“We’ll talk when we get back,” I told him, jerking my head toward Marston.
George William caught the gesture. A wild, leaping fire flamed in his eyes, and a shaking paw was extended toward me.
“I know what you’ll do!” he snarled. “You’ve got me now, and you’ll railroad me to Leavenworth, —— you!”
“Shut up, Marston!” I snapped. “Remember who you’re talking to!”
There was a second of tension in that boat which was enough to make one’s flesh crawl. Marston, his full face like a dark demon’s, sat like a statue, arm still out-thrust toward me.
“Listen, Marston,” I said quietly. “No one holds you responsible for this. My opinion is that the men who brought you coffee put dope of some kind in it; that you slept like the dead, while they did the work, and that what they put in the java is reponsible for you being sick. I don’t like you, and I never did and never will, as a man, but you’re a soldier with a good record, and as far as I’m concerned you’re above suspicion.”
His big body relaxed suddenly, as if he had gone suddenly limp. A queer look leaped into his eyes, a sort of calculating gleam, as it were.
“Don’t get excited, Marston,” Fernald advised him in his equable way. “You weren’t supposed to stay up all night, anyway, with the ship after the usual sightseers had left. Nobody’s hurt much. Don’t lose your shirt or go wild.”
“Yes, sir,” mumbled the sergeant, and relapsed into his brooding.
When we reached shore I gave the orders.