“I’m with a young lady, fellows,” he pleaded. “Don’t make a row here. If you’ll only wait——”
“Oh, there won’t be any row,” observed the stable sergeant. “You take off that slicker, that’s all.”
“Not here! For heaven’s sake, fellows, not on the street! I tell you I’ve got a girl with me. A nice girl. A——”
The stable sergeant hesitated and glanced toward the car.
“All right,” he said. “But we’re going to take that slicker back to camp. We promised the troop. You can step inside that door. I guess that’s satisfactory?”
He glanced at the group, which nodded grimly.
For an instant Sergeant Gray was tempted to run and chance it, but the girl had turned her head and was watching them curiously. Hope died in him. He could neither run nor fight. And the group closed in on him.
“’Bout face—march!” said the stable sergeant.
And he marched.
Inside the hallway, behind the elevator, however, he turned loose with his fists. He fought desperately, using his long arms with accuracy and precision. One of the corporals went down first. The second mess sergeant followed him. But the result was inevitable. Inside of three minutes the girl saw the little group returning to the street. One corporal held a handkerchief to his lip, and the first mess sergeant was holding together a slicker which had no longer any clasps. The stable sergeant, however, was calm and happy. He carried a slicker over his arm.