"Think?" said the Captain. "H'm. I'm bankin' on you, Sullivan. I know you can do it."
"Then," said Sullivan blissfully, "by God, I will, sir."
Early as it was next morning when Sullivan rose for his start, he found the Captain's steady eyes on him. "You don't need your rifle," he said. "Nor your belt."
"I reckon not, sir," said Sullivan whimsically, "not for buggin'."
"You take that can of bacon out of my haversack," his officer continued. "I've saved it for this."
"I don't need it none, sir," said Sullivan, edging away. "There'd ought to be fine buggin' back along. An' hell-apples, I reckon."
"Take it," said Burrell shortly, and Sullivan yielded to the habit of obedience. He turned for his journey.
"Hold on," his officer commanded. "You're forgettin' something." He lifted a clawlike hand, and Sullivan gripped it for a minute in silence. He strode across the little opening to the beginning of the back trail. There he halted, turned, and hurled the tin of bacon at his commander. "You go to hell, sir," he shrilled defiantly. "I'll do fine, buggin',"—and he ran stumblingly down the trail.
The Captain twisted his head—it was the only movement he could make—and watched the retreating figure of the mutineer. "H'm," he muttered after it, and shut his eyes, to wait.
For the first few hours Sullivan, uplifted by the thought of his mission, went on at what seemed to him a tremendous pace. In reality his knees lifted jerkily, his feet came down flat and stiff, and his stride was that of a child. A giddiness, too, overtook him now and then, and a white mist drifted before his eyes. At such times the walls of the trail seemed to rush by in a blur of green, and he had an exhilarating sense of rapid movement.