For fully ten minutes neither man spoke. Then the sergeant looked toward the half-breed, who had resumed his place in the chair. “Banes,” he said, abruptly, “what in thunder is the matter with you?”
“Matter with me!” echoed Teddy. “What you mean?”
“Why don’t you say something, instead of sitting there like a bronze statue?”
“Me?—I got nothings to say.”
“What are you thinking about, then?”
“What I think about?”
“Yes. I can’t stand a man sitting around looking into space. It gets on my nerves. But if you’re trying to think out a solution of this little affair I’ll forgive you.” The sergeant, having finished his report, rose to his feet and strode across the floor, his tall, erect form coming to a halt before the half-breed. “Teddy,” he said, “you’ve done some pretty good work for the police, and in the job that’s ahead of us you must do your share.”
“Why for you ask that, sergeant?” queried the other. The monotonous tone of his voice rose slightly. “Always I work hard for the police. Me the best frien’ they have; they the best frien’s I have.”
“Correct,” answered the sergeant, with a short laugh.
A strict disciplinarian, Sergeant Jarvis Erskine, a man whom all his subordinates highly respected and liked, yet feared, had always treated the scout with a consideration which often excited the envy and wonder of the troopers at the post; and while his stern presence and penetrating voice may have sometimes awed them it never seemed to have that effect upon the imperturbable, sullen Teddy Banes.