“I was, sir,” said the major defiantly.
“And why should I be sent to Coventry, or exchanged, may I ask?” Barry's voice was that of an interested outsider.
“Because,” stuttered the Major, “I consider, sir, that—that—you have been guilty of a piece of damnable impertinence toward your Commanding Officer. I never heard anything like it in my life. Infernal cheek, I call it, sir.”
While the major was speaking, Barry stood listening with an air of respectful attention.
“I wonder!” he said, after a moment's thought. “If I thought I had been impertinent, I should at once apologise. But, sir, do you think it is part of my duty to allow any man, even my Commanding Officer, to—pardon the disgusting metaphor, it is not so disgusting as the action complained of—to spit in my soup, and take it without protest? Do you, sir?”
“I—you—” The major grew very red in the face. “You need to learn your place in this battalion, sir.”
“I do,” said Barry, still preserving his quiet voice and manner. “I want to learn—I am really anxious to learn it. Do you mind answering my question?” His tone was that of a man who is earnestly but quite respectfully seeking information from a superior officer.
“Your question, sir?” stuttered the major, “your—your—question. Damn your question, and yourself too.”
The major turned abruptly away. Barry heard him quite unmoved, stood looking after him in silence a moment or two, then, shaking his head, with a puzzled expression on his face, moved slowly away from the group.
“Oh, my aunt Caroline,” breathed Sally into his friend Hopeton's ear, resting heavily meanwhile against his shoulder. “What a score! What a score!”