Hobart sprang at Romer, gave him a shake, and shouted, “Get to work!” and then advanced toward me as Romer was hardening for assault.
As Hobart had rudely calculated, the moment was snatched by the other prisoners for a rush on the guard and the tables, and they broke on the bound as Hobart hurled himself upon me. But he was too precipitate, and lacked training.
It is doubtful that any in the camp except myself saw how the next thing happened. There was a muffled crack, and Hobart’s feet cleared the ground, his limbs whipped the air as though he were drowning, and he sprawled on the earth in a disorganized, quivering heap. A glance showed me that Romer had been stopped two yards from Captain Mason by a look such as he had never encountered before, and he stood staring like an imbecile.
A low cry broke from fifty feminine throats when Hobart’s body made its impact with the ground. But the entire rush had been paralyzed; it was clearly the impression that Hobart had been killed, and all were staring from him to me. The guard had responded; the prisoners were in subjugation, some by a collar-grip of the guard, others panting on the ground under urgent knees, still others standing inert.
“Hands off the prisoners. Re-form the line,” I ordered.
When this had been done, the young men sullen, sheepish, and silent, and viewing with awe the still body of Hobart on the ground, I looked round upon the circle till I found the man I wanted. My glance had included Captain Mason and found him stolid and motionless as he observed my procedure.
“Dr. Preston, come forward,” I said.
He instantly responded.
“Please examine Hobart’s jaw and neck,” I directed. “One or the other may be broken.”
As he was turning away to obey he discovered a red trickle from my right hand.