I'm older'n you,--and I've seen things a many;
And my experience,--tell ye what it's ben;--
Folks that worked thorough was the ones that thriv;
But bad work follers ye's long's ye live.
--_Biglow Papers._
Next day the tents were struck; and the manifold delights of Camp
Golightly drifted away beyond recall. But how pretty--and how gay--the
scene was, that last morning.
A perfect day to begin with; the air crisp enough to herald the coming
fall; everything at its best, and the crowd at its largest. Mothers,
brothers, sisters, cousins, friends, and strangers, the whole Post,
and half the neighbourhood. The groups are always very varied, often
picturesque.
Here stands a tall first classman, perfectly hemmed in by the dear
people from home. His cap is off, and his face aglow; and lifted
high up in his arms is the pet of the family; the little girl's hand
straying round his neck, her soft childish dress and his gleaming
chevrons setting each other off in a very perfect way.
Beyond them is a many-coloured group of girls and dresses, but the
girls look sleepy, and the muslins a trifle tired. The small hours of
the hop last night have been too much for both. They are languidly
talking over supposed conquests, rousing up now and then to say
good-bye to special cadet friends, with many promises to come back
next June for graduation. Under another tree is another party in the
freshest of dresses, but themselves in the dumps.
"Why, Amy!" says one of the calmest of the group, "you are almost
crying!"
"Oh, it is too awful to have it all go!" said Miss Amy, never taking
her tearful gaze from the white tents. "I asked Ella this morning
how she could possibly sit there and eat all that chicken and egg. I
couldn't touch a thing!"
And beyond these again stands a camera and its attendant genii, where
a half-dozen mothers and their cadet sons are getting photographed
together.
Great army wagons pass back and forth between camp and barracks,
bearing away bedding, lockers, brooms, and looking-glasses; and over
the same short road go men in grey, with private effects too precious
for the wagon, or perhaps only a belated broom.
Out in the company streets there gathered and grew the while, this day,
an array of rubbish; old shoes and gloves, old boxes that had once
held boodle, white jars that _must_ have known tobacco, and yet had
baffled (somehow) all tactical noses. White handkerchiefs--this one,
indeed, duly marked "Smith, J." but this other, alas! filmy and fine
with embroidery and lace. Once coveted and begged for and hid away,
now tossed out among mess-hall spoons, stray towels, and broken glass.
Had it even, perhaps, belonged to the fair damsel now weeping over the
coming wreck of Camp Golightly? Take warning, young ladies, and do not
waste your pocket handkerchiefs.
As time went on, the grey element gradually faded out from about the
seats, and the white canvas began to shrink and fall from its smooth
shapeliness, with cadets clustering in and about every tent.
The drummers came, and the first drum sounded. The tents shivered and
swayed, the cadets took new positions, the breeze played over their
heads and threatened to strike the tents at its own pleasure. Another
drum, and now every eye and hand are needed to maintain even the
semblance of a camp. Another--and the pretty little white town falls
prostrate, and the grey men have the field.
Then fold and bundle up, with some cheers for the quickest; the full
band marches in, the Commandant leads off on horseback--and away goes
the grey-and-white host, plumes waving, arms glancing, all down the old
road to the officers' row, and so on to barracks. And over the plain
in all sorts of groups and combinations, goes a motley crowd of the
sovereign people, vainly striving to get there first.
Poor little Miss Amy! Your cambric handkerchief lies limp and low in D
Company street; and the man who was to keep it "always" marches past in
the battalion, his head high in air.
A day or two of freedom follow, for getting settled; a few last
bewitching walks are taken by some, while others peep into their study
books and try to brush off a little of the summer's dust which dims
that respected pile. And so comes the 1st of September.
I think Magnus Kindred was glad to get back to barracks, if only to
tackle the year which should bring in furlough, and the yearling course
certainly gave him enough to do. But who could not work with furlough
before him? and of late another thought had taken new hold of his
heart. He was but one, yet the honour of the name he bore was just so
far in his keeping. If he stood high, it would be one answer to the
taunt that religion made muffs of men. That would surely be said, if he
were low in discipline, careless in dress, idle in studies.
So for one cause and another, Magnus worked with all his might; stood
one in discipline, and in other things went steadily up. And his
example told; there was a strong, sound atmosphere about him that other
men could feel.
His dose of bitter-sweet thoughts about himself had done him good; and
though he could not help hearing and seeing many things he did not
like, join in them he would not, even if people laughed at him. More
stringent orders than any blue book shows had taken new hold of the
boy's heart, drawing him back from evil, speeding him on to good. "I
have sworn unto the Lord, and I will perform it." Magnus and the flag
had a good deal to say to each other in those days.
What busy days they were! New studies, new drills, riding among the
rest; but that was a delight. The days shortened, the girls drifted
away to less studious regions, the leaves fell--then the snowflakes;
and the winter settled down into the long, steady stride which brought
furlough nearer with every step.
January's first week sifted out several men from the yearling class;
Mr. Carr among the rest. But as for some reason Mr. Carr took up his
abode in the neighbourhood, he was still at least as useful an ally in
helping them break regulations as he had been while in the Corps.
"If you want some fun," Rig said to Magnus one day, "just hang round
the west wall of the Academic after supper."
"What about? I'm not going to put my fingers into a dark pocket."
"Nobody wants 'em in. There'll be enough without yours," said Rig. "But
Carr is going to bring up a grocery store, and I thought you might like
to see it."
"Bring up a grocery! Look out it doesn't turn into light prison for
some of you."
[Illustration: MOUNTING HEAVY GUNS IN FORT CLINTON]
However, groceries being rare in that particular locality, when Magnus
went out for his evening walk he did stroll towards the old Academic.
The night was moonless, and not overbright with even stars; but the
white spread of snow made things quite plain enough. And presently, as
Magnus stepped down the walk, he saw a dark huddle of figures near the
appointed west wall. A small sled and a very big box, with a half-dozen
cadets playing stevedore.
Then an officer came along the walk, meeting Magnus, who saluted and
passed on. The officer glanced rather curiously down towards the dark
group, but, with his mind full of something else, he merely took a
short cut across the area, and so through the sallyport from the inside.
It was at a critical moment. Box after box of chickens, mince pies,
cakes, ham, sweets, celery, and so forth, had been pounced upon, stowed
in bags, and carried off. Rig's turn came last.
"I believe it's a mistake, you all going the same way," he said, as he
seized the last bag of chickens. "I'll slip round the corner, and come
in from the plain."
So round he went in the dusky light and met Lieutenant Benton in the
very mouth of the sallyport. Rig saluted, and slipped in. But dark
as it was under the grey arch, the officer's practised eyes found
something unusual about the cadet outlines, and the next moment he
turned and gave chase.
Rig had the start, and would have got off out of sight in another
second if Mr. Benton had not suddenly shouted:
"Cadet, halt!"
Then it was all up.
"What have you there, sir?"
"Chickens, sir."
"Go to the guard-house and turn them in."
Crestfallen and sour, Rig crossed the area, set his bag down at the
door of the guardhouse, and went in with his report. Being promptly
ordered to produce his plunder, Rig stepped to the door--and behold!
one chicken only was left. The light-fingered, light-footed boys in
grey had in that two minutes rifled the bag and vanished. And Rig felt
smaller than his own chicken when he turned it in, with the big bag, to
the officer of the day.
"Just my luck!" he said gloomily. But he never knew who ate the
chickens.