‘No, sir. I’m endeavouring to understand you.’
‘I know your type. Enough!’
‘I shall feel much obliged, sir, if you will cease to be personal.’
‘Take his name, sergeant-major.’
Ginger was mad.
‘There’s dust on your belt. Why?’ Blase-Bones now asked Tosher.
‘I’m real sorry,’ answered the Canadian.
‘“Sir,” when you answer me.’
‘You ain’t wise, boy.’
‘Silence!—Take his name.’