silence for timidity. At right wheel, a little later, Crittenden
squeezed the bully's leg, and Reynolds cursed him. He might have passed
that with a last warning, but, as they wheeled again, he saw Reynolds
kick Sanders so violently that the boy's eyes filled with tears. He went
straight for the soldier as soon as the drill was over.

"Put up your guard."

"Aw, go to----"

The word was checked at his lips by Crittenden's fist. In a rage,
Reynolds threw his hand behind him, as though he would pull his
revolver, but his wrist was caught by sinewy fingers from behind. It was
Blackford, smiling into his purple face.

"Hold on!" he said, "save that for a Spaniard."

At once, as a matter of course, the men led the way behind the tents,
and made a ring--Blackford, without a word, acting as Crittenden's
second. Reynolds was the champion bruiser of the regiment and a boxer of
no mean skill, and Blackford looked anxious.

"Worry him, and he'll lose his head. Don't try to do him up too
quickly."

Reynolds was coarse, disdainful, and triumphant, but he did not look
quite so confident when Crittenden stripped and showed a white body,
closely jointed at shoulder and elbow and at knee and thigh, and
closely knit with steel-like tendons. The long muscles of his back
slipped like eels under his white skin. Blackford looked relieved.