“That isn’t the point. That fellow back there who was watching you didn’t intend to take any chances of your prying into their game. Now, you may be sure, he’s put the others on their guard.”
“Aye, aye!” agreed the other trooper.
Billy Ashe, a very ambitious young officer, was becoming even more angry and disgusted. After much patient work, he saw all his efforts threatened with failure. Since entering the service he had always kept in mind the idea of some day wearing a sergeant’s stripes on the sleeves of his scarlet coat. And on this particular job the trooper had visions of receiving warm commendations from his superior officers. Tom Clifton had never impressed him favorably; and now, although the tall lad could not be directly blamed, his presence at a critical time irritated him, driving away for the moment the natural sympathy he should have felt.
Tom, however, was not looking for any. But he didn’t propose to shoulder undeserved blame.
“If you’ve made a fluke on the job,” he exclaimed, hotly, “it’s just exactly as you said yourself: your own shouting must have done it.”
“I’ll put it all up to Sergeant Erskine,” exclaimed Billy Ashe. “And when he gets my report I’d advise you to keep far away from the barracks.”
“Aye, aye!” said the other trooper.
“Oh, that doesn’t scare me a little bit,” jeered Tom. “I’ll make a report to Sergeant Erskine myself.”
With a sharp command to his horse, Ashe galloped off.
“Come on, Witmar!” he yelled. “We’ll get the wagon, anyway.”