"Stop!" cried the Master, sternly. "No nonsense, now!"
"What?" retorted Bohannan, angrily. His bruised, cut face reddened
ominously.
"Drop those jewels, sir!"
"Why?"
"Principally because I order you to!" The Master's voice was cold,
incisive. "They're worthless, now. No make-weights! We can't have
make-weights at a time like this. To think of jewels at such an hour!
Throw them back!"
A flash of rage distorted the major's face. His blue eyes burned with
strange fire.
"Never!" he shouted, crouching there at the brink of the jewel-pit.
"Call it insubordination, mutiny, anything you like, but I'm going to
have my fill of these! Faith, but I _will_, now!"
"Sir--"
"I don't give a damn! Jewels for mine!" His voice rose gusty, raw,
wild. "I've been a soldier of fortune all my life, and that's how I'm
going to die. Poor, most of the time. Well, I'm going to die rich!"
His philippic against poverty and discipline tumbled out in a torrent
of wild words, strongly tinged with the Irish accent that marked his
passionate excitement. He sprang to his feet, and--raging--faced his
superior officer. He shouted:
"Sure, and I've knocked up and down this rotten old world all my life,
a rolling stone with never enough to bless myself with.
Pages:
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468