A SWIMMING MATCH.
The manner in which the cadets dine has not as yet been described in
these pages; perhaps here is just as good a place as any to picture the
historic mess hall where Lee and Grant and Sherman once dined, and
toward which on that Saturday afternoon were marching not only the group
we have just left, but also the object of all their dislike, the B. J.
plebe who fell in behind the cadets as the battalion swung past
barracks.
The cadets march to mess hall; they march to every place they go as a
company. The building itself is just south of the "Academic" and
barracks; it is built of gray stone, and forcibly reminds the candid
observer of a jail. They tell stories at West Point of credulous
candidates who have "swallowed" that, and believed that the cadet
battalion was composed of disobedient cadets, about to be locked up in
confinement.
There is a flight of iron steps in the center, and at the foot of these
steps, three times every day, the battalion breaks ranks and dissolves
into a mob of actively bounding figures. Upon entering, the cadets do
not take seats, but stand behind their chairs, and await the order,
"Company A, take seats!" "Company B, take seats!" and so on. The plebes,
who, up to this time, are still a separate company, come last, as usual;
they are seated by themselves, at one side of the dining-room.
The tables seat twenty-two persons, ten on a side, and one at each end.
The cadets are placed according to rank, and they always sit in the same
seats. The tables are divided down the center by an imaginary line, each
part being a "table"; first class men sit near the head, and so on down
to the plebes, who find themselves at the center (that is, after they
have moved into camp, and been "sized" and assigned to companies; before
that they are "beasts," herded apart, as has been said).
The dinner is upon the table when the cadets enter; the corporals are
charged with the duty of carving, and the luckless plebe is expected to
help everybody to water upon demand, and eats nothing until that duty
has been attended to. After the meal, for which half an hour is allowed,
the command, "Company A, rise!" and so on, is the signal to leave the
table and fall into line again on the street outside. This, however,
does not take place until a lynx-eyed "tac" has gone the rounds, making
notes--"So-and-so, too much butter on plate." "Somebody else, napkin not
properly folded," and so on. This ceremony over, the battalion marches
back to camp, a good half mile, in the broiling sun or pouring rain, as
the case may be.
That Saturday afternoon being a hot one, and a holiday, our friends of
the last chapter, Bull Harris and his gang, sought out an occupation in
which fully half the cadets at the post chanced to agree; they went in
swimming, a diversion which the superintendent sees fit to allow. "Gee's
Point," on the Hudson, is within the government property, and thither
the cadets gather whenever the weather is suitable.
That particular party included Bull and Baby (who didn't swim, but liked
to watch Bull), Gus Murray, Vance and the rest of their retainers. And,
on the way, they passed the time by discussing their one favorite topic,
their recent triumph over "that B. J. beast." There was a new phase of
the question they had to speculate upon now, and that was what the
"beast" could possibly have done to move to such unholy wrath so
important a personage as the senior captain of the Battalion. Also,
they were interested in trying to think up a method by which those extra
demerits might be speedily given without incurring the wrath of that
officer. Though each one of the yearlings was ready, even anxious, to
explain that he wasn't the least bit afraid of him.
"I tell you," declared Bull, "he couldn't prove anything against us if
he tried. It's all one great bluff of Fischer's, and he's a fool to act
as he did."
"I'd a good mind to tell him as much!" assented Baby.
"It won't make any difference," put in Murray, "we'll soak the plebe,
anyhow. We can easily give him five demerits in short order, and without
attracting any attention, either."
"He's out, just as sure as he's alive!" laughed Bull. "We wouldn't need
to do a thing more."
"Exactly!" cried the echo. "Not a thing!"
"All the same," continued the other, "I wish we could get up a scheme to
get him in disgrace, so as to clinch it. I wish we could----"
Just here Bull was interrupted by a sudden exclamation from Murray.
Murray had brought his hand against his knee with a whack, and there
was a look of inspiration upon his face.
"Great Caesar!" he cried, "I've got it!"
"Got it! What?"
"A scheme! A scheme to do him!"
"What is it?"
"Write him a letter, or something--get him to leave barracks at
night--have a sentry catch him beyond limits, or else we'll report him
absent! Oh, say!"
The crowd were staring at each other in amazement, a look of delight
spreading over their faces, as the full possibilities of this same
inspiration dawned upon them.
"By the lord!" cried Bull, at last. "Court-martial him! That's the
ticket!"
"Shake on it!" responded Murray.
In half a minute the gang had sworn to put that plan into execution
within the space of twenty-four hours. And after that they hurried on
down to the point to go in swimming.
"Speak of angels," remarked Murray, "and they flap their wings. There's
the confounded plebe now."
"Of angels!" sneered Vance. "Of devils, you mean."
"By George!" muttered Bull. "You can't phaze that fellow. I thought
he'd be up in barracks, moping, to-day!"
"Probably wants to put up a bluff as if he don't care," was the clever
suggestion of the Baby. "I bet he's sore as anything!"
"I told him I'd make him the sickest plebe in the place," growled Bull,
"and I'll bet he is, too."
The yearling would have won his bet; there was probably no sadder man in
West Point than Mark Mallory just then, even though he did not choose to
let his enemies know it.
"Look at him dive!" sneered Baby, watching him with a malignant frown.
"He wants to show off."
"Pretty good dive," commented a bystander, who was somewhat more
disinterested.
"Good, your grandmother!" cried the other. "Why, I could beat that
myself if I knew how to swim!"
And then he wondered why the crowd laughed.
"Come on, let's go in ourselves," put in Bull, anxious to end his small
friend's discomfort. "Hurry up, there!"
The crowd had turned away, to follow their leader in his suggestion;
they were by no means anxious to swell the number of those who had
gathered for the obvious purpose of watching Mark Mallory's feats as a
swimmer. In fact, they couldn't see why anybody should want to watch a
B. J. beast, and a "beast" who had only a day or two more to stay, at
that.
Just then, however, a cry from the crowd attracted their attention, and
made them turn hastily again.
"A race! A race!"
And Bull Harris cried out with vexation, as he wheeled and took in the
situation.
"By the Lord!" he cried. "Did you ever hear of such a B. J. trick in
your life? The confounded plebe is going to race with Fischer!"