The officer whose collar ornaments were the winged staff and serpents of the medical branch, held what was left of the deck in his right hand and moistened the tip of his thumb against the tip of his tongue.

“ReËnforcements, major?” he inquired with a glance to the man at his left, and the poker face of the gentleman so addressed remained impervious to expression as the answer was given back:

“No, I’ll stand by what I’ve got here.”

If the utterance hung on a quarter second of indecision it was a circumstance that went unnoted, save possibly by a young man with the single bars of a lieutenant on his shoulder straps—and Spurrier gave no flicker of recognition of what had escaped the others.

Between the whitewashed walls of the room where the little group of officers sat at cards the Philippine night breeze stirred faintly with a fevered breath that scarcely disturbed the jalousies.

The pile of poker chips had grown to a bulkiness and value out of just proportion to the means of army officers below field rank—and except for the battalion, 2 commander and the surgeon none there held higher grade than a captaincy. This jungle-hot weather made men irresponsible.

One or two of the faces were excitedly flushed; several others were morosely dark. The lights guttered with a jaundiced yellow and sweat beaded the temples of the players. Sweat, too, made slippery the enameled surfaces of the pasteboards. Sweat seemed to ooze and simmer in their brains like the oil from overheated asphalt.

These men had been forced into a companionship of monotony in a climate of unhealth until their studied politeness, even their forced jocularity was rather the effort of toleration than the easy play of comradeship. Their arduously wooed excitement of draw-poker, which had run improvidently out of bounds, was not a pleasure so much as an expedient against the boredom that had rubbed their tempers threadbare and put an edgy sharpness on their nerves.

Captain Comyn, upon whose call for cards the dealer now waited, was thinking of Private Grant out there under guard in the improvised hospital. The islands had “gotten to” Private Grant and “locoed” him, and he had breathed sulphurous maledictions against Captain Comyn’s life—but it was not those threats that now disturbed the company commander.

Of late Captain Comyn had been lying awake at night and wondering if he, too, were not going the same way as the unfortunate file. Horribly quiet fears had been stealing poisonously into his mind—a mind not given to timidities—and the word “melancholia” had assumed for him a morbid and irresistible compulsion. No one save the captain’s self knew of these 3 secret hauntings, born of climate and smoldering fever, and he would not have revealed them on the torture rack. For them he entertained the same shame as that of a boy grown too large for such weakness, who shudders with an unconfessed fear of the dark. But he could no more shake them loose and be free of them than could the Ancient Mariner rid himself of the bird of ill-omen tied about his neck. Now he pulled himself together and tossed away a single card.

“I’ll take one in the place of that,” he commented with studied carelessness, and Lieutenant John Spurrier, with that infectious smile which came readily to his lips, pointed a contrast with the captain’s abstraction by the snappy quickness of his announcement:

“If I’m going to trail along, I’ll need three. Yes, three, please, major.”

“When Spurrier sits in the game,” commented a player who, with a dolorous glance at the booty before him, threw down his hands, “we at least get action. Myself, I’m out of it.”

The battalion commander studied the ceiling with a troubled furrow between his brows which was not brought there by the hazards of luck. He was reflecting that whenever a game was organized it was Spurrier who quickened its tempo from innocuous amusement to reckless extravagance. Spurrier, fitted for his life with so many soldierly qualities, was still, above all else, a plunger. That spirit seemed a passion that filled and overflowed him. Temperate in other habits, he played like a nabob. The major remembered hearing that even at West Point Jack Spurrier had narrowly, escaped dismissal for gambling in 4 quarters, though his class standing had been distinguished and his gridiron record had become a tradition.

This sort of game with “the roof off and deuces wild,” was not good for the morale of his junior officers, mused the major. It was like spiking whisky with absinthe. Yes, to-morrow he would have Spurrier at his quarters and talk to him like a Dutch uncle.

There were three left battling for the often sweetened pot now, with three more who had dropped out, looking on, and a tensity enveloped the long-drawn climax of the evening’s session.

Captain Comyn’s cheek bones had reddened and his irascible frown lines deepened. For the moment his fears of melancholia had been swallowed up in a fitful fury against Spurrier and his smiling face.

At last came the decisive moment of the final call and the show-down, and through the dead silence of the moment sounded the distant sing-song of a sentry:

“Corporal of the guard, number one, relief!”

Over the window sill a tiny green lizard slithered quietly and hesitated, pressing itself flat against the whitewash.

Then the major’s cards came down face upward—and showed a queen-high straight.

“Not quite good enough, major,” announced Comyn brusquely as his breath broke from him with a sort of gasp and he spread out a heart flush.

But Spurrier, who had drawn three cards, echoed the captain’s words: “Not quite good enough.” He laid down two aces and two deuces, which under the cutthroat rule of “deuces wild” he was privileged to call four aces.

Comyn came to his feet and pushed back his chair, 5 but he stood unsteadily. The fever in his bones was playing queer pranks with his brain. He, whose courtesy had always been marked in its punctilio, blazed volcano-fashion into the eruption that had been gathering through these abnormal days and nights.

Yet even now the long habit of decorum held waveringly for a little before its breaking, and he began with a queer strain in his voice:

“You’ll have to take my IOU. I’ve lost more than I can pay on the peg.”

“That’s all right, Comyn,” began the victor, “Pay when——” but before he could finish the other interrupted with a frenzy of anger:

“No, by God, it’s not all right! It’s all wrong, and this is the last game I sit in where they deal a hand to you.”

Spurrier’s smiling lips tightened instantly out of their infectious amiability into a forbidding straightness. He pushed aside the chips he had been stacking and rose stiffly.

“That’s a statement, Captain Comyn,” he said with a warning note in his level voice, “which requires some explaining.”

The abrupt bursting of the tempest had left the others in a tableau of amazement, but now the authoritative voice of Major Withers broke in upon the dialogue.

“Gentlemen, this is an army post, and I am in command here. I will tolerate no quarrels.”

Without shifting the gaze of eyes that held those of the captain, Spurrier answered insistently:

“I have every respect, major, for the requirements 6 of discipline—but Captain Comyn must finish telling why he will no longer play cards with me.”

“And I’ll tell you pronto,” came the truculent response. “I won’t play with you because you are too damned lucky.”

“Oh!” Spurrier’s tensity of expression relaxed into something like amusement for the anticlimax. “That accusation can be stomached, I suppose.”

“Too damned lucky,” went on the other with a gathering momentum of rancor, “and too continuously lucky for a game that’s not professional. When a man is so proficient—or lucky if you prefer—that the card table pays him more than the government thinks he’s worth, it’s time——”

Spurrier stepped forward.

“It’s time for you to stop,” he cautioned sharply. “I give you the fairest warning!”

But Comyn, riding the flood tide of his passion—a passion of distempered nerves—was beyond the reach of warnings and his words came in a bitter outpouring:

“I dare say it was only luck that let you bankrupt young Tillsdale, but it was as fatal to him as if it bore an uglier name.”

The sound in Spurrier’s throat was incoherent and his bodily impulse swift beyond interference. His flat palm smote Captain Comyn’s cheek, to come away leaving a red welt behind it, and as the others swept forward to intervene the two men grappled.

They were torn apart, still struggling, as Major Withers, unaccustomed to the brooking of such mutinies, interposed between them the bulk of his body and the moral force of his indignantly blazing eyes.

“I will have no more of this,” he thundered. “I am not a prize-fight referee, that I must break my officers out of clinches! Go to your quarters, Comyn! You, too, Spurrier. You are under arrest. I shall prefer charges against you both. I mean to make an example of this matter.”

But with a strange abruptness the fury died out of Comyn’s face. It left his passion-distorted features so instantly that the effect of transformation was uncanny. In a breathing space he seemed older and his eyes held the dark dejection of utter misery. His anger had flared and died before that grimmer emotion which secretly haunted him—the fear that he was going the way of climate-crazed Private Grant.

When they released him he turned dispiritedly and left the room in docile silence. He was not thinking of the charges to be preferred. They belonged to to-morrow. To-night was nearer, and to-night he must face those hours of sleeplessness that he dreaded more than all the penalties enunciated by the Articles of War.

Spurrier, too, bowed stiffly and left the room.

Though it was late when Captain Comyn entered his own quarters, he did not at once throw himself on the army cot that stood against the whitewashed wall.

For him the cot held no invitation—only the threat of insomnia and tossing. His taut nerves had lost the gracious art of relaxation, and before his thoughts paraded hideously grotesque memories of the few faces he had ever seen marred by the dethronement of reason.

Already he had forgotten the violent and discreditable 8 scene with Spurrier, and presently he dropped himself inertly into the camp chair beside the table at the room’s center and opened its drawer.

Slowly his hand came out clutching a service revolver, and his eyes smoldered unnaturally as they dwelt on it. But after a little he resolutely shook his head and thrust the thing aside.

He sat in a cold sweat, surrounded by the silence of the Eastern night, a comprehensive silence which weighed upon him and oppressed him.

In the thatching of the single-storied adobe building he heard the rustling of a house snake, and from without, where moonlight seemed to gush and spill against the cobalt shadows, shrilled the small voice from a lizard’s inflated, crimson throat.

It was all crazing him, and his nails bit into his palms as he sat there, silent and heavy-breathed. Then he heard footsteps nearer and louder than those of the pacing sentries, followed by a low rapping of knuckles on his own door. Perhaps it was Doctor James. He had the kindly habit of besetting men who looked fagged with the offer of some innocuous bromide. As if bromides could soothe a brain in which something had gone malo!

“Come in,” he growled, and into the room stepped not Major James, but Lieutenant Spurrier.

Slowly and with an infinite weight of weariness, Comyn rose to his feet. He might be afraid of lunacy, but not of lieutenants, and his lips smiled sneeringly.

“If you’ve come to ask a retraction,” he declared ungraciously, “I’ve none to offer. I meant all I said.”

The visitor stood inside the door calmly eyeing the man who was his own company commander.

“I didn’t come to insist on apologies,” he replied after a moment’s silence with an off-hand easiness of tone. “That can wait till you’ve gotten over your tantrum. It was another thing that brought me.”

“I want to be left alone.”

“Aside from the uncomplimentary features of your tirade,” went on Spurrier placidly and he strolled around the table and seated himself on the window sill, “there was a germ of truth in what you said. We’ve been playing too steep a game.” He paused and the other man who remained standing by his table, as though he did not wish to encourage his visitor by seating himself, responded only with a short, ironic laugh.

“See here, Comyn,” Spurrier’s voice labored now with evident embarrassment. “What I’m getting at is this: I don’t want your IOU for that game. I simply want you to forget it.”

But the captain took an angry step forward.

“Do you think I’m a charity patient?” he demanded, as his temper again mounted to storm pressure. “Why, damn your impertinence, I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want you in my quarters!”

Spurrier slipped from his seat and an angry flush spread to his cheek bones.

“You’re the hell of a—gentleman!” he exclaimed.

The two stood for a few moments without words, facing each other, while the lieutenant could hear the captain’s breath rising and falling in a panting thickness.

Surgeon James returning from a visit to a colic sufferer was trudging sleepily along the empty calle when he noted the light still burning in the captain’s window, and with an exclamation of remembrance for 10 the officer’s dark-ringed and sleepless eyes, he wheeled toward the door. Just as he neared it, a staccato and heated interchange of voices was borne out to him, and he hurried his step, but at the same instant a pistol shot bellowed blatantly in the quiet air and into his nostrils stole the acrid savor of burned powder.

The door, thrown open, gave him the startling picture of Comyn sagged across his own table and lying grotesque in the yellow light; and of Spurrier standing, wide-eyed by the window, with the green and cobalt background of the tropic night beyond his shoulders. While he gazed the lieutenant wheeled and thrust his head through the raised sash, under the jalousy.

“Halt!” cried James excitedly, leaping forward to possess himself of the pistol which Comyn had taken from his drawer and thrust aside. “Halt, Spurrier, or I’ll have to fire!”

The other turned back and faced his captor with an expression which it was hard to read. Then he shook his shoulders as though to disentangle himself from an evil dream and in a cool voice demanded:

“Do you mean to intimate, James, that you suspect me of killing Comyn?”

“Do you mean to deny it?” countered the other incredulously.

“Great God! I oughtn’t to have to. That shot was fired through the window. The bullet whined past my ear while my back was turned. That was why I looked out just now. Moreover, I am, as you see, unarmed.”

“God grant that you can prove these things, Spurrier, but they will need proof.” The doctor turned to 11 bend over the prostrate figure, and as he did so voices rose from the calle where already had sounded the alarm and response of running feet. “Or, perhaps,” added the doctor with stubborn suggestiveness, “you acted in self-defense.”

Presently the door opened and the corporal of the guard entered and saluted. His eyes traveled rapidly about the room and he addressed Spurrier, since James was not a line officer.

“I picked this revolver up, sir, just outside the window,” he said, holding out a service pistol. “It was lying in the moonlight and one chamber is empty.”

Spurrier took the weapon, but when the man had gone James suggested in an even voice: “Don’t you think you had better hand that gun to me?”

“To you? Why?”

“Because this looks like a case for G. C. M. It will have a better aspect if I can testify that, after the gun was brought in, it wasn’t handled by you except while I saw you?”

“It seems to me”—a belligerent flash darted in the lieutenant’s eyes—“that you are singularly set on hanging this affair around my neck.”

“You were with him and no one else was. If I were you, I’d go direct to the major and make a statement of facts. He’ll be getting reports from other sources by now.”

“Perhaps you are right. Is he dead?”

The surgeon nodded, and Spurrier turned and closed the door softly behind him.