At that instant, the Highlander, seeing his opportunity, flung himself upon McCuaig, and winding his arms around him, hung to him grimly, crying out:

"Get hold of his legs! Queeck! Will you?"

When the sergeant major, attracted by the unwonted uproar, appeared upon the scene, there was a man on every one of McQuaig's limbs, and another one astride his stomach. "Heavin' like sawlogs shootin' a rapid," as Private Corbin, a lumberjack from the Eau Claire, was later heard to remark.

"What is he like now?" inquired the colonel, after listening to the sergeant major's report of the Homeric combat.

"He is in a compartment in the hold, sir, and raging like one demented.

He very nearly did for Major Bustead, smashing at him with a scantling that he ripped from the ship's timbers, sir. He still has the scantling, sir."

"Let him cool off all night," said the Commanding Officer, after consultation with the adjutant.

Barry, who with difficulty had restrained himself during the sergeant major's report, slipped from the room, found the M. O., to whom he detailed the story and dragged him off to visit the raging McCuaig.

They found a corporal on guard outside.

"I would not open the door, sir. He is really dangerous."

"Oh, rot!" replied the M. O. "Open up the door!"

"Excuse me, sir," said the corporal, "it is not safe. At present, he is clean crazy. He is off his nut entirely."

The M. O. stood listening at the door. From within came moaning sounds as from a suffering beast.

"That man is suffering. Open the door!" ordered the M. O. peremptorily.

The corporal, with great reluctance, unlocked the padlock, shot back the bolt, and then stood away from the door.

"It is the medical officer, McCuaig," said the doctor, opening the door slightly.

Bang! Crash! came the scantling upon the door jamb, shattering it to pieces. The whole guard flung themselves against the door, shoved it shut, and shot the bolt.

"I warned you, sir," said the panting corporal. "Better leave him until morning. He's a regular devil!"

"He is no more a devil than you are, corporal," said Barry, in a loud, clear voice. "He is one of the best men in the battalion. More than that, he is my friend, and if he spends the night there, I spend it with him."

So saying, and before any one could stop him, Barry shot back the bolt, opened the door, and with his torchlight flashing before him, stepped inside.

"Hello, McCuaig," he called, in a quiet, clear voice, "where are you?

It's Dunbar, you know."

He drew the door shut after him. The corporal was for following him, but the M. O. interposed.

"Stop out!" he ordered. "Stay where you are! You have done enough mischief already."

"But, sir, he'll kill him!"

"This is my case," said the M. O. sharply. "Fall back all of you, out of sight!"

Together they stood listening in awestruck silence, expecting every moment to hear sounds of conflict, and cries for help, but all they heard was the cool, even flow of a quiet voice, and after some minutes had passed, the sound of moans, mingled with a terrible sobbing.

The M. O., moving toward the corporal and his guard, said in a low tone:

"Take your men down the passage and keep them there until I call for you."

"Sir," began the corporal.

"Will you obey my orders?" said the M. O. "I'm in command here! Go!"

Without further words, the corporal moved his men away.

Half an hour later, the sergeant major, going his rounds, received a rude shock. In the passage leading to McCuaig's compartment, he met four men, bearing on a stretcher toward the sick bay a long silent form.

"Who have you got there, corporal?" he inquired in a tone of kindly interest.

"McCuaig, sir."

"McCuaig?" roared the sergeant major. "And who--"

"Medical officer's orders."

"Silence there," said a sharp voice in the rear. "Carry on, men."

And past the astonished sergeant major, the procession filed with the medical officer and the chaplain at its tail end.

After the sergeant major had made his report to the O. C., as was his duty, the M. O. was sent for. What took place at that interview was never divulged to the mess, but it was known that whereas the conversation began in very loud tones by the Officer Commanding, it ended half an hour later with the M. O. being shown out of the room by the colonel himself, who was heard to remark:

"A very fine bit of work. Tell him I want to see him when he has a few minutes, and thank you, doctor, thank you!"

"Who does the old man want to see?" inquired Sally, who, with Hopeton and Booth, happened to be passing.

"The chaplain," snapped the M. O., going on his way.

"The chaplain? By Jove, he's a queer one, eh?"

The M. O. turned sharply back, and coming very close to Sally, said in a wrathful voice:

"A queer one? Yes, a queer one! But if some of you damned young idiots that sniff at him had just half his guts, you'd be twice the men you are.--Shut up, Hopeton! Listen to me--" and in words of fiery rage that ran close to tears, he recounted his experience of the last hour.

"By Jove! Doc, some guts, eh?" said Sally in a low tone, as he moved away.

CHAPTER IX

SUBMARINES, BULLPUPS, AND OTHER THINGS