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.