WAR IN THE COLOR-GUARD.
IT was the hour for afternoon drill. The trumpets had rung out in the
quick, tripping arpeggios of _assembly_ and the companies had formed for
roll-call, then marched to their places upon the battalion
parade-ground. In the centre of the line stood the color-sergeant, Frank
Osborn, with his senior corporals at either hand, Leon on his right, on
his left Winslow and Smythe, the “fiend” of the second class. Beyond
them, to the left and right, stretched the four companies of the
battalion, while still farther to the right stood the band.
From the first, Leon had been fascinated by the perfect order and
regularity of the battalion drill, where every man and every piece were
only well-adjusted parts of the whole, and where any trifling delay or
irregularity on the part of a single cadet was enough to mar the work of
an entire company. So heartily had he thrown himself into the training
that now, after six weeks of it, he was promoted to be one of the
ranking color-corporals, and each day proudly took his place beside
Frank Osborn, who never looked half so handsome and dashing as when on
duty, with the soft, bright folds of the flag drooping beside his dark
oval face. And yet, with all his attraction for Leon, the younger boy
felt a certain distrust of this brilliant comrade, which prevented their
daily association from ever ripening into anything like an intimacy. It
was not that he was not always bright and companionable, quick to plan
and bold to execute the frolics which seemed to add zest to his school
life, and equally ready to take the consequences of his many sins. But,
after all, there was a look about the imperious young face, about the
proudly arching lips and the restless eyes, that told of his descent
from the flower of Southern chivalry, a chivalry which might too easily
become hot-tempered and wild, in spite of a firm and resolute control.
Leon’s New England training held him aloof from the gay, rollicking
fellows who met in Osborn’s room to take counsel how best to shirk the
hours of study, and to hold late suppers, after “lights out” had
sounded, and the Flemming world was supposed to be sleeping the sleep of
the just. Max alone, of all the Arnolds’ friends, was frequently at one
of these revels; for with his eager activity, he was always ready for
fun, in almost any shape that offered, and was filled with a boyish
admiration for Osborn’s lavish generosity and high-handed carelessness
of discipline. The consequences of the intimacy were often disastrous to
poor Max, for while his friend contrived to emerge unscathed from scrape
after scrape, Max was singularly luckless, and was continually finding
himself reduced from the rank to which his brilliant scholarship and
excellent drill had raised him.
Of all the boys in the school, there was no other set so closely bound
together in all their tastes and pursuits, as the little group of
seniors and juniors who were most often to be found in the Arnolds’
room, or with Max and Louis, across the hall. For the past two years
their intimacy had been growing steadily. Other friendships had sprung
up and died away, in the meantime; but these seven lads stood firmly
together, never quarrelling and rarely disagreeing, in spite of the wide
difference in their characters. Instead of that, indeed, they were a
mutual help and check to each other, so that steady Alex Sterne was
stirred up by the irrepressible Max whom he vainly tried to keep in
order; while careless Jack and dandified Louis each rubbed off a little
of the other’s peculiarity, for though Jack laughed at Louis’s careful
precision of speech and dress, he unconsciously lost much of his own
slang and disorder by his daily association with his friend.
To this little circle, Leon and Harold King had been admitted, on
account of their relationship to Harry and Jack; and except for the mere
work of the class-room, they mingled little with the second class
cadets, greatly to the disgust and envy of those boys, for the Wilders,
as they were called, were the acknowledged leaders of the school. Not
only did they number among them the best athletes and brightest pupils,
but with them started nearly every change in the public opinion of
Flemming, and although the other lads might grumble a little at first,
in the end they never failed to follow in their footsteps. None of the
other cadets had cared to be on such intimate terms with the teachers,
satisfied to drift along from day to-day, in pleasant enough relations
with the doctor and his assistants, but regarding them only as very
insignificant parts of their school life, as compared with the
ball-field or the dinner-table.
As the cadets were leaving the armory, that afternoon, Max and Leon were
joined by Osborn who overtook them on the steps.
“Come up to my room this evening in study-hour, you fellows,” he said,
in a tone too low to catch the quick ear of Lieutenant Wilde who was
just ahead of them. “We’ll have some grub and some games.”
“Can’t,” said Leon concisely.
“Why not? Won’t the dominie let you?” asked Osborn, with a scornful curl
of his lip.
“The dominie, as you call him, has nothing to do with it. I don’t choose
to get myself into a scrape,” returned Leon loftily, for the slighting
allusion to his brother irritated him more than he cared to admit.
“Just as you say,” responded Osborn indifferently. “You’ll come, won’t
you, Max?”
“Dässent,” responded Max, with an indescribable flattening of the word.
“I can’t afford to get a rep, for the paternal has promised me a new
bicycle in the spring, if I’ll get up to a first lieutenancy by that
time. Here ’tis November and I’m only a sergeant, so I don’t care to run
any risks. Besides, I’m saving up all my energy for the game, next
Saturday.”
“You’re getting slow, Max,” was Osborn’s comment as he strolled off,
leaving the others to go on alone.
“He’s up to something,” Max said regretfully; “and I’d like to be in it;
but that Victor is too much to be thrown away, and Lieutenant Wilde is
getting to watch Osborn’s room as a cat watches a mouse-hole.”
“Osborn’s getting reckless, anyway,” answered Leon. “He’s come out all
right so many times that he’s beginning to believe his luck will follow
him. Some day he’ll get left.”
“Hope ’twon’t be this time,” said Max; “for it might mean extra guard
duty next Saturday, and he’s too good a half back to lose. It would ruin
our chances, if he didn’t play, for we haven’t a single good substitute.
I tell you, Leon, you’re in luck. ’Tisn’t every fellow that gets in the
color-guard and plays quarter back, the first term he’s here. You owe
some of it to the start Hal has given you, though.”
“Haven’t a doubt of it,” returned Leon, laughing. “By the way, do you
know why Osborn hates Hal so?”
“He doesn’t hate him, exactly,” Max answered, as he paused with his hand
on the knob of his door; “he only knows Hal is down on him, and it
doesn’t make him love the dominie, as he calls him, any too well.”
“Hal does say he’s outrageously fast,” said Leon meditatively. “He’s
full of his larks, but I don’t think he’s a bad fellow.”
The next morning Leon was a little later than usual in taking his place
at the breakfast-table. As he seated himself, Max leaned forward to
speak to him.
“Osborn was skinned last night,” he said in a low voice.
“What?” And Leon looked up in surprise.
“Yes, the lieutenant called on him last night, and caught him playing
cards in study-hour. ’Tisn’t the first offence, and they say it means a
reduction for him.”
This was evidently an unexpected announcement to George Winslow who
glanced up eagerly, as if in sudden exultation over the degradation of
his superior officer. The quick motion did not escape the keen eye of
Max, who went on with an increased distinctness of utterance,—
“Yes, and if he comes down to Private Osborn again, the boys all say ’t
will be Corporal Arnold that will be taking his place as color-bearer.
Are you open to congratulation yet? What are you kicking me under the
table for, Winslow?” he asked, suddenly turning to his neighbor. “If you
want anything, speak up and say so.”
“Beg pardon; didn’t know I hit you,” muttered Winslow, discomfited to
find that his sudden angry motion had not passed unobserved.
“Well, your shoes must be made of cast iron, then,” returned Max
composedly. “It’s my belief you’re nervous, Winslow, and oughtn’t to
drink so much strong coffee.” And before Winslow could realize his
intention, he had filled up his half-empty cup from the contents of the
water-flask which stood beside him. That done, he moved back from the
table, leaving Winslow to growl in peace, with the certainty that, true
to the nature of the genuine bully, he would never dare attack an upper
class man.
“What is it really about Osborn?” asked Leon, joining Max in the hall, a
few minutes later.
“Why, Lieutenant Wilde walked in on him last night, about half-past
eight. He suspected something was up, so he took them by storm. He found
Osborn and Strong playing cards, and he just walked them down to the
doctor’s. I don’t care for Strong; he’s no good, but I’m sorry for
Osborn. But I’ll tell you, Leon, we were well out of it.”
“I’ve never been in it much with Osborn,” said Leon thoughtfully. “Hal
won’t let me have much to say to him; but I shall miss him in drill, for
he’s a good fellow there, and I shall hate to lose him.”
“Even if it gives you his place?” suggested Max wickedly.
“’twon’t,” said Leon. “My chance isn’t as good as Smythe’s; he’s sure to
get it.”
“It’s a close call between you,” answered Max; “but everybody says that,
if it comes to a promotion, you’ll get it. If you do, though, you may as
well prepare for a row with Winslow, for he’s down on you already, and
never will consent to having you put over him. He wanted to go for me,
this morning; but he didn’t dare, for he knew I was more than a match
for him. We had one little set-to last year, and that taught him a
lesson. He’s queer, anyhow; he can’t stand it to be laughed at, so I
just make fun of him whenever I can.”
“I wish he were out of the way,” said Leon, with an anxious frown. “He
makes me wild, and I’m afraid some day I can’t stand it any longer and
shall pitch into him.”
“I hate fighting as badly as you do, Leon,” said Max candidly; “but
there are some fellows that need to be knocked down a few times to make
them endurable. The worst of it is, it’s likely to knock yourself down
at the same time and land you with the privates again. Winslow is just
naturally ugly, and he hates you because he says you laughed at him that
first morning you saw him. I don’t wonder; he’s enough to make a
crocodile laugh, sometimes.”
By noon, the rumors of Osborn’s disgrace were confirmed, and the
question of his probable successor was discussed on all sides. It was
the general opinion of the boys that the office would fall to Leon,
though Smythe’s narrow, but literal scholarship and slavish adherence to
rules made him a possible candidate. Of Winslow, strange to say, there
seemed to be no question.
Contrary to Leon’s expectations, Osborn, when he appeared at dinner,
seemed in no way cast down by his late experience. On the contrary, he
carried it off with his usual gay good-nature, and laughingly offered to
bet as to his successor who was not to be appointed until dress-parade,
on the following day.
“Whoever ’tis, he ought to be grateful to me for stepping down and out,”
he declared with a careless laugh. “I’ve given somebody a chance to go
up, and I hope he’ll feel properly obliged to me.”
Late that evening, Leon went to Lieutenant Wilde’s room, to ask a
question in regard to his lesson for the next day. As usual when he was
there, he lingered for a time, talking of this matter and that, with the
perfect good-fellowship which marked all the relations between
Lieutenant Wilde and his pupils. When, after half an hour of lively
talk, he stepped out into the hall, he was surprised to come upon
Winslow who stood a few feet from the door, apparently waiting for
someone.
“Hullo, Winslow! what are you up to here?” he asked, for Winslow rarely
went into his teacher’s room.
But Winslow made no reply, and Leon went away down the hall, quite
unconscious of the threatening glances cast after him by his rival. He
thought no more of the meeting until the next morning when he and Harold
King were strolling about the grounds, between the early guard-mounting
and chapel, as the boys called the simple opening exercises of the
school. The two boys had reached the foot of the hill and were just
turning to come back, when Winslow abruptly appeared to them.
“What were you doing in Lieutenant Wilde’s room last night, Arnold?” he
demanded roughly.
“It’s none of your business,” returned Leon coolly; “but I’d just as
soon tell you. I went in to ask him about to-day’s lesson.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Winslow doggedly. “You went in to talk up
this color-guard affair.”
“What an idea!” said Leon, with a disdainful laugh. “Nobody but you
would think of such a thing.”
“You did, then,” insisted Winslow, although without once meeting the
clear, steady gaze of his antagonist; “you went in there to try to get
him to give you Osborn’s place.”
“Oh, come, Winslow,” remonstrated Harold; “don’t be a fool. That isn’t
Arnold’s way.”
“You shut up, King!” returned Winslow brutally, “I’m not talking to
you.”
“No; but I am to you,” retorted Leon, who felt his temper fast giving
way. “I’ll thank you to clear out and let me alone; you’ve been in my
way long enough.”
“I’ve been there long enough to see that you’ve toadied to Lieutenant
Wilde ever since you came; and if you think you’re going to sneak, and
get promotions away from better fellows than you are, you’re much
mistaken.”
“What!” And Leon faced his foe with blazing eyes, and his lips quivering
with excitement. “I’ve never taken unfair advantage of any fellow in
this school, George Winslow, and you know it.”
“That’s a lie.”
The insult was more than Leon could bear; and the words were no sooner
spoken than there came one quick, decisive blow, and Winslow went
sprawling backward on the ground. Too thoroughly cowed to rise, he lay
staring up into the flushed, angry face of his slender conqueror. Half
frightened at what he had done, Leon bent on one knee to see that he had
not materially injured his fallen foe; then, when freed from any anxiety
on that score, he rose to his feet, saying haughtily,—
“Next time you want to tell any such stories about me, Winslow, just
remember that what I’ve done once I can do again, and keep out of my
sight, unless you want a worse thrashing than this. And now,” he added,
with cutting sarcasm, “if you aren’t afraid, you’d better get up and get
somebody to brush your back off, for it’s almost chapel time, and being
late might hurt your chances of promotion.” And turning on his heel, he
went in search of his brother to whom he told the story of the fight,
with a strange mingling of pleasure and shame as he recounted the
insults of Winslow and his speedy punishment.
“’Twas all you could do, Leon,” said Harry admiringly, when his brother
paused. “It had to come, for he was going to walk over you till you put
a stop to his impudence. The worst of it is, I’m afraid this ends your
chance of promotion, for the doctor is down on fighting. You’ll be well
off, if you get out of it without a week’s arrest.”
Leon groaned at the thought. Indeed, the idea of a week spent in his
room, only varied by going to and from his lessons, was not an
attractive one; and moreover, this was Wednesday and on Saturday came
the long-anticipated football game. The rest of the morning was spent by
Leon in alternating periods of hope and fear, which last was not
lessened by seeing Winslow go limping up the steps to the doctor’s door,
and later by overhearing a summons to Harold King to go to the doctor at
noon.
Soon after noon his own call came, and he slowly made his way to the
doctor’s study, which was always the scene of interviews of a like
nature. It was Leon’s first introduction to the place and, as he glanced
nervously about, it seemed to him that the very writing-table took on an
austere frown, and that the copy of a Verestschagin above the mantel
looked unnecessarily vengeful and destructive. Then he looked at the
doctor, and felt an immediate relief. Though unusually grave, it was
still the same kind, just, quiet man whom he knew so well.
“Arnold,” said the doctor slowly, “I am told that you have been
fighting.”
Leon looked at him without flinching.
“Yes,” he admitted; “I knocked Winslow over.”
“But don’t you know that it is against the rules of the school?”
Leon bowed in silence.
“Then why did you do it?” asked the doctor again.
The boy hesitated.
“Because there wasn’t anything else I could do,” he said at length.
“I can hardly believe that, Arnold. Fighting is thoroughly lowering and
brutalizing, besides destroying the order of the school. Questions of
discipline must be left to me, not settled by each one of you boys. I
think you understood that when you came here, although you have now
disobeyed the established rule of the school. Is there anything you wish
to say for yourself?”
“Nothing,” replied Leon briefly.
In spite of himself, the doctor looked at the boy admiringly. He had
heard the story of the fight from Harold King, and he appreciated Leon’s
silence in regard to the provocation he had received, his proud
reluctance to lighten his own punishment by accusing a schoolmate.
Memories of a like scene in his own school life rushed into the doctor’s
mind, and made him long to pardon the young culprit whose look met his
so squarely; but justice must be done, so he hardened his heart and
said, as severely as he could,—
“Very well, Arnold, you have willfully broken the rules and been guilty
of grave insubordination. Since you have no excuse to offer, I shall
order Lieutenant Wilde to deprive you of your promised promotion, and
put you under two days’ arrest. Now go.” And he waved Leon from the
room, not daring to prolong the interview, for fear he might relent.
“What are you going to do with such a boy?” the doctor said to his
nephew that night. “He just stood his ground and wouldn’t give in,
though he knew he had excuse enough, if he would only tell it. It’s no
easy work to punish a fellow like that, for you or I would have done
just as he did, if we’d been in his place.”
“It strikes me that our color-guard is getting demoralized about as fast
as it can,” Max observed to Louis, as they were going to bed. “With
Frank Osborn down, and Leon down, and Winslow half-way in disgrace,
Smythe can have it all his own way, confound him! But I’ll tell you one
thing,” he added vindictively; “I’ll make it hot for that Winslow. He
deserves to be court-martialled for his pains.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------