Our boy stood at the wrong end of the line to be taken first.

The lieutenant called a name, and two great askaris pounced on the trembling native at the other end and dragged him forward, leaving him standing alone before the desk.
"Silence!" the lieutenant shouted, and the court became still as death.
He had a voice as mean as a hyena's--a voice that matched his face.
The insolent, upturned twist of his fair mustache showed both corners of a thin-lipped mouth.

He had the Prussian head, shaped square whichever way you viewed it.

There was strength in the jaw-bones--strength in the deep-set bright eyes--strength in the shoulders that were square as box-corners without any padding--strength in the lean lithe figure; but it was always brute strength.

There was no moral strength whatever in the restless fidgeting--the savage winding and unwinding of his left foot around the saber scabbard, or the attitude, leaning forward over the table, of petulant pugnacity.
And the cruel voice was as weak as the hand was strong with which he rapped on the table.
He questioned the boy in front of him sharply--told him he stood charged with theft--and demanded an answer.
"With theft of what thing, and whose thing ?" The answer was bold.