon, though you have yourself to blame that we suspected you.'
'Pryor has spoken? What does he say?'
'The surgeon will not let him talk; but he insisted on hearing who was accused, and he acquitted you at once. Now I want you to tell me what confounded quixotism kept you silent, at such cost, if, as seems probable from his despondency, he attempted his own life.'