"Prisoner: right turn—quick march—get to the guard-room—or—or—"
"Or what?" He had threatened. He had ceased to be an officer, to claim respect for his rank. He was only the peasant with the grotesque dull rage of a mere lout. I laughed. "Or what? Eh, bumpkin?"
This was mutiny, and Sarde lifted his whistle to blow a call for help. I snatched the whistle, blew the call myself. They seemed to have a bonfire in the fort, quite a big one, too, and so much clamor that nobody heard the call. I watched Sarde's sluggish northern way of reaching for his revolver, fumbling at the holster flap, and lugging out the gun. The Anglo-Saxon peasantry are so slow!
With one flash I had him covered.
"No, you don't," said I. "Hands up, hands up, my fool. That's right. Now be good." I pitched his whistle over the stockade, then wrenched his gun from the lanyard until the shackle parted. With both guns I jumped back, bidding him drop his hands and stand easy for a nice, cozy little chat. "There are no witnesses," I had to reassure him, "so you see we're man to man."
"Until—" Sarde's voice was full of menace, for that sort of animal is never more than half tamed at the best.
"Until," said I, "you bring a charge, and I call Miss Burrows for my first witness."
"Then since we're man to man," he shouted—they always have to shout—"what were you doing with my wife?"
"Pooh! She's not your wife."
"You dare—"