GREG DEBATES BETWEEN GIRLS AND MISCHIEF
"Considering that you are the noble class president, who had just
made us feel so ashamed over our thoughts of hazing," muttered
Mr. Furlong, "I must say, Prescott, that I don't look upon you
as any tyro at hazing."
"This case was very different," Dick answered quietly. "This
plebe, Briggs, was caught in a very rank piece of b.j.-ety. We
couldn't let his offence go by. We hazed him for a straight cause,
not merely for being a plebe. What I object to is annoying plebes
simply because they are green men."
"But what about that soiree you mentioned to the plebe?" demanded
Griffin eagerly.
"I told him only to be ready if called," Prescott made reply.
"I had no intention of bringing him over for a soiree this evening,
unless the plebe does something else raw in the meantime."
A "soiree" is an institution of the summer encampment. The plebe
who is in for a soiree may be either a man who has committed some
direct offence against the upper classmen, or a plebe who has
been observed to be simply too b.j. in general. Mr. Plebe is
directed to present himself at the tent of some upper classman.
Several yearlings are here gathered to receive him. He is taken
in hand in no gentle way. He is rebuked, scored "roasted." He
is made to feel that he is a disgrace to the United States Military
Academy, and that he never will be a particle of value in the
Service. Mr. Plebe is hauled over the coals in a fashion that
few civilians could invent or carry out. Very likely, on top
of all the lecturing, the man will be severely hazed. He is also
quite likely, especially if he show impatience, to be called out
for a fight.
The b.j.-est plebe, after a soiree by capable yearlings, is always
afterwards observed to be a very meek plebe.
The rain continued so long that not only were afternoon drills
escaped, but dress parade as well. It was not, in fact, much
before supper time that the rain stopped and the sun came out
briefly. But the brief period of relaxation had been appreciated
hugely throughout camp. Three quarters of the cadets under canvas
had found time for at least a two hours' sleep.
When the battalion marched back from supper, and was dismissed,
the young men turned to for their evening of leisure and pleasure.
Over at Cullum Hall there was to be a hop for the evening.
Not all cadets, however, attend hops at any time.
Not long after supper many of the cadets began to dress carefully.
"Going to the hop, old ramrod?" inquired Mr. Furlong, standing
just outside his tent while he fitted a pair of white gloves over
his hands.
"Not to-night," returned Dick indifferently.
"Why, do you know, you haven't shown your face at hop yet?" Furlong
demanded. "Yet when we were under instruction in the plebe class,
you turned out to be one of our best dancers."
"Oh, I'll be in at one of the hops, later on in the summer," responded
Prescott.
"One?" gasped Furlong. "Oh, you wild, giddy thing! You're going
to do better, aren't you, Holmesy?" continued Furlong, as Dick's
old chum came out, fitting on a pair of white gloves.
"I'm going over and put my head in danger of being punched, I
suppose," grinned Greg. "I'm going to have the nerve to 'stag
it' tonight."
The man who "stags it"---that is, does not escort any young woman
friend to the hop, must needs dance, if at all, with the girl
some other cadet has "dragged." This sometimes causes bad feeling.
"I'm going to drag a 'spoony femme' tonight," declared Furlong,
contentedly. "She's no 'L.P.,' at that."
"Dragging a femme" is to escort a young woman to the hop. If
she be "spoony," that means that she is pretty. But an "L.P."
is a poor dancer.
"Hotel?" inquired Greg.
"Yes," nodded Mr. Furlong, turning to leave. "Miss Wilton. I
don't believe you've met her. Unless she dislikes your looks
I may present you to her."
"Do," begged Greg. "I'd enjoy going through a few dreamy numbers."
Mr. Furlong, having permission to go to the hotel for Miss Wilton,
started off, moving at his best soldier's step. After registering
at the hotel office, in the book kept for that purpose, as every
cadet is required to do, Mr. Furlong hoped for several minutes
of talk with his pretty partner, either in a corner of the parlor,
or on the veranda. Only the parlor and the veranda are open to
cadets having permission to call at the hotel.
Greg, having no companion to go after, brought out his stool and
seated himself beside Dick in front of the tent.
"Why don't you go over to the hop tonight, Dick?" Greg asked.
"Mainly because I don't wish to," replied Prescott, with a smile.
"Granted. But I am rather wondering why you don't wish to."
"I think you can keep a secret, Greg," replied his old Gridley
chum, looking quizzically at Holmes. "Greg, I'm too awfully lonesome
to trust myself at the hop tonight.
"Eh? Why, old ramrod, the hop ought to be the very place to lose
that lonesome feeling."
"Just what I'm afraid of," responded Prescott.
"You---eh---huh! You're talking riddles now.
"Greg, a cadet can't marry. Or, if he does, his marriage acts
as an automatic resignation, and he's dropped from the cadet corps."
"I know all that," Holmes assented.
"Now, here at West Point, with this nearly male-convent life,
a fellow often gets so blamed lonesome that almost any girl looks
fine to him, Greg. First thing he knows, a cadet, being a natural
gallant, anyway, goes so far in being spoons with some girl that
he has to act like a gentleman, then, and declare intentions.
A fellow can't show a nice girl a whole lot of spoony attentions,
and then back off, letting the girl discover that he has been
only fooling all summer. You've heard, Greg, of plenty of cadets
who have engaged themselves while here at the Academy."
"Yes," nodded Greg. "There's no regulation against a cadet becoming
engaged to a girl. The regulation only forbids him to marry while
he's a cadet."
"Now, a fellow like one of us either goes so far, in his lonesomeness,
that he's grateful to a bright girl for cheering him and imagines
he's in love with her; or else he finds that the girl thought
he was in love with her, and she expects him to propose. Greg,
I don't want to make any mistakes that way. It's easy for a cadet
to capture the average girl's heart; it's his uniform, I suppose,
for women always have been weak when uniforms enveloped fellows
who otherwise wouldn't attract their notice. Greg, I wonder how
many cadets have been lonesome enough to propose to some girl,
and afterwards find out it was all a mistake? And how many girls
fall in love with the uniform, thinking all the while that it's
the fellow in the uniform? How many cadets and girls recover
from the delusion only in after years when it's too late. I tell
you, Greg, when a fellow gets into this cadet life, I think the
practice of going too often to a hop may be dangerous for cadets
and girls alike!
"I'll get cold feet if I listen to you long," laughed yearling
Holmes grimly. "I wonder if I'd better pull these gloves off
and stay where I am?"
"I didn't have any idea of seeking to persuade you," Dick replied.
"If you feel proof against the danger, run right over to Cullum
and enjoy yourself."
"I was just thinking," mused Greg, "of a promise you and Dave
Darrin made some girls back in Gridley."
"I remember that promise," nodded Dick.
"You and Darrin promised Laura Bentley and Belle Meade that you'd
each invite them to hops, you to West Point and Dave to Annapolis,
just as soon as either one of you had a right to attend hops."
"I know," nodded Prescott.
Greg was silent. After a few moments Dick ventured:
"Greg, I kept that promise the day we moved into encampment---the
first day that I was a yearling."
"Oh! Are Laura and Belle coming on West Point soon?" Holmes asked
eagerly.
"I don't know. I'll be mighty glad when I do know. But undoubtedly
Darrin has invited them to Annapolis, too. Now, it may be that,
even if the girls can get away to travel a bit, they can't go
to West Point and to Annapolis in the same season. So the girls
may be trying to make up their minds---which."
"I hope they come here," murmured Holmes fervently.
"So do I," Prescott replied promptly.
"Dick---do you---mind if I ask a question," demanded Greg slowly.
"No," smiled Dick, "for I think I know what it is."
"Are you---is Laura---I mean-----"
"You wonder whether Laura and I had any understanding before I
left Gridley? That's what you want to know?"
"That is what I was wondering."
"There is no understanding between us--not the least," Prescott
replied. "I don't know whether Laura would consent to one, now
or later. I don't know myself yet, either, Greg. I want to wait
until I have grown some in mind. Laura Bentley is such a magnificent
girl that it would be a crime to make any mistake either as to
her feelings or mine."
"Do you think good old Dave and Belle Meade had any understanding
before Dave left Gridley?"
"Dave went away after we did," Prescott answered. "So I can't
be sure. But I don't believe Dave and Belle are pledged in any
way."
"Funny game, the whole thing!" sighed Greg, rising. He had drawn
off one of his white lisle-thread gloves, but now he was engaged
in putting it on again.
"Confidence deserves to be paid in the same coin, Greg," warned
his chum. "Did you leave any girl---back in Gridley---or elsewhere."
"Dick, old ramrod," replied Cadet Holmes, frankly, as he finished
drawing on his glove, "I'm unpledged, and, to the best of my belief,
I'm wholly heart free."
"Look out that you keep so for two or three years more, then,"
laughed Dick, and Holmes, nodding lightly, strode away.
Despite the hop, there were some visitors in camp that evening.
Dick was presently invited over to join a group that was entertaining
three college boys who had dropped off at West Point for two or
three days.
Greg spent an hour or so at the hop. He was introduced to Miss
Wilton, a pretty, black-eyed little girl, and danced one number
with her. He presently secured another partner. But too many
of the cadets were "stagging it" that night. There were not feminine
partners enough to go around.
"My cue is to cut out, I guess," mused Greg, finding himself near
the entrance to the ballroom.
Once outside, Greg drew off his gloves, thrusting them in under
the breast of his gray uniform coat. He wasn't quite decided
whether to go back to Cullum later. But at present he wanted
to stroll in the dark and to think.
"I reckon I'll take Dick's line of philosophy, and cut girls a
good deal," decided Greg. "Yet, at West Point in the summer,
it's either girls or mischief. Mischief, if carried too far,
gets a fellow bounced out of the Academy, while girls---I wonder
which is safer?"
Still guessing, Cadet Holmes wandered a good way from Cullum Hall,
and was not again seen that night on the polished dancing floor.
* * * * * * * *
Anstey had gone visiting some other yearlings. Dick, after leaving
the college boys and their hosts, felt that a slow stroll outside of
camp would be one of the pleasantest ways of passing the time until
taps at 10.30. Even after the rain, the night was close and sultry.
"Don't you sing, Prescott?" called a first classman as Dick passed
near the head of the color line. "Some of our glee-club fellows
are getting together to try some old home songs."
But Dick shook his head. Though he possessed a fair voice, the
singing of sentimental or mournful ditties was not in his line
that night. He heard the strumming of guitars and mandolins as
he left camp behind.
Dick did not hurry, even to get away from the music. He kept
on up the road, and by the hotel, but was careful not to enter
the grounds, though three or four yearlings called gayly to him
from the hotel veranda. He had no permission for tonight to visit
the hotel.
"I'm not going to get into a row with the K.C. for a stupid little
violation like that," he muttered.
Presently Dick's stroll took him over in the neighborhood of "Execution
Hollow," the depression in the ground below where the reveille gun
is stationed.
Suddenly Dick halted, an amused look creeping into his face.
"Now, who'd suspect good old Greg of getting into sheer mischief,
all by himself?" the class president asked himself.
For Holmes was bending a bit low, a hundred yards or so away, and
stealing toward the fieldpiece that does duty as reveille gun.
"It would be a shame to bet on what Greg's up to---it would be
too easy!" muttered Prescott, standing behind a flowering bush
at the road's edge. "Greg is going to load the reveille gun,
attach a long line to the firing cord, and rig it across the path
here, so that some 'dragger,' coming back from seeing his 'femme'
home, will trip over the cord and fire the gun. The dragger can't
be blamed for what he didn't do on purpose, and cute little Greg
will be safe in his tent. But if Greg should happen to be caught
it might mean the bounce from the Academy! And, oh, wow!"
Cadet Prescott's heart seemed to stop beating. Glancing down
the road he saw a man standing, there, in the olive drab uniform
of the Army officer. Captain Bates, of the tactical department,
was quietly watching unsuspecting Cadet Holmes.