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A Cadet's Honor: Mark Mallory's Heroism

by Upton Sinclair · English · Gutenberg #36099 · 307,458 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Cadet's Honor: Mark Mallory's Heroism

Author: Upton Sinclair


        
Release date: May 13, 2011 [eBook #36099]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36099

Credits: E-text prepared by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


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Transcriber's note:

      "Lieut. Frederick Garrison" is a pseudonym used by Upton
      Sinclair.





[Illustration: "'The cadets of this academy, Miss Adams,' said he, 'do
not speak to Mr. Mallory.'" (see page 90)]

A CADET'S HONOR

Or

Mark Mallory's Heroism

by

LIEUT. FREDERICK GARRISON, U. S. A.

Author of "Off for West Point," "On Guard," "A West Point Treasure," etc.







[Illustration: BOYS' OWN LIBRARY]

Philadelphia
David Mckay, Publisher
610 South Washington Square

Copyright, 1903
By Street & Smith

A Cadet's Honor




CONTENTS

CHAPTER                                     PAGE
       I--A "Yearling" Meeting                 7
      II--Mark's Mysterious Visitor           19
     III--Trouble for Mark                    26
      IV--The Explanation                     38
       V--Mark in Disgrace                    46
      VI--Indian's Re-examination             58
     VII--The Examination of the Parson       66
    VIII--The Rescue Party                    72
      IX--Heroism of the Parson               76
       X--More Troubles                       81
      XI--Disadvantages of "Coventry"         85
     XII--The Embassy of the Parson           91
    XIII--Preparations for the Battle         99
     XIV--The Affair at the Fort             109
      XV--Two Plebes in Hospital             117
     XVI--The Parson's Indignation           124
    XVII--Indian in Trouble                  133
   XVIII--To the Rescue                      146
     XIX--The Alliance is Completed          156
      XX--Indignation of the Yearlings       162
     XXI--A Mild Attempt at Hazing           171
    XXII--The Bombshell Falls                177
   XXIII--In the Shadow of Dismissal         185
    XXIV--A Letter                           193
     XXV--A Swimming Match                   204
    XXVI--The Finish of a Race               211
   XXVII--What Mark Did                      219
  XXVIII--Mark Meets the Superintendent      231
    XXIX--The Seven in Session               239
     XXX--The Move into Camp                 248
    XXXI--"First Night"                      257
   XXXII--Conclusion                         268




A CADET'S HONOR




CHAPTER I.

A "YEARLING" MEETING.


The whole class came to the meeting. There hadn't been such an important
meeting at West Point for many a day. The yearling class had been
outrageously insulted. The mightiest traditions of the academy had been
violated, "trampled beneath the dust," and that by two or three vile and
uncivilized "beasts"--"plebes"--new cadets of scarcely a week's
experience. And the third class, the yearlings, by inherent right the
guardians of West Point's honor, and the hazers of the plebe, had vowed
that those plebes must be punished as never had plebes been punished
before.

The first and third classes of cadets had gone into summer camp the
previous day, immediately after the graduation exercises. From that
date, the middle of June to July 1, they have a comparative holiday,
with no drills and no duties except guard-mounting, dress parade toward
evening, and inspections. And it was during the first of the holiday
mornings that the above-mentioned "meeting" was held, beneath the shady
trees of Trophy Point, a short distance from the camp.

"I move," shouted a voice in the crowd, "that we elect Bud Smith
chairman."

The motion was carried with a shout, and Bud Smith, just out of hospital
by the way, was "boosted" up onto one of the guns, which served as the
"chair." Bud Smith was a tall, heavily-built youth with a face covered
by court-plaster and "contusions," as the results of a West Point fight
are officially designated by the hospital surgeon.

"This meeting will please come to order," said the chairman. "And the
gentlemen will oblige me by keeping quiet and not compelling me to use
my voice much. For I am--er--not feeling very well to-day."

And Bud illustrated his statement by gently mopping his "contusions"
with a damp handkerchief.

"We have met," began the chairman, as soon as this formality was
over--"we have met, I believe, to consider the cases of three 'beasts,'
Powers, Stanard and Mallory, by name (a low groan from the class), and
to consider the best method of reducing them to submission. I don't
think it is necessary for me to restate the complaints against them, for
you are probably all as familiar with the incidents as I. 'Texas'
Powers, or as he calls himself, Jeremiah, son o' the Honorable Scrap
Powers, o' Hurricane County, Texas, must be disciplined because he fails
to understand what is expected of him. He dared to order a superior
officer out of his room, and last Monday morning he succeeded in
defeating no less than four men in our class--myself among them."

And Cadet Smith again mopped his "contusions," and went on.

"Of course we have got to find somebody to whip him. Then, too, Stanard
lost his temper and attacked half a dozen of our class, for no other
reason on earth than that they tied him in a sack and carried him out
onto the cavalry plain. He, too, was victorious, I am told. And then,
last of all, but of all the offenders most insolent and lawless,
comes----"

The chairman paused solemnly before he pronounced the name.

"Mark Mallory."

And the storm of hisses and jeers that followed could have been heard at
barracks. It was evident that the yearlings had no love for Mark
Mallory, whoever Mark Mallory might be.

"Mark Mallory commenced his tricks," the chairman continued, "even
before he was a cadet. He was impudent then. And the other day he dared
to act as Powers' second. And, worse than all, yesterday, to show how
utterly reckless and B. J. he is, he deliberately locked Bull Harris and
Baby Edwards up in an icehouse, with the intention of making them absent
at taps and compelling them to remain imprisoned all night. It was only
by the merest accident, they succeeding in forcing the door, that this
plan was frustrated. Now, gentlemen, this thing is about as serious as
it can possibly be. Mark Mallory's conduct shows that he's gotten the
idea into his head that not only can he avoid being hazed, but even turn
the tables upon us and bid us defiance. His attack upon the two cadets
was absolutely unprovoked. Bull told me personally that he had not
attempted to haze him, and had not even spoken to him. It was a pure
case of freshness and nothing else. And he's got to be licked for it
until he can't stand up."

Bud Smith finished his speech amid a round of applause, and then fell to
soothing his "contusions" again.

It may as well be stated here that Bull Harris' account of the incident
that was just now causing so much talk was an absolute falsehood. As
told in a previous volume, entitled "Off for West Point," Bull and his
gang had made an attempt to lock Mark up, and had failed, and been
locked up themselves instead. That was all. But Bull and his gang saw
fit to omit that part of the story. It was safe, for no one could
gainsay it; Mark's account was not asked for.

"I move, Mr. Chairman," said Corporal Jasper, rising, "that inasmuch as
Mallory seems to be the leader of this fool business, that we lick him
first, and that, too, to-morrow morning. For it's growing worse every
minute. The plebes are getting so downright B. J. that a fellow can't
even give an order without fearing to be disobeyed. To-morrow morning, I
say. And I call for some one to volunteer."

The young officer's motion took the crowd's fancy.

"Who'll fight him? Who'll fight him?" became the cry, and was followed
by a chorus of names offered as suggestions. One was predominant, and
seemed to be the most popular.

"Williams! Billy Williams. Get up, Billy! Speech!"

And "Billy" arose from the ground as the cry grew louder, and said that
he was "very much honored," and that if the class really selected him he
would be most happy to do the best he possibly could.

"Hooray! Billy's going to lick him! 'Ray for Billy."

"I move, Mr. Chairman, that a committee be appointed to convey the
challenge on behalf of the class."

"Carried," said the chairman. "I appoint Corporal Jasper and Cadet
Spencer. This meeting stands adjourned."

And the yearlings scattered, bearing "Billy Williams" off in triumph.

The committee, much as it hated to, was obliged to delay the sending of
the challenge. There were two reasons: In the first place, Mark Mallory,
together with the rest of the plebes, was being bullied and tormented
just then in the course of a squad drill; and, in the second place, one
of the committee, Cadet Spencer, was engaged in doing the bullying,
having been appointed "on duty over plebes."

After supper, however, came a blissful half hour of rest to the
last-named unfortunates; and then the three yearlings gathered together,
took an extra quantity of dignity, and sallied forth to find the three
"B. J.'s."

"B. J.," it may be added, is West Point for fresh, and stands for
"before June."

Entering barracks, the committee made straight for Mark Mallory's room
and knocked.

"Come in, thar!" shouted a voice.

There were four occupants in the room. One was a round, fat-faced boy
with an alarmed, nervous look, Cadet Joseph Smith, of Indianapolis,
commonly known as "Indian."

In a chair by the window sat a still more curious figure, a lank, bony
individual with ill-fitted, straying clothes and a long, sharp face.

Upon his big, bulging knees rested a leather-bound volume labeled
"Dana's Geology," and opened at the Tertiary fossiliferous strata of the
Hudson River Valley. "Parson" Peter Stanard was too much interested to
notice the entrance of the cadets. He was trying to classify a Cyatho
phylloid coral which he had just had the luck to find.

Sprawled upon the bed was another tall, slender fellow, his feet hoisted
up on the pile of blankets at the foot. All the committee saw of "Texas"
Powers was a pair of soles, for Texas didn't care to move.

The fourth party was a handsome, broad-shouldered chap, with curly brown
hair. And to him Corporal Jasper, the spokesman, addressed himself.

"Mr. Mallory?" said he.

Mr. Mallory bowed.

"We have come as a committee representing the yearling class."

"I am honored," said Mr. Mallory.

"Pray do not feel so in the least," said Corporal Jasper, witheringly.
"The class desires to express, in the first place, its entire
displeasure, both as a class and as individuals, at your unprovoked
conduct toward two of its members."

"Um," said Mark, thoughtfully. "And did the two members tell you the
attack was unprovoked?"

"They did."

"Then I desire to express, in the first place, my entire displeasure,
both as a class and as an individual, at being thus grossly
misrepresented."

"Bully!" came the voice from behind the mattress.

"In short," continued Mark, "I desire to call the statement of Messrs.
Harris and Edwards a downright, unmitigated and contemptible lie."

"Sock it to 'em!" chuckled the voice from the mattress. "Wow!"

"Well put!" added "Parson" Stanard. "Worthy of the great Patrick Henry
himself."

"Bless my soul!" chimed Indian, ready to run.

Cadet Jasper took it coolly, like the gentleman he was.

"It is customary, Mr. Mallory," he said, calmly, "for a man to have to
earn the right to call a higher class man a liar."

"I am quite ready, sir," responded Mr. Mallory.

"That is fortunate. The class offers you such an opportunity. We are
directed to bring a challenge from Cadet Williams, of the third class,
to meet him at Fort Clinton at four o'clock to-morrow morning."

"I will consider it a favor," said Mark, politely, "if you will be good
enough to inform the class that I am most happy to accept."

"An' look a yere," cried Texas, Mark's chum, raising his head and
peering out between his feet. "Look a yere! Whar do I come in, in this
bizness?"

"Your seconds?" inquired Jasper, not noticing the interruption.

"Mr. Powers and Mr. Stanard."

"And is there any other information?"

"None."

"Remember, Fort Clinton at four A. M."

"I shall be there without fail. And I thank you for your trouble in the
matter."

Cadets Jasper and Spencer bowed and withdrew, while the four "beasts"
sat and looked at each other in silence.

"Well," Mark said, at last, "what do you think of it?"

"Think?" growled Texas. "I think it's a skin, that's what I think. An'
it's jest like you an' your luck, Mark Mallory!"

And, so saying, Texas kicked the mattress off the bed.

"If you don't do that feller Williams, whoever he is, in the first
round, I'll kick you out an' do it myself!"

"But who is this Williams?" inquired Mark, as he picked up the mattress
and threw it at Texas. "Does anybody here know?"

"I do," said the "Parson," reverently depositing Dana on the floor. "I
do know, and I shall, forsooth, be very happy to tell you about him.
Williams is, in the first place, as to physical proportions, the largest
man in his class; in the second place, he is the best all-around
man----"

"All round like Indian?" inquired Texas, gravely.

"Inasmuch as," continued the "Parson," "he won a considerable proportion
of the Olympic contests, which are celebrated here under the designation
of 'the spring games.'"

"That sounds promising," said Mark, thoughtfully. "I wonder if he can
fight."

"As to his pugilistic abilities, I am by no means so accurately
informed, but if my conjecture be of any value whatsoever, I should be
inclined to infer, from the fact that our enemies, the representatives
of tyranny and oppression, who are endeavoring to reduce us to
submission, have selected him as their champion and representative in
arms, that----"

"He's a beaut," put in Texas, to save time. "And I only wish I'd had
Mark's luck."

"And I wish," added the Boston student, "that I could contrive to
account for the presence of this Cyathodhylloid fossil in a sandstone of
Tertiary origin."

It was not very long after this that "tattoo" sounded. But before it did
the little band of rebels up in the barracks had time to swear eternal
fealty, and to vow by all that man held dear to be present "at Fort
Clinton at four A. M. to-morrow," there, as the "Parson" classically put
it, to fire a shot for freedom that should be heard around the world.
Mark swore it, and Indian, too; Texas swore it by the seventeen guns
which were stowed away in his trunk, and by the honor of his father,
"the Honorable Scrap Powers, o' Hurricane County;" and Peter Stanard
swore it by Bunker Hill and, yea, even by Lamachus, he of the Gorgon's
crest.

And then the meeting adjourned.




CHAPTER II.

MARK'S MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.


These were days of work for the plebes at West Point--days of drilling
and practicing from sunrise to night, until mind and body were
exhausted. And it usually happened that most of the unfortunates were
already sound asleep by the time "tattoo" was sounded, that is, unless
the unfortunates had been still more unfortunate, unfortunate enough to
fall into the clutches of the merciless yearling. When "taps" came half
an hour later, meaning lights out and all quiet, there was usually scant
need for the round of the watchful "tac," as the tactical officer is
designated.

It happened so on this night. The "tac" found all quiet except for the
snoring. And, this duty over, the officer made his way to his own home;
and after that there was nothing awake except the lonely sentry who
marched tirelessly up and down the halls.

The night wore on, the moon rose and shone down in the silent area,
making the shadows of the gray stone building stand out dark and black.
And the clock on the guardhouse indicated the hour of eleven.

It was not very many minutes more before there was a dark, shadowy form,
stealing in by the eastern sally-port, and hugging closely the black
shadows of the wall. He paused, whoever it was, when he reached the
area, and waited, listening. The sentry's tramp grew clear and then died
out again, which meant that the sentry was back in the hallway of the
barracks, and then the shadowy form stepped out into the moonlight and
ran swiftly and silently across the area and sprang up the steps to the
porch of the building; and there he stood and waited again until once
more the sentry was far away--then stepped into the doorway and crept
softly up the stairs. The strange midnight visitor was evidently some
one who knew the place.

He knew just the room he was going to, also, for he wasted not a
moment's time, but stole swiftly down the hall, and stopped before one
of the doors. It was the room of Cadets Mallory and Powers.

Doors at West Point are never locked; there are no keys. The strange
visitor crouched and listened cautiously. A sound of deep and regular
breathing came from within, and, hearing it, he softly opened the door,
entered and then just as carefully shut it behind him. Having attended
to this, he crept to one of the beds. He seemed to know which one he
wanted without even looking; it was Mark Mallory's. And then the
stranger leaned over and gently touched the occupant.

The occupant was sleeping soundly, for he was tired; the touch had no
effect upon him. The visitor tried again, and harder, this time with
success. Mark Mallory sat up in alarm.

"Ssh! Don't make a sound," whispered the other. "I've got a message for
you. Ssh!"

It is enough to alarm any one to be awakened out of a sound sleep in
such a manner, and at such a time, and Mark's heart was thumping
furiously.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

The figure made no answer, but crept to the window, instead, where the
moonlight was streaming in. And Mark recognized him instantly as one of
the small drum orderlies he had seen about the post. Half his alarm
subsided then, and he arose and joined the boy at the window.

"Here," said the boy. "Read it."

And so saying, he shoved a note into the other's hand. Mark took it
hurriedly, tore it open and read it.

It took him but a moment to do so, and when he finished his face was a
picture of amazement and incredulity.

"Who gave you this?" he demanded, angrily.

"Ssh!" whispered the boy, glancing fearfully at the bed where Texas lay.
"Ssh! You may wake him. She did."

"Now, look here!" said Mark, in a recklessly loud voice, for he was
angry, believing that the boy was lying. "Now, look here! I've been
fooled with one letter this way, and I don't mean to be fooled again. If
this is a trap of those cadets, as sure as I'm alive, I'll report the
matter to the superintendent and have you court-martialed. Remember! And
now I give you a chance to take it back. If you tell me the truth I'll
let you go unhurt. Now, once more, who gave you this?"

And Mark looked the trembling boy in the eye; but the boy still clung to
his story.

"She did, indeed she did," he protested.

"Where?" asked Mark.

"Down at her house."

"Why were you there?"

"I live there."

Mark stared at the boy for a moment more, and bit his lip in
uncertainty. Then he turned away and fell to pacing up and down the
room, muttering to himself.

"Yes," he said, "yes, I believe she wrote it. But what on earth can it
mean? What on earth can be the matter?"

Then he turned to the boy.

"Do you know what she wants?" he inquired.

"No, sir," whispered the other. "Only she told me to show you the way to
her house."

"Is anything the matter?"

"I don't know; but she looked very pale."

And Mark turned away once more and fell to pacing back and forth.

"Shall I go?" he mused. "Shall I go? It's beyond cadet limits. If I'm
caught it means court-martial and expulsion. There's the 'blue book' on
the mantel staring at me for a warning. By jingo! I don't think I'll
risk it!"

He turned to the boy about to refuse the request; and then suddenly came
another thought--she knew the danger as well as he! She knew what it
meant to go beyond limits, and yet she had sent for him at this strange
hour of the night, and for him, too, a comparative stranger. Surely, it
must be a desperate matter, a matter in which to fail was sheer
cowardice. At the same time with the thought there rose up before him a
vision of a certain very sweet and winsome face; and when he spoke to
the boy his answer was:

"I'll go."

He stepped to the desk, and wrote hastily on a piece of paper this note
to Texas:

      "I'll be back in time to fight. Explain later. Trust
      me.

      "MARK."

This he laid on the bureau, and then silently but quickly put on his
clothes and stepped to the door with the boy. Mark halted for a moment
and glanced about the room to make sure that all was well and that Texas
was asleep, and then he softly shut the door and turned to the boy.

"How are we going to get out?" he demanded.

"Come," responded the other, setting the example by creeping along on
tiptoe. "Come."

They halted again at the top of the stairway to wait until the sentry
had gone down, and then stole down and dodged outside the door just as
the latter turned and marched back. Flattened against the wall, they
waited breathlessly, while he approached nearer and nearer, and then he
halted, wheeled and went on. At the same moment the two crept quickly
across the area and vanished in the darkness of the sally port.

"Now," said the drum boy, as they came out on the other side, "here we
are. Come on."

Mark turned and followed him swiftly down the road toward Highland
Falls, and quiet once more reigned about the post.

There was one thing more that needs to be mentioned. It was a very
simple incident, but it was destined to lead to a great deal. It was
merely that a gust of wind blew in at the window of the room where Texas
slept, and, seizing the sheet of paper upon which Mark had written,
lifted it gently up and dropped it softly and silently behind the
bureau, whither Mark had thrown the other note.

And that was all.




CHAPTER III.

TROUBLE FOR MARK.


Time has a way of passing very hurriedly when there is anything going to
happen, especially if it be something disagreeable. The hands of the
clock had been at half-past eleven when Mark left. It took them almost
no time to hurry on to midnight, and not much longer to get to two. And
from two it went on to three, and then to half-past. The blackness of
the night began to wane, and the sky outside the window to lighten with
the first gray streaks of dawn. Not long after this time up in one of
the rooms on the second floor of barracks, Division 8, the occupant of
one of the rooms began to grow restless. For the occupant had promised
himself and others to awaken them. And awaken he did suddenly, and
turned over, rubbed his eyes, and sat up.

"Mark! Oh, Mark!" he called, softly. "Git up, thar! It's time to be
hustlin'!"

There was no answer, and Texas got up, yawning, and went to the other
bed.

"Git up thar, you prize fighter you!"

And as he spoke he aimed a blow at the bed, and the next moment he
started back in amazement, for his hand had touched nothing but a
mattress, and Texas knew that the bed was empty.

"Wow!" he muttered. "He's gone without me!"

And with this thought in his mind he rushed to his watch to see if he
were too late.

No, it was just ten minutes to four, and Texas started hastily to dress,
wondering at the same time what on earth could have led Mark to go so
early and without his friend.

"That was the goldurndest queer trick I ever did hear of in my life, by
jingo!"

It took him but a few short moments to fling his clothes on; and then he
stepped quickly across the hall and entered a room on the other side.

"I wonder if that Parson's gone with him," he muttered.

The "Parson" had not, for Texas found him engaged in encasing his long,
bony legs in a pair of trousers that would have held a dozen such.

"Are you accoutered for the combat?" he whispered, in a sepulchral
tone, sleepily brushing his long black hair from his eyes. "Where is
Mark?"

"The fool's gone up there without us!" replied the Texan, angrily.

"Without us!" echoed Stanard, sliding into his pale sea-green socks.

"Bless my soul!" echoed a voice from the bed--Indian was too sleepy to
get up. "Bless my soul, what an extraordinary proceeding!"

"Come on," said Texas. "Hurry up."

The "Parson" snatched up his coat and made for the door.

"I think," said he, halting at the door in hesitation. "I think I'll
leave my book behind. I'll hardly need it, do you think?"

"Come on!" growled Texas, impatiently. "Hurry up!"

Texas was beginning to get angry, as he thought, over Mark's "fool
trick."

The two dodged the sentry without much trouble; it is probable that the
sentry didn't want to see them, even if he did. They ran hastily out
through the sally port and across the parade ground, Texas, in his
impatience, dragging his long-legged companion in tow. They made a long
detour and approached Fort Clinton from behind the hotel, in order to
avoid the camp. Hearing voices from inside the embankment, Texas sprang
hastily forward, scrambled up the bank, and peered down into the
inclosure.

"Here they are," called one of the cadets, and then, as he glanced at
the two, he added: "But where's Mallory?"

And Texas gazed about him in blank amazement.

"Where is he?" he echoed. "Where is he? Why, ain't he yere?"

It was the cadets' turn to look surprised.

"Here?" echoed Corporal Jasper. "Here! Why, we haven't seen him."

"Hain't seen him!" roared Texas, wild with vexation. "What in thunder!"

"Wasn't he in your room?" inquired somebody.

"No. He was gone! I thought, of course, he'd come out yere."

And Texas fell to pacing up and down inside the fort, chewing at his
finger nails and muttering angrily to himself, while the yearlings
gathered into a group and speculated what the strange turn in the affair
could mean.

"It's ten to one he's flunked," put in Bull Harris, grinning joyfully.

Some such idea was lurking in Texas' mind, too, but it made him mad that
any of his enemies should say it.

"If he has," he bellowed, wheeling about angrily and facing the cadet.
"If he has it's because you've tricked him again, you ole white-legged
scoundrel you!"

Texas doubled up his fists and looked ready to fight right then; Bull
Harris opened his mouth to answer, but Jasper interposed:

"That's enough," said he. "We can settle this some other time. The
question is now about Mallory. You say, Mr. Powers, you've not the least
idea where he is?"

"If I had," responded Texas, "if I had, d'you think I'd be hyar?"

Jasper glanced at his watch. "It's five minutes after now," said he,
"and I----"

He got no farther, for Texas started forward on a run.

"I'm a goin' to look fo' him!" he announced. And then he sprang over the
embankment and disappeared, while the cadets stood about waiting
impatiently, and speculating as to what Mark's conduct could mean. Poor
Stanard sat sprawled out on top of the earthworks, where he sat down in
amazement and confusion when he discovered that Mark was not on hand;
and there he sat yet, too much amazed and confused to move or say
anything.

Meanwhile Texas was hurrying back to barracks with all the speed he
could command, his mind in a confused state of anxiety and doubt and
anger. The position of humiliation in which Mark's conduct had placed
him was gall and wormwood to him, and he was fast working himself into a
temper of the Texas style.

He rushed upstairs, forgetting that such a thing as a sentry existed. He
burst into the room and gazed about him. The place was empty still, and
Texas slammed the door and marched downstairs again, and raced back to
the fort.

The cadets were still waiting impatiently, for it was a good while after
four by this time.

"Find him?" they inquired.

"No, I didn't!" snapped Texas.

"No fight, then," said Jasper. "It's evident he's flunked."

"Wow!" cried Texas! "No fight! What's the matter with me?"

And, suiting the action to the word, he whipped off his coat.

"Not to-day," responded Jasper, with decision. "You'll have your chance
another day."

"Unless you run home, too," sneered Harris.

Texas' face was fiery red with anger, and he doubled up his fists and
made a leap for the last speaker.

"You coyote!" he roared. "You an' me'll fight now!"

Bull Harris started back, and before Texas could reach him half a dozen
cadets interfered. Williams, the would-be defender of his class, seized
the half-wild fellow by the shoulders and forced him back.

"Just take it easy," he commanded. "Just take it easy. You'll learn to
control yourself before you've been here long."

Texas could do nothing, for he was surrounded completely. Bull Harris
was led away, and then the rest of the cadets scattered to steal into
camp, but Texas snatched up his coat in a rage, and strode away toward
barracks, muttering angrily to himself, the "Parson" following behind in
silence. The latter ventured to interpose a remark on the way, and Texas
turned upon him angrily.

"Shut up!" he growled. "Mind your business!"

Stanard gazed at him in silence.

"I guess I'll have to knock him down again," he said to himself.

But he didn't, at least, not then; and Texas pranced up to his room and
flung himself into a chair, muttering uncomplimentary remarks about Mark
and West Point and everything in it. It was just half-past four when he
entered, and for fifteen minutes he sat and pounded the floor with his
heel in rage. Texas was about as mad as he knew how to be, which was
very mad indeed. And then suddenly there was a step in the hall and the
door was burst open. Texas turned and looked.

It was Mark!

Texas sprang to his feet in an instant, all his wrath aflame. Mark had
come in hurriedly, for he had evidently been running.

"What happened----" he began, but he got no further.

"You confounded coward!" roared Texas. "Whar did you git the nerve to
show yo' face round hyar?"

"Why, Texas?" exclaimed Mark, in amazement.

Texas was prancing up and down the room, his fingers twitching.

"I jest tell you, sah, they ain't no room in my room fo' a coward that
sneaks off when he's got a fight. Now I----"

"I left word for you," said Mark, interrupting him.

"Word for me! Word for me!" howled the other. "You're a--a--a liar,
sah!"

Mark's face was as white as a sheet, but he kept his temper.

"Now, Texas," he began again, soothingly. "Now, Texas----"

"Take that, too, will ye?" sneered Texas. "You're coward enough to
swallow that, too, hey? Wonder how much more you'll stand. Try that."

And before Mark could raise his arm the other sprang forward and dealt
him a stinging blow upon the face.

Mark stepped back, his whole frame quivering.

"How much?" he repeated, slowly. "Not that."

And then, just as slowly, he took off his coat.

"Fight, hey?" laughed Texas. "Wow! Ready?" he added, flinging his own
jacket on the floor and getting his great long arms into motion.
"Ready?"

"Yes," said Mark. "I am ready."

And in an instant the other leaped forward, just as he had done at Fort
Clinton, except that he omitted the yelling, being indoors with a sentry
nearby.

Physically two fighters were never more evenly matched; no one, to look
at them, could have picked the winner, for both were giants. But there
was a difference apparent before very long. Texas fought in the wild and
savage style of the prairie, nip-and-tuck, go-as-you-please; and he was
wild with anger. He had swept the yearlings at Fort Clinton before him
that way and he thought to do it again. Mark had another style, a style
that Texas had never seen. He learned a good deal about it in a very few
minutes.

Texas started with a rush, striking right and left with all the power of
his arms; and Mark simply stepped to one side and let the wall stop
Texas. That made Texas angrier still, if such a thing can be imagined.
He turned and made another dash, this time aiming a savage blow at his
opponent's head. In it was all the power of the Texan's great right arm,
and it was meant to kill. Mark moved his head to one side and let the
blow pass, stopping the rush with a firm prod in the other's chest; then
he stepped aside and waited for another rush. For he did not want to
hurt his excited roommate if he could help it.

A repetition of this had no effect upon Texas, however, except to
increase his fury, and Mark found that he was fast getting mad himself.
A glancing blow upon the head that brought blood capped the climax, and
Mark gritted his teeth and got to work. Texas made another lunge, which
Mark dodged, and then, before the former could stop, Mark caught him a
crushing blow upon the jaw which made his teeth rattle. Texas staggered
back, and Mark followed him up rapidly, planting blow after blow upon
the body of his wildly striking opponent. And in a few moments Texas,
the invincible Texas, was being rapidly pummeled into submission.

"I'll leave his face alone," thought Mark, as he aimed a blow that half
paralyzed the other's right wrist. "For I don't want the cadets to know
about this."

And just then he landed an extra hard crack upon the other's chest, and
Texas went down in a corner.

"Want any more?" inquired Mark, gravely.

Texas staggered to his feet and made one more rush, only to be promptly
laid out again.

"I guess that's enough," thought Mark, as the other lay still and
gasped. "I guess that's enough for poor Texas."

And so saying, he took out his handkerchief, wiped the blood from his
face, and then opened the door and went out.

"I'm sorry I had to do it," he mused; "sorry as thunder! But he made me.
And anyhow, he won't want to fight very soon again."




CHAPTER IV.

THE EXPLANATION.


Mark had barely reached the head of the stairs before the morning gun
sounded, and five minutes later he was in line at roll call with the
rest of his class. It is needless to say that Texas was absent.

Texas woke up a while later, and staggered to his feet, feeling
carefully of his ribs to make sure they were not really broken. And then
he went out and interviewed a sentry in the hall.

"Look a yere, mister," said he. "Where's this yere place they call the
hospital?"

The sentry directed him to await the proper hour, and Texas spent
the rest of that day, reported by the surgeon as "absent from
duty--sick--contusions." And the whole class wondered why.

Mark noticed that the cadets were looking at him at breakfast; and he
noticed that the members of his own class were rather distant, but he
gritted his teeth and made up his mind to face it out.

"If even Texas called me a coward," he mused, "I can't expect the rest
of 'em to do otherwise."

And so it seemed, for that same morning just after breakfast Corporal
Jasper and Cadet Spencer paid a visit to Mark.

"The class would like, if you please, Mr. Mallory," said the former, "an
explanation of your conduct this morning."

"And I am sorry to say," responded Mark, just as politely, "that I am
unable to give it. All I can say is that my conduct, though it may seem
strange and mysterious, was unavoidable. If you will allow me, I shall
be pleased to meet Mr. Williams to-morrow."

"We cannot allow it," said Jasper, emphatically, "unless you consent to
explain your action and can succeed in doing it satisfactorily, which
you will pardon me for saying I doubt very much, you stand before the
academy branded as a coward."

"Very well," said Mark, "let it be so."

And he turned away, and all through that long, weary morning and the
afternoon, too. Cadet Mallory was in Coventry, and not a soul spoke a
word to him, except Cadet Spencer, at drill. And he was frigid.

Cadet Powers was released from the hospital "cured" that evening after
supper, and he limped upstairs to his room, and sat down to think about
himself, and to philosophize upon the vanities of life and the follies
of ambition. Mark did not come up until "tattoo" sounded, and so Texas
had plenty of time. He felt very meek just then; he wasn't angry any
more, and he'd had plenty of time also to think over what a fool he had
been in not listening to Mark's explanation of his absence. For Texas
had been suddenly convinced that Mark was no coward after all.

While he sat there, a piece of paper sticking out from under the bureau
caught his eye. Texas was getting very neat recently under West Point
discipline; he picked that paper up, and read as follows:

      "I'll be back in time to fight. Explain later. Trust
      me.

      "MARK."

"Oh!" cried Texas, springing up from his chair and wrenching a
dilapidated shoulder. "He told me he did that--and I called him a liar!"

Texas walked up and down, and mused some more. Then it occurred to him
there might be more paper under that bureau to explain things. He got
down, painfully, and fished out another crumpled note. And he read that,
too:

      "DEAR MR. MALLORY: I am in deep trouble, and I need
      your aid at once. You can tell how serious the trouble
      is by the fact that I ask you to come to me
      immediately. If you care to do a generous and helpful
      act pray do not refuse. Sincerely yours,

      "MARY ADAMS."

Mary Adams was a girl well known to many of the cadets.

The letter was roughly scrawled on a pad, and when Texas finished
reading it he flung it on the floor and went and glared at himself in
the mirror.

"You idiot!" he muttered, shaking his fist at himself. "Here them ole
cadets went an' fooled Mark Mallory again, an' you--bah!"

Texas was repentant through and through by that time; he grabbed up his
cap savagely and made for the door, with a reckless disregard for sore
joints. He hobbled downstairs and out of barracks, and caught Mark by
the arm just as Mark was coming in.

"Well, Texas?" inquired Mark, smiling.

"Fust place," said Texas, briefly, "want to thank you fo' lickin' me."

"Welcome," said Mark.

"Second place, do it ag'in if I ever lose my temper."

"Welcome," said Mark.

"Third place, I want to 'pologize."

"What's up? What's happened to convince you?"

"Nothin' much," said Texas, "only I been a' findin' out what a fool I
am. Hones' now, Mark," and as Mark looked into the other's pleading gray
eyes he saw that Texas meant it. "Hones' now, this yere's fust time I
ever 'pologized in my life. I'm sorry."

And Mark took him by the hand. They were friends again from that moment.

"I jist saw that second note from Mary Adams upstairs," explained Texas,
"an' then I knowed them ole cadets had fooled you that way ag'in. Say,
Mark, you're mos' as big a fool as me--mos'."

"That note was genuine," answered Mark. And then as he saw Texas'
amazement, he led him aside and explained. "I'll tell you about it,"
said he, "for I can trust you not to tell. But I can't explain to the
rest of the class, and I won't, either, though they may call me a
coward if they choose.

"A drummer boy came up here last night--or, rather, this morning. He
woke me up and gave me that note, swore it was genuine, too, and I
believed him in the end. As you see, Mary Adams wanted to see me, and
she was in a desperate hurry about it. Well, I debated over it for a
long time; at first I thought I wouldn't, for I was afraid of
court-martial; but then as I thought of her in distress I made up my
mind to risk it, and I went. As it turned out, old man, you'd have been
ashamed of me if I hadn't. There are worse things than being called a
coward, and one of em's being a coward.

"I found her in great trouble, as she said. She has a brother, a fellow
of about twenty-two, I guess. She lives with her widowed mother, and he
takes care of them. I think they are poor. Anyway, this brother had
gotten two or three hundred dollars from his employer to take a trip out
West. He had fallen in with a rather tough crowd down in the village,
and they were busy making him spend it as fast as he could. That was the
situation."

"It was tough," commented Texas.

"The problem was to get him away. The girl hadn't a friend on earth to
call on, and she happened to think of me. She begged me to try to get
him away. And I'll tell you one thing, too, Texas. The cadets say she's
a flirt and all that. She may be. I haven't had a chance to find out,
and I don't propose to; but a girl that thinks as much of her brother as
she does, and does as much for him, is not beyond respect by a good
sight. I was really quite taken with her last night."

"Beware the serpent," put in Texas, laughing. "She's pretty, I'm told.
Go on."

"Well, I found him, after a couple of hours' search, in a tough dive,
with a crowd of loafers hanging on to him. I got him out, but I had to
knock down----"

"Hey!" cried Texas, springing up in excitement. "Had a fight, did ye?
Why didn't you take me 'long?"

"I didn't know I was going to fight," said Mark, laughing.

"And did you lick 'em?"

"I only had to lick two, and then the rest ran."

Texas sighed resignedly, and Mark went on:

"I took him home, as I said, and left him with her. I got home just in
time for reveille."

"Time to have me call you names and to lick me blue, for the same which
I have jest thanked yo," added Texas, his eyes suspiciously moist. "An'
look a yere, ole man"--Texas slung his hand around to his hip pocket and
"pulled" a beautiful silver-mounted revolver, loaded "to the
brim"--"look a yere, Mark. This yere gun, I ain't ever gone out 'thout
it fo' ten year. She's a----"

"You don't mean to say you've had it on up here!"

"Sho'," said Texas, "an' I come near usin' it on you, too. Mark, you
dunno how a Texas man is with a gun. Mos' of 'em 'ud ruther sell their
wives. An' I'm a goin' to give you this to show that--er--that ther'
ain't no hard feelin's, you know."

"And I'll take it," said Mark, getting hold of Texas' other hand at the
same time--"take it, if it's only to keep you from carrying it. And
there aren't any hard feelings."




CHAPTER V.

MARK IN DISGRACE.


"In my excursions into the various fields of knowledge I have never yet
had occasion to investigate the alleged discoveries of phrenological
experimentalists, and yet----"

The speaker paused for a moment, long enough to sigh mournfully. Then he
continued:

"And yet I had, I think, sufficient perception of character as
delineated by the outlines of physiognomy to recognize at once the fact
that the person to whom we refer is in no way a coward."

"I wish I had, Parson," responded his companion, ruefully rubbing a
large lump upon his forehead. "I wish I had."

The thin, learned features of the first speaker found it difficult to
indicate any amusement, and yet there was the trace of a smile about his
mouth as he answered.

"You say he 'licked' you, to use your own rather unclassic phrase?" he
inquired.

"Licked me? Wow! He gave me, sah, the very worst lickin' I ever got in
my life--which is very natural, seeing that when a feller gits licked
down in Texas they bury him afterward. I reckon I'd be a gunnin' fo' him
right now, if 'twarn't seein' it's Mark Mallory. Why, man, a feller
can't stay mad with Mark Mallory long!"

It was just dinner time and Parson and Texas were sitting on the steps
of barracks, waiting for the summons and talking over the events of the
previous day.

"And how did this encounter originate?" inquired the Parson.

"All in my foolishness!" growled Texas. "You see yesterday morning when
he didn't turn up to fight that 'ere yearling fellow Williams, I thought
'twas cause he was scared. An' so I got mad an' when he did turn up I
went fo' him. An' then I went fo' the hospital."

"His conduct did seem unaccountable," rejoined the other. "And yet
somehow I had an instinctive intuition, so to speak, that there was an
adequate reason. And one is apt to find that such impressions are
trustworthy, as, indeed, was most obviously demonstrated and
consistently maintained by the German philosopher, Immanuel Kant. Are
you acquainted with Kant's antinomies?" the Parson added, anxiously.

"No," said Powers. "I ain't. They ain't got to Texas yit. But I wish I'd
had more sense'n to git mad with Mark. I tell you I felt cheap when he
did explain. I kain't tell you the reason yit, but you'll know it before
long. All I kin say is he went down to Cranston's."

"To Cranston's? I thought we weren't allowed off the grounds."

"We ain't. But he took the risk of expulsion."

"And another, too," put in the Parson, "the risk of being called a
coward an' being ostracised by the cadets."

"I dunno 'bout the astercizin' part," said Texas, "but I know they
called him a coward, an' I know they cut him dead. There won't even a
plebe speak to him, 'cept me an' you an' Injun. An' it's what I call
durnation tough now, by Jingo!"

"It don't worry me very much," put in a voice behind them.

The two turned and saw Mark looking at them with an amused expression.

"It don't worry me much," he repeated. "I guess I can stand it if
you'll stand by me. And I think pretty soon I can get another chance at
Williams, and then----"

"If ye do," cried the excitable Texan, springing up, "I'll back you to
murder him in jist about half a minute."

"It won't be so easy," responded Mark, "for Williams is the best man in
his class, and that's saying a great deal. But I'll try it; and in the
meantime we'll face out the disgrace. I can stand it, for really there
isn't much privation when you have three to keep you company."

"I reckon," put in Texas, after a moment's thought, "I reckon we'll have
to put off aformin' o' thet ere new organization we were a-talkin'
'bout. Cuz we kain't git anybody to join ef they won't any of 'em speak
to us."

"I guess we three are enough for the present," said Mark, "at least
while all the cadets leave us alone. And if they try to haze us I think
we can fight about as well as the rest of them. Then there's Indian,
too, you know; I don't think he can fight much, but he's----"

"Now, see here!" cried an indignant voice from the doorway, "now see
here, you fellows! I think that's real mean, now, indeed I do. Didn't I
tell you fellows I was going to learn to fight?" he expostulated.
"Didn't I? Bless my soul, now, what more can a man do?"

Mark winked slyly to his companions, and put on his most solemn air.

"Do?" he growled. "You ask what more can a man do? A man might, if he
were a man, rise up and prove his prowess and win himself a name. He
might gird up his loins and take his sword in his hand and sally forth,
to vindicate his honor and the honor of his sworn friends and allies.
That is what he might do. And instead what does he do? In slothfulness
and cowardice he sits and suffers beneath the rod of tyranny and
oppression!"

Mark finished out of breath and red in the face.

"Bless my soul!" cried Indian.

"Such a course is by no means entirely unprecedented," put in Stanard,
solemnly. "It is common in the mythology of antiquity and in the legends
of mediaeval times. Such was the course of Hercules, and thus did Sir
Galahad and the Knights of the Round Table."

Poor Joe Smith was gazing at the two speakers in perplexity. He wasn't
quite sure whether they were serious or not, but he thought they were,
and he was on the verge of promising to go out and kill something,
whether a cadet or a grizzly, at once. The only trouble was that the
tall, sedate-looking officer of the day, in his spotless uniform of
gray and white and gold with a dazzling red sash thrown in, strode out
of the guardhouse just then; a moment later came the cry, "New cadets
turn out!" and Indian drew a breath of relief at being delivered from
his uncomfortable situation.

Saturday afternoon is a holiday at West Point. The luckless plebe,
having been drilled and shouted at for a week, gets a much-needed chance
to do as he pleases, with the understanding, of course, that he does not
happen to fall into the hands of the yearlings. If he does, he does as
they please, instead.

Saturday afternoon is also a holiday time for the yearling, too, and he
is accustomed to amuse himself with variety shows and concerts,
recitations and exhibition drills, continuous performances that are
free, given by the "beasts," the "trained animals," or plebes.

It may be well at the start to have a word to say about "hazing" at West
Point. Hazing is abolished there, so people say. At any rate, there are
stringent measures taken to prevent it. A cadet is forbidden in any way
to lay hands upon the plebe; he is forbidden to give any degrading
command or exact any menial service; and the penalty for breaking these
rules is dismissal. The plebe is called up daily before the tactical
officer in charge of his company, and asked if he has any complaint to
make.

Such are the methods. The results are supposed to be a complete stopping
of "deviling" in all its forms. The actual result has been that when a
yearling wants to "lay hands upon the plebe" he does it on the
sly--perhaps "yanks" him, as one peculiar form of nocturnal torture is
termed. When the yearling wants some work done, instead of "commanding"
he "requests," and with the utmost politeness. If he wants his gun
cleaned he kindly offers to "show" the plebe how to do it--taking care
to see that the showing is done on his own gun and not on the plebe's.
And the plebe is not supposed to object. He may, but in that case there
are other methods. If he reports anybody he is ostracised--"cut" by
every one, his own class included.

This being the case, we come to the events of this particular Saturday
afternoon.

    "There were three wily yearlings
      Set out one summer's day
    To hunt the plebe so timid
      In barracks far away."

Only in this case there were half a dozen instead of three.

Now, of all the persons selected for torment that year, with the
possible exception of Mark and Texas, the two "B. J.'s," Indian was the
most prominent. "Indian," as he was now called by the whole corps, was a
_rara avis_ among plebes, being an innocent, gullible person who
believed implicitly everything that was told him, and could be scared to
death by a word. It was Indian that this particular crowd of merry
yearlings set out to find.

Mark and Texas, it chanced, had gone out for a walk; "Parson" Stanard
had, wandered over to the library building to "ascertain the extent of
their geological literature," and to get some information, if possible,
about a most interesting question which was just then troubling him.

And poor Joe Smith was all alone in his room, dreading some visitation
of evil.

The laughing crowd dashed up the steps and burst into the room. Indian
had been told what to do. "Heels together, turn out your toes, hands by
your sides, palms to the front, fingers closed, little fingers on the
seams of the trousers, head up, chin in, shoulders thrown back, chest
out. Here, you! Get that scared look off your face. Whacher 'fraid of.
If you don't stop looking scared I'll murder you on the spot!"

And with preliminary introduction the whole crowd got at him at once.

"Can you play the piano? Go ahead, then. What! Haven't got any? Why
didn't you bring one? What's the use of being able to play the piano if
you haven't a piano? Can you recite? Don't know anything? You look like
it. Here, take this paper--it's a song. Learn it now! Why don't you
learn it? What do you mean by staring at me instead of at the paper?
There, that's right. Now sing the first six verses. Don't know 'em yet?
Bah, what will you do when you come to trigonometry with a hundred and
fourteen formulas to learn every night? Have you learned to stand on
your head yet? What! Didn't I tell you to do it? Who taught you to stand
on your feet, anyhow? Why don't you answer me, eh? Let's see you get up
on that mantelpiece. Won't hold you? Well, who said it would? What's
that got to do with it? No! Don't take that chair. Vault up! There. Now
flap your wings. What! Haven't got any? What kind of an angel are you,
anyhow? Flap your ears. Let's hear you crow like a hen. Hens don't crow?
What do you know about hens, anyway? Were you ever a hen? Well, why
weren't you? Were you ever a goose, then? No? Well, you certainly look
like it! Why don't you crow when we tell you? What kind of crowing is
that--flap your arms, there. Have you got any toothpicks? What! No
toothpicks? Don't suppose you have any teeth, either. Oh, so you have
toothpicks, have you? Well, why did you say you didn't? Take 'em out of
your pockets and row yourself along that mantelpiece with 'em. 'Fraid
you'll fall off, eh? Well, we'll put you up again. Humpty Dumpty! Row
fast now! Row! Get that grin off your face. How dare you smile at a
higher classman! You are the most amazingly presumptuous beast that I
ever heard of. Get down now, and don't break any bones about it,
either!"

All these amazing orders, rattled off in a breath, and interspersed with
a variety of comment and ejaculation, poor Indian obeyed in fear and
trembling. He was commanded to fall down, and he fell; he was commanded
to fall up, and he protested that the law of gravitation----"Bah! why
don't you get the law repealed?" He wiped off a smile from his terrified
face and threw it under the bed. Then, gasping, spluttering, he went
under and got it. He strove his very best to go to sleep, amid a
variety of suggestions, such as which eyes to shut and which lung to
breathe through.

This went on till the ingenuity of the cadets was nearly exhausted. Then
one individual, more learned than the rest, chanced to learn the
identity of the Indian's name with that of the great Mormon leader. And
instantly he elbowed his way to the front.

"Look here, sir, who told you to be a Mormon? You're not a Mormon? Got
only one wife, hey? None? Then what sort of a Mormon are you? Why have
you got a Mormon's name? Did you steal it? Don't you know who Joseph
Smith was? No? Not you, the great Joseph Smith! Suppose you think you're
the great Joseph Smith. Well, now, how on earth did you ever manage to
get into this academy without knowing who Joseph Smith was? Didn't ask
you that, you say? Well, they should have! Fellow-citizens and cadets,
did you ever hear of such a thing? There must be some mistake here. The
very idea of letting a dunce like that in? Why, I knew who Joseph Smith
was about seventy-five years ago. Gentlemen, I move you that we carry
this case to the academy board at once. I shall use my influence to have
this man expelled. I never heard of such a preposterous outrage in my
life! Not know Joseph Smith! And he's too fat to be a cadet, anyhow.
What do you say?"

"Come ahead! Come ahead!" cried the rest of the mob, indignant and
solemn.

And almost before the poor Indian could realize what they were doing, or
going to do, the whole crowd arose gravely and marched in silence out of
the room, bent upon their direful mission of having the Army Board expel
Indian because he had never heard of Joseph Smith, the Mormon prophet.
And Indian swallowed every bit of it and sat and trembled for his life.




CHAPTER VI.

INDIAN'S RE-EXAMINATION.


It was a rare opportunity. The six yearlings made for camp on a run, and
there an interesting conference was held with a few more choice spirits,
the upshot being that the whole crew set out for barracks again in high
spirits, and looking forward to a jolly lark.

They entered the building, causing dire fear to several anxious-looking
plebes who were peering out of the windows and wondering if this
particular marauding party was bound in their direction. It was one of
the empty rooms that they entered, however, and there they proceeded to
costume one of their number, putting on a huge red sash, some medals, a
few shoulder straps borrowed for the occasion, and, last of all, a false
mustache. This done, they hastened over to the room where the
unfortunate "Mormon" still sat. The "officer" rapped sharply on the
door.

"Come in," a voice responded weakly; the cadets came.

"Mr. Smith, sir?" inquired the personage with the mustache.

"Yes, sir," said Indian, meekly, awed by the man's splendor.

"I have been requested by certain of the cadets of the United States
Military Academy to investigate the circumstance of your alleged passing
at the recent examination. I have been informed by these same gentleman
that when questioned by them you exhibited stupidity and ignorance so
very gross as to cause them to doubt whether you have any right to call
yourself a cadet at all."

Here the cadets shook their heads solemnly and looked very stern indeed.

"Bless my soul!" cried Indian.

"In order to consider these very grave allegations," continued the
other, "a special meeting of the Army Board was first convened, with the
following result:"

Here the speaker paused, cleared his throat pompously, and drew forth a
frightfully official-looking envelope, from which he took a large
printed sheet with the West Point seal upon the top.

"United States Military Academy, West Point, June 20th," he read--that
is the way all "orders" begin. "Cadet Joseph Smith, of Indianapolis,
Indiana, it has just been ascertained, was admitted to the duties of
conditional cadet through an error of the examining board. A
re-examination of Cadet Smith is hereby ordered to be conducted
immediately under the charge of the lord high chief quartermaster of the
academy. By order of the Academy Board. Ahem!"

The lord high chief quartermaster finished, and Cadet Smith sank down
upon the bed in horror.

"Sir!" shouted the officer, "how dare you sit down in the presence of
your superiors? Get up, sir, instantly!"

Indian "got," weak-kneed and trembling.

"The examination will be held," continued the cadet, "in the Observatory
Building, at once. Gentlemen, you will conduct Mr. Smith there and await
my arrival."

The bogus officer desired time to change his uniform, as he knew it
would be risky to cross the parade in his borrowed clothing.

Now the Observatory Building is situated far away from the rest of the
academy, upon the hillside near Fort Putnam. And thither the party set
out, the cadets freely discussing the probable fate of the unhappy
plebe. It was the almost unanimous verdict that one who was so
unutterably stupid as never to have heard of the great Joseph Smith
would not stand the ghost of a show. All of which was comforting to the
listening victim.

The Observatory was deserted and lonely. The door was locked, and the
party gained entrance by the windows, which alone was enough to excite
one's suspicion. But Indian was too scared to think.

The lord high chief quartermaster presently slipped in, once more
bedecked with medals and mustache.

The examining party got to work at once in a very businesslike and
solemn manner. The physical examination was to come first, they said. It
had been the opinion of the Army Board that Mr. Smith was far too fat to
make a presentable cadet. The surgeons were busy that afternoon in
trying to piece together several plebes who had been knocked all to
pieces by the yearlings for being too "B. J."--this was the explanation
of the lord high chief quartermaster--and so it would be necessary to
examine Indian here, and at once, too. And if it were found, as, indeed,
would most probably be the case, that he was too fat, why then it would
be necessary for him to reduce weight immediately.

Several schemes were suggested as to how this might be done. There was
the Shylock, the Shakespearian method, of a pound of flesh from near the
heart. Cadet Corporal So-and-So suggested that several veal cutlets from
the legs--each an inch thick--would serve. A veal cutlet an inch thick
he estimated--his great grandfather on his mother's other side had been
a butcher, he stated--would weigh three pounds. Then Acting Cadet
Sergeant Somebody-Else suggested a Turkish bath, the jockey's method,
together with very violent exercise. This plan was adopted finally as
being the least likely to be fatal in its results.

But just then somebody suddenly thought of the fact that it would be
best to weigh the subject first, which was considered a good idea, but
for the fact that they had no scales. This trouble "feazed" the crowd at
first. Then the lord high chief quartermaster said that he was a
first-rate judge of weight, having slaughtered hogs in his youth, and
could tell by the feel. So Mr. Joseph Smith must be immediately
"boosted" up and balanced upon the cadet's outstretched hand, there to
be shaken and otherwise tested, while the man below made audible
calculations by means of trigonometrical formulas as to what was his
actual weight.

The result of this experiment, as might have been expected, was by no
means very definite. The lord high chief, etc., thought the weight was
too much, but he couldn't be sure. And then Cadet "Admiral" Jones
proposed another scheme. He had been a juggler "when he was young;" he
was used to tossing heavy weights; in fact, he just happened to know
that he could throw three hundred pounds exactly twelve feet, the height
of the ceiling. It was obvious, therefore, that if Indian weighed over
that he would not reach the ceiling; but if he should go through the
ceiling that would mean just as clearly that he was under the limit and
need not "reduce."

In vain did the frightened boy protest that he weighed only one hundred
and fifty; the test must be made, and made it was. Indian's terrified
form did not once get near the ceiling, and so reduce he must. The
cadets formed a circle about the room.

"Now," said the commanding official, "now you must manage to reduce
weight quickly this way, or we shall try the veal cutlet scheme. So
you'll find it best to hurry. We want you to run around the outside of
this circle. We'll give you just ten and one-quarter minutes by my watch
(which runs very fast, by the way) to get around fifty times. And in
the course of that you must manage to perspire fifteen pounds of weight
(enough to make you go through the ceiling). This is equal to half a
gallon of water. Now then! Take off your coat, sir. Ready! Set!! Go!!!
Why don't you start, sir? There now! Hurry up! One second--two
seconds--three--four--fi'--six--sev'n--eight--nine--ten--'leven! Faster!
Faster!! Hurry up! One minute! You haven't lost a pound yet! What! Out
of breath already? Faster! That's right! Keep it up now!"

The scene at this stage of the "examination" is left to the imagination;
Indian, wild-eyed, panting and red, plunging wildly around in a dizzy
circle of a dozen laughing cadets. And in the center the lord high with
his watch slowly telling off the minutes.

"Two minutes there, two minutes! Come now, hurry up! Don't begin to lag
there! Why don't you stop that panting? There goes the first drop of
perspiration. Hooray, there's another! It'll soon be a gallon now. Two
and a quarter!"

Poor Joseph kept it up to five, by which time he was so dizzy that he
could not stand up; which was the best reason in the world why he sank
down utterly breathless in the corner. And there he lay gasping, the
cadets in vain trying to get him to rise.

"I think," said the presiding officer, nearly convulsed with
laughter--"I think that is reduction enough for the present, and I say
we proceed to the 'mental.'"

A conference was held over in one corner of the room, as to what the
questions should be; and then in an evil hour (for them) an idea struck
one of the cadets.

"See here, fellows," said he. "I think he's been examined enough. Let's
get somebody else. Let's get---- Who's that learned chap?"

"Stanard?"

"Oh, yes, Stanard! The Parson! Let's get him."

The idea took with a rush. It would be so much more fun to fool the
learned Parson! And in a minute or two half the party, including the
lord high chief quartermaster, was on its way back to barracks to hunt
up the new victim, while the rest stayed to resuscitate Indian and to
write out a list of questions for the "mental examination."




CHAPTER VII.

THE EXAMINATION OF THE PARSON.


The "examining board" had the good luck to come upon the Parson in a
secluded spot near the Observatory. The Parson had left the library for
a walk, his beloved Dana under his arm and the cyathophylloid coral in
one of his pockets. The "committee" made a rush at him.

"Mr. Stanard?" inquired the lord high, etc.

Mr. Stanard bowed in his grave, serious way, his knees stiff, and his
head bobbing in unison with his flying coat tails.

"Mr. Stanard, I have been sent by the Army Board to read the inclosed
notice to you. Ahem!"

Mr. Stanard peered at the speaker. His mustache fooled the Parson, and
the Parson bowed meekly.

Once more the cadet took out the official envelope and with a
preliminary flourish and several "ahems!" began to read:

"United States Military Academy, West Point, June 20th. Cadet Peter
Stanard, of Boston, Massachusetts, it has just been ascertained, was
admitted to the duties of conditional cadet through an error of the
examining board. A re-examination of Cadet Stanard is hereby ordered to
be conducted immediately under the charge of the--ahem!--superintendent
of ordnance, in the Observatory Building. By order of the Academy Board.
Ahem!"

Now, if Cadet Peter Stanard had been a cadet just a little longer he
would never have been taken in by that device, for Cadet Peter Stanard
was no fool. But as it was, he did not see that the order was absurd.

He went.

Again the procession started with the same comments as before; this
time, however, the door was not locked, and the party entered, sought
out another room where stood several solemn cadets at attention,
respectfully saluting the superintendent of ordnance, ex-lord high.

"Cadet Stanard," said the latter, "take a chair. Here is pencil and
paper. What is that book there. Geology? Well, give it to me until
afterward. Now, Mr. Stanard, here are ten questions which the board
expects you to answer. These are general questions--that is, they are
upon no particular subject. The board desires to test your general
stock of information, the--ahem!--breadth, so to speak, of your
intellectual horizon. Now you will be allowed an hour to answer them.
And since I have other duties in the meantime, I shall leave you,
trusting to your own honor to use no unfair means. Mr. Stanard,
good-day."

Mr. Stanard rose, bobbed his head and coat tails and sat down. The
superintendent marched out, the cadets after him. The victim heard a key
turn in the door; the Parson glanced at the first question on the
paper--

"I. When are cyathophylloid corals to be found in fossiliferous
sandstone of Tertiary origin?"

"By the bones of a Megatherium!" cried the Parson, "The very thing I was
looking for myself and couldn't find."

And forthwith he seized his pencil, and, without reading further, wrote
a ten minutes' discourse upon his own researches in that same line.

"That's the best I can do," said he, wiping his brow. "Now for the
next."

"II. Name any undiscovered island in the Pacific Ocean."

The Parson knitted his brows in perplexity and reread the question.

"Undiscovered," he muttered. "Undiscovered! Surely that word is
undiscovered. U-m-yes! But if an island is undiscovered how can it have
any name? That must be a mistake."

In perplexity, the Parson went on to the next one.

"III. If a dog jumps three feet at a jump, how many jumps will it take
him to get across a wall twelve feet wide?"

"IV. In what year did George Washington stop beating his mother?"

A faint light had begun to dawn upon Stanard's mind; his face began to
redden with indignation.

"V. What is strategy in warfare? Give an example. If you were out of
ammunition and didn't want the enemy to know it, would it be strategy to
go right on firing?"

"VI. If three cannibals eat one missionary, how many missionaries will
it take to eat the three cannibals?"

"VII. If a plebe's swelled head shrinks at the rate of three inches a
day, how many months will it be before it fits his brains?"

And Stanard seized the paper, tore it across the middle and flung it to
the floor in disgust. Then he made for the door.

"There's going to be a fight!" he muttered. "I swear it by the Seven
Hills of Rome!"

The Parson's blood was boiling with righteous indignation; he had
"licked" those same cadets before, or some of them, and he meant to do
it again right now. But when he reached the door he halted for a moment
to listen to a voice he heard outside.

"I tell you I cannot do it! Bless my soul!"--the Parson recognized the
sound. "I tell you I have lost enough weight already. I can't run again.
Now, I'll go home first. Bless my soul!"

"Oho!" said the Parson. "So they got poor Indian in this thing, too.
Um--this is something to think over."

With his usual meditative manner he turned and took his seat again,
carefully pulling up his trousers and moving his coat tails as he did
so. Clearing his throat, he began to discuss the case with himself.

"It is obvious, very obvious, that my condition will in no way be
ameliorated by creating a suspicion in trying to make a forceful exit
through that locked door.

"It would be a more efficacious method, I think, in some way to manage
to summon aid. Perhaps it would be well to endeavor to leave in secret."

And with this thought in mind he went to the window.

"It would appear," he said, gravely, as he took in the situation, "that
the 'high-thundering, Olympian Zeus' smiles propitiously upon my plan."

And with this classic remark he stuck one long shank out of the window,
followed it with another just as long, and stood upon the cornice over
the door of the building, which chanced to be in reach. From there he
half slid, half tumbled to the ground, arose, arranged his necktie
carefully, gazed about him solemnly to hear if any one had seen him, and
finally set out at a brisk pace for barracks, taking great, long
strides, swinging his great, long arms, and talking sagely to himself in
the meanwhile.

"When the other two members of our--ahem!--alliance are made aware of
the extraordinary condition of affairs," he muttered, "I think that I am
justified in my hypothesis when I say there will be some excitement."

There was.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE RESCUE PARTY.


Mark and Texas were seated on the steps of barracks when the Parson came
through the sally port. The two were listening to the music of the band
at the Saturday afternoon hop in the Academy Building, and also watching
several cadets paying penalties by marching sedately back and forth in
the area.

Stanard strolled in slowly with no signs of excitement. He came up and
sat down beside the two in his usual methodical way.

"Good-afternoon, gentlemen," said he. "Good-afternoon. I have something
to deliberate upon with you if it is perfectly agreeable."

It was agreeable, and so the Parson told his story, embellishing it with
many flourishes, classical allusions and geological metaphors. And when
he finished Texas sprang up in excitement.

"Wow!" he cried. "Let's go up thar an' clean out the hull crowd."

"It is best to deliberate, to think over our plan of attack," returned
the Parson, calmly, and with a mild rebuke in his tone, which reminded
Texas of his promise never to get excited again, made him sit down
sheepishly.

"I think," put in Mark, "that we ought to think up some scheme to scare
'em off, or get away with Indian, or something. It's a harmless joke,
you know, so what's the use of fighting over it?"

"Oh," growled Texas, in disgust.

"If we could only manage to turn the tables on them," continued Mark.
"Shut up a while, and let's think a few minutes."

And then there was silence, deep and impressive, while everybody got his
"ratiocinating apparatus," as the Parson called it, to work. Mark was
the first to break it.

"Look here, Parson," said he, "what's the name of all those chemicals of
yours that you hid up the chimney for fear the cadet officers 'd make
you give 'em up?"

The Parson rattled off a list of unpronounceable names, at the mention
of one of which Mark sprang up.

"Get it! Get it! you long-legged Boston professor, you!" he shouted.
"Never mind why! But I've got something in my pocket that'll--gee whiz!
Hurry up!"

The Parson did as he was commanded, and in about as much of a hurry as
was possible for him. And Mark tucked the bottle under his coat and the
three set off in haste to the rescue, Texas grumbling meanwhile and
wanting to know why in thunderation a square stand-up fight wasn't just
as good as anything.

An Indian war party could not have made a more stealthy entrance than
did the three. They climbed in one of the windows on the lower floor,
the basement, and then listened for any sound that might tell them what
was going on above. They heard voices conversing in low tones, but no
signs of hazing; the reason of that fact being that Indian was just then
locked in another room hard at work on his "mental examination," the
same one that had been given to Stanard. And poor Indian was striving
his best to think of the name of any undiscovered island which he had
ever heard of.

Mark took the big bottle from under his coat, set it on the floor and
took out the cork. From his pocket he took a paper containing a thick
black powder. This he poured carefully into the bottle, put in the cork,
and then turned and made a dash for the window. Outside, the three made
for the woods nearby and hid to watch.

"Just wait till enough of that dissolves," said Mark. "Just wait."

Meanwhile, upstairs, the hilarious cadets were chuckling merrily over
the predicament of their two victims. The lord high, etc., and
superintendent had carefully timed the hour that the Parson was to have
for his answers; the hour was up, and the official had arisen, turned
the key, and was in the very act of opening the door when suddenly--

Bang! a loud report that shook the doors and windows of the building and
made the cadets spring up in alarm. They gazed in one another's
frightened faces, scarcely knowing what to think. And then up the
stairway slowly rolled a dense volume of heavy smoke, that seemed to
fill the building in an instant.

"Fire! Fire!" yelled the whole crowd at once, and, forgetting both their
victims in the mad excitement, they made a wild dash down the stairs for
the door.

"Fire! Fire!" rang out their cries, and a moment later a big bell down
at barracks sounded the alarm--"Fire! Fire!"

And over in the woods three conspirators sat and punched one another for
joy.




CHAPTER IX.

HEROISM OF THE PARSON.


The cadets of the academy are organized into a fire department for the
safety of the post. It is the duty of the cadets upon the sounding of
the alarm--three strokes of the bell, or a long roll on the drum, or
three shots, as the case may be--to fall into line immediately and
proceed to the scene of the fire. One brigade has charge of a hand
engine, another forms a bucket line, etc.

West Point was, of course, thrown into the wildest excitement on the
instant that the cry was raised. The cadets poured in from every
direction, and in a few moments were on the way at double-quick. Army
officers, the soldiers of the regular army at the post, infantry and
cavalry, all made for the scene.

The Observatory Building was found to be in imminent peril, apparently;
there were no flames in sight, but smoke was pouring from every crevice.
Prompt and quick to act, some heroic young cadet leaped up the steps and
burst in the door with an ax, though it was not locked and needed only
a turn of the knob to open it. The moment an opening was made a cloud of
smoke burst forth that drove the party back before it, and at the same
instant a cry of horror swelled up from the fast-arriving crowd.

With one accord everybody glanced up to one of the windows on the floor
above. There stood a figure, nothing but the head visible in the smoke,
a figure of a badly-frightened lad, yelling at the top of his lungs for
help! help! help! And the crowd gazed at him in terror. It was Indian,
apparently in peril of his life!

Who should save him? Who? The thought was in everybody's mind at the
moment, and yet every one hesitated before that barrier of blinding
smoke. And then--then suddenly a roar of cheers and shouts swelled up as
a hero came to the fore. When every one else trembled this hero alone
was bold. He had dashed wildly from the woods, a tall, lanky,
long-haired figure. He had fought his way through the craven crowd, his
coat tails flying and his long elbows working. He had dashed up the
steps, his light green socks twinkling with every stride. And now, while
the crowd shouted encouragement, he plunged desperately into the thick
of the smoke and was lost to view.

The crowd waited in breathless suspense--one minute--two--and still the
imperiled lad stood at the window and the hero did not appear. Could it
be that he was lost--overcome by smoke and flame? The throng below hated
to think of it and yet--no, there he was! At the doorway again! Had he
failed to accomplish his noble purpose? Had he been driven back from the
work of rescue? No! No! He had succeeded; he had gotten what he wanted!
As he dashed wildly out again the people saw that he carried under his
arm a great, leather-bound volume.

"Dana's Geology" was safe!

And a moment or two later somebody put up a ladder and the unfortunate
"Mormon" climbed down in haste.

Meanwhile, what of the fire? Encouraged by the example of the "hero,"
the cadets rushed in to the attack. But, strange to say, though they had
hand engines and buckets and ladders, they could find no fire to attack.
Several windows having been smashed, most of the smoke had escaped by
this time--there had really been but very little of it, anyway, just
enough for excitement. There is a saying that where there is smoke
there must be flame, and, acting on this rather dubious statement, the
gallant fire brigade hunted high and low, searching in every nook and
corner of the building, and even searching the desk drawers to see if
perchance the cunning fire had run away and hidden there. And still not
a sign of flame.

The mystery got more and more interesting; the whole crowd came in--the
smoke having all gone by this time--to see if, perchance, a little more
diligent search might not aid; and the people kept coming until finally
the place was so packed that there was no room for the fire anyway. And
so finally every one gave it up in disgust and went home, including the
gallant fire brigade. And the three conspirators in the woods went, too,
scarcely able to hide their glee.

"It's jest one on them ole cadets!" vowed Texas.

Of course, the Army Board ordered a strict investigation, which was
made--and told nothing. All that was found was a few bits of broken
glass in one room, and an "examination paper" in another. Indian was
hauled up, terrified, to explain; he described his hazing, but
steadfastly refused names--which was good West Point etiquette--he
vowed he knew nothing about the fire--which was the truth--also West
Point etiquette. And since Indian was mum, and there was no one else to
investigate, the investigation stopped, and the affair remained a West
Point mystery--a mystery to all but three.




CHAPTER X.

MORE TROUBLES.


"No, sir! I wouldn't think of it, not for a moment. The fellow's a
coward, and he don't deserve the chance."

And Cadet Corporal Jasper brought his fist down on the table with a
bang.

"No, sir," he repeated. "I wouldn't think of it!"

"But he wants to fight!" exclaimed the other.

"Well, he had a chance once; why didn't he fight then? That's what I
want to know, and that's what he won't tell us. And as far as I'm
concerned Mallory shall lie in the bed he's made. I wouldn't honor him
with another chance."

It was an afternoon late in June, and the two speakers were discussing
some ice cream at "the Dutchwoman's" and waiting for the call to
quarters before dress parade.

"If that fellow," continued Corporal Jasper, "had any reason on earth
for getting up at midnight, dodging sentry and running out of barracks,
to stay till reveille, except to avoid fighting you that morning, now,
by jingo! I want to know what it is! The class sent me to ask him, and
he simply said he wouldn't tell, that's all. His bluff about wanting
another chance won't work."

"Well, if we don't," protested Williams, the other man, a tall,
finely-built fellow, "if we don't, he'll go right on getting fresh,
won't he?"

"No, sir, he won't! We'll find a way to stop him. In the first place,
he's been sent to Coventry. Not a man in the academy'll speak to him; he
may not mind that for a while, but I think he won't brave it out very
long. Just you watch and see."

"The only trouble with that," said Williams, "is that he's not cut by
all the fellows. I've seen three of the plebes with him."

"What!" cried the other, in amazement. "Who?"

"Well, there's that fellow he seconded in the fight----"

"Texas, you mean?"

"Yes, Texas. Then that long-legged scarecrow Stanard was out walking
with him this very day. And I saw that goose they call the Indian
talking to him at dinner, and before the whole plebe class, too."

"Well, now, by jingo! they'll find it costs something to defy the
corps!" exclaimed Jasper. "It's a pretty state of affairs, indeed, if
three or four beasts can come up here and run this place as they please.
They'll find when an order's given here they'll obey, or else they can
chase themselves home in a hurry. That fellow Mallory must be a fool!
There's never been a plebe at this academy's dared to do half what he's
done."

"That's why I think it would be best to lick him. I'm not sure I can do
it, you know, but I think it would be best to try."

"That fellow started out to be B. J. at the very start," growled the
excitable corporal, after a moment's thought. "Right at the very start!
'Baby' Edwards was telling me the other day how way last year this
fellow met with an accident--fell off the express or something--and
while he was staying down at the Falls Baby and a couple of other
fellows thought he was a candidate, and started in to haze him. He was
sassy as you please then. And after that he went out West, where he
lives, and did some extraordinary thing--saved an express, I believe,
and sent in an account to a paper for a lot of money. Of course that got
him dead stuck on himself, and then he goes and wins a cadetship here
and thinks he can run the earth. He was so deucedly B. J. he had to go
and lock Edwards and Bull Harris in an icehouse down near the Falls!"

"You see what's happened now," he continued, after a moment's pause.
"Your challenge brought him up with a round turn, and he saw his bluff
was stopped. He was afraid to fight, and so he hid, that's all. But, by
jingo, he'll pay for it if I've got anything to say in the matter!"

And the little corporal made the dishes on the table rattle.

Corporal Jasper and Cadet Williams had finished their council and their
ice cream by this time, and arose to go just as the roll of drum was
heard from "Camp McPherson." The two strolled off in the direction of
the summons, Jasper just as positive and vehement as ever.

"You shan't fight him," he declared. "And if sending him to Coventry
doesn't do any good, we'll find some other way, that's all! And we'll
keep at him till he learns how to behave himself if it takes the whole
summer to do it."

This was the young cadet officer's parting vow, as he turned and entered
his tent.




CHAPTER XI.

DISADVANTAGES OF "COVENTRY."


"Sir, the parade is formed!"

Thus spoke the cadet adjutant as he approached the lieutenant in
command, and a moment later, at the word, the battalion swung around and
marched across the campus. It was the evening dress parade of perhaps
the best drilled body of troops in the country, and West Point was out
in holiday attire to see it.

Seated on the benches beneath the trees on the western edge of the
parade ground was a crowd of spectators--visitors at the post and nearly
the whole plebe class besides. For this was Saturday afternoon holiday,
and the "beasts" had turned out in a body to witness the performance of
what they were all hoping some day to be.

It was a "mighty fine" performance, and one that made those same beasts
open their eyes with amazement. Spotless and glittering in their
uniforms were the cadets, and they went through all manner of difficult
evolutions in perfect unison, marching with lines as straight and even
as the eye could wish. It is a pretty sight, a mass of gray in a setting
of deep green--the trees that encircle the spot, and it made the poor
homesick "beasts" take a little interest in life once more.

Among these "beasts" were Mark and Texas. They sat under the trees a
little apart from the crowd and watched the scene with interest. Mark
had seen dress parades before; Texas had not, and he stared with open
eyes and mouth, giving vent to an exclamation of amazement and delight
at intervals.

"Look a' yere, Mark," he cried, "d'you think we'll ever be able do that
a' way. Honest, now? I think I'll stay!"

"Even after you get through fightin?" laughed Mark.

"I don't think I want to fight any more," growled Texas, looking glum.
"Since you an' me fit, somehow fightin' ain't so much fun."

"What's the fun o' fightin' ef you git licked?" he added, after a
moment's thought.

"I never tried it," said the other, laughing. "But I suppose you'll be
real meek now and let them haze you."

"Yaas!" drawled Texas, grinning. "Yes, I will! Them ole cadets git after
me, now, by jingo, I'll go out there an' yank some of 'em out that
parade an' lick them all t'once. But say! look at that chap on a horse."

"That chap's the commandant," said Mark, "and he's going to review the
parade for a change."

"I wish I was in it," exclaimed Texas, "an' I wish I knew all that
rigamarole they're doin' now"--that "rigamarole" being the
manual-at-arms. "I jest believe if I had somebody to teach me 'cept that
'ere yellin' tomcat of a Cadet Spencer I'd learn in a jiffy, dog on his
boots!"

"There he is now," said Mark, "in the second line there. And there on
the outside with his chevrons is Corporal Jasper, 'the committee.' They
look very different when they're in line."

"Nothin' 'd make that red-headed, freckle-faced coyote of a drill-master
look different," growled Texas. "I jes' wish he was bigger'n me so's I
could git up a scrap with him. Jest think o' that little martinet a
yellin' at me an' tellin' me I didn't have any sense. To-day, for
instance, d'you remember, he was tryin' to show Indian how to march an'
move his legs, an' Indian got twisted up into a knot; an' durnation,
jist because I laughed, why he rared round an' bucked fo' an hour!
What's the harm in laughing, anyhow?"

And Texas glared so savagely at his tormentor as the line swept by just
then that Mark concluded there was no harm and laughed.

"You're getting to be very stupid company, Texas," said he. "You never
do anything but growl at the cadets. I wish I had some diversion."

And Mark turned away in mock disgust and glanced down the archway of
trees.

"Here she comes," he said, after a moment's pause. "That's she walking
up the path with a cadet and another girl."

Texas turned as Mark spoke, and looked in the direction of his nod.

"So that's Mary Adams!" he exclaimed. "Well! well! That's the girl you
dodged barracks for, and risked your commission, and missed the fight,
and got called a coward, and sent to Coventry, and lots else. I swear!"

"That's the one," said Mark, smiling.

"She's stunning pretty," added Texas, as the trio drew near. "Gee-whiz!
I don't blame you."

"I liked her right well myself," admitted the other. "That is after I
saw her with that brother of hers. She certainly is a good sister to
him. But the cadets say she's something of a flirt, and Wicks Merritt
advised me to leave her alone, so I guess I shall."

"Sunday school teacher!" said Texas, laughing. "We'll have to call you
Parson, instead of Stanard. But I guess you're right. That's not a very
beautiful looking cadet she's with."

The three were passing then, and Mark arose.

"I guess I'll have to go speak to her," said he. "She's beckoning to me.
Wait a moment."

Texas watched his friend approach the group; he could not hear what was
said, however, and so he turned away to watch the parade. By doing it he
missed an interesting scene.

Mary Adams welcomed Mark with a look of gratitude and admiration that
Mark could not fail to notice. She had not forgotten the magnitude of
the service he had done for her. And then she turned to her two
companions.

"Miss Webb," she said, "let me present Mr. Mallory."

The other girl bowed, and Mary Adams turned to the cadet.

"Mr. Murray, Mr. Mallory," said she.

And then came the thunderclap. Mark put out his hand; the cadet quietly
put his behind his back.

"The cadets of this academy, Miss Adams," said he, "do not speak to Mr.
Mallory. Mr. Mallory is a coward!"

It was a trying moment; Mark felt the blood surge to his head, his
fingers twitched and his lip quivered. He longed to spring at the
fellow's throat and fling him to the ground.

It was a natural impulse. Texas would have done it. But Mark controlled
himself by the effort of his life. He clinched his hands behind him and
bit his tongue, and when he spoke he was calm and emotionless.

"Miss Adams," he said, "Mr. Murray and I will settle that later."

The two girls stared in amazement, "Mr. Murray" gazed into space, and
Mark turned without another word and strode over to where his friend was
sitting.

"Texas!" he muttered, gripping him by the shoulder. "Texas, there's
going to be a fight."

"Hey!" cried Texas, springing to his feet. "What's that? Whoop!"




CHAPTER XII.

THE EMBASSY OF THE PARSON.


"What's happened?" cried Texas, as soon as he'd managed to get calm
enough to talk coherently. "What's happened?"

"Sit down," said Mark, laughing in spite of himself. "Sit down and stop
your dancing. Everybody in the place is staring at you."

Texas sat, and then Mark described to him just what had happened. As
might have been expected, he was up in arms in a moment.

"Where is that feller? Now, look a 'yere, Mark, leggo me. Thar he goes!
Say, if I don't git him by the neck an'----"

The excitable youth was quieted after some ten minutes' work or so, and
immediate danger was over.

"And now," said Mark, "where's the Parson?"

"Over in library," responded the other, "a fossilizin'. What do you want
with him?"

"You be good," said Mark, "and I'll let you see. Come on."

They found the Parson as Texas had said, and they managed to separate
him from the books and drag him over to barracks. Then Mark, who by this
time had recovered his usual easy good-nature, told of "Mr. Murray's"
insult again.

"Now, I haven't the least objection," he continued, "of being sent to
Coventry. In fact, so long as it means the cadets' leaving me alone, I
rather like the idea. But I don't propose to stand a thing like that
which just happened for a moment. So there's got to be a fight, and if
they won't let me, I'll have to make 'em, that's all."

"Um," said the Parson, looking grave. "Um."

"Now, as for that fellow Murray," added Mark, "I don't propose to fight
him."

"Wow!" shouted Texas. "What in thunder do you mean? Now if you don't, by
jingo! I'll go and do it myself!"

"Take it easy," said Mark, laughing. "You see, Williams is the man the
class has selected to beat me; he's the best fighter. Now, if I beat
anybody else it won't do me the least bit of good; they'd still say I'm
afraid of Williams. So I'm going to try him first. How's that, Texas?"

"Reckon you're right," admitted Powers, rather sheepishly. "I 'spose
you'll let me go and arrange it, hey?"

"I'd as soon think of sending a dynamite bomb," laughed Mark. "You'd be
in a fight before he'd said three words. That's what I wanted the Parson
for. I think he'd be grave and scholarly even if they ate him."

"Thank you," said the Parson, gravely. "I should try."

"Wow!" growled Texas.

And thus it happened that the Parson set out for "Camp McPherson," a
short while later, his learned head full of prize fighting and the
methods and practice of diplomacy.

It was rather an unusual thing for a plebe to do--this venturing into
"camp;" and the cadets stared at the Parson, wondering what an amount of
curiosity he must have to go prospecting within the lines of the enemy.
The Parson, however, did not act as if curiosity had brought him; with a
businesslike air and a solemn visage he strode down the company street,
and, heedless of the cadets who had gathered at the tent doors to see
him, halted in front of one before which he saw "Billy" Williams
standing.

"Mr. Williams?" said the Parson.

Mr. Williams had been engaged in vigorously drying his face; he paused,
and gazed up out of the towel in surprise, and one of his tent mates,
Cadet Captain Fischer, ceased unwinding himself from his long red sash
and stared.

"My name is Stanard," said the Parson--"Peter Stanard."

"Pleased to meet you," said Williams, stretching out a long, brawny arm.

There was a twinkle in the yearling's eye as he glanced at the skinny
white fingers which Stanard put out in return. And, taking in the
stranger's lank, scholarly figure, Williams seized the hand and squeezed
with all his might.

He expected to hear a howl, but he was disappointed. The Parson drew up
his "prehensile muscles," as he called them. The result was that Cadet
Williams turned white, but he said nothing about it, and invited the
stranger into his tent.

The Parson deposited himself gently in one corner and drew up his long
legs under him. Then he gazed out of the tent and said--"ahem!"

"Warm day," said Williams, by way of a starter.

"It is not that the temperature is excessively altitudinous," responded
the Parson, "but the presence of a larger proportion of humidity retards
perspiratory exudation."

"Er--yes," said Williams. "Yes, I think that's it."

"I have come--ahem!" continued Stanard, "as a representative of Mr.
Mallory."

The other bowed.

"Mr. Mallory desires to know--if you will pardon my abruptness in
proceeding immediately to the matter in hand--to know if it is not
possible for you to fulfill a certain--er--engagement which you had with
him."

"I see," said Williams, thoughtfully, and he tapped the floor with his
foot for a minute or so.

"Mr. Mallory, of course, understands," he continued at last, "that I
have no grudge against him at all."

"Certainly," said the Parson.

"In fact, I rather admire Mr. Mallory, on the whole, though some of his
actions have been, I think, imprudent. In this matter I am simply the
deputy of the class."

"Exactly," said the Parson, bowing profusely.

"Therefore, I fight when the class says so, and when they say no, what
reason have I for fighting? Now, the class thinks that Mr. Mallory has
had chance enough, and----"

"But they don't know the circumstances!" protested Stanard, with more
suddenness than was usual with him.

"They do not," responded the other. "But they'd like to."

"I do not know them myself," said the Parson. "But I have faith enough
in Mr. Mallory to take his word that it was unavoidable."

"You must have a good deal," added Williams, his handsome face looking
grave, "a good deal to risk being sent to Coventry."

"I am willing. Examples of yet higher devotion to a _fides amicus_, so
to speak, are by no means extraordinary. Take the popular instance of
Damon and Pythias, or, if you look for one yet more conspicuous, I would
mention Prylocates and Tyndarus, in the well-known play of 'The
Captive,' by Plautus, with which you are doubtless familiar."

And the Parson closed his learned discourse with his favorite occupation
of wiping his brow.

"The risk is your own," responded the yearling, calmly. "You must not
mind if the class resents your view of the case."

There was a few moments' silence after that, during which the Parson
racked his head to think what to say next.

"You refuse, then, to fight Mr. Mallory?" he inquired at last.

"Absolutely!" responded the other. "Absolutely, until the class so
directs."

Then the Parson drew a long breath, and prepared for the culminating
stroke.

"What I say next, Mr. Williams," said he, "you will understand is said
with all possible politeness and good feeling, but it must be said. Mr.
Mallory has been insulted by some cadets as a coward. He must free
himself from the suspicion. Mr. Williams, if a plebe should strike an
older cadet, would that make a fight necessary?"

"Most certainly," said Williams, flushing.

"Well, now, suppose he simply threatened to do so," continued Stanard.
"Would that be cause enough?"

"It might."

"Well, then, Mr. Williams, Mr. Mallory desires me with all politeness
to beg permission to threaten to strike you."

"I see," said the other, smiling at the solemn air with which the lank
stranger made this extraordinary request. "I see. I have no objection to
his so doing."

"Thank you," said Stanard. "A fight is now necessary, I believe?"

"Er--yes," said Williams. "I believe it is." The fact of the matter was
that he saw that Mark was in a position to force a fight if he chose,
and the yearling was by no means reluctant, anyhow.

"I thank you for your courtesy," he continued, bowing Stanard out of the
tent. "Tell Mr. Mallory that I shall send my second to see him this
evening. Good-day."

And Stanard bowed and strode away with joy in his very stride.

"We have met the enemy," was his report to Mark. "We have met the enemy,
and there's going to be a fight!"




CHAPTER XIII.

PREPARATIONS FOR THE BATTLE.


It does not take long for news of so exciting a matter as a really
important fight to spread among the corps. No sooner did the Parson
leave camp than cadets began to stroll in to find out why he had come,
and, learning, they hurried off to discuss the news with their own
tentmates. So it happened that by the time the cadets marched down to
mess hall to supper every man in the battalion knew that Mark Mallory,
the B. J. beast, had succeeded in getting another chance at "Billy"
Williams. The plebes knew of it, too. When their rather ragged and
scattered company fell in behind the corps at barracks, they were all
talking about it, at least when the file closers weren't near. At supper
nobody talked of anything else, and everybody in the room was eying Mark
and his stalwart opponent and speculating as to what the chances would
be.

"Billy'll do him!" vowed the yearlings. "There's nobody in the class
that stands more chance."

And the plebes feared it would be that way, too, and yet there were a
few at the tables discussing the matter in whispers, venturesome enough
to say that perhaps maybe their classmate might win and to wonder what
on earth would happen to him if he did.

"It'll mean a revelation if he does!" they cried. "Perhaps it'll even
stop hazing."

The mood of the irate little corporal, who had vowed not an hour before
that Mallory should not have another chance, may well be imagined.

"I tell you, 'tis a shame!" he vowed to Williams. "A shame! I don't see
why in thunder you didn't hold out."

"It's not my fault, Jasper," responded the other, smiling good
naturedly. "If you'll think a while, you'll see he was in a position to
force a fight at any time he chose. If I refused to 'allow him to
threaten to hit me,' as he put it, he could have threatened anyway, and
then if that didn't do any good, he'd have actually to hit me, and there
you would have been. It's a great deal better this way."

"Yes!" growled Jasper. "That sounds all very well. But look where it
puts me, by George! You'll have to get somebody else to arrange it. I
won't. I went as a committee and told him he'd not get another chance,
and I tell you now I'll not go take it back for anybody, and with that
B. J. plebe especially."

"Perhaps he won't be so very B. J. after the fight," responded the
other, smiling. "I don't know, of course, but I shall do my best."

"If you don't," said the other, looking serious, "by jingo! we'll be in
a thundering fix. There's nobody in the class can beat you, and that
plebe'll have a walkover."

This last sentiment of Jasper's was the sentiment of the whole yearling
class, and the class was in a state of uncertainty in consequence. Texas
was known to have whipped four cadets in one morning, and all of them
good men, too; then there was a rumor out that Mark and Texas had had a
quarrel and that the latter had gone to the hospital some five minutes
later. The two facts put together were enough to make the most confident
do some thinking.

It is difficult for one who has never been to West Point to appreciate
what this state of affairs meant--because it is hard for him to
appreciate the relation which exists between the plebe and the rest of
the corps. From the moment of the former's arrival as an alarmed and
trembling candidate, it is the especial business of every cadet to
teach him that he is the most utterly, entirely and absolutely
insignificant individual upon the face of the universe. He is shouted at
and ordered, bullied, badgered, tormented, pulled and hauled, drilled
and laughed at until he is reduced to the state of mind of a rabbit. If
he is "B. J." about it, he is bullied the more; if he shows fight, he
has all he wants, and is made meeker still. The result of it all is that
he learns to do just as anybody else commands him, and

    Never dares to sneeze unless
    He's asked you if he might.

All of which is fun for the yearling.

Now, here was Mark Mallory--to say nothing of Texas--who had come up to
the Point with an absurd notion of his own dignity, who had outwitted
the yearlings at every turn, been sent to Coventry--and didn't care a
hang, and now was on the point of trying to "lick" the finest all-around
athlete in the whole third class. It was enough to make the corps
tremble--the yearlings, at any rate. The first class usually feels too
dignified to meddle with such things.

Billy Williams' ambassador put in an appearance on the following Sunday
morning, and, to Mark's disgust, he proved to be none other than his
old enemy, Bull Harris--sent, by the way, not because Williams so chose,
but because Bull himself had asked to be sent.

"Mr. Williams," said he, "says he'll give you another chance to run
away."

Mark bowed politely, determined that Harris should get as little chance
for insult as possible.

"He'll fight you to-morrow--Fort Clinton, at four, and if you don't
come, by thunder! he'll find out why."

Mark's face grew white, but he only bowed again, and swallowed it. And
just then came an unexpected interruption.

"Mr. Mallory, as the challenged party, has the right to name the time."

The voice was loud and clear, and seemed to have authority; Harris
turned and confronted Cadet First Captain Fischer, in all his glory of
chevrons and sword. Now, the first captain is lord of West Point--and
Harris didn't dare to say a word, though he was boiling within.

"And, moreover," continued the imposing young officer, angrily, "you
should remember that you came, Mr. Harris, as a gentleman and not as a
combatant. Mr. Mallory, what is your wish?"

"The time suits me," said Mark, quietly. "Good-day, Mr. Harris."

And Harris left in a very unpleasant mood indeed; he had meant to have
no end of amusement at the expense of Mark's feelings.

"You've a hard row to hoe," said the cadet officer to Mark, "and a hard
man to beat. And you were foolish to get into it, but, all the same,
I'll see that you have fair play."

"And that," exclaimed Texas to Mark, as he watched the tall, erect
figure of the cadet vanish through the sally port. "That is the first
decent word I've heard from a cadet since I've been here. Bully for
Fischer!"

"It's probable," said Mark, "that he knows Harris as well as we. And
now, old fellow," he added, "we've got nothing to do but pass time, and
wait--and wait for to-morrow morning!"

Mark slept soundly that night in spite of the excitement. It was Texas
who was restless, for Texas had promised to act as alarm clock, and,
realizing that not to be on time again would be a calamity indeed, he
was up half a dozen times to gaze out of the window toward the eastern
sky, watching for the first signs of morning.

While it was yet so dark that he could scarcely see the clock, he routed
Mark out of bed.

"Git up thar," he whispered, "git up an' git ready."

Mark "got," and the two dressed hurriedly and crept down the stairs,
past the sentry--the sentry was a cadet, and kindly "looked the other
way"--and then went out through the sally port to the parade ground. The
plain was shrouded in mist and darkness, and the stars still shone,
though there was a faint light in the east. The two stole past the
camp--where also the sentries were blind--scaled the ramparts, and stood
in the center of "old Fort Clinton."

The spot was deserted and silent, but scarcely had the two been there a
moment before a head peered over the wall nearest to the camp.

"They're here," whispered a cadet, and sprang over. A dozen others
followed him, and in a very few minutes more there were at least thirty
of them, excited and eager, waiting for "Billy" to put in an appearance.
It was not long before Billy came, and behind him his faithful chum,
Jasper, with a bucket of water, and sponges and towels enough for a
dozen. About the same time Stanard's long shanks appeared over the
breastworks, and Indian tumbled over a moment later. Things were about
ready then.

"Let's lose no time," said Jasper, always impatient. "Captain Fischer
will act as referee and timekeeper, if it's agreeable."

No one could have suited Mark more, and he said so. Likewise, he stated,
through his second, Mr. Powers, that he preferred to fight by rounds,
which evidently pleased Mr. Williams. Mr. Williams was by this time
stripped to the waist, his suspenders tied about him. And it was
evidently as Fischer had said. There was no finer man in his class, and
he was trained to perfection. His skin was white and glistening, his
shoulders broad and massive, and the muscles on his arms stood out with
every motion. His legs were probably as muscular, too, thought Mark, for
Williams held the record for the mile. The yearlings' hearts beat higher
as they gazed at their champion's determined face.

Mark was a little slower in stepping up; when he did so the watching
crowd sized him up carefully, and then there was doubt.

"Oh, gee, but this is going to be a fight!" was the verdict of every one
of them.

"Marquis of Queensberry rules," said Fischer, in a low tone. "Both know
them?"

Mark nodded.

"Shake hands!"

Mark put out his, by way of answer, and Williams gripped it right
heartily.

"Ready?"

And then the simple word "Go."

Let us gaze about a moment at the scene. The ring is surrounded by
earthworks, now grass-grown and trodden down, unkept since the
Revolutionary days, when West Point was a Gibraltar. Old cannon,
caissons and wagon wheels are scattered about inside, together with
ramparts and wire chevaux-de-friezes which the cadets are practiced in
constructing. In the southwest corner is a small, clear, smooth-trodden
space, where the two brawny, white-skinned warriors stand. The cadets
are forming a ring about them, for every one is too excited to sit down
and keep quiet. The "outlooks," posted for safety, are neglecting their
duty recklessly for the same reason, and looking in altogether. Every
eye is on the two.

Over in Mark's corner sits Texas, gripping his hands in excitement,
wriggling nervously and muttering to himself. Stanard is beside him with
"Dana's Geology" as a cushion. The Parson is a picture of calm and
scholarly dignity, in direct contrast with our friend Texas, who is on
the verge of one of his wild "fits." "Indian" is the fourth and only
other plebe present, and Indian is horrified, as usual, and mutters
"Bless my soul" at intervals.

On the opposite side of the circle of cadets are Jasper and another
second, both breathlessly watching every move. Nearby stands Cadet
Captain Fischer, calm and cool, critically watching the play.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE AFFAIR AT THE FORT.


The two began cautiously, like a pair of skillful generals sending out a
skirmish line to test the enemy's strength and resource. This was no
such battle as Texas', a wild rush, a few mighty blows, and then
victory. Williams was wary as a cat, sparring lightly, and taking no
risks, and the other saw the plan and its wisdom.

"Playing easy," muttered the referee, noting the half minute on his
watch. "Know their business, it seems."

"Wow!" growled Texas. "What's the good o' this yere baby business? Say,
Parson, ain't they never goin' to hit? Whoop!"

This last exclamation was caused by the real beginning of the battle.
Williams saw an unguarded face, and quick as thought his heavy arm shot
out; the crowd gasped, and Mark saw it. A sudden motion of his head to
one side was enough to send the blow past him harmlessly, and a moment
later the yearling's forward plunge was checked by an echoing crack upon
his ribs. Then for the rest of the round the excited cadets were
treated to an exhibition of sparring such as they had never seen in
their lives. Feinting, dodging and parrying, the springing pair seemed
everywhere at once, and their fists in a thousand places. The crowd was
thrilled; even the imperturbable Fischer was moved to exclamation, and
Texas in half a minute had seen more skill than his whole experience had
shown him in his life.

"Look a thar! Look a thar! He's got him--no--gad! Whoop!"

Texas did as much dancing as the fighters themselves, and more talking
than the whole crowd. Captain Fischer had to stop watching him long
enough to tell him that the camp, with its sleeping "tacs," was only a
few yards away. And then, as Powers subsided, the cadet glanced at his
watch, called "Time!" and the two fighters went to their corners,
panting.

"What did ye stop for?" inquired Texas, while the Parson set diligently
to work at bathing several red spots on his friend's body. "What kind o'
fightin' is this yere? Ain't give up, have you? Say, Mark, now go in
nex' time an' do him. What's the use o' layin' off?"

"A very superior exhibition of--lend me that court-plaster,
please--pugilistic ability," commented the Parson, bustling about like
an old hen.

And then a moment later the referee gave the word and they were at it
again.

This round there was no delay; both went at it savagely, though warily
and skillfully as ever. Blow after blow was planted that seemed fairly
to shake the air, driven by all the power that human muscle could give.

"Won't last long at this rate," said the referee, sagely shaking his
head. "Give 'em another round--gee!"

Fischer's "gee" was echoed by the yearlings with what would have, but
for the nearness of the camp, been a yell of triumph and joy. Williams
had seen a chance, and had been a second too quick for Mark; he had
landed a crushing blow upon the latter's head, one which made him
stagger. Quick to see his chance, the yearling had sprung in, driving
his half-dazed opponent backward, landing blow after blow. Texas gasped
in horror. The yearlings danced--and then----

"Time!" said the imperturbable Fischer.

Texas sprang forward and led his bewildered friend to a seat; Texas was
about ready to cry.

"Old man!" he muttered, "don't let him beat you. Oh! It'll be the death
of me. I'll go jump into the river!"

"Steady! Steady!" said the Parson; "we'll be all right in a moment."

Mark said nothing, but as his reeling brain cleared he gritted his
teeth.

"Time," said the referee.

And Williams sprang forward to finish the work, encouraged by the
enthusiastic approval of his half-wild classmates. He aimed another blow
with all his might; Mark dodged; the other tried again, and again the
plebe leaped to one side; this repeated again and again was the story of
the next minute, and the yearlings clinched their hands in
disappointment and rage.

"He's flunking!" cried one of them--Bull Harris--"He's afraid!"

"He's fighting just as he ought," retorted Captain Fischer, "and doing
it prettily, too. Good!"

And then once more the crowd settled into an anxious silence to watch.

The story of that minute was the story of ten. Mark had seen that in
brute force his adversary was his equal, and that skill, coolness and
endurance were to win. He made up his mind on his course, and pursued
it, regardless of the jeers of the yearlings and their advice to Billy
to "go in and finish him off." Billy went, but he could not reach Mark,
and occasionally his ardor would be checked by an unexpected blow which
made his classmates groan.

"It's a test of endurance now," observed Fischer, "and Billy ought to
win. But the plebe holds well--bully shot, by Jove! Mallory's evidently
kept in training. Time!"

That was for the seventh round.

"He's getting madder now," whispered Mark to Stanard, as he sat down to
rest. "He wants to finish. If those fellows keep at him much more he'll
sail in for a finish--and then, well, I'm pretty fresh yet."

Goaded on by his impatient classmates, Williams did "sail in," the very
next round. Mark led him a dance, from corner to corner, dodging,
ducking and twisting, the yearling, thinking the victory his, pressing
closer and closer and aiming blow after blow.

"Watch out, Billy, watch out," muttered the vigilant Fischer to himself,
as he caught the gleam in Mark's eye.

Just then Williams paused, actually exhausted; Mark saw his chest
heaving, and, a still surer sign, his lip trembling.

"Now, then!" whispered the Parson at his back, and Mark sprang forward.

The yearling dodged, Mark followed rapidly. There was a moment of
vicious striking, and then the cadets gasped to see Williams give way.
It was only an inch, but it told the story--Williams was tired. Fischer
gazed at his watch and saw that there was yet half a minute, and at the
same moment he heard a resounding thump. Mark had planted a heavy blow
upon his opponent's chest, he followed almost instantly with another,
and the yearlings groaned.

Williams rallied, and made a desperate fight for his life, but at the
close of that round he was what a professional reporter would have
termed "groggy." He came up weakly at the call.

"Don't be afraid of hitting him," the Parson had said, afraid that
Mark's kind-heartedness would incline him to mercy. "There's too much at
stake. Win, and win in a hurry"--the Parson forgot to be classical when
he was excited.

Obedient to command, Mark set out, though it was evident to him that he
had the fight. While Texas muttered and pranced about for joy, Mark
dealt his opponent another blow which made him stagger; he caught
himself upon one knee, and Mark stepped back and waited for him to rise.
And then suddenly a pair of strong arms were flung about the plebe's
waist and he felt himself shoved hurriedly along; at the same moment a
voice shouted in his ear:

"Run, plebe, run for your life!"

Mark glanced about him in dimly-conscious amazement. He saw that the
ring had melted into a number of cadets, skurrying away in every
direction at the top of their speed. He heard the words, "a tac! a tac!"
and knew the fight had been discovered by an army officer.

A figure dashed up behind Mark and caught him by the arm. It was
Fischer.

"Run for your life! Get in barracks!" he cried.

And with that he vanished, and Mark, obeying, rushed across the cavalry
plain and was soon lying breathless and exhausted in his room, where
the wildly-jubilant Texas joined him a moment later, just as reveille
was sounded.

"Victory! Victory!" he shouted. "Wow!"

And by breakfast time that morning every cadet in the corps was
discussing the fight. And Mark was the hero of the whole plebe class.




CHAPTER XV.

TWO PLEBES IN HOSPITAL.


"Say, tell me, did you do him?"

The speaker was a lad with brown, curly hair and a laughing, merry face,
at present, however, half covered with a swathing of bandages. He was
standing on the steps of the hospital building at West Point, and
regarding with anxiety another lad of about the same age, but taller and
more sturdily built.

"I don't know that I did him," responded Mark--for the one addressed was
he--"I don't know that I can say I did him, but I believe I would have
if the fight hadn't been interrupted."

"Bully, b'gee!" cried the other, excitedly slapping his knee and wincing
with pain afterward. "Gimme your hand! I'm proud of you, b'gee! My
name's Alan Dewey, at your service."

Mark took the proffered hand, smiling at the stranger's joy.

"My success seems to cause you considerable pleasure," he said.

"Yes, b'gee!" exclaimed Dewey, "it does! And to every true and loyal
plebe in the academy. You've brought honor to the name of plebe by
licking the biggest yearling in the place, b'gee, and that means the end
of hazing."

"I'm not so sure of that," said Mark.

"I am," returned the other. "But say, tell me something about the fight.
I wanted to come, only I was shut up in hospital. Did Williams put up a
good one?"

"Splendid," said Mark.

"He ought to. They say he's champion of his class, and an all-round
athlete. But you look as if you could fight some yourself."

"He almost had me beaten once," said Mark. "I thought I was a goner."

"Say, but you're a spunky chap!" remarked Dewey, eying Mark with an
admiring expression. "I don't think there's ever been a plebe dared to
do half what you've done. The whole class is talking about you."

"Is that so?" inquired Mark, laughing. "I didn't mean to do anything
reckless."

"What's the difference," laughed the other, "when you can lick 'em all,
b'gee? I wish I could do it," he added, rather more solemnly. "Then,
perhaps, maybe I wouldn't be the physical wreck that I am."

"You been fighting, too?" inquired Mark, laughing.

"Betcher life, b'gee!" responded the other, emphatically. "Only I wasn't
as clever at it as you."

"Tell me about it," said Mark, with interest.

"It happened last Saturday afternoon, and I've been in hospital ever
since, b'gee. Some of the cadets caught me taking a walk up somewhere
near what they call 'Crow's Nest.' And so they set out to have some fun.
Told me to climb a tree, in the first place. I looked at the tree, and,
b'gee, there wasn't a limb for thirty feet, and the limbs there were
rotten. There was one of 'em, a big, burly fellow with short hair and a
scar on his cheek----"

"Bull Harris!" cried Mark.

"Yes," said Dewey, "that's what they called him--'Bull.'"

"Did you fight with him?"

"Betcher life, b'gee! He tried to make me climb that tree, and, b'gee,
says I, 'I won't, b'gee!' Then I lammed him one in the eye----"

"Bully!" cried Mark, and then he added, "b'gee!" by way of company. "Did
he beat you?"

"Betcher life," cried the other. "That is, the six of 'em did."

"You don't mean to say the crowd attacked you?"

"That's what I said."

"Well, sir!" exclaimed Mark, "the more I hear of that Bull Harris the
bigger coward I find him. It's comforting to know that all the cadets
aren't that way."

"Very comforting!" responded the other, feeling of the bandage on his
swollen jaw. "Very comforting! Reminds me of a story I heard once,
b'gee, of a man who got a thousand dollars' comfort from a railroad for
having his head cut off."

Mark laughed for a moment, and then he fell to tapping the step
thoughtfully with his heel. He was thinking over a plan.

"I don't suppose you've much love for the yearlings," he remarked, at
last.

"Bet cher life not," laughed the other. "I've about as much as a
mother-in-law for a professional joke writer, b'gee! Reminds me of a
story I once heard--but go on; I want to hear what you had to say. Tell
my story later."

"Well, three friends of mine have formed a sort of an informal alliance
for self-defence----"

"Bully, b'gee!" cried Dewey, excitedly.

"And I thought maybe you'd like to----"

"Join? Bet cher life, b'gee! Why didn't you say so before? Whoop!"

And thus it happened that Member Number Five of the West Point
"alliance" was discovered.

"I don't think this famous alliance is going to have much to do at the
start," said Mark, as soon as Master Dewey had recovered from his
excitement, "for I rather fancy the yearlings will leave us alone for a
time."

"Bet cher life, b'gee!" assented the other. "If they don't look out they
won't have time to be sorry."

"B'gee!" added Mark, smiling.

"Do I say that much?" inquired the other, with a laugh. "I suppose I
must, because the fellows have nicknamed me 'B'gee.' I declare I'm not
conscious of saying it. Do I?"

"Bet cher life, b'gee," responded Mark, whereupon his new acquaintance
broke into one of his merry laughs.

"Let's go around to barracks," said Mark, finally--it was then just
after breakfast time. "I expect they'll want me to report for drill. I
thought I'd get off for the morning on the strength of my 'contusions,'
as they call them. But the old surgeon was too sly for me. He patched me
up in a jiffy."

"What was the matter with you?" inquired Dewey, dropping his smile.

"One eye's about half shut, as you see," responded Mark, "and then I had
quite a little cut on the side of my head where Williams hit me once.
Otherwise I am all right--only just a little rocky."

"As the sea captain remarked of the harbor, b'gee," added the other.
"But tell me, how's Williams?"

"Pretty well done up, as the laundryman remarked, to borrow your style
of illustration," Mark responded, laughing. "They had to carry poor
Williams down here. He's in there now being fixed up. And say, you
should have seen how queerly the surgeon looked at us two. He knew right
away what was up, of course, but he never said a word--just entered us
'sick--contusions.' Is that what you were?"

"Bet cher life, b'gee!" responded the other. "But he tried to get me to
tell what was up. He rather suspected hazing, I think. I didn't say
anything, though."

"It would have served some of those chaps just right if you had," vowed
Mark. "You know you could have every one of them expelled."

The two had reached the area of barracks by this time, and hurried over
to reach their rooms before inspection.

"And don't you mention what I've told you about this great alliance to a
soul," Mark enjoined. "We'd have the whole academy about our ears in a
day."

Dewey assented.

"What's the name of it?" he inquired.

"Haven't got any name for it yet," said Mark, "or any leader either, in
fact. We're waiting to get a few more members, enough for a little
excitement. Then we'll organize, elect a leader, swear allegiance, and
you can bet there'll be fun--b'gee!"

"Come up to my room," he added, after a moment's pause, "as soon as you
get fixed up for inspection, and I'll introduce you to the other
fellows."

With which parting word he turned and bounded up the stairs to his own
room.




CHAPTER XVI.

THE PARSON'S INDIGNATION.


Mark found his roommate and faithful second, Texas, busily occupied in
cleaning up for the morning inspection. Texas wasn't looking for Mark;
it had been Texas' private opinion that Mark had earned a week's holiday
by the battle of the morning, and that the surgeon would surely grant
it. When Mark did turn up, however, Texas wasted no time in complaining
of the injustice, but got his friend by the hand in a hurry.

"Ole man," he cried, "I'm proud of you! I ain't had a chance to say how
proud I am!"

"Thanks," said Mark, laughing, "but look out for that sore thumb--and
for mercy's sakes don't slap me on that shoulder again. I'm more
delicate than I look. And say, Texas, I've got a new member for our
secret society--b'gee!"

Texas looked interested.

"He's a pretty game youngster," Mark continued, "for when Bull Harris
and that gang of his tried to haze him, he sailed in and tried to do the
crowd."

"Oh!" cried Texas, excitedly. "Wow! I wish I'd 'a' been there. Say,
Mark, d'ye know I've been a missin' no end o' fun that a'way. Parson had
a fight, an' I didn't see it; you had one daown to Cranston's, an' I
missed that; an' yere's another!"

Texas looked disgusted and Mark burst out laughing.

"'Tain't any fun," growled the former. "But go on, tell me 'bout this
chap. What does he look like?"

"He's not as tall as we," replied Mark, "but he's very good-looking and
jolly. And when he says 'B'gee' and laughs, you can't help laughing with
him. Hello, there's inspection!"

This last remark was prompted by a sharp rap upon the door. The two
sprang up and stood at attention. "Heels together, eyes to the front,
chest out"--they knew the whole formula by this time. And Cadet Corporal
Jasper strode in, found fault with a few things and then went on to
carry death and devastation into the next place.

A few minutes later the Parson strolled in.

"Yea, by Zeus," began he, without waiting for the formality of a
salutation. "Yea, by Apollo, the far-darting, this is indeed an outrage
worthy of the great Achilles to avenge. And I do swear by the bones of
my ancestors, by the hounds of Diana, forsooth even by Jupiter lapis and
the Gemini, that never while I inspire the atmosphere of existence will
I submit myself to so outrageous an imposition----"

"Wow!" cried Texas. "What's up?"

"Sit down and tell us about it," added Mark.

"It is written in the most immortal document," continued the Parson,
without noticing the interruption, "that ever emanated from the mind of
man, the Declaration of Independence (signed, by the way, by an ancestor
of my stepmother), that among the inalienable privileges of man,
co-ordinate with life and liberty itself, is the pursuit of happiness.
And in the name of the Seven Gates of Thebes and the Seven Hills of the
Eternal City, I demand to know what happiness a man can have if all his
happiness is taken from him!"

"B'gee! Reminds me of a story I heard about a boy who wanted to see the
cow jump over the moon on a night when there wasn't any moon, b'gee."

Mark and Texas looked up in surprise and the Parson faced about in
obvious displeasure at the interruption.

"In the name of all the Olympian divinities and the inhabitants of
Charon and the Styx," he cried, angrily, "I demand to know----"

"Come in," said Mark, laughing. "Excuse me for interrupting, Parson, but
this is Mr. Alan Dewey, b'gee, member Number Five of our band of
desperate buccaneers, if you please. Mr. Dewey, allow me to introduce
you to the gentleman who 'reminded' you of that last story, Mr. Peter
Stanard, of Boston, Massachusetts, the cradle of liberty, the nurse of
freedom, and the center and metropolis of the geological universe."

The Parson bowed gravely.

"While I am, together with all true Bostonians, proud of the reputation
which my city has merited, yet I am----"

"Also to Mr. Jeremiah Powers," continued Mark, cutting the Parson off in
his peroration.

"Son o' the Honorable Scrap Powers, o' Hurricane County, Texas," added
Texas, himself.

Young Dewey shook hands all around, and then sat down on the bed,
looking at Mark with a puzzled expression on his face, as much as to
say, "what on earth have I struck--b'gee?" Mark saw his expression and
undertook to inform him, making haste to start before the Parson could
begin again on the relative merits of Boston and the rest of the
civilized universe.

"Powers and Stanard," said he, "are the members of our organization,
together with Indian, the fat boy."

"I see," said Dewey, at the same time thinking what a novel organization
it must be. "There's Indian now."

Indian's round, scared face peered in through the open doorway just
then. He was introduced to Number Five, whereupon Number Five remarked
'Very pleased to meet you, b'gee.' And Indian echoed 'Bless my soul!'
and crept into the room and sat down in an inconspicuous corner.

There was a moment's pause and then the Parson commenced:

"If I remember correctly, we were occupied when last interrupted,
by--ahem! a rather facetious observation upon the subject of our
solitary lunar satellite and quadruped of the genus Bos--occupied I say
in considering the position which the metropolis of Boston has
obtained----"

"Drop Boston!" laughed Mark. "We weren't on Boston anyhow. Boston came
in afterward--as Boston always does, in fact."

"Which reminds me, b'gee," put in the newcomer, "of a story I once heard
of----"

"Drop the story, too!" exclaimed Mark. "I want to know what the Parson
was so indignant about."

"Yes, yes!" put in Texas. "That's what I say, too. And be quick about
it. We've only ten minutes 'fore drill, an' if there's anybody got to be
licked, why, we got to hustle."

"Well," said Stanard, drawing a long breath. "Well! Since it is the
obvious and, in fact, natural desire of the company assembled, so
expressed by them, that I should immediately proceed to a summary and
concise statement of the matter in hand, pausing for no extensive
introductions or formal perorations, but endeavoring assiduously to
impart to my promulgations a certain clarified conciseness which in
matters of this peculiar nature is so eminently advantageous----"

The Parson was interrupted at this place by a subdued "B'gee!" from
Dewey, followed by a more emphatic "Wow!" and a scarcely audible "Bless
my soul!"

"What's the matter?" he inquired, stopping short and looking puzzled.

"Nothing," replied Mark. "I didn't say anything."

"Oh!" said the Parson. "Excuse me. Where was I? Oh, yes, I was just
saying I would be brief. Gentlemen--ahem!--when I entered this room I
was in a condition of violent anger. As I stated, an outrage had been
offered me such as neither Parmenides, nor Socrates, nor even Zeno,
stoic of stoics, could have borne. And I have resolved to seek once
more, as a prodigal son, the land of my birth, where science is fostered
instead of being repressed as in this hotbed of prejudice and ignorance.
I----"

"What's up?" cried the four.

"I am coming to that," said the Parson, gravely, stretching out his long
shanks, drawing up his trousers, and displaying his sea-green socks.
"This same morning--and my friend Indian will substantiate my statement,
for he was there--a low, ignorant cadet corporal did enter into my room,
for inspection, by Zeus, and after generally displaying his ill-manners,
he turned to me and conveyed the extraordinary information that,
according to rules, forsooth, I must be deprived of the dearest object
of my affections, solace of my weary hours, my friend in time of need,
my companion in sickness, which through all the trials of adversity has
stuck to me closer than a brother, my only joy, my----"

"What?" cried the four, by this time wrought up to the highest pitch of
indignation and excitement.

"My one refuge from the cares of life," continued the solemn Parson,
"the one mitigating circumstance in this life of tribulation, the
only----"

"What? What? What?"

"What? Of all things what, but this? What but my life, my pride, my
hope--my beloved volume of 'Dana's Geology,' friend of my----"

And the roar of laughter which came then made the sentry out on the
street jump in alarm. The laughing lasted until the cry came:

"New cadets turn out!" which meant drill; and it lasted after that, too,
so that Cadet Spencer, drillmaster, "on duty over plebes," spent the
next hour or two in wondering what on earth his charges kept snickering
at. Poor Texas was the subject of a ten-minute discourse upon
"impertinence and presumption," because he was guilty of the heinous
offense of bursting out laughing in the midst of one of the irate little
drillmaster's tirades.




CHAPTER XVII.

INDIAN IN TROUBLE.


What manner of torture is squad drill has already been shown; and so the
reader should have some idea of what our five friends were going
through. Squad drill lasts for the first two weeks or so of plebe
life--that is, before the move into camp. The luckless victims begin
after breakfast, and at regular (and frequent) periods until night are
turned out under the charge of some irascible yearling to be taught all
manner of military maneuvers--setting up drill, how to stand, to face,
and, in fact, how to walk.

Most people, those who have not been to West Point, are under the
delusion that they know how to walk already. It usually takes the
luckless plebe a week to get that idea hammered out of his head, and
another week besides to learn the correct method. The young instructor,
presenting, by the way, a ludicrous contrast in his shining uniform of
gray and white and gold, with his three or four nervous and variously
costumed pupils, takes the bayonet of his gun for a drill stick and
marches "his" squad over into a secluded corner of the area and thus
begins the above-mentioned instructions:

"At the word forward, throw the weight of the body upon the right leg,
the left knee straight. At the word march, move the left leg smartly
without jerk, carry the left foot forward thirty inches from the right,
the sole near the ground, the toe a little depressed, knee straight and
slightly turned out. At the same time throw the weight of the body
forward (eyes to the front) and plant the foot without shock, weight of
the body resting upon it; next, in like manner, advance the right foot
and plant it as above. Continue to advance without crossing the legs or
striking one against the other, keeping the face direct to the front.
Now, forward, common time, march. Depress the toe so that it strikes the
ground at the same time as the heel (palms of the hands squarely to the
front. Head up)"--and so on.

That is the way the marching exercise goes, exclusive, of course, of all
interruptions, comments and witticisms on the instructor's part. The
plebe begins to get used to it after the first week or so, when the
stiffness rubs off, and then a certain amount of rivalry begins to
spring up among various squads, and everybody settles down to the
business of learning. The squads are consolidated later on, and
gradually the class is merged into one company. Such as they are, these
drills, together with inspections, meals and "rests" (with hazing),
occupy almost the entire time of the two weeks in barracks.

And now for our five "rebels."

That particular Monday morning the plebes had an hour's rest before
dinner, in which to do as they pleased (or as the yearlings pleased).
And during this hour it was that one of "the five," the always luckless
and unhappy one, got into trouble. The one was Indian, or the Mormon.
Indian, it seemed, was always thought of whenever there was any deviling
to be done. The other plebes did as they were told, and furnished
amusement on demand, but they always realized that it was all in fun.
Indian, however, was an innocent, gullible youth, who took everything
solemnly, and was in terror of his unhappy life every moment of the day.
And he was especially unfortunate this time because he fell into the
hands of "Bull" Harris and his gang.

It is not the intention of the writer to give the impression that all
cadets at West Point were or are like "Bull" Harris, or that hazing of
his peculiar variety is an everyday affair. But it would be hard to find
one hundred men without a cowardly, cruel nature among them. "Bull"
Harris and his crowd represented the lower element of the yearling
class, and made hazing their business and diversion. They were the
especial dread of the plebes in consequence. Bull had tried his tricks
upon Mark to his discomfort, and ever since that had left Mark strictly
alone, and confined his efforts to less vigorous victims, among which
were Dewey, and now Indian.

Indian had selected a rather grewsome occupation, anyhow, at the
particular moment when he was caught. It was just in keeping with the
peculiarly dejected frame of mind he was in (after squad drill). He was
wandering through the graveyard, which is situated in a lonely portion
of the post, way off in the northwestern corner. Some heroes, West
Point's bravest, lie buried there, and Indian was dejectedly wondering
if those same heroes would ever have stuck through plebe days in
barracks if they had had a drill master like that "red-headed coyote,"
Chick Spencer. He had about concluded they would not have, when he heard
some muffled laughter and the sound of running feet. A moment later the
terrified plebe found himself completely surrounded by a dozen merry
yearlings, out for a lark. Prominent among them were Bull and his
toadying little friend, Baby Edwards.

It is correct West Point etiquette for a plebe, when "captured" to go
meekly wherever desired. Indian went, and the party disappeared quickly
in the woods on one side, the captive being hidden completely in the
circle of cadets.

There was one person who had seen him, however, and that one person was
the Parson, who had been about to enter the gate to join his friend. And
the Parson, when he saw it, turned quickly on his heel and strode away
back to barracks as fast as his long legs could carry him without loss
of scholarly dignity.

"Yes, by Zeus," he muttered to himself. "Yea, by Zeus, the enemy is
fierce upon our trail. And swiftly, forsooth, will I hie me to my
companions and inform them of this insufferable indignity."

All unconscious of the learned gentleman's discovery, the yearlings
meanwhile were hurrying away into a secluded portion of the woods; for
they knew that their time was short, and that they would have to make
haste. The terrified victim was pushed over logs and through brambles
until he was almost exhausted, the captors meanwhile dropping dire hints
as to his fate.

"An Indian he is!" muttered Bull Harris. "An Indian!" (The plebe was as
red as one then.) "He shall die an Indian's death!"

"That's what he shall!" echoed the crowd. "An Indian! An Indian! We'll
burn him at the stake!"

"He, he! the only good Indian's a dead Indian, he, he!" chimed in Baby,
chuckling at his own witticism. "He, he!"

All this poor Joseph did not fail to notice, and as was his habit, he
believed every word of it. Nor did his mind regain any of its composure
as the procession continued its solemn marching through the lonely
woods, to the tune of the yearlings' cheerful remarks. The latter were
chuckling merrily to themselves, but when they were in hearing of their
victim their tone was deep and awful, and their looks dark and savage.
Poor Indian's fat, round eyes stared wider and rounder every minute; his
equally round, red face grew redder, and his gasping exclamations more
frequent and violent.

"Bless my soul!" he cried, "what extraordinary proceedings!"

"Ha! ha!" muttered the yearlings. "See, he trembles! Behold how the
victim pales!"

A short distance farther in the woods the party came upon a small
clearing.

"Just the spot!" cried Bull. "See the tree in the center. That is the
stake, and to that we will tie him, while the smoke ascends to the
clouds of heaven."

"Just the spot!" echoed Baby, chuckling gleefully.

"It is quiet," continued Bull, in a low, sepulchral tone. "Yes, and his
cries of agony will be heard by none. Advance, wretched victim, and
prepare to die the death which your savage ancestors did inflict upon
our fathers. Advance!"

"Advance!" growled the crowd.

"Bless my soul!" cried the Indian.

He was no more capable of advancing than he was of flying. His knees
were shaking in violent terror. Great beads of perspiration rolled from
the dimples in his fat little cheeks. Limp and helpless, he would have
sunk to the ground, but for the support of his captors.

"Advance!" cried Bull, again, stamping on the ground in mock impatience
and rage. "Bodyguard, bring forth the wretch!"

In response to this order several of the cadets dragged the unhappy
plebe to the tree and held him fast against it. Bull Harris produced
from under his coat a coil of rope, and Indian felt it being wrapped
about his body.

Up to this point he had been silent from sheer terror; but the feeling
of the rough rope served to bring before him with startling reality the
awfulness of the fate that was in store for him. He opened his mouth and
forthwith gave vent to a cry so weird and unearthly that the yearlings
burst out into a shout of laughter. It was no articulate cry, simply a
wild howl. It rang and echoed through the woods, like the hoot of an owl
at night, or the strange, half-human cry of a frightened dog. And it
died into a gasp that Bull Harris described as "the sigh of a homesick
bullfrog."

Indian's musical efforts continued as the horrible rope was wound about
his body. Each wail was louder and more unearthly, more mirth-provoking
to the unpitying cadets, until at last, when Bull Harris finished and
stepped back to survey his work, the frightened plebe could be likened
to nothing less than a steam calliope.

The yearlings were so much amused by his powers that they resolved
forthwith that the show must not stop. And so, without giving the
performer chance to breathe even, they set to work diligently collecting
sticks and leaves.

"Heap 'em up! Heap 'em up!" cried Bull. "Heap 'em up! And soon shall the
fire blaze merrily."

Naturally, since Indian's shrieks and howls continued unabated in
quantity or variety through all this, the yearlings were in no hurry to
finish, but took care to prolong the agony, sport as they called it, as
long as possible. So, while the red-faced, perspiring victim panted,
grunted, howled, and wriggled, they piled the wood about him with
exasperating slowness, rearranging, inspecting, and discussing the
probable effect of each and every stick of wood they laid on.

It was done, at last, however, and the result was a great pile of fagots
surrounding and half covering the unfortunate lad. They were fagots
selected as being the driest that could be found in the dry and
sun-parched clearing. There was a moment or two later on when Bull
wished they had not been quite so dry, after all.

The crowd stood and admired their work for a few moments longer, while
Indian's weird wails rose higher than ever. Then Bull stepped forward.

"Art thou prepared to die?" he inquired in his most sepulchral tone.

Indian responded with a crescendo in C minor.

"He answereth not!" muttered the other. "Let him scorn our questions who
dares. What, ho! Bring forth the torch! We shall roast him brown."

"And when he is brown," roared another, "then he will cease to be
Smith!"

"Yes," cried Bull, "for he will be dead. His bones shall bleach on the
plains. On his flesh we will make a meal!"

"An Indian meal!" added Baby, chuckling merrily over his own joke.

"Several meals," continued Bull, solemnly. "There is enough of him for a
whole _table d'hote_. How about that? Aren't you?"

"Wow! Wo-oo-oo-oooo!" wailed Indian.

"He mocks us!" cried the spokesman. "He scorns to answer. Very well! We
shall see. Is the torch lit?"

The torch, an ordinary sulphur match, was not lit. But Bull produced one
from the same place as the rope and held it poised. He waited a moment
while the yearlings discussed the next action.

"I say we let him loose," said one. "He's scared enough."

"Nonsense!" laughed Bull, "I'm not going to stop yet. I'm going to set
him afire."

"Set him afire!" echoed the crowd, in a whisper.

"'Sh! Yes," responded the other. "Not really, you know, but just enough
to scare him. We'll set fire to the wood and then when it's begun to
smoke some we'll put it out."

"That's risky," objected somebody. "I say we----"

"Nonsense!" interrupted the leader. "If you don't want to, run home. I
am."

And so once more he turned toward the wretched captive, who still kept
up his shrieks.

"Ha, ha!" he muttered, "thy time has come. Say thy last prayer."

With which words he stepped quickly forward, struck the match upon his
heel, and after holding it for a moment knelt down before the pile of
leaves and wood.

"Wow! Wow!" roared Indian. "Stop! Stop! Help! Wo-oo-oo!"

Another of those steam calliope wails.

"He shrieks for mercy!" muttered Bull. "He shrieks in vain. There!"

The last exclamation came as he touched the match to the leaves, stood
up and worked off to join his companions.

"Form a ring," he said, "and dance about him as he dies."

The terror of Indian can scarcely be imagined; he was almost on the
verge of fainting as the hot choking smoke curled up and around his
face. His yells grew louder and increased to a perfect shriek of agony.

"Don't you think we'd better stop it now?" inquired one of the
yearlings, more timid than the rest.

"Rats!" laughed Bull. "It's hardly started. I'll manage it."

Bull's "management" proved rather untrustworthy; for Bull had forgotten
to take into account the dryness of the twigs, and also another factor.
The air had been still as he struck the match, but just at that moment a
slight breeze swept along the ground, blowing the leaves before it. It
struck the little fire and it seized one tiny flame and bore it up
through the pile and about the legs of the imprisoned plebe.

The next instant the yearlings were thrown into the wildest imaginable
confusion by a cry from one of them.

"Look out! Look out! His trousers are afire!"




CHAPTER XVIII.

TO THE RESCUE.


Things happened in a whirl of confusion after that. To the horrified
cadets a thousand incidents seemed to crowd in at one moment.

In the first place there was the terrified captive, bound helplessly to
the tree, his clothing on fire, himself shrieking at the top of his
lungs. Then there were the yearlings themselves, all crying out with
fright and alarm and rushing wildly in to drag the burning wood away.
Finally there were other arrivals, whom, in the excitement, the
yearlings scarcely noticed. There were two of them; one tore a knife
from his pocket and cut the rope in a dozen places, the other flung off
his jacket and wrapped it quickly about Indian's feet, extinguishing the
flames. And then the two stood up and gazed at the rest--the frightened
yearlings and their infuriated victim.

Infuriated? Yes, wildly infuriated! A change had come over Indian such
as no one who knew him had ever seen before. The fire had not really
hurt him; it had only ruined his clothing and scorched his legs enough
to make him wild with rage. He had tugged at his bonds savagely; when he
was cut free he had torn loose from the friendly stranger who had knelt
to extinguish the fire, and made a savage rush at the badly scared
cadets.

Indian's face was convulsed with passion. His arms were swinging wildly
like a windmill's sails in a hurricane, while from his mouth rushed a
volley of exclamations that would have frightened Captain Kidd and his
pirate band.

It made no difference what he hit; the fat boy was too blind with rage
to see. He must hit something! If a tree had lain in his path he would
have started in on that. As luck would have it, however, the thing that
was nearest to him was a yearling--Baby Edwards.

Baby could have been no more frightened if he had seen an express train
charging on him. He turned instantly and fled--where else would he flee
but to his idol Bull? He hid behind that worthy; Bull put up his hands
to defend himself; and the next instant Indian's flying arms reached the
spot.

One savage blow on the nose sent Bull tumbling backward--over Baby.
Indian, of course, could not stop and so did a somersault over the two.

There was a pretty _melee_ after that. Baby was the first to emerge,
covered with dirt and bruises. Indian got up second; he gazed about him,
his rage still burning; he gave one snort, shook his head clear of the
soil as an angry bull might; and then made another savage rush at Baby.
Baby this time had no friend to hide behind; Harris was lying on the
ground, face down, as a man might do to protect himself in a cyclone.
And so Baby had no resource but flight; he took to his heels, the
enraged plebe a few feet behind; and in half a minute more the pair were
lost to sight and sound, far distant in the woods, Indian still
pursuing.

It might be pleasant to follow them, for Indian in his rage was a sight
to divert the gods. But there was plenty more happening at the scene of
the fire, things that ought not be missed.

In the first place, who were the two new arrivals? It was evident that
they were plebes--their faces were familiar to the cadets. But beyond
that no one knew anything about them. They had freed their helpless
classmate and saved him from serious injury, as has been told. They had
done one thing more that has not been mentioned yet. One of them, the
smaller, just after Indian had broken loose, had reached over and dealt
the nearest yearling he could reach a ringing blow upon the cheek.

"Take that!" said he. "Bah Jove, you're a cur."

There was another _melee_ after that.

Of course the setting fire to Indian had been a pure accident; but the
two strangers did not know it. They saw in the whole thing a piece of
diabolical cruelty. The yearling the wrath chanced to fall upon was Gus
Murray--and his anger is left to the imagination. He sprang at the
throat of the reckless plebe; and the rest of the crowd rushed to his
aid, pausing just for an instant to size up the pair.

They did not seem "to be any great shucks." The taller was a big
slouchy-looking chap in clothes that evidently bespoke the farmer, and
possessing a drawl which quite as clearly indicated the situation of the
farm--the prairies. Having cut Indian loose he was lounging lazily
against the tree and regarding his more excitable companion with a
good-natured grin.

The companion was even less awe-inspiring, for one had to look at him
but an instant to see that he was one of the creatures whom all
well-regulated boys despise--a dude. He wore a high collar, ridiculously
high; he was slender and delicate looking, with the correct Fifth Avenue
stoop to his shoulders and an attitude to his arms which showed that he
had left his cane behind only on compulsion when he "struck the Point."
And any doubts the yearlings may have had on this question were settled
as the yearlings stared, for the object turned to the other and spoke.

"Aw say, Sleepy," said he, "come help me chastise these fellows, don't
ye know."

As a fact there was but little choice in the matter, it was fight or die
with the two, for at the same instant Gus Murray, wild with rage, had
leaped forward and made a savage lunge at the dude.

What happened then Murray never quite knew. All he made out was that
when he hit at the dude the dude suddenly ceased to be there. The
yearling glanced around in surprise and discovered that his victim had
slid coolly under his elbow and was standing over on the other side of
the clearing--smiling.

The rest of the crowd, not in the least daunted by Murray's miss, rushed
in to the attack; and a moment later a wild scrimmage was in progress,
a scrimmage which defied the eye to comprehend and the pen to describe.
The former never moved from the tree, but with his back flat against it
and his great clumsy arms swinging like sledge hammers he stood and bid
defiance to his share of the crowd.

The dude's tactics were just the opposite. He was light and slender, and
should have been easy prey. That was what Bull Harris thought as he
hastily arose from the spot where Indian had butted him and joined his
eager comrades in the hunt. The hunt; a hunt it was, and no mistake.
While the farmer stayed in one place, the dude seemed everywhere at
once. Dodging, ducking, running, he seemed just to escape every blow
that was aimed at him. He seemed even to turn somersaults, to the amazed
yearlings, who had been looking for a dude and not an acrobat.

The dude did not dodge all the time, though; occasionally he would stop
to cool the ardor of some especially excited cadet with a sudden punch
where it wasn't looked for. Once also he stuck out his foot and allowed
Bull Harris to get his legs caught in it, with a result that Bull's nose
once more plowed the clearing.

The writer wishes it were his privilege to chronicle the fact that the
two put the eight to flight; or that Indian, having put the Baby "to
sleep," returned to perform yet greater prodigies of valor. It would be
a pleasure to tell of all that, but on the other hand truth is a
stubborn thing. Things do not always happen as they should in spite of
the providence that is supposed to make them.

The farmer, after a five-minute gallant stand, was finally knocked
down--from behind--and once down he was being fast pummeled into
nothingness. The dude--his collar, much to his alarm, having wilted--was
in the last stage of exhaustion. In fact, Bull had succeeded in landing
a blow, the first of the afternoon for him. The dude was about to give
up and perish, when assistance arrived. For these gallant heroes were
not fated to conquer alone.

The first warning of the arrival of reinforcements was not the
traditional trumpet call, nor the roll of a drum, nor even the tramp of
soldiers, but a muttered "Wow!" This was followed by Texas himself,
bursting through the bushes like a battering ram. Mark was at his side,
and behind them came the Parson. Dewey, being rather crippled, brought
up the rear.

The four lost no time in questions; they saw two plebes in distress, and
they had met Indian on the warpath and learned the cause of the trouble.
They knew it was their business to help and they "sailed right in" to do
it.

Mark placed himself by the side of the panting "dude." Texas and the
Parson made a V formation and speedily got the farmer to his feet and in
fighting array once more. And after that the odds of the battle were
more even.

It was a very brief battle, in fact. A mere skirmish after that. Mark's
prowess was dreaded, and that of Texas but little less. After Texas had
chased two yearlings into the woods, and Mark had stretched out
Bull--that was Bull's third time that afternoon--the ardor of the eight
began to wane. It was not very long then before the attack stopped by
mutual consent, and the combatants took to staring at each other
instead.

The rage of Bull as he picked himself up and examined his damages must
be imagined.

"You confounded plebes shall pay for this," he roared, "as sure as I'm
alive."

"Now?" inquired Mark, smiling, rubbing his hands, and looking ready to
resume hostilities.

"It's a case of blamed swelled head, that's what it is," growled the
other, sullenly.

"Which," added the Parson's solemn voice, "might be somewhat
more classically expressed by the sesquipedalian Hellenic
vocable--ahem!--Megalacephalomania."

With which interesting bit of information--presented gratis--the Parson
carefully laid his beloved "Dana" on the ground and sat down on it for
safety.

"Why can't you plebes mind your business, anyhow?" snarled Gus Murray.

"That's what I say, too!" cried Bull.

"Curious coincidence!" laughed Dewey. "Reminds me of a story I once
heard, b'gee--I guess it's most too long a story to tell through. Remind
me of it, Mark, and I'll tell it to you some day. One of the most
remarkable tales I ever heard, that! Told me by a fellow that used to
run a sausage factory. It was right next door to a 'Home for Homeless
Cats,' though, b'gee, I couldn't ever see how the cats were homeless if
they had a home there. They didn't stay very long, though. That was the
funniest part of it. They used to sit on the fence near the sausage
factory, b'gee----"

Dewey could have prattled on that way till doomsday with unfailing good
humor. It made the yearlings mad and that was all he cared about. But by
this time Bull had perceived that he was being guyed, and he turned away
with an angry exclamation.

"You fellows may stay if you choose;" he said, "I'm going back to camp.
And those plebes shall pay for this!"

"Cash on demand!" laughed Mark, as the discomfited crowd turned and
slunk off.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE ALLIANCE IS COMPLETED.


Having been thus easily rid of their unpleasant enemies, the plebes set
out in high feather for home.

"I must get back in time to dress for dinner, don't ye know," said the
dude.

"I'm 'bliged to yew fellows," put in the farmer, getting up from his
seat with a lazy groan. "My name's Methusalem Zebediah Chilvers, and
I'll shake hands all raound."

"And mine's Chauncey Van Rensallear Mount-Bonsall, don't ye know," said
the other, putting on his immaculate white gloves. "Bah Jove! I've lost
a cuff button, quarreling with those deuced yearlings!"

Chauncey's cuff button was found at last--he vowed he wouldn't go to
dinner without it--and then the party started in earnest, the two
strangers giving a graphic and characteristic account of the scrimmage
we have just witnessed.

Mark in the meantime was doing some thinking, wondering if here were
not two more eligible members of the "alliance." While he was debating
this question the "dude" approached him privately and began thus:

"I want to say something to you," he said. "Dye know, I can't see why we
plebes suffer so, bah Jove! I was thinking aw, don't ye know, if some of
us would band together we could--aw--chastise the deuced cadets and----"

Master Chauncey Van Rensallear Mount-Bonsall got no further, for Mark
came out then and told the secret. In a few moments the alliance had
added Number Six and Number Seven.

"And now, b'gee, I say let's organize, b'gee!" cried Dewey.

The sound of a drum from barracks put a stop to further business then,
but before supper there was a spare half hour, and during that time the
seven conspirators met in Mark's room to "organize." Indian was there,
too, now calm and meek again.

"In the first place," said Mark, "we want to elect a leader."

"Wow!" cried Texas, "what fo'? Ain't you leader?"

"I say, Mark, b'gee!" cried Dewey.

"Mark," said the Parson, solemnly.

"Mark," murmured Indian from the corner, and "Mark" chimed in the two
newcomers.

"It seems to be unanimous," said Mark, "so I guess I'll have to let it
go. But I'm sure I can't see why you think of me. What shall we call
ourselves?"

That brought a lengthy discussion, which space does not permit of being
given. The Loyal Legion, the Sons of the Revolution, the Independents,
the Cincinnati--suggested by the classic Parson--and also the Trojan
Heroes--from the same source--all these were suggested and rejected.
Then somebody moved the Seven Rebels, which was outvoted as not
expressive enough, but which led to another one that took the whole
crowd with a rush. It came from an unexpected source--the unobtrusive
Indian in the corner.

"Let's name it 'The Seven Devils'!" said he.

And the Seven Devils they were from that day until the time when the
class graduated from the Point.

"Three cheers for the Seven Devils!" cried Dewey, "b'gee!"

"Now," said the Parson, rising with a solemn look, "let us swear eternal
fealty by all that man holds holy. Let us swear by the Stygian Shades
and the realms of Charon, whence all true devils come. Yea, by Zeus!"

"And we'll stand by one another to the death, b'gee," cried Dewey.
"Remember, we're organized for no purpose on earth but to do those
yearlings, and we'll lick 'em, b'gee, if they dare to look at us."

"Show 'em no mercy, don't ye know," said "Chauncey."

"And let's have a motto," cried Indian, becoming infected with the
excitement. "'Down with the yearlings.'"

"I suggest 'We die but we never surrender,' b'gee."

"'_Veni, vidi, vici_,'" remarked the Parson, "or else '_Dulce et decorum
est pro patria mori_,' in the immortal words of Horace, poet of the
Sabine farm."

"A motto should be brief," laughed Mark. "I can beat you all. I'll give
you a motto in three letters of the alphabet."

"Three letters!" echoed the crowd. "Three letters! What is it?"

"It expresses all our objects in forming," said Mark, "and we'll have
lots of fun if we obey it. My motto is 'B. B. J.'"

"Bully, b'gee!" cried Dewey, and the rest echoed his approval with a
rush.

That was, all except the unobtrusive Indian in the corner.

"I--I don't quite," he stammered, "quite see it. Why is----"

"Ahem!" Mark straightened himself up and put on his best professional
air in imitation of the Parson. "Ahem! If you had lived in Boston, and
devoted yourself to the cultivation of the intellectualities--yea, by
Zeus!--instead of learning to lose your temper and chase yearlings like
a wild Texan---- However, I'll explain it."

"Please do!" cried Indian, innocently. "I'll never chase the yearlings
again."

"That's good! B. J. stands for 'before June,' and is West Point slang
for 'fresh.'"

"I knew what B. J. means," put in Indian.

"What! Then why didn't you say so and save me the trouble? The other B.
is the present imperative of the verb to be; he was, being, been, is,
am, ain't. And the only way I can explain what B. B. J. means is to say
that it means be B. J., be B. J. with a vengeance, and when you get
tired of being B. J., B. B. J. some more. Do you see?"

"Er, yes," said Indian.

"And now," laughed Mark, "since we're through, three cheers for the
Seven Devils!"

And that is the story of the forming of West Point's first and only
secret society, a society which was destined to introduce some very,
very exciting incidents into West Point's dignified history, the Seven
Devils, B. B. J.




CHAPTER XX.

INDIGNATION OF THE YEARLINGS.


"By George, he's the freshest plebe that ever struck this place!"

The speaker was Bull Harris, and he was sitting on the steps of the
library building along with half a dozen classmates, excitedly and
angrily discussing the fight.

"Now I tell you Mark Mallory's got to be put out of this place in a
week," continued the first speaker. "And I don't care how it's done,
either, fair or foul."

"That's just what I say, too!" chimed in Baby Edwards. "He's got to be
put out in a week!"

Bull Harris smiled benignly upon his toadying echo, while the rest of
the gang nodded approvingly.

"I'm sure everybody agrees that he's got to be taken down," put in
somebody else. "The only trouble is I don't see how on earth it is to be
done."

"That's the worst of it!" snarled Bull. "That fellow Mallory seems to
get the best of us everything we try; confound him!"

"I'm sure such a thing has never been known at West Point," said
another. "Just think of it! Why, it's the talk of the post, and
everybody's laughing at us, and the plebes are getting bolder every
minute. One of them actually dared to turn up his nose at me to-day.
Think of it--at me--a yearling, and he a vile beast!"

"It's perfectly awful," groaned Bull. "Perfectly awful! Imagine a crowd
of yearlings allowing themselves to be stopped while hazing a
plebe--stopped, mind you, by half as many plebes--and then to make it a
thousand times worse to have the fellow they were hazing taken away!"

"And the yearlings all chased back to camp by a half-crazy Texan,"
chimed in another, who hadn't been there and so could afford to mention
unpleasant details.

"Yet what can we do?" cried Baby. "We can't offer to fight him. He's as
good as licked Billy Williams, and Bill's the best man we could put up.
That Mallory's a regular terror."

"Mark Mallory's got to be taken down."

This suggestion was good, only rather indefinite, which indefiniteness
was remarked by one of the crowd, Merry Vance, the cadet who had
interposed the same objection before. Merry was a tall, slender youth,
with a whitish hue that suggested dissipation, and a fine, scornful
curve to his lips that suggested meanness no less clearly.

"It's all very well to say we've got to do him," said he, "but that
don't say how. As I said, we can't find a man in our class to whip him
fair. And we can't tackle him in a crowd because in the first place he
seems to have his own gang, and in the second place none of us dares to
touch him. I know I don't, for one."

"Pooh!" laughed Bull, scornfully. "I'm not afraid of him."

"Me either!" chimed in the little Baby, doubling up his fists.

"All right," said the other. "Only I noticed you both kept good and
quiet when he stepped up to loosen Indian."

There was an awkward silence for a few minutes after that; Bull Harris
could think of nothing to say, for he knew the charge was true; and as
for Baby Edwards, he never said anything until after his big friend had
set him an example.

"We can't get him into any trouble with the authorities, either,"
continued Vance at last. "In fact, I don't know what we are to do."

"He's simply turned West Point's customs topsy-turvy," groaned another.
"Why, when we were plebes nobody ever dared to think of defying a
yearling. And this Mallory and his gang are running the place. No one
dares to haze a plebe any more."

"Talking about that," said Gus Murray, another yearling who had just
strolled up. "Talking about that, just see what happened to me not five
minutes ago. Met one of the confounded beasts--that fellow, by the way,
we did up, though it don't seem to have done him the least bit of
good--just as B. J. as ever. You know who I mean, the rather handsome
chap they call Dewey. He went to pass the color guard up at camp just
now and he didn't raise his hat. The sentry called him down for it, and
then as he went off I said to him: 'You ought to know better than that,
plebe.' 'Thank you,' says he, and when I told him he should say 'sir' to
a higher cadet, what on earth do you suppose he had the impudence to
say?"

"What?" inquired the crowd, eagerly.

"Said he wouldn't do it because I hadn't said 'sir' to him!"

"What!"

"Yes, indeed! Did you ever hear of such impudence? Why, I'll leave the
academy to-morrow if that kind of thing keeps up."

And with that dire threat Gus Murray seated himself on the steps and
relapsed into a glum silence.

"I heard you sat down on that Mallory last Saturday," observed some one
at last.

"That's what I did!" responded Murray, brightening up at the mention of
a less discouraging incident. "Mary Adams introduced me to him and I cut
him dead. Gee, but he was mad!"

"Wonder, if he'll try to make you apologize," said Bull.

"It would be just like him," put in Merry.

The other looked as if he didn't relish the possibility one bit; he
turned the conversation quickly.

"Wait till he tries it," said he. "In the meantime I'm more interested
in the great question, what are we going to do to take him down?"

"Can't think of a thing," said Vance, flatly. "Not a thing!"

"By George!" cried Bull. "I'm going to think of something if I die for
it."

"I'll shake with you on that," put in Murray. "We won't rest till we get
a plan."

"Let me in too," said Vance.

"And me too!" cried Baby.

And so it happened that when the informal assembly dissolved for supper
it dissolved with but one idea in the mind of every cadet in the
party--that Mark Mallory must be taken down!

A plan came at last, one which was enough to do for any one; and when it
came it came from a most unexpected source, none other than the Baby,
who never before in the memory of Bull had dared to say anything
original. The baby's sweet little brain, evolving the interesting
problem, struck an idea which, so to speak, brought down the house.

"I'll tell you what!" he cried. "I've a scheme!"

"What is it?" inquired Bull, incredulously.

"Let's soak him on demerits!"

And with a look of delight Bull turned and stared at Murray.

"By the lord!" he cried, "that's it. We'll soak him on demerits!"

Then the precious trio locked arms and did a war on the campus.

"Just the thing!" gasped Bull, breathlessly. "Murray's a corporal and he
can do it! Whoop!"

"Yes!" cried the Baby. "And he was put over plebes to-day. Will you do
it, Murray?"

And Murray lost no time in vowing that he would; Bull Harris felt then
that at last he was on the road to victory.

It is necessary to explain the system of discipline which prevails at
West Point. A cadet is allowed to receive only one hundred "demerits"
during the first six months of his stay. These demerits are assigned
according to a regular and inflexible schedule; thus for being late at
roll call, a minor offense, a cadet receives two demerits, while a
serious offense, such as disobedience of orders or sitting down on post
while on sentry duty, brings ten units of trouble in its wake. These
demerits are not given by the instructor or the cadet who notices the
offense; but he enters the charge in a book which is forwarded to
headquarters. The report is read out after parade that same day and
posted in a certain place the next day; and four days later the
superintendent assigns the demerits in all cases where "explanations"
have not been received.

The following is an example of an explanation:

      "West Point, N. Y., ---- --, 18--. Report--Bedding not
      properly folded at police inspection.

      "Explanation--Some one disarranged my bedding after I
      had piled it. I was at the sink at the time of
      inspection, and I readjusted the bedding upon my
      return.

      "Respectfully submitted,

      "---- ----,

      "Cadet ----, Co. ----, ---- Class.

      "To the Commandant of Cadets."

Cadets usually hand in explanations, though the explanations are not
always deemed satisfactory.

Reports are made by the army officers, and also by cadets themselves,
file closers, section marchers and others. It was in this last fact that
Bull Harris and his friend Murray saw their chance.

It very seldom happens that a cadet reports another except where the
report is deserved; a man who does otherwise soon gets into trouble. But
Bull and his gang saw no obstacle in that; most of them were always
head over heels in demerits themselves, including Murray--though he was
a "cadet-corporal." Being thus, and in consequent danger of expulsion,
they were reckless of possible trouble. And besides, Bull had sworn to
haze that plebe, and he meant to do it.

The plan in brief was simply this: Mark Mallory must be demerited right
and left, everywhere and upon every possible pretext, just or
unjust--and that was all. The thing has been done before; there is talk
of doing it whenever a colored lad is admitted to the Point. And Murray
was the man to do it, too, because he had just been transferred and put
"on duty over plebes." It was only necessary to give one hundred
demerits. One hundred demerits is a ticket of leave without further
parley or possibility of return.




CHAPTER XXI.

A MILD ATTEMPT AT HAZING.


If Cadet Corporal Murray had any doubts about the necessity for putting
this very dirty scheme into practice, or if his not over squeamish
conscience was the least bit troubled by the prospect, something
happened that same evening which effectually squelched such ideas. It
was after supper, during half an hour of so-called "rest," which is
allowed to the over-drilled plebe. Mr. Murray, in whose manly breast
still burned a fire of rage at the insult which "B. J." Dewey had
offered him, resolved in his secret heart that that same insult must and
should be avenged. That evening he thought an especially favorable time,
for Dewey was still an "invalid," as a result of his last B. J. effort.

With this purpose in view, Cadet Murray stole away from his companions
and set out for barracks, around which the luckless plebes were
clustered. Arriving there, he hunted; he spent quite a while in hunting,
for the object of his search was nowhere to be seen. He caught sight of
Mark and his "gang," but Dewey was not among them. When he did find him
at last it was a good way from that place--way up on Flirtation Walk;
and then Cadet Murray got down to business at once.

"Look a here, B. J. beast!" he called.

The object of this peremptory challenge turned, as also did his
companion, the terrified Indian--once more about to be hazed. The two
stared at the yearling; a lady and gentleman passing glanced at him
also, probably wondering what was in store for the luckless plebes; and
then they passed on, leaving the place lonely, and deserted, just the
spot for the proposed work. So thought the yearling, as he rubbed his
hands gleefully and spoke again.

"Beast!" said he, "I want to tell you that you were very impudent to me
to-day!"

"Strange coincidence!" cried Dewey, with one of his merry laughs.
"Reminds me of a story I once heard, b'gee. Two old farmers got stuck in
a snowdrift--five feet deep, and getting deeper. Says one of 'em, b'gee,
'It's c-c-c-cold!' 'B'gee!' cried the other. 'B'gee, naow ain't that
pecooliar! Jes' exactly what I was goin' to say myself, b'gee!'"

Cadet Murray listened to this blithe recital with a frowning brow.

"You think that's funny, don't you!" he sneered.

"No, b'gee!" laughed Dewey, "because I didn't write it. 'Nother fellow
told me that--the queerest chap I think I ever knew, he was. Had a
mother-in-law that used to----"

"Shut up!" cried Murray, in anger, seeing that he was being "guyed."

"B'gee!" cried Dewey, "that's just what she didn't!"

There was an ominous silence after that, during which the yearling
glared angrily, and Indian muttered "Bless my soul!"

"It's quite evident," began the former, at last, "that you are inclined
to be fresh."

"Ink-lined to be fresh," added Dewey, "as the stamped egg remarked when
it was dated three days after it was laid. That's another far-fetched
joke, though. Still I've heard some more far-fetched than that--one a
friend of mine read on an Egyptian pyramid and brought home to tell for
new. Queer fellow that friend of mine was, too. He didn't have a
mother-in-law, this one, but he slept in a folding bed, and, b'gee, that
bed used to shut up oftener than the mother-in-law didn't. Handsome
bed, too--an inlaid bed--and it shut up whenever it was laid in, b'gee."

Dewey could have prattled on at this merry rate for an hour, for he knew
more jokes--good ones--and could make up more bad ones on the spur of
the moment than half a dozen ordinary mortals. But he was brought to a
sudden halt just then, and muttered a suppressed "B'gee!" For the
yearling, wild with anger, leaped forward and aimed a savage blow at his
head.

The plebe ducked; he was quick and agile in body as he was in mind. And
then as the big cadet aimed another blow, he put up his one well
arm--the other was in a sling--and defended himself to the best of his
ability, at the same time calling Indian to his aid.

But before there was time for another move something else happened.
Dewey was debating whether discretion were not really the whole of
valor, and whether it were not better to "run away and live to fight--or
run away--some other day;" and Indian was actually doubling up his fat
little fists about to strike the first blow in his fat little life; when
suddenly came a shout behind them, and a moment later a strong hand
seized the advancing yearling by the back of his collar and flung him
head first to the ground.

Cadet Murray sprang to his feet again and turned purple with rage and
soiled with dirt, to confront the stalwart form of Mark, and Mark
rubbing his hands together and smiling cheerfully.

"Will you have any more?" he inquired, politely. "Step right up if you
will--and by the way, stop that swearing."

"A very timely arrival," remarked Dewey, smoothing his jacket. "Very
timely, b'gee! Reminds me----"

"Bless my soul!" cried Indian.

"Going, are you?" put in Mark, as the discomfited Murray started to
slink away. "Well, good-evening. I've had my satisfaction for being
called a coward by you."

"You shall pay for this," the furious cadet muttered. "Pay for it as
sure as I'm alive!"

His threat was taken lightly by the plebes; they had little idea of what
he meant when he spoke. And they were chatting merrily about the
adventure as they turned and made their way back to barracks.

"It only goes to show," was Mark's verdict, "that an alliance is a
first-rate idea. I saw that fellow prowling around barracks and I knew
right away what he was up to. We've one more enemy, that's all."

That was not all, by a good sight. The angry yearling hurried back to
camp, nursing his feelings as he went; there he poured out the vials of
his wrath into the ears of his two sympathetic companions, Bull and the
Baby. And the three of them spent the rest of that evening, up to
tattoo, discussing their revenge, thinking up a thousand pretexts upon
which Cadet Mallory might be "skinned." There was a bombshell scheduled
to fall into the midst of the "alliance" the next day.




CHAPTER XXII.

THE BOMBSHELL FALLS.


Nothing happened that evening; Mark and his friends passed their time in
serene unconsciousness of any danger, merrily discussing the latest
hazing effort of the enemy. Bull Harris and his crowd did not put in
appearance, or try to put their plot into execution, for the simple
reason that there was no chance. The first "whack," so to speak, was
scheduled for the A. M. inspection the next day. The only inspection at
night is made by a "tac"--a practical officer--who goes the rounds with
a dark lantern after taps to make sure that no plebes have been run away
with.

Reveille and roll call the next morning passed without incident, except
that Cadet Mallory was reported "late" at the latter function; the
charge being true, no suspicions were awakened. After that came the
march to mess hall, the plebe company, which was by this time able to
march presentably though rather stiffly, falling in behind the rest of
the corps. During that march "File Closer" Vance had occasion to rebuke
Cadet Mallory for loud talking in ranks. It hadn't been loud, at least
not very loud, but Mark swallowed it and said nothing.

Breakfast passed without incident, and the plebes were marched back to
barracks, there breaking ranks, and scattering to quarters to "spruce
up" for inspection. Mark and Texas, who shared the same room, lost no
time in getting to work at the sweeping and dusting and arranging.

It seems scarcely necessary to say that there are no chambermaids at
West Point. Cadets do their own room cleaning, "policing," as it is
called, and they do it well, too. A simpler, barer place than a room in
barracks it would be hard to imagine. Bare white walls--no pictures
allowed--and no wall paper--a black fireplace, a plain table, an iron
bedstead, a washstand, two chairs, and a window is about the entire
inventory. And every article in that room must be found placed with
mathematical precision in just such a spot and no other. There is a
"bluebook"--learned by heart--to tell where; and there are penalties for
every infringement. Demerits are the easiest things in the world to
get; enough might be given at one inspection to expel.

The signal, dreaded like poison by all plebes, that the time for
inspection has come, is a heavy step in the hall and a single tap upon
the door. It came that morning while the two victims-to-be were still
hard at work. In accordance with orders each sprang up, stood at
attention--heels together, head up, eyes to the front, chest out,
etc.--and silently awaited developments.

Mark gasped for breath when he saw who it was that entered; Cadet
Corporal Jasper had been transferred and the man who was to do the work
this time was none other than Murray, next to Bull Harris, Mark's
greatest enemy on earth.

Cadet Murray looked handsome in his spotless uniform of gray and white,
with his chevrons of gold; he strode in with a stern and haughty look
which speedily changed to one of displeasure as he gazed about him at
the room. He took a rapid mental count of the possible charges he could
make; and then glanced up at the name which is posted on the wall,
telling who is "room orderly" for the week--and so responsible for the
faults. It was Mallory, and the yearling could scarcely hide a smile of
satisfaction.

"You plebes have had nearly two weeks now," he began, frowning with
well-feigned displeasure, "in which to learn to arrange your rooms. The
disorder which I see shows not only carelessness but actual
insubordination. And I propose to make an example of you two for once
and for all."

The two victims were expected to say nothing; and they said it. But Mark
did a pile of thinking and his heart sank as he realized what his enemy
might do if he chose. It is possible to find a thousand faults in the
most perfect work if one only hunts long enough and is willing to split
hairs.

Cadet Corporal Murray took out a notebook and pencil with obvious
meaning.

"In the first place," said he, "where should that broom be? Behind the
door, should it not? Why is it not? I find that your bedding is piled
carelessly, very carelessly. The blanket is not evenly folded; moreover,
the bluebook states particularly that the blanket is to be placed at the
bottom of the pile. You may see that it is not so. Why, Mr. Mallory, I
do not think it has ever happened to me to find a room so utterly
disorderly, or a cadet so negligent! Look at that bluebook; it belongs
upon the mantelpiece, and I see it on the bed----"

"I was reading it," put in Mark, choking down his anger by a violent
effort.

And as he spoke the corporal's face grew sterner yet.

"In the first place, sir," said he, "you have no business to be reading
while awaiting inspection, and you know it--though I must say a more
frequent study of that book would save you much trouble. In the second
place, you are not expected to answer under such circumstances; the
proper thing for you to do is to hand in the explanation to the
authorities, and you know that, too. I am sent here to notice and report
delinquencies and not to argue about them with you. I regret now that I
shall be obliged to mention the fact that you remonstrated with an
officer during inspection, a most serious charge indeed."

And Cadet Corporal Murray made another note in his book, chuckling
inwardly as he did it.

"What next?" thought the two plebes.

There was lots more. The yearling next stepped over to the mantelpiece
and ran his finger, with its spotless white glove, along the inner
edge. Texas had rubbed that mantel fiercely; yet, to get it so clean as
not to soil the glove was almost impossible, and so the corporal first
held up the finger to show the mark of dirt and then--wrote down "dust
on mantel."

There is no need to tell the rest in detail, but simply to say that
while Mark and his roommate gazed on in blank despair, their jubilant
enemy made out a list of at least a dozen charges, which he knew would
aggregate to at least half of the demerit maximum, and for every one of
which there was some slight basis of justification. The yearling was
shrewd enough to suspect this fact would prevent their being excused,
for he did not think that Mark would sign his name to a lie in his
explanation.

The disastrous visit was closed with a note--"floor unswept"--because
three scraps of paper were observed peering out from under the table;
and then without another word the cadet turned on his heel and marched
out of the room. And Mark and Texas stood and stared at each other in
utter and abject consternation.

It was a minute at least before either of them spoke; they were both
too dumfounded. The bombshell had struck, and had brought ruin in its
path. Mark knew now what was the power of his enemies; knew that he was
gone. For with such a weapon as the one the cowardly Murray had struck
his dismissal was the matter of a week or less. Already he was more than
halfway to expulsion; already the prize for which he had fought so long
and so hard was slipping from his grasp. And all on account of a
cowardly crowd he had made his enemies because he had been strong and
manly enough to do what he knew was right.

It was a cruel fact and Mark felt pretty bitter toward West Point just
then. As for Texas, his faithful friend and roommate, Texas said not one
word; but he went to the chimney, up which he had hidden his sixteen
revolvers for safety, calmly selected two of the biggest, and having
examined the cartridges, tucked them safely away in his rear pockets.
Then he sat down on the bed and gave vent to a subdued "Durnation!"

About this same time Cadet Corporal Murray, having handed in his reports
at headquarters, was racing joyfully back to camp, there to join his
friend, Bull Harris, with a shout of victory.

"Rejoice! Rejoice!" he cried, slapping his chum on the back. "We've got
him! I soaked him for fifty at least!"




CHAPTER XXIII.

IN THE SHADOW OF DISMISSAL.


The rest of that day passed without incident. Mark managed after a good
deal of trouble to postpone Texas' hunting trip; and the two struggled
on through the day's drills disconsolately, waiting to see what would
happen next.

Evening came, and the plebes being lined up in barracks area the roll
was called, the "orders" read, and then the reports of the day. The
cadet who did the reading rattled down the list in his usual hurried,
breathless style. But when he came to M he paused suddenly; he gazed at
the list incredulously, then cleared his throat, took a long foreboding
breath and began:

"Mallory--Late at roll call.

"Same--Laughing loud in ranks.

"Same--Bedding improperly arranged at A. M. inspection.

"Same--Broom out of place at A. M. inspection.

"Same--Remonstrating with superior officer at A. M. inspection."

And so the cadet officer went on, the whole plebe class listening with
open-eyed amazement while one charge after another was rattled off, and
gazing out of the corners of their eyes at the object of the attack, who
stood and listened with a look of calm indifference upon his face.

The list was finished at last, when the listeners had about concluded
that it was eternal; the rest of the reports were quickly disposed of,
and then: "Break ranks, march!" and the line melted into groups of
excited and eagerly talking cadets, discussing but one subject--the ruin
of Mallory.

Of course it was known to every one that this was simply one more effort
of the yearlings to subdue him; and loud were the threats and
expressions of disapproval. Mark's bravery in making a fight for his
honor had won him the admiration of his class, and the class felt that
with his downfall came a return of the old state of affairs and the
complete subjection of the "beasts" once more.

There were jealous ones who rejoiced secretly, and there were timid ones
who declared that they had always said that Mallory was too B. J. to
last. But in the main there was nothing but genuine anger at the upper
classmen's "rank injustice," and wild talk of appealing to the
superintendent to bring it to a stop.

The utter consternation of the seven allies is left to the reader's
imagination. After the first shock of horror had passed the crowd had
sat down and made a calculation; they found fifty-five demerits due that
day, which, together with ten previously given, left thirty-five to go,
and then--why it made them sick to think of what would happen!

Having striven to realize this for half an hour, they got together and
swore a solemn oath, first, that if Mark were dismissed, a joint
statement of the reasons thereof, incidentally mentioning each and every
act of hazing done by the yearlings, naming principals, witnesses, time
and place, should be forwarded to the superintendent, signed by the six;
and second, that every yearling who gave a demerit should be "licked
until he couldn't stand up."

Texas also swore incidentally that he'd resign if Mark were "fired," and
take him down to Texas to make a cowboy of him. And after that there was
nothing to do but wait and pray--and clean up for next day's
inspection, a task at which the whole seven labored up to the very last
minute before tattoo.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was the afternoon of the following day; the rays of a scorching July
sun beat down upon the post, and West Point seemed asleep. Up by Camp
McPherson the cadets were lounging about in idleness, and it was only
down at barracks that there was anything moving at all. Inside the area
the hot and shimmering pavement echoed to the tread of the plebe company
at drill; outside the street was deserted except for one solitary figure
with whom our story has to do. The figure was a cadet officer in
uniform, Captain Fischer, of the first class, resplendent in his
chevrons and sash.

He was marching down the street with the firm, quick step that is second
nature to a West Pointer; he passed the barracks without looking in and
went on down to the hospital building; and there he turned and started
to enter. The door opened just as he reached it, however, and another
cadet came out. The officer sprang forward instantly and grasped him by
the hand.

"Williams!" he cried. "Just the fellow I was coming to see. And what a
beautiful object you are!"

Williams smiled a melancholy smile; he was beautiful and he knew it. His
face was covered in spots with Greek crosses of court-plaster, and
elsewhere by startling red lumps. And he walked with a shy, retiring
gait that told of sundry other damages. Such were the remains of
handsome "Billy," all-round athlete and favorite of his class, defeated
hero.

Williams had waited scarcely long enough for this thought to flash over
the young officer before he spoke again, this time with some anxiety.

"Tell me! Tell me about Mallory! I hear they're skinning him on
demerits."

"Yes, they are," returned Fischer, "and they've soaked him twenty more
this morning!"

"Twenty more! Then how many has he?"

"Eighty-five."

"What!" cried Williams. "You don't mean it! Why, he'll be out in a week.
Say, Fischer, that's outrageous!"

"Perfectly outrageous!" vowed the officer.

And Williams brought his hand down on his knee with a bang.

"By George!" he cried, "I'm going around to see him about it!"

With which words he sprang down the stairs and, leaving the cadet
officer to gaze at him in surprise, hurried up the street to barracks.

Squad drill was just that moment over; without wasting any time about
it, Williams hurried into the building and made his way to Mallory's
room. He found the plebe, and got right to work to say what he had to
say.

"Mr. Mallory," he began, "I've come up in the first place to shake hands
with you, and to say there's no hard feeling."

"Thank you," said Mark, and his heart went with the grip of his hand.

"You made a good fight, splendid!" continued the yearling. "And some day
I'll be proud to be your friend."

"I'm afraid," returned Mark, with a sad smile, "that I'll not be here
that long."

"That's the second thing I've come to see you about," vowed Williams.
"Mr. Mallory, I want you to understand that the decent men of this
class don't approve of the work that Mur--er, I suppose you know who's
back of it. And I tell you right now that I'm going to stop it if it's
the last act I ever do on this earth!"

"I'm afraid it won't do much good," responded the other, shaking his
head. "I could never pass six months without getting fifteen demerits."

"It's a shame!" cried the other. "And you have worked for your
appointment, too."

"I have worked," exclaimed Mark, something choking his voice that
sounded suspiciously near a sob, "worked for it as I have never worked
for anything in my life. It has been the darling ambition of my heart to
come here. And I came--and now--and now----"

He stopped, for he could think of no more to say. Williams stood and
regarded him in silence for some moments, and then he took him by the
hand again.

"Mr. Mallory," said he, "just as sure as I'm alive this thing shall
stop! Keep up heart now, and we'll make a fight for it! While there's
life there's hope, they say--and, by Heaven, you shan't be expelled!"

The following evening, when the reports were read, Mark's list of
demerits had reached a total of ninety-five.

The excitement among plebes and cadets alike was intense, and it was
known far and wide that Mark Mallory, the "B. J." plebe, stood at last
"in the shadow of dismissal."




CHAPTER XXIV.

A LETTER.


      "MY DEAR FISCHER: I promised to drop you a line just
      to let you know how I'm getting along, though it does
      take a tremendous pile of energy to write a letter on
      a hot afternoon like this. I'm sure I shall go to
      sleep in the middle of it, and naturally, too, for
      even writing to you is enough to bore anybody. I can
      almost imagine you leaning over to whack at me in
      return for that compliment.

      "Well, I am home on furlough; and I don't know whether
      I wish I were back or not, for I fear that you will
      have cut me out on all the girls, especially since you
      are a high and mighty first captain this year.
      Speaking of girls, you just ought to be here. The
      girls at West Point are _blase_ on cadets, for they
      see so many; but here a West Point officer is cock of
      the walk, and I have to fight a jealous rival once a
      week."

Cadet Captain Fischer dropped the letter at this stage of it and lay
back and laughed.

"Wicks Merritt's evidently forgotten I was on furlough once myself," he
said. "He's telling me all about how it goes."

"What's he got to say?" inquired Williams, the speaker's tentmate,
looking up from the gun he was cleaning.

"Oh, nothing much; only a lot of nonsense--jollying as usual. Wicks
always is."

And then Fischer picked up the letter again, and went on.

The two were seated near the door of a tent in "Company A Street," at
Camp McPherson. Fischer was lying in front of the tent "door," which was
open to admit the morning breeze that swept across the parade ground.
His friend sat over in an opposite corner and rubbed away.

There was silence of some minutes, broken only by the sound of the
polishing and the rustling of Fischer's paper. And then the latter spoke
again.

"Oh, say!" said he. "Here's something that'll interest you, Billy.
Something about your friend Mallory."

"Fire away," said Williams.

      "'By the way, when you answer this let me know
      something about my pet and _protege_, future football
      captain of the West Point eleven. The last time I
      heard from where you are, Mark Mallory was raising
      Cain. I heard that he was a B. J. plebe for fair; that
      he'd set to work to make war on the yearlings, and had
      put them to rout in style; also, incidentally, that
      he was scheduled to fight Billy Williams, the
      yearling's pet athlete. Tell Billy I hope the plebe
      does him; tell him I say that if Mallory once whacks
      him on the head with that right arm of his he'll see
      more stars from the lick than the Lick telescope can
      show----'"

"Billy" broke in just then with a dismal groan.

"I don't know whether that's because of the pun," laughed Fischer, "or
because of your recollection of the blow. However, I'll proceed.

      "'Now, I don't care how much you fellows haze my
      Mallory; he's tough and he can stand it. He'll
      probably give you tit for tat every time, anyhow. But
      I do want to say this--watch out that nobody tries any
      foul play on him, skins him on demerits or reports him
      unfairly. Do me a favor and keep your eye out for
      that. Watch particularly Bull Harris, who is, I think,
      the meanest sneak in the yearling class, and also his
      chum, Gus Murray.

      "'I know it for a fact that Mallory caught Bull in a
      very dirty act about a month ago and knocked spots out
      of him for it. I can't tell you what the act was; but
      Bull has sworn vengeance and he'll probably try to get
      it, so watch for me. If you let Mallory get into
      trouble, mind what I say, I'll never forgive you as
      long as you live. I'll cut you out with Bessie Smith,
      who, they say, is your fair one at present. Mallory is
      a treasure, and when you know him as well as I you'll
      think so, too.'"

Cadet Captain Fischer dropped the letter, sat up, and stared at
Williams; and Williams stared back. There was disgust on the faces of
both.

"By George!" cried the latter at last, striking his gunstock in the
ground. "By George! we've let 'em do it already!"

And after that there was a silence of several unpleasant minutes, during
which each was diligently thinking over the situation.

"He's a fine fellow, anyway," continued Williams. "And we were a pack of
fools to let that Bull Harris gang soak him as we did. They've gone to
work and given him ninety-five demerits in a week on trumped-up charges.
And it's perfectly outrageous, that's what it is! The plebe's
confoundedly fresh, of course, but he's a gentleman for all that, and he
don't deserve one-quarter of the demerits he's gotten. The decent
fellows in the class ought to be ashamed of themselves."

"That's what I say! He only has to get five demerits more and then he's
fired for good."

"Which means," put in the officer, "that's he's sure to be fired by next
week."

"Exactly! And then what will Wicks say? I went over to barracks to see
Mallory about it yesterday; he's nearly heart-broken, for he's worked
like a horse to get here, and now he's ruined--practically expelled.
Yet, what can we do?"

"Can't he hand in explanations and get the demerits excused?" suggested
Fischer.

"No, because most of the charges had just enough basis of truth in them
to make them justifiable. I tell you I was mad when he told me about it;
I vowed I'd do something to stop it. Yet what on earth can I do? I can't
think of a thing except to lick that fellow Bull Harris and his crowd.
But what possible good will that do Mallory?"

"Mallory will probably do that himself," remarked Fischer, smiling for a
moment; his face became serious again as he continued. "I begin to agree
with you, Billy, about that thing. I've heard several tales about how
Mallory outwitted Bull in his hazing adventures, and the plebe's
probably made him mad. It's a dirty revenge Bull has taken, and I think
if it's only for Wicks' sake I'll put a stop to it."

"You!" echoed Williams. "Pray, how?"

"What am I a first captain for?" laughed Fischer. "Just you watch me and
see what I do! I can't take off the ninety-five, but I can see that he
don't get the other five, by Jingo! And I will do it for you, too!"

And with that, the cadet arose and strode out of the tent, leaving his
friend to labor at the gun in glum and disconsolate silence.

At the same time that Williams and Fischer were discussing the case of
this particularly refractory plebe, there were other cadets doing
likewise, but with far different sentiments and views. The cadets were
Bull Harris and his cronies.

They were sitting--half a dozen of them--beneath the shade trees of
Trophy Point at the northern end of the parade ground; they were waiting
for dinner, and the afternoon, which, being Saturday, was a holiday and
for which they had planned some particular delicious hazing adventure.

Foremost among them was Bull Harris himself, seated upon one of the
cannon. Beside him was Baby Edwards. Gus Murray sat on Bull's other side
and made up a precious trio.

Murray was laughing heartily at something just then, and the rest of the
crowd seemed to appreciate the joke immensely.

"Ho! ho!" said he. "Just think of it! After I had soaked the confounded
plebe for fifty and more, ho! ho! they got suspicious up at headquarters
and transferred me, and ho! ho! put M-m-merry Vance on instead, and he,
ho! ho! soaked him all the harder!"

And Gus Murray slapped his knee and roared at this truly humorous state
of affairs.

"Yes," chimed in Merry Vance. "Yes, I thought when Gus told me he'd been
transferred again that we'd lost our chance to skin Mallory for fair.
And the very next night up gets the adjutant and reads off the orders
putting me on duty over the plebes. Oh, gee! Did you eve

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