THREE DISCOMFITED YEARLINGS.
It was Mark's duty to summon the corporal of the guard at the very first
sign of danger. But he didn't. He was going to settle this himself, and
he meant to punish those yearlings without any official aid.
He wanted to keep them busy, so that his friends could approach unseen,
and he set out to do it with all the strength of his powerful frame.
There were three of the yearlings, just as Grace had said, and they were
big fellows, selected for that reason; the yearling class knew Mark
Mallory--knew that he could fight when he wanted to, and he wanted to
then. He went down struggling, kicking, hitting right and left; on the
ground he was writhing and twisting as no eel had ever done. And then
suddenly he heard a muttered exclamation, felt the hands that were
gripping him relax; he flung off his enemies and sprang up to find each
of them struggling desperately in the grip of the triumphant five.
There were two for each of the yearlings. That was not quite so unfair
as the three to one that had prevailed a moment before; but it was
enough to make victory certain. The yearlings did not dare cry out; they
were more to blame than the plebes and they knew it. The plebes knew
it, too, knew that they had only to hold their enemies, not trying to
keep them quiet.
The six had the yearlings flat upon their backs in a very brief space of
time. To bind them hand and foot was a still easier task. And then the
mighty Texas flung one over his shoulder, the rest carrying the other
two; they sprang down into the ditch; they climbed the parapet of the
fort beyond; and a moment later were safe, out of sight or hearing.
Then Mark Mallory, sentry number three, brushed off his soiled clothing,
picked up his soiled gun, shouldered it and marched calmly away down the
path. Tramp, tramp.
Sentry number three would have loved dearly to "see the fun," but there
is no worse offense known at West Point than deserting a sentry post. He
did not dare take the risk, so we shall have to leave him alone and go
see for ourselves.
The five rascals with their securely-bound and gagged victims did not go
very far. They stopped in the middle of old Fort Clinton and dropped
their mummy burdens to the ground. Texas pulled from under his coat a
bottle, one quart of peroxide of hydrogen, very strong, "a ninety per
cent. saturated solution." And he got right to work, too.
You ask what he did? Any one ought to guess that. As a hair dye,
peroxide of hydrogen is pretty well known, we fancy.
Add Texas was a liberal hair dyer, too. He put plenty of it on. He was
not careful to apply it evenly, to get it on everywhere. In fact, he was
rather careful not to. Texas was not seeking for any beautiful effects,
mind you; all he wanted to do was to put some mark on those yearlings
that would cure them of their hazing habits, that would make them the
laughingstock of the class.
Having finished one, doused him well, Texas went on to the next. And
more miserable looking and feeling cadets than the three a human being
cannot imagine. They had some vague idea of what their tormentors were
doing, and visions arose up before them, visions of themselves dancing
in the ballroom, or walking about with their best girls, or marching on
parade, with half yellow and half black or brown hair, stamped and
labeled before all to their shame as the yearlings who tried to haze
Mallory. And the worst of it was they daren't tell the authorities; they
were more to blame than anybody!
Texas knew that; and he soaked on the peroxide of hydrogen the
more--ninety per cent. saturated solution.
Having finished this they left their victims there for a while, so that
their hair might dry and the bleach have a good chance to work. It would
never have done in the world to let them run back to camp and wash it
all out. Oh, no! And, besides, it might be well to leave them there a
while to reflect upon the sin of hazing.
As to this last point a mild bit of sarcasm occurred to the Parson. "The
Parson" was just the man to preach a sermon; and he got down upon his
knees and whispered very softly into the ears of each of the three:
"Gentlemen," said he, "the epistle for the day is written in the sixth
chapter of Galatians, the seventh verse. 'Be not deceived, brethren. For
whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.' Here endeth the first
lesson. Yea, by Zeus!"
And then the five hair dyers stole away, and likewise the one quart
bottle, peroxide of hydrogen, ninety per cent. saturated solution.
They were not through yet. Oh, not by a long shot! They rejoined sentry
number three and held a whispered consultation.
"Who's on to-night?" was the question.
"Only one to interest us. Bull Harris!" was the answer.
"Where?"
"Number two."
And then the five figures disappeared once more in the darkness--the
moon had kindly hidden for a while. Mark could see number two from his
post, and he watched with the utmost eagerness. He saw three horrified
yearlings dash across his own beat and vanish in their tents. He let
them pass without challenge, even if it was against the orders, for he
knew that they were the three unhappy heroes of the peroxide of hydrogen
bottle, just released by the plebes.
After that there was a silence of perhaps five minutes. Mark, in
disobedience of all orders, was actually standing still, peering across
at the sentry on the next beat. He could see that gentleman's white
"pants" shining out; and then suddenly he saw several dark figures steal
up behind him, saw the sentry shoot up into the air and take a header to
the grass. The next moment came rapid footfalls and some quick shadows
flying across the path. The shadows disappeared in the tents and Camp
McPherson was once more silent as the night.
Sentry number two got up from the ground in a meditative way; his
look--though Mark did not see it--was what is often described as an
injured one. He made no sound, because for one thing he was too
surprised, and for another because he had an idea some of his own class
had done that trick--mistaken him for Mallory! For though Bull Harris
had watched long and anxiously he hadn't seen Mark "dumped."
Mark meanwhile had faced about and was strolling on down the path, a
rather happy and satisfied expression upon his face. Tramp, tramp.
This chapter would not be complete without a word--just a word--about
three yearling friends of ours. They woke up--if they slept at all that
night--with three startling crops of beautiful golden shining hair,
rather piebald in places. One likes to lavish adjectives upon that hair;
the piebald is not meant to be a pun. Now, as to how that hair got dyed
during the night, not a man of them would tell. But the Seven told
Grace, of course; and Grace told the cadets, which amounted to the same
thing in the end. The story was all about the post that morning.
By that time the three had been to the barber's and their heads looked
like a wheat field, a field of golden grain after the reaping machine
had been hauled across. But that didn't save the three. They were guyed
unmercifully; one of them had three fights at Fort Clinton before he
could convince his classmates that he really didn't want to be called
"Peroxide."