Which made his present preoccupation all the more impressive. We said not a word, until we were in my little two-by-four tent.
“Shoot,” I commanded, and he set himself for that purpose.
Whenever he had anything of importance to say, he always planted himself with his legs wide apart, as if setting himself against an onslaught, and he talked with his body motionless, except for a stabbing, emphatic finger.
“It’s about this bird Ralph Kennedy,” he stated, “and I need advice.”
This admission from the self-sufficient Penoch was remarkable in itself. It became even more so as I took a good look at his face. It was hard and set, pugnacious jaw outthrust, and his eyes were a curious mixture of cold savagery and dazed bewilderment.
“I guess you didn’t exactly shoot your wad to Kennard, then,” I said as casually as I could.
“No, I didn’t. I never have to any one, except you; and that was because I had to. I’m afraid I’ve got to now!”
He just clipped those last words off, with snaps of his teeth.
“You know considerable about me,” he went on, seeming to plant himself more solidly, as his eyes met mine squarely.
“Not so damn’ much,” I came back. “You were in France, of course, and left the army to join the Kosciusko squadron in Poland. Then you were an instructor in the Mexican Air Service, and finally got back into the Army and went to the Philippines for two years. Now here you are. That’s all I know.”