"You can't!" objected Lathrop. "It's too late. You should have thought
of that sooner."

"I know," admitted the sergeant, "but a prisoner is a hell of a
nuisance. If you got a prisoner to look after you can't do your own
work; you got to keep tabs on him. And there ain't nothing in it for the
prisoner, neither. If we take you, you'll have to tramp all the way to
our army, and all the way back. But, if you're dead, how different! You
ain't no bother to anybody. You got a half holiday all to yourself, and
you can loaf around the camp, so dead that they can't make you work, but
not so dead you can't smoke or eat." The sergeant smiled ingratiatingly.
In a tempting manner he exhibited his rifle. "Better be dead," he urged.

"I'd like to oblige you," said Lathrop, "but it's against the rules. You
CAN'T shoot a prisoner."

The rat-faced soldier uttered an angry exclamation. "To hell with the
rules!" he cried. "We can't waste time on him. Turn him loose!"

The older man rounded on the little one savagely. The tone in which he
addressed him was cold, menacing, sinister. His words were simple, but
his eyes and face were heavy with warning.

"Who is running this?" he asked.

The little soldier muttered, and shuffled away. From under the brim of
his campaign hat, his eyes cast furtive glances up and down the road.
As though anxious to wipe out the effect of his comrade's words, the
sergeant addressed Lathrop suavely and in a tone of conciliation.