“Why don't you come yourself, sonny?” inquired McCuaig. With a swift sidestep and a swifter swoop of his long arm, he reached for the corporal, who once more found safety in swift disappearance.
At that instant, the Highlander, seeing his opportunity, flung himself upon McCuaig, and winding his arms around him, hung to him grimly, crying out:
“Get hold of his legs! Queeck! Will you?”
When the sergeant major, attracted by the unwonted uproar, appeared upon the scene, there was a man on every one of McQuaig's limbs, and another one astride his stomach. “Heavin' like sawlogs shootin' a rapid,” as Private Corbin, a lumberjack from the Eau Claire, was later heard to remark.
“What is he like now?” inquired the colonel, after listening to the sergeant major's report of the Homeric combat.
“He is in a compartment in the hold, sir, and raging like one demented. He very nearly did for Major Bustead, smashing at him with a scantling that he ripped from the ship's timbers, sir. He still has the scantling, sir.”
“Let him cool off all night,” said the Commanding Officer, after consultation with the adjutant.
Barry, who with difficulty had restrained himself during the sergeant major's report, slipped from the room, found the M. O., to whom he detailed the story and dragged him off to visit the raging McCuaig.
They found a corporal on guard outside.
“I would not open the door, sir. He is really dangerous.”