"When you s'lute your s'perior officer," he shouted, "you s'lute him quick. You unnerstan', you s'lute him quick! S'lute me again," he commanded, "and s'lute me damn quick."
Standish remained motionless. As is the habit of policemen over all the world, his thumbs were stuck in his belt. He answered without offense, in tones matter-of-fact and calm.
"You are not my superior officer," he said.
It was the calmness that irritated Aintree. His eyes sought for the infantryman's cap and found a sombrero.
"You damned leatherneck," he began, "I'll report—"
"I'm not a marine, either," interrupted Standish. "I'm a policeman. Move on," he ordered, "you're keeping these people waiting."
Others of the dinner-party formed a flying wedge around Aintree and crowded him up the steps and into a seat and sat upon him. Ten minutes later, when Standish made his rounds of the cars, Aintree saw him approaching. He had a vague recollection that he had been insulted, and by a policeman.
"You!" he called, and so loudly that all in the car turned, "I'm going to report you, going to report you for insolence. What's your name?"
Looking neither at Aintree nor at the faces turned toward him, Standish replied as though Aintree had asked him what time it was.
"Standish," he said, "corporal, shield number 226, on train guard." He continued down the aisle.