Still the sheep came
huddling through the broken door, across the prostrate men, and scampered
away into the open. Captain Claiborne, running toward the fold with his
lantern and not looking for obstacles, stumbled over their bewildered
advance guard and plunged headlong into the gray fleeces. Meanwhile into
the pockets of his prostrate foe went Oscar's hands with no result. Then
he remembered the man's gesture in pulling the hat close upon his ears,
and off came the hat and with it a blood-stained envelope. The last sheep
in the pen trooped out and galloped toward its comrades.
Oscar, making off with the letter, plunged into the rear guard of the
sheep, fell, stumbled to his feet, and confronted Captain Claiborne as
that gentleman, in soiled evening dress, fumbled for his lantern and
swore in language unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.
"Damn the sheep!" roared Claiborne.
"It is sheep--yes?" and Oscar started to bolt.
"Halt!"
The authority of the tone rang familiarly in Oscar's ears. He had, after
considerable tribulation, learned to stop short when an officer spoke to
him, and the gentleman of the sheepfold stood straight in the starlight
and spoke like an officer.
Pages:
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278