“He had no yellow streak. He proved his courage a dozen times—scores of times—his courage and his worth.”
“So you say, major.”
At that the major pushed his chair back and stood up.
“Yes, that’s what I say!” he cried.
Colonel Nasher sat up straight, plucked his cigar from his mouth and stared at his second-in-command.
“And I mean what I say,” continued the major, in a loud and shaken voice. “And I know what I am talking about.”
“But you forget to whom you are talking!” roared the colonel.
“No I don’t,” retorted the younger man, wildly. “I am talking to you—and there is some true talk coming to you. You’ve been asking for it ever since I joined this outfit. I know what your game is. You want to get me out—to make people believe that my nerve is gone and I’m no longer fit for the service. I’m fit enough—fit for anything but to sit and listen to you lie about a friend of mine—about the memory of a friend who was killed over the Boche lines. You’re not fit to name a man like Angus Bruce. You never saw him fight. You never saw anybody fight. A yellow streak? I have seen him go up alone after four of them! You’ll swallow that lie, Colonel Nasher, here and now!”
The colonel got to his feet, glaring. He was a large man with a large face. The only small things about him were his heart and mind. His eyes looked like polished gray stones in his red face.
“Your dead friend won’t get his cross and you’ll lose yours!” he cried, pointing a thick finger at the ribbons on the major’s breast. “I’ll break you for this, you upstart! Consider yourself under arrest. I’ll teach you that you’re not in France now!”