A crowd of camp-followers quickly
gathered around the door of the shanty, and with it came a couple of
stalwart assistants of the provost-marshal.
"What's all this?" asked one of them, in a peremptory tone. "Leave
that lad alone, you old rascal!"
"What's he doing to you?" asked the other.
"He won't pay me my wages," said Mariquita, in a whining, piteous
voice. "He owes me three shillings."
"I don't, you lying little ragamuffin! I only took you on trial."
"He does; and he was beating me, ill-using me," went on Mariquita.
"We can't have no disturbance here," said one of the provost-marshal's
men. "You must come before the provost, both of you; he'll settle your
case in a brace of shakes. Bill, you bring the old man; I'll take
charge of the youngster."
And the two guardians of order marched their prisoners through the
hut-town to a wooden building at the end, where Major Shervinton dealt
out a simple, rough-and-ready justice to the turbulent characters he
ruled.
This was precisely what Mariquita had hoped for. What she sought at
all hazards was to gain speech of the provost-marshal.
They had to wait for him half-an-hour, and when he appeared there were
other cases to be dealt with first.
When it came to Valetta Joe's turn, he stoutly denied the charge of
defrauding and ill-using the lad.
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