beastly, nasty look in them.

"What do you mean, Major?" he asked.

"Sergeant Marigold," said I, "is a brave, patriotic Englishman who
has given his country all he can spare from the necessary physical
equipment to carry on existence; and it's making him hang-dog
miserable that he's not allowed to give the rest to-morrow. You
must forgive his plain speaking," I continued, gathering warmth as
I went on, "but he can't understand healthy young fellows like you
not wanting to do the same. And, for the matter of that, my dear
Randall, neither do I. Why aren't you serving your country?"

He started forward in his chair and threw out his arms, and his
dark eyes flashed and a smile of conscious rectitude overspread
his clear-cut features.

"My dear Major--serving my country? Why, I'm working night and day
for it. You don't understand."

"I've already told you I don't."

The boy was my guest. I had not intended to hold a pistol to his
head in one hand and dangle a suit of khaki before his eyes in the
other. I had been ill at ease concerning him for months, but I had
proposed to regain his confidence in a tactful, fatherly way.
Instead of which I found myself regarding him with my beastly
defaulter glare. The blood sometimes flies to one's head.

He condescended to explain.