The marine, after looking at the prisoner, and shaking his head, continued his pacing to and fro past the door.
Two or three minutes later a sailor, halting at the door, looked at
Sam, then wheeled about to the marine.
"Say, what ails that man? What's the matter with his face?" demanded the seaman in a low tone, yet one loud enough to be overheard by the prisoner within.
"I don't know," said the marine. "Looks fearful, doesn't he?"
"He ought to have the doctor—that's what," muttered the seaman, then passed on.
"Now, what are those idiots jabbering about?" Sam gruffly asked himself.
He shifted uneasily, feeling his face flush.
Five minutes later a sailor wearing on one sleeve the Red Cross of the hospital squad, passed by.
"Say," said the marine, "I wish you'd look at the feller in the brig."
"What ails him?" demanded the man of the hospital squad.
"Blessed if I know. But just look at his face—his eyes!"