BREAKING UP THE “SET.”
It was an eager and anxious lot of boys who answered to roll-call the
next morning. Of course they knew that a party of their fellows had been
challenged while they were attempting to run the guard, and they were
impatient to learn who they were, and what the superintendent was going
to do about it. Two things astonished and bewildered them: They could
not imagine how the culprits had managed to leave the building and get
back again so easily, and neither could they understand why the officer
of the day had neglected to question the floor-guards. They believed,
with Tom Fisher, that something new was to be “sprung” on them; and as
soon as breakfast was over, they found out what it was. On ordinary
occasions the quartermaster-sergeants marched their respective companies
to and from the dining-hall; but on this particular morning the captains
took command and led them to the drill-room, where they were drawn up in
line as they were when preparing for dress-parade. The teachers were all
there, and many a sly and inquiring glance was cast toward them; but
their countenances revealed nothing.
“Right dress!—Front!” commanded the captains, as the companies came into
line; and when these orders had been obeyed, the superintendent, who
stood in the place that is occupied by the battalion commander during
dress-parade, thus addressed them:
“Young gentlemen,” said he, and his tones were not near as stern and
severe as the boys expected they would be, “I am sorry to hear that some
of you attempted to run the guard last night. Heretofore, when such
offences have been committed, it has been our rule to examine the
floor-guards and sentries who were on duty at the time, but we have
seldom succeeded in drawing from them any information that would lead to
the detection of the guilty parties. A student who will prove false to
his duty, and violate the confidence reposed in him, will not scruple to
tell any number of falsehoods to conceal his wrong-doing. Now I intend,
before these ranks are broken, to learn the names of all those who tried
to run by post No. 8 last night, as well as the name of the floor-guard
who permitted them to pass. The first sergeants will now call the roll,
and you can answer ‘guilty,’ or ‘not guilty,’ just as your sense of
honor may seem to dictate. If innocent, simply answer ‘here’ and keep
your place in the ranks; if you are guilty, step three paces to the
front. I put you all upon your honor.”
When the superintendent ceased speaking, the first sergeants moved to
the front and centre of their respective companies, and the roll-call
began. As it proceeded, more than one boy standing in the ranks of the
third company tried to twist himself around so that he could catch a
glimpse of Don Gordon’s face, hoping to see something there that would
give him a hint of the course Don intended to pursue when his turn came
to answer to his name.
“He certainly will not—he dare not—confess,” were the thoughts that
passed through their minds. “If he does, he will be sent down, sure. If
some one could only get a chance to whisper a word or two in his ear, we
would come out all right yet, in spite of this honor business.”
The anxiety and alarm experienced by these boys showed very plainly in
their countenances, and before the roll-call had been going on for two
minutes, the superintendent could have stepped forward and picked out
every one of the guard-runners.
The names of the boys belonging to the first and second companies were
called in quick succession, and as yet nobody had stepped to the front.
The culprits, in this instance, all belonged to the third class, with
the single exception of Don Gordon, who, having long ago made up his
mind what he would do, waited with some impatience to see how his
companions in guilt would stand the test. The result was just what he
might have expected.
“Clarence Duncan,” said the third company sergeant.
“Here,” answered the owner of that name, making a desperate but
unsuccessful effort to appear at his ease.
“George W. Brown.”
“Here.”
“Richard Henderson.”
“Here.”
“Thomas Fisher.”
“Here.”
“They’re a pack of cowards,” was Don’s mental comment. “Such fellows
always are, and I ought to have known better than to take up with them.
My last act in this school will be to show them and everybody else that
I am just as willing to pay the fiddler as I am to dance.”
At last the sergeant of the fourth company began, and near the top of
his list was the name—“Donald Gordon.”
There was no response to it; but to the intense amazement of everybody
present, and the almost overwhelming consternation of some, Don stepped
quickly and firmly to the front. No one outside the “set” would have
thought of picking him out as a guard-runner. The sergeant hesitated and
stammered over the next name, and there was a perceptible flutter among
all except the first-class boys. They showed their three years’ drill
and discipline by standing as stiff as so many posts and holding their
eyes straight to the front; but they could not control their
countenances, and surprise and sorrow were depicted upon every one of
them. When the roll-call was ended the sergeants went back to their
places, and Don was left standing alone. He had passed through one
ordeal, and now came another.
“Gordon,” said the superintendent, “I am glad to see that you have too
much manhood to take refuge behind a lie. I should have been very much
surprised and grieved if you had showed me that I had formed a wrong
opinion of you.”
These words made some of the guilty ones in the third class open their
eyes. Duncan’s face grew whiter than ever, while Tom Fisher said to
himself:
“I really believe the old fellow knows right where to look to find every
boy who was outside the building last night after taps. If I had had the
faintest suspicion that Don intended to confess, I should have been
ahead of him. He’ll get off easy by giving the names of the rest of us,
and Duncan and I and a few others, who kicked up such a row last term,
will be sent down.”
“You had charge of the third floor between the hours of eight and twelve
last evening,” continued the superintendent, addressing himself to Don.
“Yes, sir,” was the reply.
“And while you were on duty several boys, who you knew intended to run
the guard, left their dormitories, and you permitted them to pass out of
the building?”
“Yes, sir,” said Don, again.
“Give me the names of those boys,” said the superintendent, nodding to
the adjutant, who pulled out his note-book and pencil; but he did not
use them—at least just then. While he held his pencil in the air and
looked at Don, and the culprits were trembling with apprehension, and
the others were listening with all their ears to catch the first name
that fell from Don’s lips, the answer came clear and distinct:
“I hope you will not insist upon that, sir, for it is something I do not
like to do.”
The superintendent stared, the teachers looked astonished, and another
flutter of excitement ran along the line. This time it did not even miss
the first-class boys, some of whom so far forgot themselves as to turn
their heads and look at the boy who dared stand in the presence of the
head of the school and say that he did not like to obey an order that
had been given him point-blank. Such a thing had never happened before
in the Bridgeport academy. Don’s companions in guilt began to breathe
easier.
“If he will only stick to that _I_ am all right; but _he_ will have to
go down,” soliloquized Clarence Duncan, whose every thought was a
selfish one, and who did not care the snap of his finger what became of
Don or anybody else, so long as he escaped punishment himself.
“That bangs me,” thought Tom Fisher, who was not altogether bad at
heart, even though he did have faults almost without number. He knew a
brave boy when he saw one, and Don’s conduct excited his unbounded
admiration. “He’s the pluckiest fellow I ever saw, and he shall not be
sent down if I can help it.”
“Do you refuse to give me the names of those boys?” asked the
superintendent, as soon as he had somewhat recovered from his surprise.
“I would rather not, sir,” replied Don. He did not like to use so strong
a word as “refuse,” but still his answer was given in a tone which
showed that he had no intention of wavering.
“You know the alternative?” said the superintendent, quietly but firmly.
“Yes, sir.”
“And you are willing to submit to it?”
“Yes, sir”
“But I am not willing that he should, sir,” exclaimed Tom Fisher,
stepping three paces to the front and raising his hand to his cap. “If
he won’t tell who the guard-runners are, I will.”
“Attention!” shouted the superintendent, who was utterly confounded by
this breach of discipline; but Tom, having made a resolution, was
determined to stick to it, regardless of the consequences.
“No boy in this academy shall ever again suffer for my misdeeds if I can
help it,” said he, speaking as rapidly as he could in order that he
might get everything off his mind before he was interrupted. “I was one
of the guard-runners, and if the others have the least particle of pluck
in them——”
“_Attention!_” shouted the superintendent again. “Captain Morgan” he
added, addressing the commander of the first company, “detail a
corporal’s guard to take private Fisher to his room under arrest.”
“I don’t care,” thought Tom, as he was marched off by the guard that was
quickly detailed to take charge of him. “I did my best to save Don, and
I shall go down with something like a clear conscience. But I really
wish the superintendent would give me another chance. I would make an
honest and earnest effort to do better.”
This was the unexpected act on the part of Tom Fisher to which we
referred a short time ago, and which, taken in connection with Don’s
bold acknowledgment of his guilt, did more to break up guard-running at
that academy than all the locks and bolts that could have been put upon
the doors. These two incidents upset everybody, teachers included; but
the latter were quick to see how to take advantage of it.
“Sergeant Clayton, call the roll of your company again,” said the
superintendent.
The sergeant obeyed, and this time all the guard-runners stepped to the
front with the exception of Clarence Duncan. He had good reasons for
fearing exposure, as we shall presently see, and believing that his
companions would follow Don Gordon’s example and refuse to bear witness
against him, he was resolved to keep up a bold front, and to deny his
guilt to the very last.
“It is a pity that some of these weak-kneed fellows didn’t come to the
same determination,” said he to himself. “There was not a scrap of
evidence against any of us, and if they had only stood by me——”
“Sergeant, call private Duncan’s name again,” said the superintendent,
breaking in upon his soliloquy.
“Clarence Duncan,” said the sergeant.
“Here,” came the response.
“_Clarence Duncan!_” repeated Clayton.
“_Here!_” replied the culprit; adding to himself, “You can’t make me own
up, and you might as well give up trying.”
“Private Duncan, three paces to the front,” commanded the
superintendent. “Break ranks.”
Duncan was taken to his room under guard, and when he got there he found
an armed sentry pacing back and forth in front of the door. Tom Fisher
was seated at the table with an open book before him, but he was not
studying. He was thinking over the incidents that had just transpired.
“Well, Clarence,” said he, cheerfully, “we’re in for it.”
“Yes,” replied Clarence, angrily. “Thanks to you and Don Gordon, we are
in for it. I never knew before that you were such a coward. What made
you side with Gordon?”
“Well, I had two reasons for it: In the first place, he showed himself
to be a good fellow, and as true as steel; and I couldn’t stand by and
see him punished. If I hadn’t spoken up, he would have been sent down
for refusing to give our names.”
“That’s just what ought to have been done with him,” said Clarence.
“As the case now stands,” continued Tom, “he will, most likely, be let
off easy, this being the first time that anything serious has been
charged against him.”
“And what is to become of you and me?”
“You know what they told us the last time we were court-martialed, don’t
you?”
“I should think I ought, for I have been reminded of it often enough.
Don’t you know that by befriending Don you have got me into a terrible
scrape? Don’t you remember that my father told me that he would put me
on board the school-ship if I were sent down?”
It would have been strange if Tom had forgotten it, for Duncan had such
a horror of that same school-ship that he talked about it every day. He
had seen and conversed with boys who had been sent there because they
would not behave themselves at home, and he had noticed that they all
agreed on these two points—that the officers were very stern and severe,
and that the life of a hod-carrier was easier and more respectable than
that of a foremast hand. Clarence had a deep-rooted horror of the sea
and every thing connected with it, and he looked forward to five years
on the school-ship with feelings very near akin to those with which he
would have looked forward to a term in the penitentiary.
“You went back on me, an old-time friend, for the sake of a boy you
never saw or heard of until last winter,” continued Clarence. “I didn’t
act the craven, I tell you. I stuck it out as long as I could.”
“Did they find you out?” asked Tom.
“I am under arrest, the same as you are; but they can’t prove anything
against me.”
“Then how does it come that you are in arrest?”
“That’s just what beats me. They called the roll of our company again
after you were sent off under guard, and, to my intense disgust, every
fellow who was with us last night stepped to the front. They tried to
bully a confession out of me, but I didn’t leave the ranks until I was
ordered to do so.”
“That brings me to the second reason I had for doing as I did,” said
Tom. “They’ve got evidence against every one of us.”
“I don’t see where they got it.”
If Clarence had taken the trouble to look in the mirror he would have
seen at a glance where the evidence that convicted him came from. He
carried it in his face.
We need not dwell upon the incidents that happened during the next few
days, for they have nothing to do with our story, and no one except the
boys who attended the Bridgeport academy at this particular time would
be interested in them. It will be enough to say that the culprits were
confined to their rooms and given ample leisure in which to think over
their folly and make good resolutions for the future. The repentant ones
devoted the most of their time to their books; but there were some among
them who did nothing but bemoan their hard luck and rail at Don Gordon
for being such a “fluke.”
The court-martial came off in due time, and Clarence Duncan, who denied
his guilt to the very last, and even denounced the others for bearing
false witness against him, was sent down; and it was not long before
reports came to the academy that he had been placed on board the
school-ship. Tom Fisher was given a new lease of life. He evidently knew
just what he was doing when he took sides with Don, for that one act was
all that saved him from going home too. Next to Duncan he and Don
received the heaviest sentences, both being gated for two months, during
which time they were required to walk eight extras with packed knapsacks
on their backs. The others were punished in nearly the same way, only
they were not gated for so long a period, nor were they called upon to
perform as much extra duty. Strange as it may appear, no one suspected
that the guard-runners had made use of the fire-escape. All the blame
was laid upon the floor-guard, who suffered accordingly.
These stirring events, as we said before, broke up the “set” completely,
and made fast friends of Don Gordon and Tom Fisher, who, holding firmly
to their determination to do better, gradually broke off their intimate
relations with the lazy, mischievous, and discontented members of their
classes, and began to have more to do with fellows who were worth
knowing. The manly stand they had taken during the investigation (it was
a manly act on Don’s part, but largely prudential on the part of Tom
Fisher) excited the wonder and admiration of all the students, and the
boys in the upper classes, who had never taken any notice of them except
to return their salutes, now sought them out and became intimate with
them. It was certainly a great relief to Don to associate with fellows
who were not all the while grumbling about something or discussing plans
for getting by the guard. One day he was surprised by a visit from Egan,
the first sergeant of his company, who entered his room holding an open
letter in his hand.
“Say, Gordon,” he exclaimed, taking no notice of Don’s salute, “why
didn’t you let the fellows know that your father used to go to this
school?”
“Some of them do know it,” replied Don.
“Well, I didn’t know it until I received this letter,” said the
sergeant, helping himself to a chair and throwing his cap on Bert’s bed.
“I spoke of you in a letter I wrote home a short time ago, and am
surprised to learn that your father and mine used to be room-mates and
chums when they belonged to this academy. Let’s shake.”
Don took the sergeant’s proffered hand, and this was the beginning of
another friendship that has never been broken. The sergeant was just the
kind of associate that Don needed. He was a faithful soldier, a close
student, a favorite with both teachers and scholars, and his example and
influence did wonders for Don Gordon. It is true that during his first
year at the academy he had been rather restive under the strict
discipline to which he was subjected. He had even run the guard—if he
hadn’t he would not have known as much as he did about Cony Ryan’s
pancakes and maple syrup—and he had paid for his fun by walking extras
and being gated; but that was all over now, and he was one of the last
boys in school who would have been suspected of any violation of the
rules.
Egan introduced his new friend to the fellows in the first class, and
first-class fellows Don found them to be. Some of them were fond of
shooting and fishing, knew a good dog and gun when they saw them, and
could tell hunting stories without number. Others among them—and they
were Southern boys, like Don—thought more of their horses than they did
of almost anything else. They were at home in the saddle, and delighted
to talk of the fine times they had enjoyed while riding to the hounds.
Courtland Hopkins, who was the Falstaff of the academy, always grew
enthusiastic when the subject of fox-hunting was introduced.
“Ah! Gordon,” he said one day, “that is the sport _par excellence_. Come
down into Maryland with me next vacation, and I’ll show you some fun. A
lot of the fellows have been promising to go for a long time, but that’s
all it has amounted to.”
“I’d like to see you in the saddle, Hop,” said Egan, taking his friend
by the arm and turning him around so that he could give him a good
looking over. “You’ve almost too much avoirdupois for a rider, according
to my way of thinking. In other words, you’re a great deal too fat.”
“Just give me a good horse, and see if I can’t take a ten-rail fence as
cleverly as anybody,” returned Hopkins, quickly. “I am good for a plate
of soup at the International if there is a colt in Bridgeport that can
throw me.”
“If you will all go home with _me_, I will give you some of the best
duck-shooting you ever saw,” said Don.
“Yes; but that would require a scatter-gun, and that is something I
never did like,” said Walter Curtis. “If you want to see fun, combined
with skill, take a Thanksgiving dinner with me, and watch the members of
our club break glass balls with rifles.”
These words were spoken carelessly, but they were not forgotten. If they
had been, this series of books would never have been written.