"Who whipped? How did it end?" asked a swarm of old cadets of Mr. Ross,
on breaking ranks after supper.
"It didn't end," was the gloomy answer. "Allen jumped the fight and
nabbed the plebe. He recognized me, too, I reckon, though the rest of
us got away."
And so while the Fourth Class men made a rush to find their champion,
the elders clustered about the referee for particulars. Geordie was
found at his tent, looking very solemn, but quite cool and collected.
He had changed back to plebe dress again, and had bathed the bumps and
bruises on his brown face, Connell busily aiding him. His hand was
swollen and sore from a sprain, but otherwise he was sound as ever.
"We had Woods licked," said Connell, emphatically. "Graham had him down
when the rush came. Everybody seemed to know which way to go except
ourselves. We ran slap into Lieutenant Allen, and he had to stop and
take my name instead of gobbling the others. Yes; we've got to go to
the guard-tent, they say. There's no helping that."
This was hard news indeed. Fights are so seldom interrupted, and the
system is looked upon so eminently as a matter of course, that nothing
but the most outrageous luck could have led to this catastrophe; and
then to think of Graham's being the victim—Graham and his second—while
the real aggressors had escaped scot-free!
"Not scot-free, either," said one lucky plebe, who had seen the battle
and yet escaped capture—"not scot-free, by a long chalk. Mr. Woods got
one Scotch lick he won't forget in a week." Whereat some of the group
took heart and laughed; and then who should appear but the adjutant,
Mr. Glenn.
"How is it, plebe—any damages?"
Geordie looked up through a fast-closing eye as he buttoned his jacket.
"Hit pretty often, I guess, but I didn't notice it much at the time.
What troubles me is that it's got Mr. Connell into the guard-house."
"Well, that's just what I've come to see you about," said Glenn. "Don't
worry a particle. No one's more sorry you were caught than Mr. Allen
himself, I'll bet. You've got to go to the guard-tent, but that's only
for a few days. There's no dodging regulations, of course; but there
you'll be let alone, and there'll be nobody to bother you. You've won
the sympathy of the whole corps, and you did well, plebe." And here the
adjutant put his hand on Geordie's shoulder. "That throw was tip-top!"
And then the assembled plebes would have been only too glad to
give three cheers for the adjutant; but so big a gathering of the
"animals" attracted the instant attention of their natural enemies,
the yearlings, who swooped down to disperse the crowd, and the patrol
came from the guard-tent, and with much show of severity the corporal
directed Pops and Connell to fetch their blankets and come along.
And so, solemnly, the two culprits were marched away amid the subdued
remarks of sympathy on every hand—even the group of elders about
Ross—and in much better frame of mind than that magnate, for the
orderly came at the moment to summon Mr. Glenn to the commandant's
tent. That meant the colonel wanted his adjutant; and that probably
meant that those cadets whom Allen had seen and recognized as
participants in the forbidden fight were now to be placed in arrest.
Captures on the spot he had made but two—Geordie, breathless,
bewildered, and half blind, and his second, Connell, who stood by
his friend through thick and thin. All the others had scattered the
instant the warning cry of the scouts was heard; First Class men and
yearlings, veterans of such occasions, darting over the parapet and
across the road and down the rocky, thickly-wooded steep towards the
chain-battery walk, better known as "Flirtation;" while Mr. Allen,
too dignified to run in pursuit, stumbled, as ill-luck would have it,
on the men he least desired to come upon, if, indeed, he desired to
capture any.
But he recognized both Ross and Jennings as they darted away, and
saw them prominent in the ring. This meant jeopardy for two pairs of
chevrons. Ross, slipping back to camp at the first opportunity, eagerly
questioned Pops and Connell, who had been escorted thither by the
officer. Had Mr. Allen asked them to name the others interested? He
had; but, as became cadets, they declined to give their names. Glenn
and Otis, the other two First Class men on the ground, had quietly
retired among the trees in rear of them on hearing the alarm, and then
made their way out of the gate as the Lieutenant took his helpless
prisoners down the wooden stairway at the southeast angle. They had not
been seen.
As for Allen's coming, it was accidental. Strolling with a friend from
the hotel around the road that skirts the edge of the heights, he heard
sounds from across the grassy parapet no graduate could mistake. A
fight, of course! and having heard it, it was his duty to interfere.
The next minute he was through the north gate and bearing down on the
battle, when the outermost yearlings caught sight of his coming and
gave the alarm.
Ross and Jennings did not attend the hop that night. Before they
had had time to array themselves in fresh white trousers and their
best uniform coats, Mr. Glenn, the adjutant, had returned from the
commandant's tent and gone straight to his own. Presently he emerged,
girt with sash and sword-belt, and that meant business. No use for any
one to run and hide; that merely deferred matters.
"Mr. Ross, you are hereby placed in close arrest, and confined to
your tent. Charge—promoting a fight. By order of Lieutenant-Colonel
Hazzard," was the pithy address he delivered to his class-mate, with
precisely the same amount of emotion which he might have displayed had
he informed him he was detailed for guard duty on the morrow. And yet
seconders or promoters of cadet fights were by regulations regarded as
challengers, and, as such, subject to court-martial and dismissal. Then
he went in search of Jennings, and though that worthy did for a moment
contemplate the possibility of hiding somewhere, he was too slow about
it. Those who heard Mr. Glenn this time declare he threw a little
more emphasis into the curt order.
[Illustration: "'MR. ROSS, YOU ARE HEREBY PLACED IN CLOSE ARREST'"]
And so, when tattoo sounded that night, Cadet Lieutenant Ross and Cadet
Corporal Jennings were grumbling at their fate in close arrest at their
respective tents, for, being chevron-wearers, they were exempt from
confinement with the common herd at the guard-tents, where by this time
were Pops and Connell, by long odds the two most popular and important
members of the plebe class.
And there for one mortal week the boys remained, having a very
comfortable time of it, barring the nuisance of being turned out with
the guard every time it was inspected at night. They were exempt from
all the annoyance of their comrades down in the body of camp. They
attended all drills, and lost neither instruction nor exercise. They
had the unspeakable delight of being allowed, every warm evening, to
raise their tent walls after taps, and sit and watch class-mate after
class-mate taking his first lessons in sentry duty out on the posts of
Two and Six.
Especially Benny, when at last it came his turn; and that
self-sufficient young soldier, in just about one hour's active
deviling, had perhaps the liveliest experience of a lifetime.
The officers in charge—for some reason that has never yet been
explained—seemed particularly deaf that night. The commandant and
others were not disturbed by the racket, and Benny's instruction,
coaching, and testing—above all, the testing—were left entirely to the
cadet officers and non-commissioned officers of the guard, and, at odd
times, to certain volunteers from the tents of Companies C and D, whose
costumes were so confusing that their own comrades couldn't know them,
much less could Benny.
And so the crack captain of the Beanton Battalion was kept hurrying
from one end to the other of his post, challenging an array of mock
generals and colonels, armed parties, patrols, grand rounds, reliefs,
friends with the countersign or enemies without it, that would have
been simply incredible anywhere but on a plebe's post at West Point.
In less than twenty minutes poor confident Benny, who had guard duty
at his tongue's end and wasn't going to be fooled with, had made every
blunder a sentry could possibly make, had lost every item of arms and
equipments, nerve and temper, and had been bawling for the corporal
of the guard, Post Number Six, in accordance with the methods of the
Beanton camp, and in defiance of the laws and customs of the regular
service, all to the mischievous delight of the entire corps, until
finally he could bawl no longer. He had sneered at Pops for being
ducked in the ditch and overwhelmed in the darkness, yet he, occupying
an open post, had been so utterly bewildered, so completely overcome,
that the poor fellow would have been thankful for a ditch wherein to
hide his diminished head.
They had been sent for, both Pops and Connell, and questioned at the
colonel's tent as to the other participants in the interrupted fight,
but respectfully declined to say anything on that score; and finally,
just as it was noised about camp that the plebes were to be put in
the battalion, and they were fearing their punishment might keep them
back, they heard with beating hearts the order of the superintendent
read in Glenn's clear and ringing tones at dress parade. Even to them,
in the ranks of the guard, with a crowd of hundreds of gayly-dressed
spectators interposing between them and the silent battalion, every
word seemed distinct.
For "inciting, promoting, or otherwise participating in a fight, Cadet
Lieutenant Ross and Cadet Corporal Jennings were hereby reduced to the
ranks and confined to the body of camp east of the color-line until
the 15th of August." New Cadets Connell and Graham, for taking part
in the same, were ordered confined to camp for the same period. All
were released from arrest and restored to duty; and Pops and Connell,
shouldering their bedding, went back to their tent in Company B, and
reporting to Cadet Lieutenant Merrick, in charge of the plebes, were
welcomed with acclamations by their class-mates.
That night, for the last time, the new-comers marched to the mess-hall
as a body. That night at tattoo, for the first time, they answered to
their names with their companies. Geordie and Connell, rejoicing in
having got off so easily (for their punishment practically amounted to
nothing but forfeiture of the privilege of roaming over public lands
on a Saturday afternoon or the mornings they marched off guard), and
comforted by friendly words let drop by occasional First Class men, set
themselves busily to work to put their rifles and equipments in order
again. During his week in the guard-tent Pops had caused his new box
and scabbard to be put in his locker, well covered by clothing. The
weather had been hot and dry, so that the handsome new rifle had not
suffered materially.
Two days later both Graham and Connell were on the detail again; the
First Class privates had been relieved from guard duty as such, and
their names placed on a roster to serve as junior officers of the
guard. The twenty-one sentries were therefore taken from the Third and
Fourth classes, and on this particular occasion there marched on eight
yearlings and thirteen plebes. As before, Geordie had done his best to
have his uniform and equipments perfect. As before, Mr. Glenn seemed
dissatisfied with the condition in which he found two of the aspirants
for colors among the Third Class men. Going back to the front rank, he
indicated two young gentlemen with a gesture of his white-gloved hand,
saying, briefly, "First colors, Murray; second colors, Wren," passed
deliberately by four other yearlings, Cadet Private Jennings among
them, stopped squarely in front of Pops in the centre of the rear rank,
and said, "Third colors, Mr. Graham."
And our frontier boy felt the blood surging and tingling up to the tips
of his ears. How his heart danced in response to the sweet melodies of
Strauss, as in waltz-time the band beat off down the line. How proud
and happy he was in response to the ringing order: "Pass in review!
Forward, guide right!" The natty little column marched blithely away,
wheeling at the angles, passing the statuesque officer of the day with
perfect alignment and easy swinging step. Prompt and silent he stepped
from the ranks at the order, "Colors, fall out!" knowing that every
eye would be on him as he passed in front of the guard. Then came the
order, "Rest!" and then, instantly, in Jennings's angry voice, "By
thunder! that's the first time I ever heard of colors being given to
a plebe when there were old cadets in line." And every yearling in the
detail probably sympathized with him.
But it was not the adjutant with whom Mr. Jennings purposed squaring
accounts for the alleged indignity, but the plebe whose sole offence
was that he had obeyed orders too well.
"Keep clear of that brute Jennings all you can to-day," whispered
Connell to his tent-mate. "He means mischief."
And Geordie nodded. Instinctively he felt that that burly yearling was
his determined enemy, and that more trouble was coming. From Woods he
had had not a word beyond the intimation sent by Mr. Curtis, a quiet,
gentlemanly fellow, that as soon as the excitement had blown over
he should expect Mr. Graham to meet him again and finish the fight.
Referring this to their First Class mentor, Mr. Otis, they were told
that it was customary, though not necessary. So Pops simply replied,
"All right."
[Illustration: TURNING OUT OF THE GUARD]
But Mr. Jennings behaved with rare diplomacy. All day long he held
aloof from Graham, never so much as looking at him after the first
angry outbreak. That evening, when relieved from guard and told he
might return to his tent, Geordie really didn't know what to do with
himself. He would much rather have been subject to sentry duty all
night. However, he carefully placed his prized rifle in the gun-rack;
and that evening a lot of plebes were singing and sparring for the
amusement of their elders over in D Company, so Geordie went thither to
look on and laugh. When the drums came beating tattoo across the Plain
he returned to his tent, which was dark and deserted. Not until after
roll-call did Foster strike a light. Then Graham noticed that four or
five Third Class men were standing and watching him rather closely,
though keeping across the street. He stepped inside, intending to make
down his bed for the night; and then, there stood Foster, candle in
hand, looking blankly at the three muskets.
"Why, Graham," said he, slowly, "what's happened to your gun?"
Turning instantly, Geordie saw by the light of the candle, in place
of the flawless, glistening weapon he had left there an hour earlier,
a rifle coated red with rust and dirt. Amazed, he seized and drew it
forth, mechanically forcing open the breech-lock and glancing in. There
could be no mistake; from butt plate to front sight, barrel, bands,
hammer, lock and guard, breech-block and all, it was one mass of rust.
Dazed and dismayed, he looked for the number, and then all doubt was
gone. It was his own old rifle, the one that had been taken away his
first night on post. His beautiful new gun was gone.
One moment he stood irresolute, then sprang forth into the company
street.
"Mr. Bend," he cried, in wrath and excitement, "look, sir, they've
taken away my new rifle and left this, my old one, in its place!"
"Who has done it?" snapped Bend, flaring up with indignation, as he saw
the abominable plight of the restored weapon. "Have you any idea? Any
suspicion?"
"No, sir, I can't accuse any one. It's too mean a trick."
A dozen yearlings were gathered by this time, saying very little,
however, and some of them exchanging significant glances, but Bend
turned impatiently away, ordering Pops to follow.
"Oh, Leonard, look at this!" he cried, as they reached the captain's
tent, and a long whistle of amazement and indignation was all the First
Class man would at first venture in reply.
"That gun has been lying in damp grass ever since the night you lost
it," said he, finally. "The man who took your new one knew where to
find this, and was one of the party that downed you. Have you still no
suspicion?"
"No, sir," said Geordie, with a gulp. "I suppose they did it out of
revenge for my taking colors this morning."
"Glenn! oh, Glenn!" called Mr. Leonard from his tent door.
"Hello!" came the answer back through the darkness.
"Come here, will you? _lively_—I want you."
The drums and fifes by this time were halted on the color-line, and the
last part of tattoo was sounding. Bend turned away to superintend the
formation of his company, but the captain directed Graham to remain.
Presently the soldierly form of the adjutant appeared.
"Look at that!" said Leonard, handing him Graham's rifle.
"Hello, where did you find it, plebe?"
"In my gun-rack, sir, just now, in place of the new one you saw at
guard-mounting this morning."
"Do you mean that's gone?"
"Yes, sir."
"That'll do, then. Join your company. Leonard," said he, as Geordie
turned away, "the man that did this dirty trick shall be kicked out of
the corps inside of six months, if I have to drop everything else to
find him."