CONY RYAN’S PANCAKES.
“He did bite, didn’t he?” said Duncan to himself, as he hurried about
the grounds and through the academy building looking everywhere for Dick
Henderson. “He jumped at the bait quicker than I thought he would; but
he never would have done it if he had not got himself into trouble last
night. That made him mad, and now he don’t much care what he does. We’ll
fix him. A court-martial and extra lessons and guard duty and drills for
a whole month will so disgust him with this school that he will clear
out, and we shall be well rid of him.”
Duncan soon found the boy of whom he was in search, and the following is
a part of the conversation that took place between them:
“You are on post No. 5, down there at the north side of the grounds
to-night, are you not?” said Duncan.
Dick replied that he was, that he went on at midnight.
“Well, you know that the boys are going down to Cony Ryan’s to-night,
don’t you?” continued Clarence.
Yes, Dick knew all about it, and stood ready to help them in every way
he could, without getting himself into trouble.
“Well,” said Duncan, again, “Don Gordon is going with us.”
Dick seemed delighted to hear it.
“We roped him in just as easy as falling off a log,” Clarence went on.
“He has been introduced to some of the fellows, and Fisher and I have
worked things so nicely that he doesn’t suspect anything. Now you must
be on the alert to catch him when we come back, which will be some time
between one and four o’clock.”
“How shall I know him from the rest of you?”
“By the signal, of course. Have you forgotten that?” Here Duncan coughed
slightly, and in a peculiar manner.
“No, I haven’t forgotten it. I only want to know just how things are
going to be managed, so that I shall not make any mistakes. It would be
awkward, you know, if I should call the corporal of the guard to arrest
the wrong fellow.”
“You musn’t do that,” said Duncan, quickly. “It would be much better to
let Gordon pass unchallenged with the rest of us. You know we boys got
ourselves into lots of trouble last term, and if we don’t keep our names
off the black-list from this time on, we stand a good chance of being
sent down.”
(By being “sent down” Duncan meant “expelled.”)
“All right,” said Dick. “I know just what you want of me. Do everything
just as it was done last term, and I will see that our boys get safely
through, and that Don Gordon comes in for a court-martial.”
When the hour for dress-parade arrived the classes were marched to the
drill-room by their respective captains, three of them being drawn up in
line, while the Plebes were stationed at one end of the room so that
they could watch the movements of their comrades, and learn something of
the duties that would be required of them when they were well enough
drilled in the manual of arms and school of the company to go on parade
themselves. There were two of them who did not pay much attention to the
proceedings, although they appeared to watch them closely, and they were
Don and Bert Gordon. They noticed that the adjutant carried some papers
in his belt, and they knew instinctively that one of them contained
something that would prove to be of interest to them.
In obedience to the adjutant’s order, the captains brought their
companies to “parade rest,” the band “sounded off,” a few exercises in
the manual of arms were gone through with, and then came the command:
“Attention to orders.” Don listened, and heard his name and Bert’s read
off in connection with those of three or four other culprits, who were
ordered to be punished according to their deserts. It was ordered that
privates Donald and Hubert Gordon, for overstaying their time, and
having a light burning in their quarters after taps (this being their
second offence), be deprived of liberty for thirty days, and required to
stand guard for four hours on the ensuing Saturday afternoon with packed
knapsacks. Then the parade was dismissed, the band struck up a lively
tune, the officers advanced to salute the commander of the battalion,
and the first sergeants marched their companies to the armory, where
ranks were broken.
“Didn’t I tell you just how it would be?” whispered Fisher, who happened
to overtake Don while the latter was on his way to his room. “It’s no
trouble at all to stand an extra, for it is over with in four hours; and
as for depriving you of your liberty—that’s all in my one eye. You can
see much more fun without a pass than you can with one, for you are not
obliged to return at any specified time.”
“I don’t mind the punishment as much as I do the disgrace,” said Don.
“Disgrace!” echoed Fisher. “Nonsense. This has been a military school
for half a century or more, and of the thousands of students who have
been graduated here, there are not a hundred who did not, at some time
or another, break some rule, and get punished for it. Why, my own father
used to run the guard.”
“So did mine,” said Don.
“_Your_ father!” exclaimed Tom, in great surprise. “Did he ever attend
this school?”
“Yes; he received a military education and prepared for college here.”
“I am surprised to hear it. Well, he didn’t get through the whole course
without being hauled up occasionally, did he? I just know he didn’t, if
he was a boy who had any spirit in him. Now, as I may not see you again
until the time for action arrives, I want to know if you understand just
what you have to do.”
Don answered that he was sure he did, and then went on to repeat the
instructions he had received in the gymnasium. When he had finished,
Fisher gave him an approving wink and nod, and left him.
During the evening Don and Bert did very little studying. The latter
took his punishment very much to heart; and asked himself over and over
what his mother would think when she heard of it; while Don was so busy
thinking of the festivities that were to come off at Cony Ryan’s, that
he could not have concentrated his mind on his books if he had tried.
When taps were sounded the light went out instanter.
“I shall never get into trouble for _that_ again,” said Don, as he
tumbled into bed, after bidding his brother good-night. “The next time I
am reported, it will be for something that is worth reporting.”
Don began to be excited now. He had been instructed to wait twenty
minutes, as near as he could guess at it, in order to give the officer
of the day time to make his rounds, which he did as often as the huge
bell in the cupola tolled the hours. He knew when the officer ascended
the stairs, heard him talking with the sentry who had charge of that
floor, and breathed easier when he went down again—but only for a
moment, for now something that appeared to be an insurmountable obstacle
arose before him all on a sudden. The sensitive Bert was sadly troubled,
and when he got that way, it was almost impossible for him to go to
sleep. In case he remained awake until the expiration of the twenty
minutes, what could Don do?
“I never thought of that,” soliloquized the latter, his ears telling him
the while that Bert was tossing restlessly about on his bed. “It would
be simply impossible for me to get up and dress and slip out of the room
without his knowledge. Of course I might go out openly and above board,
for I know that he would never blow on me; but if I do that, he will
improve every opportunity to lecture me, and I would rather spend every
Saturday afternoon in walking extras than listen to him. I ought to have
told the fellows to allow me at least an hour.”
While Don was busy with such reflections as these, and trying in vain to
conjure up some plan for leaving the room without attracting his
brother’s attention, he was electrified by a gentle snore which came
from the direction of Bert’s bed. Don thought it was a pleasant sound to
hear just then, for it told him that the way was clear. In an instant he
was out on the floor, and in five minutes more he was dressed. After
wrapping one of his pillows up in the quilts and arranging them as well
as he could in the dark, so that they would bear some resemblance to a
human figure, he walked across the room with noiseless steps and
cautiously opened the door. The hall was lighted up by a single
gas-burner, under which the sentry, Charley Porter, sat reading a book.
He looked up when he heard Don’s door grating on its hinges; but he did
not look Don’s way. He turned his eyes in the other direction. Then he
laid down his book, got upon his feet, and walking leisurely along the
hall with his hands behind his back, took his stand in front of a
window, and looked out into the darkness. His back was turned toward
Don, who closed the door of his room behind him, moved along the hall on
tip-toe, and dodging around an angle in the wall, was quickly out of
sight. A few hurried steps brought him to another door, which yielded to
his touch, and then Don found himself in utter darkness.
This door gave access to the back stairs, which ran from the ground
floor to the upper story of the building, and were intended to be used
only as a fire-escape. The doors that opened into it—there was one on
each floor—were kept locked, and all the keys that rightfully belonged
to them were hung up on a nail in the superintendent’s room, where they
could be readily found by the teachers in case circumstances required
that they should be brought into use. The superintendent was happy in
the belief that by placing a sentry in charge of the dormitories on each
floor, and keeping the keys of these doors under his eye all the time,
he had put it out of the power of any student to leave the building
during the night; but he had not taken into consideration the fact that
sentries may sometimes prove false to their duty, and that an old rusty
key, picked up in the yard, can, by the aid of a file and a little
ingenuity, be made to fit almost any lock. Tom Fisher and his friends
all had keys that would open these doors, and Don had resolved that he
would have one too.
“B-l-e-r-s,” whispered Don, as he stepped out into the fire-escape.
“R-a-m,” came the response, in the same low whisper.
The pass-word of the band of worthies to which Don now belonged was
“Ramblers.” Of course it was used only in the dark, or when the members
could not see each other. If a boy desired to know whether or not a
student whom he suddenly encountered in some out-of-the-way place was a
friend, all he had to do was to spell the last syllable of the
pass-word, as Don had done; and if he received the same answer that Don
did, he knew at once that he had found some one who could be depended
on. At least that was what Fisher and Duncan told Don; but the reader
already knows that they did not tell him the truth.
“Who is it?” whispered Don.
“Fisher,” replied the owner of that name; and as he spoke he stepped
forward to lock the door.
“Hadn’t you better leave it unfastened?” asked Don.
“Not by a great sight,” answered Fisher, quickly. “The officer of the
day and the corporal on duty try all these doors every time they make
their rounds, and if they should happen to find one of them unlocked,
good-by to all our hopes of eating pies and pancakes at Cony Ryan’s
again this winter.”
“Then how can I get back to my room?”
“Why, I shall be here to open the door for you.”
“But we might get separated, you know.”
“Oh, no we won’t,” answered Tom, confidently. “Don’t you be at all
uneasy on that score. Duncan and I will stand by you. Come on, now; the
boys are all ready and waiting.”
“How fearful dark it is,” said Don. “I can’t see my hand before me.”
“Neither can I; but I have been through here so often that I know every
step of the way. Give me your hand.”
Fisher took Don in tow and succeeded in conducting him safely down two
flights of stairs—it afterward proved to be a fortunate thing for Don
that he remembered that—and out into the yard where Duncan and the rest
were waiting for them. After greeting Don in the most cordial manner
they moved off in a body toward the north corner of the grounds—all
except Tom Fisher, who went on ahead to notify the sentry of their
approach. This he did in some mysterious way, and without alarming any
of the guards on the neighboring posts; and the boy, who ought to have
called the corporal of the guard at once, went into his box and stayed
there until Tom and his companions had crossed his beat and were out of
sight. They easily found the place where two of the tall fence pickets
had been loosened at the bottom, and pushing these aside they crept
through the opening into the road.
“Well, Gordon, that wasn’t such a very hard thing to do, was it?” said
Duncan, as he took off his overcoat and shook the snow out of it.
“No,” answered Don, “and I don’t see much fun in it, either. It is not a
very smart thing to crawl by a sentry who is accommodating enough to
keep out of sight until you have had time to get out of harm’s way.
There’s no excitement in it—anybody could do it. If that guard had been
faithful to his trust, I should think we had done something worth
bragging about.”
“O, you want excitement, do you?” exclaimed Duncan. “You want a chance
to run by some spooney who would be only too glad to report you and get
you into a row, don’t you? All right. We’ll see that you get the chance,
and very shortly, too; won’t we, boys?”
“Yes,” replied all the boys, in concert.
“And, unless I am very badly mistaken, you will see quite as much
excitement as you want to-night,” added Duncan, to himself. “If Dick
Henderson does his duty, you will be under arrest and a candidate for a
court-martial before you see the inside of your dormitory again.”
During the walk to the big pond, near which Cony Ryan’s house stood,
Don’s new friends entertained him with many thrilling stories of the
deeds of daring that had been performed by themselves and former
students, such as running the guard when all the posts were occupied by
those who were not friendly to them; stealing the bell-rope when the
cupola was guarded by some of the best soldiers in the academy; turning
the bell upside down on a cold night, filling it with water and allowing
it to freeze solid; and spiking the gun whose unwelcome booming aroused
them at so early an hour every morning. As Don listened he began to grow
excited; and when there was a little lull in the conversation, he
proposed one or two daring schemes of his own that had suddenly occurred
to him, and which were so far ahead of any his auditors had ever engaged
in, that they could hardly believe he was in earnest.
“Gordon, you see around you a lot of fellows who never have and never
will back down from any reasonable undertaking,” said Tom Fisher. “But
the idea of stealing a cow, taking her into the grounds and hoisting her
up to the top of the belfry, overpowering and binding every sentry who
stands in our way—Great Cæsar’s ghost! Gordon, you must be taking leave
of your senses.”
“And as for taking the butcher’s big bull-dog up to the top story of the
building, tying a tin can to his tail, and starting him on a run down
four pairs of stairs and through the halls—that’s another thing I don’t
approve of,” said Duncan.
“I guess not,” said another of the fellows. “I wouldn’t touch that dog
for a million dollars. We are in for anything new that promises to be
either interesting or exciting, but, as Tom says, it must be something
reasonable. Think up some other plans.”
The boys had by this time reached Cony Ryan’s house. Led by Tom Fisher
they mounted the steps, and passing through a narrow hall entered a
neatly furnished little parlor whose walls, could they have found
tongues, would have told some strange and amusing stories of the scenes
that had been enacted there. It was brilliantly lighted, and a cheerful
fire burned in the grate.
“This looks as though Cony was expecting us, doesn’t it?” said Tom,
gazing about the room with a smile of satisfaction. “Take off your
overcoat, Gordon, and sit down. Make yourself at home.”
“Do you know,” added Duncan, “that this house was built and furnished
with the money that the academy boys have put into Cony’s pocket? Years
ago, when he was nothing but a poor fisherman and lived down there on
the bank of the river in a little shanty about half the size of this
room, it occurred to him that he might turn an honest penny by supplying
the students with milk and pies. He drove a thriving trade until some of
the teachers began to suspect that he was putting something stronger
than water in his milk, and then they shut down on him and he was
forbidden to enter the grounds. But that didn’t trouble him any. The
boys had got in the habit of spending their extra dimes with him, and
since he couldn’t come to them any more, they fell into the way of going
to him. Why, Gordon, if you could look over some of his old registers,
you would find in them the names of men who are known all over the
land.”
Just then a side door opened, admitting a portly, white-bearded old
fellow, dressed in a modest suit of black, who was greeted by the
students in the most uproarious manner. They crowded around him, all
trying to shake his hands at the same time, while Cony, for it was he,
beamed benevolently upon them over his spectacles. This was the first
time he had seen any of them since the close of the last school term.
“You see we are all on hand again, Cony,” said Duncan, when the
greetings were over. “And if you will trot out a few plates of your
pancakes, you will find that we are as hungry as ever. By the way, did
you know a boy of the name of Gordon who used to attend this academy?”
“Gordon of Mississippi?” exclaimed Cony, who, having a retentive memory,
never forgot the names of any of his patrons. “I should say so. He has
spent many a pleasant evening in this room.”
“Well, here is one of his boys,” continued Duncan. “Mr. Ryan, Mr. Donald
Gordon.”
The old fellow was very much surprised.
“It doesn’t seem possible,” said he, as he shook Don’s hand and gave him
a good looking over. “He is the very image of his father, who was one of
the finest-looking young soldiers I ever put my eyes on. Mercy on us,
how time does fly!”
“Say, Cony,” said Tom Fisher, coaxingly, “can’t we have just one game of
‘sell out,’ to-night?”
“No, sir,” was the emphatic reply. “You can have all the pancakes you
want, and as much sweet milk or buttermilk as you can hold, but you
don’t turn a card in this house. It is bad enough for you to run the
guard, and if I did my duty, I should report the last one of you in the
morning.”
“Suppose you trot out the pancakes and milk, and let somebody else
report us,” suggested Don.
“Yes; that’s the idea,” cried the others, with one voice.
Don thought he enjoyed himself that night, and his companions thought
so, too, for he sang as many songs, told as many stories, and laughed as
heartily as any of them. He listened with much interest while Cony told
of the exploits of the students he had known in the years gone by, and
who had since made themselves famous as lawyers, legislators and
soldiers, and was greatly astonished when Tom Fisher jumped to his feet
with his watch in his hand and a look of alarm on his face.
“Fellows,” said he, “where has the night gone? It is half-past three,
and we have just half an hour in which to crawl by Dick Henderson’s post
and get into bed. If we are two minutes behind time we are a gone
community.”
This startling announcement broke up the party at once. The boys made a
simultaneous rush for their overcoats and caps, and after Don had
settled their bill—a proceeding on his part that raised him to a high
place in the estimation of some of the students whose parents did not
think it best to give them a very liberal allowance of spending
money—they dashed out of the house and started for the academy on a dead
run, Duncan and Don Gordon bringing up the rear. If the latter had known
what the boy who kept so close to his elbow was thinking about, he would
have thrown him headlong into the nearest snow-drift.