AN ATTACK
A few days after Tom had received the letter from Congressman Hutton,
our hero was further elated to get another missive through the mail.
This came in a long official-looking envelope. It bore the imprint of
the Secretary of War’s office, and came through the post office without
bearing a stamp, which fact further gave Tom an idea of the importance
he was beginning to assume.
“Though of course Clarence got one like it, too, I suppose,” he
thought. “Well, I can’t have everything to myself.”
The letter from the Secretary of War, signed with his own name, much
to Tom’s delight, formally notified our hero of his appointment, and
directed him to report on a certain date, about the middle of June, at
West Point for further examination.
“And now,” decided Tom, after he had shown the secretary’s letter to
his mother and to many admiring friends, “I’m going to buckle down to
hard work. I’ve just got to pass those exams!”
Tom had little doubt as to the result of the physical tests. He was in
fine condition; he had lived a manly, clean life.
He played baseball and football in season, he was a good runner, jumper
and swimmer. In short, he was an average, healthful American lad--a
good all-around athlete, though no phenomenon in any one branch of
sport.
He had been quickly passed by the first doctors who examined him, and
though he realized that the physical tests at West Point would be more
severe, he was not worrying on that score.
“But they may spring something on me in the mental tests that I’m not
ready for,” mused Tom. “So I’m going to buck up.”
With this end in view he went to his high school principal, and had
him map out a course of extra study that would bridge our hero over
several rather shaky places. This was about the middle of May, so Tom
had nearly a full month in which to prepare.
He heard indirectly that Clarence Hawkesbury was doing the same thing,
but Clarence made rather a secret of it. Tom met him one evening in
town, after a moving picture show given under the auspices of a high
school society.
“Well, what’s the good word?” asked Clarence, with an appearance of
good-fellowship Tom knew did not exist. Clarence blew out a cloud of
highly-scented cigarette smoke as he put the question.
“Oh, everything’s lovely,” Tom answered, easily.
“Hear you’re going to West Point with me, as alternate,” went on
Clarence, speaking in unnecessarily loud tones.
“I thought it was the other way around,” responded Tom, slowly. “I
understand you are the alternate.”
“Pooh, you didn’t beat me more than five points on the average,”
boasted Clarence, and this was true enough as far as the mental
examination went. It was not true with the physical, however. “And
I’ll lay you odds of two to one that I stay at West Point and you come
back,” went on Clarence, sneeringly.
“Thank you. I don’t bet,” replied Tom. “But that needn’t stop you,” he
added, for he did not want to be thought a prig.
“Oh, don’t worry! it won’t!” declared the youth, who had more money
than was good for him. He swung off down the street with some cronies,
spenders like himself, and a little later Tom and a chum or two passed
them standing in the door of a poolroom, whence came the click of the
ivory and colored balls.
As Tom passed he saw Clarence and Isaac Blake, two cronies, in close
conversation in one corner of the doorway. Apparently they did not
observe Tom, who heard Isaac remark:
“Think you’ll get a chance at him?”
“I’ll make the chance, if I don’t get it,” muttered Clarence. “If I
can’t get there one way I shall another. Can I depend on you?”
“You sure can,” Ike said, and then Tom heard no more, for he passed on
down the street.
“I wonder who it is they want a chance at?” Tom reflected. But if he
gave it any further thought it was to guess idly that the talk referred
to some one whom Clarence wanted to beat at pool or billiards.
That night Tom sat up late doing some extra studying, for he had
neglected his lessons somewhat in order to go to the picture show.
Tom felt a bit tired the next day. He realized what caused it--studying
too late. His eyes, too, were tired; possibly from pouring too long
over text books, added to the strain of watching what the Scotchman
called the “shiftin’ pictures.”
“I know what I’m going to do,” thought Tom. “I’ll go for a walk down by
the river. It’s a fine day, and it ought to be nice on the water. I’ll
get a boat and go for a row all by myself. I want to calm down. I’ve
been doing too much thinking.”
It was Friday, and because of some special exercises the high school
closed earlier than usual. Tom hurried home, changed into an old suit
that would not be soiled by the water or mud in a boat, and made his
way to the river. There were several pavilions where boats could be
hired, but Tom, feeling rather in the mood for walking, went on until
he had nearly reached the big railroad bridge, not far from which was a
boathouse.
“And to think my father once owned all this land,” Tom mused as he
looked at the big foundations on one side of the river. “If we had
what the railroad company paid for it mother wouldn’t have to work
so hard. Of course money wouldn’t make any difference to me at West
Point. That’s one place where money doesn’t count. But if we had a few
thousands mother could be nearer me, say in New York, and she could run
up to see me once in a while. It’s going to be a long drill--two years
at a stretch. But I guess I can stand it all right.”
Tom was about to proceed to the boathouse to hire a craft, when he was
aware of a figure coming around a bend in the path that led to the
river. A moment later he saw that it was Captain Hawkesbury. Rather a
stern and forbidding figure it was too, for the uncle of Clarence was a
gruff man, though it was said he was very fond of his nephew.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said Tom, saluting in what he hoped was the
correct military fashion.
“Um! Afternoon,” was the half-grunted retort. Nor did Captain
Hawkesbury take the trouble to return the salute. Perhaps he did not
see it, or Tom may not have executed it properly.
“Oh, it’s you! is it; young Taylor?” went on the captain, looking at
our hero from under shaggy, heavy eyebrows. “Um! I--er--I understand
you’re going to have a try at West Point, young man.”
“Yes, Captain! I’m going to take the examinations.”
“And my nephew--er--he’s going too?”
“Yes. He’s my alternate!”
Tom could not refrain from that little exultation.
“Um, yes. Well, I don’t wish you any bad luck, young man, but I believe
Clarence will win. He comes of fighting stock, sir! fighting stock!”
and the army captain smote the ground with his cane, making the dirt
fly.
“We have some fighters in our family, too,” Tom said, not to be
outdone. “On my father’s and mother’s side we boast of what our
families did in the Revolution.”
“Um! Oh yes, the Taylors did their share--their share,” admitted
Captain Hawkesbury. “Well, we shall see! We shall see!” and muttering
something under his breath, which Tom was not able to catch, the old
fighter strode along.
“Not a very cheerful sort of man,” thought Tom, as he went down to get
a boat. He thoroughly enjoyed the row on the river, and began to feel
more like himself. He rowed until the lengthening shadows warned him it
was time to return to his home, and a little later he was walking along
the river bank.
Around a bend, near the place where he had met Captain Hawkesbury some
time before, Tom heard voices, two of which at least, were familiar
to him. The possessors of the voices were talking and laughing rather
hilariously.
Suddenly footsteps could be heard, indicating that several persons
were running along the hard-packed path, and a moment later Tom saw
Clarence, Ike and a number of their cronies coming on the run.
“Looks as though they were having a race,” mused Tom.
“Get out the way! Let us pass! Don’t block the path!” called Clarence.
“One side, Taylor, we’re trying to see who’s the best-footed.”
The path was narrow at this point. On one side was the river and on the
other a low, swampy place. Tom had hardly room to get to one side.
“They have nerve,” he mused. “Why couldn’t they wait until they had
room to race. I can’t get out of their way.”
The other lads gave him no chance. On they came swinging toward him,
and, an instant later, as Clarence tried to pass Tom, the rich youth
slid down the bank toward the river.
“Look out!” Tom cried.
“Look out yourself!” retorted Clarence quickly. “What do you mean by
shoving me?”
“I didn’t!” Tom answered.
“And I say you did!” snapped Clarence. “You did it on purpose, and I’ll
make you wish you hadn’t!” He recovered himself and came rushing at Tom
with clenched fists.