“My dear Mr. Balcomb, you’ve called me little before, and other people have called me little, and I can’t help it any more than you can help being a contemptible, lying scoundrel—”
Balcomb made a rush for him, but the captain thrust his stick forward and Balcomb seemed, rather ridiculously, to have impaled himself upon it.
“Stand back, Balcomb,” commanded Leighton, and as Balcomb tried again to reach Pollock, Leighton stepped between them.
“I quite agree with you, Pollock, that Balcomb is a bad lot, but this isn’t the right place for a scrap.”
“I don’t care whether it is or not,” snapped Pollock. “I’m going to muss him up. He’s lied about me; he’s tried to blacken my reputation—”
“You’re a fool,” shouted Balcomb. “I’ve never mentioned you—I wouldn’t mention you.”
“You wouldn’t, wouldn’t you? I should like to know what you meant by writing a letter to the War Department charging me with being drunk here in one of the clubs,—a club, you lying blackguard, that you never were in in your life,—that you couldn’t get inside of to save your neck. You charged me with being drunk and raising a row in that club; and you hinted that I was in collusion with contractors at work on the army post. You don’t deny it, do you?”
“I do, indeed! I never wrote any letter to the War Department on any subject!”
Pollock laughed and took a step toward him.
“Don’t you deny what I tell you before Mr. Leighton! I have the letter here in my pocket. It was sent to me direct by my chief, the very hour it reached him. I suppose you thought they would telegraph my discharge immediately when they got an anonymous letter like that. I’ve a good notion to break your neck right here.”