He said nothing, but applied a dirty handkerchief tenderly to his nose. The wrinkles between his black, bushy brows were deeper than ever, and his face was so sullen it was black.
“One thing more I desire to converse with you about, Marston,” I went on after my temper was in control. “Captain Lawton implied to me that you were a good mechanic.”
“You’re —— right, I’m a good mechanic.”
“My job is to ferry Martin Bombers from Cleveland to Langham for the next month. Want to be my mechanic? I’m not asking you for the pleasure of your company, you may be sure, but you’re supposed to be the best motor man in the squadron.”
“And being under you or with you isn’t no pleasant prospect for me,” he told me, stubborn and unafraid. “But I go where I’m ordered.”
“You’ll make some extra dough out of your travel allowance, you may enjoy the trip, and there are about two hundred mechanics on the field would give their shirts to go,” I told him. “Likewise, I hate to take you worse than poison. But you’re the best man, and you can just paste it in your hat that you’re having the first illustration of the fact that you’ll get a square deal around here when I say that you’ll be ordered to go along.”
He grunted, squinting up at me balefully.
“Another thing, Marston,” I told him as I got up to go. “We’ve laid aside rank and that stuff for a while. But remember, now that our personal affairs are adjusted, that I’m wearing a commission and you’re a sergeant. Say ‘sir’ to me, Marston, and don’t ever presume to forget that you’re a soldier and I’m an officer.”
He laughed—a raucous series of cachinnations which had often impinged against my eardrums unpleasantly.
“You talkin’ to me about bein’ a soldier. Very well, sir!”