THE CROWNING INSULT
Realizing the soundness of Bob Dalton's counsel, his three friends
agreed to abide by it. Nevertheless, Jimmy was already firmly convinced
that he had Bixton to thank for the strange disappearance of his
letters. He did not hesitate to reiterate the statement to his chums.
Iggy solemnly supported the theory out of pure devotion to Jimmy. Bob
and Roger refused to commit themselves, thought privately they were of
the same opinion that suspicion pointed strongly in Bixton's direction.
Both knew only too well that it needed but a word from them to set
hot-headed Jimmy Blazes on the trail of the disagreeable rookie with a
vengeance, a proceeding which, as Bob had sagely pointed out, would be
not only futile but disastrous to Jimmy as well.
The exigencies of drill that morning drove the incident from the minds
of the four for the time being. Keyed up to the highest pitch of desire
to do well, Ignace partially retrieved himself in the eyes of the
impatient drill sergeant. Though he could not know it, that efficient
individual laid the Pole's marked improvement of carriage to the
dressing-down he had launched at Iggy on the previous day. Proud of his
ability to "whip these rookies into shape" he showed considerably more
patience with the still clumsy recruit, and the end of the morning drill
found Ignace again escaping the dreaded awkward squad.
Not yet obliged to put in full time at drill, the squad to which Iggy
and Jimmy belonged was dismissed at 10:30 not to resume their work until
called out again after one o'clock Assembly. The instant he was
released, Ignace hot-footed it for barracks, there to begin the "stoody"
of Military Tactics as laid down by Bob. As the latter had shrewdly
calculated, when the idea for them had taken shape in his fertile brain,
he could not have devised a better way of impressing the first, simple
Army commands on the slow-thinking Polish boy. Aside from feeling highly
honored that his "smart" Brother should have gone to so much trouble for
him, Ignace regarded the jingles with much the same delight which a
child takes in its first book of nursery rhymes.
Reaching the barrack soon after Ignace, Jimmy was not surprised to find
the latter seated on his cot, busily engaged in droning Rule No. 1
aloud. As it happened the squad-room was almost deserted. The three or
four rookies it contained beside themselves were wholly occupied with
their own affairs. Thus Ignace had a free field with no one to object to
the sing-song murmur of his voice.
"Come on, Iggy," Jimmy urged. "Let's go over to the 'Y' and write our
letters again. We'll have plenty of time before mess, if we hustle."
"I can no go." Ignace stopped in the middle of a verse to make this
stolid refusal.
"Don't you want to write to your mother?"
"Y-e-a. Som' day. No now. I am the busy. Better I stoody the rule firs'.
Mebbe to-night write. Mebbe, no. Now am on job. So stay I. You see. This
morning, no get the cross word. No yet go to what call you it, that bad
squad? So have I do good. Soon much good. Pretty soon fine solder, I
work hard."
"All right. Keep up the good work." Smiling, Jimmy turned away to get
his note-paper. "Guess I'll stay here and write," he added, half to
himself. Extracting a small leather portfolio from his suit-case, he
settled himself on his cot, his back braced against the wall, and
started the re-writing of his letters. Every now and then he raised his
head to grin at Ignace, whose voice droned on, a steady, monotonous
murmur. Far from disturbed by the sound, Jimmy was merely amused.
Shortly after their arrival, the barrack contingent began dropping in by
twos and threes, among them Roger and Bob. Regardless of all comers,
Ignace's sing-song recitation never flagged. Disturbed by the increasing
amount of stir and conversation, his tones rose unconsciously with it
until gradually he became an object of attention. Nor was he in the
least aware of the curious and mirthful glances launched in his
direction. Even the voices of his three Brothers, talking together so
near to him, failed to distract his attention from his "job."
"There sits a living monument to my usefulness," muttered Bob, jerking
his head toward Iggy. "I wouldn't butt in on him for the world. He's
forgotten we're alive. Just listen to him."
Roger's eyes rested for an instant on the absorbed Pole, then traveled
about the squad-room. What he saw brought a quick frown to his forehead.
"Iggy," he remonstrated. "Keep your voice down. You're getting noisy."
"So-o!" The reciter straightened up with a jerk as though coming to
Attention. "I no mean make the noise. You 'scuse."
"_I_ don't care," Roger laughed. "I only told you for your own good. The
fellows up here will start to kid you if you keep it up. That's all."
"Thank." Ignace cast a sheepish glance about him. Encountering more
than one smiling face he colored slightly, then doggedly returned to his
task. Though his lips continued to move, his voice was no longer heard.
Luckily for him, his arch-tormentor, Bixton, was absent from the
squad-room and so missed a chance to jeer at the "Poley Pet" as he had
sneeringly dubbed Ignace.
When, shortly before call to mess, he sauntered into the room, he cast a
scowling glance toward the latter. He had anticipated the pleasure of
seeing "that thick fathead" banished to the awkward squad. In
consequence he was disappointed, not so much on Iggy's account, but more
because of Jimmy's peppery championship of the former. He had begun by
jeering at Iggy purely because he considered him a glaring mark for
ridicule. Jimmy's interference had aroused in him a fierce dislike for
both boys which was not likely to die out in a hurry.
The presence of the acting first sergeant, who had come up the stairs
behind him, alone served to keep him discreetly within bounds. His
bunkie, however, a lank, hard-featured man, whose small black eyes had a
disagreeable trick of narrowing until almost half shut, lost no time in
regaling the newcomer with the latest news from across the aisle,
laughing loudly as he related it. Seated side by side on the latter's
cot the two were a fitting pair. At least, so Jimmy thought, his
usually pleasant mouth curving scornfully as he viewed them for a
second, then turned his back squarely upon the obnoxious couple.
At drill that afternoon, Ignace did even better than in the morning.
True, he had not yet absorbed much of Bob's rhymed information. Still,
it had given him a working basis on which to proceed. It needed only
time and the dogged persistence which so characterized him to give him a
lasting grip on the first principles of military tactics.
Released from drill, half-past three that afternoon saw him back in
barracks, and engrossed in the "stoody" of his precious jingles. Now,
however, he was minus the company of his Brothers, who returned to the
squad-room after drill only to go directly out again for a walk about
the camp. With no friendly eye to keep ward over him, Ignace forgot
Roger's caution of the morning and was soon droning away like a huge
bumble-bee. Nor did he evince the slightest sign of having heard, when
from across the room floated the surly command, "Aw, cut it out, you big
boob!"
"'All officer you mus' saloot,'" placidly intoned Iggy, his gaze glued
to his copy. "'You right han' to you head now----'"
"What's the matter with you, you fathead? You heard me tell you 'cut it
out' once. Isn't that enough?" This second boorish hail as well as the
first came from the man, Bixton, who was lounging on his cot. His
longed-for opportunity had come.
This time Ignace had heard and dimly realized that he was being most
ungently addressed. His voice breaking off on "now" his head came up
with a jerk. His round blue eyes registered a blank amazement that
quickly changed to active resentment as he fixed them upon the rookie
who had so roughly called out to him. Half rising from his cot, his
strong hands instinctively clenched themselves. Then he slowly sank back
to his former position, determined to follow Bob's advice, "just act as
though that smarty wasn't alive." Out of pure defiance he again resumed
his reciting of the Salute rule, raising his tones a trifle by way of
showing his utter disregard for the other's uncalled-for attack.
With a sudden spring Bixton left his cot. A hasty glance about him
revealed the fact that the room was clear of officers. Nor were there
more than half a dozen privates present, including himself and Ignace.
Striding across to where the latter sat he halted directly in front of
the Pole.
"I'm goin' to put the sergeant onto you, you poor fish," he blustered.
"How'd you s'pose a fellow can rest with you keeping up that racket? Now
chop it off, or you'll get yours."
For answer, Ignace calmly laid down one of the typewritten sheets he
was holding and centered his gaze on another.
"At 'Forwar' Mar----" he began unconcernedly.
With a sudden lunge of his right arm, Bixton snatched at the little
sheaf of papers. Unexpected as was the movement, the Pole's grip on them
tightened. One of them came away in the aggressor's clutch, however,
with an ominous tearing sound.
That was the last straw. Insults to himself, Ignace could endure, but
when it came to an attempt to wrest from him the fruits of Bob's labor
he was a changed and raging Iggy. Uttering a wrathful howl he launched
his stocky body at Bixton with a force that sent them both crashing to
the squad-room floor. The Pole landing uppermost, his arms wrapped
themselves about his tormentor in an effort to pin him down.
Of strong and wiry build, Bixton struggled fiercely to free himself.
Over and over the squad-room floor they rolled, thumping heavily with
every turn. Nearing the end of the room farthest from the stairway, Iggy
succeeded in tearing himself free and getting a vise-like hold on his
antagonist. The few rookies that had been present when the fight began
now gathered about the combatants with noisy exclamations of "Give it to
him, Poley!" "You got him cinched, now hand him one!" It was plainly
evident with whom their sympathies lay. Bixton was most thoroughly
disliked by the majority of his comrades.
"_Ignace Pulinski!_"
The utterance was freighted with a degree of stern disapproval that
almost caused the Pole to relax his grip on his adversary. It proceeded
from Roger Barlow. He had come up the stairs just in time to hear the
cry of "Give it to him, Poley!" Darting the length of the floor, he had
pushed his way into the midst of the group to behold his usually placid
Brother transformed into an enraged savage.
"Let him up," ordered Roger. "_Let him up, I say!_" The intense
forcefulness of his tones cut the air like a whip-lash. Long years of
obedience to a superior will now had its effect upon Ignace. His face
distorted with anger, nevertheless his strong hands fell away from
Bixton's prostrate form. Very sullenly he lumbered to his feet and
stepped back a pace, his fists still doubled.
Freed from that relentless pressure, Bixton was up in a flash. His pale
blue eyes gleaming with malignant fury, he launched a vicious upper-cut
at Ignace, only to find his punishing right arm arrested in mid-air by
two determined hands. Anticipating some such move on Bixton's part,
Roger had blocked it with lightning-like swiftness.
"Help me hold him back, you fellows," he snapped, as Bixton struggled
to strike him with his left arm.
Three pairs of sturdy arms now coming to Roger's aid, Bixton was fairly
dragged over to his cot and bundled upon it, thrashing about wildly
under the pinioning hands. Ignace had not assisted in this operation. He
stood stock-still at the point where he had let Bixton up, his face a
study. Roger's interference had brought him to his senses. He was
beginning to regret his own display of temper. He had done just exactly
what he had been warned against doing. Weighted down by a sense of his
own shortcomings, he shuffled over to his cot and began to pick up his
scattered papers.
"Hold on to him just a minute more, please. I've something to say to
him." With this energetic direction, Roger's own hands relaxed their
grasp on Bixton. "Now, listen to me," he continued, fixing a steely gaze
on the man. "If you know when you're well off, you'll behave yourself
when the fellows let go of you. I don't know what all this is about, and
I don't care. Just by pure luck you've escaped the sergeant. If he'd
come in here as I did and seen you two fighting, you'd both be in the
guard-house by now. He's likely to come in any minute, so watch
yourself. That's all. Break away, boys."
Released, Bixton shot up from his cot like a jack-in-the-box. "Trying to
screen your pet, are you?" he sputtered. "Well, you can't. He's going
to get his, all right, the minute the sarge hits the squad-room. I'll
teach that pasty-faced hulk a thing or two!"
For all his bluster, he made no attempt to attack either Roger or his
companions.
"Better hold your tongue," advised Roger dryly, looking the bully
squarely in the eye. "It takes two to make a fight, you know. I wouldn't
bank too much on the sergeant's seeing it differently. Come on, fellows.
Leave him to think it over."
Roger turned away, followed by an extremely disgusted trio of young men.
He did not consider it necessary to enjoin them to silence. Bixton's
threat to tell tales to the sergeant had merely put him in deep disfavor
with them. In the Army or out, no self-respecting man will countenance a
tale-bearer.
Roger went over to Ignace, who had now slumped down on his cot in an
attitude of utter dejection. He had hard work to keep from smiling. He
did not doubt for an instant that Ignace had had just cause for his
outbreak. Nevertheless, he put on an air of severity that he was far
from feeling. "What started this fight?" he asked sharply. "Didn't Bob
and I both warn you not to notice that fellow? Do you know where you'll
land if the sergeant hears of this? You'll land in the guard-house for a
month, maybe. I shouldn't be very sorry for you, if you did. Get up and
let me brush you off. Your uniform's covered with dust."
Without a word Ignace meekly stood up. Reaching under his own cot for
his clothes brush, Roger put it into energetic use on his now chastened
Brother. "I'm surprised at you," he rebuked, between strokes. "You need
a keeper, Iggy."
"So am I the bad one," Ignace agreed mournfully. "But I feel to kill
w'en that----" English failing him, he paused, then added a string of
Polish words which Roger could only guess at as not being complimentary
to Bixton.
"You had better luck than you deserved," commented Roger crisply. "Now
come on out for a walk with me. I want you to tell me about this affair.
But not here. It's a good thing that it was I instead of Jimmy who
happened along. There'd have been a free-for-all fight sure. Here comes
the sergeant, too," he added grimly, as the acting first sergeant
stepped from the stairway into the squad room. "Wait a minute. Sit down
again and we'll see what Bixton intends to do."
With these words, Roger calmly seated himself on his own cot to await
developments, his eyes trained squarely on Bixton. That injured
individual had also been busy plying a clothes brush, a fairly good
sign, Roger thought, that he did not intend to carry out his threat.
During the short time that the sergeant remained in the room an
expectant silence prevailed. Like himself the other rookies present were
breathlessly awaiting the outcome.
Stretched at full length on his cot, Bixton made no move to unburden
himself to the officer. He watched the latter morosely as he paused to
give an order to one of the men, who promptly seized his hat and
followed him from the room. As the two disappeared, Roger could not
refrain from casting a challenging glance at the sulker. Directly he had
done it, he was sorry.
Bixton had caught and rightly interpreted it. Raising himself on his
elbow he said fiercely: "'Fraid I was going to tell on him, wasn't you?
I'll do it yet, if I feel like it. I'll fix both you boobs for this.
There's other ways beside that. Before I'm through, I'll see you both
fired outa this camp and those two smart Alecks that run with you. This
camp's not big enough to hold me and you fresh guys at the same time,
and you'll pretty soon get wise to it or my name's not Bixton."