THE REFORMATION OF TEXAS.
"Well?"
There were five of them--Indian, the Parson, Dewey, Chauncey and Sleepy.
They sat in a tent in Company A and at that moment were gazing anxiously
at a figure who stood in the doorway.
"Well?"
"There is hope," said Mark. "Hope for poor Texas."
And then he came in and sat down to tell the story of his interview with
the colonel. The plebes listened anxiously; and when he finished they
set to work to compose themselves as best they could to wait.
"The answer will come to-night," Mark said, "when they read off the
reports. And until then--nothing."
Which just expressed the situation.
The day passed somehow; between police duties and drills, the six were
kept busy enough to relieve the suspense of waiting. And after supper
the battalion lined up, the roll was called, and the orders of the
following day were read, while Mark and his friends fretted and gasped
with impatience. There were reports, and finally miscellaneous notices,
among them the sick list!
"Fourth class," read the officer, then halted a moment. "Powers"--every
man in the line was straining eyes and ears, half dead with
curiosity--then, "excused indefinitely--temporary mental aberration,
caused by heat."
Safe!
And a moment later the line broke ranks, the cadets discussing with
added interest the case of that extraordinary plebe. But the six had
danced off in joy.
"He's safe! He's safe!" they cried. "Hooray!"
"And now," said Mark, "there's only one thing more. We've got to reform
him, make sure he don't do it again!"
"We will," said the others.
It was two days after that, one evening after supper, that the door of
the hospital building was opened and Texas came forth, spruce and
handsome in a brand new uniform, looking none the worse for his
"sunstroke" treatment--_i. e._, plenty of cold water, inside and out.
Texas felt moderately contented, too. He had held up the corps as he had
promised--not a man in the crowd had dared to fire a shot at him. He had
a vague recollection of having done something heroic, besides. He saw
that every one was staring at him in "admiration;" in short, our friend
Powers was prepared for a rousing and hearty reception from the rest of
the Seven.
He strode up the company street, not failing to notice meanwhile that
plebes, and old cadets, too, made way for him in awe and respect. He
stopped at Mark's place, pushed the flap aside, and entered with a rush.
"Oh!" he cried. "Whar be you? How's everybody?"
The first person he saw was Master Dewey, and to him Texas rushed and
held out his hand. To his indescribable amazement that young gentleman
calmly stared at him, and put both his hands behind his back.
"W--w--why!" gasped Texas.
Whereupon Dewey turned upon his heel and walked out of the tent.
Texas was dumfounded. He stared at the others; they were all there
except Mark, and they gazed at the intruder in cold indifference. None
of them apparently had ever seen him before.
"Look a yere!" demanded Texas at last. "Ain't you fellows a-goin' to
speak to me?"
Evidently they were not, for they didn't even answer his question. Texas
stood and stared at them for a few moments more, wondering whether he
ought not to sail in and do up the crowd. Finally, as the silence grew
even more embarrassing, he decided to go out and find Mark to learn what
on earth was the matter. With this intention he turned and hurriedly
left the tent, while the five inmates looked at one another and smiled.
Mark was walking up the street; Texas espied him and made a dash for
him.
"Hi, Mark!" he roared. "What's the matter with them----"
Texas stopped in alarm; a feather might have laid him flat. Mark, his
chum, his tent mate, was staring at him without a sign of recognition!
And a moment later Mark turned on his heel and strode away in silence,
while Texas gasped, "Great Scott!"
That evening, seated on one of the guns up by Trophy Point, was visible
a solitary figure, looking about as lonely and wretched as a human being
can. It was "the Texas madman." Everybody kept a safe distance away from
him, and so no one had a chance to notice that the madman's eyes were
filled with tears.
"Poor Texas," Mark was thinking. "He'll come to terms pretty soon."
He did, for a fact. That same evening, just before tattoo, Mark felt a
grip upon his arm that made him wince. He turned and found it was his
friend, a look of misery upon his face that went to the other's heart.
"Look a-yere, old man," he pleaded. "Won't you--oh, for Heaven's sake,
tell me what's the matter?"
"I don't mind telling you," responded Mark, slowly. "You have behaved
yourself as no gentleman should, and as no friend of mine shall!"
"I!" cried Texas, in amazement. "I! What on earth have I done?"
"Done!" echoed Mark. "Didn't you go off and get drunk? For shame,
Texas!"
Texas was too dumfounded to say a word. He could only stare and gasp.
Here was a state of affairs indeed!
"Yes!" chimed in Dewey, approaching at this moment. "And you nearly
killed dozens of people, too. Mark was within an ace of being dismissed;
and as for you! why, you'd have been fired long ago if Mark hadn't
pleaded for hours with the superintendent!"
Texas turned his wondering eyes upon Dewey then. He was fairly choking
with amazement.
"Do you mean to say," he gasped at last, "that you fellows are mad with
me because I got drunk?"
"Exactly," responded Mark.
"And do you mean to tell me that you call that disgraceful conduct?"
"I do. And I mean to tell you, moreover, that you can't be a friend of
ours while you do it. I don't know how people feel about such things
where you come from, Texas, but I do know that if people up here knew
you had been in that condition not a soul would speak to you. There's
very little room among decent people for the fellow who thinks it smart
to make a fool of himself, and he usually finds it out, too, after it is
too late. I never spent my time hanging around saloons, and I don't
think much of fellows that do, either."
Mark could scarcely repress a smile as he watched the effect this brief
sermon produced on the astounded Texan.
"I wonder what dad would say if he heard that!" was the thought in the
latter's mind.
Texas was brought back from this thought rather suddenly to his own
situation. For Mark and Dewey both turned away to leave him again.
"Look a-yere, Mark," he cried, seizing him by the arm again. "Look
a-yere, ole man, won't you forgive me jest this once. Oh, please!"
And there were tears in the Texan's big gray eyes as he said it.
"But you'll do it again," Mark objected.
"'Deed I won't, man! 'Deed I won't. I'll swear I'll never do it again
s'long as I live."
"But will you keep your promise?"
"I never broke one yit as I know," responded Texas with an injured look.
And Mark, rejoicing inwardly at his success, but outwardly very grave
and solemn, said that he'd go in and ask the other six about it.
* * * * *
Texas sat with his feet against the tent pole and a pen in one hand. He
held a letter to his father in the other; he was just through writing
it, and he was going to read it for the edification of the Banded Seven.
"'Dear Scrap,'" he began. "You see," added Texas, in an explanatory
note, "I call him Scrap sometimes just to make him feel comfortable. All
the boys call him that. 'Dear Scrap. This yere is the first letter I've
written you since I hit this place. I ain't heard from you, so I don't
know whether you got 'lected fo' Congress or not. I been havin' piles o'
sport up yere. Took in three quarts 'tother day, an' I held up the hull
corps on the strength of it. Busted two horses' legs, though, an' I
reckon you'll have to send on the price. Don't think they'll mount to
over a thousan' or two. I've still got my guns----'
"Guns is spelt with one 'n,' ain't it?" Texas inquired, interrupting
himself. "I put two--makes it seem bigger and more important, sorter.
"'They're the queerest folks up this way! They gave me thunder fer
gittin' drunk, said twarn't gentlemanly. Reckon after you licked a few
they'd call you a gentleman all right 'nough! They made me swear off,
else they wouldn't let me stay. What do you reckon the boys'll say to
that? Had to do it, though--you needn't git mad over it--I'm havin' so
much fun a-doin' of the yearlings that I wanted to stay. They kain't one
of 'em lick me.'
"I didn't mention you, Mark," Texas added, laughing. "Cause if I'd told
dad that you did lick me, he'd probably want to come up an' try a whack
himself, jes' to see ef you really could hit hard. Dad won't ever
acknowledge that I kin do him, though I almost licked him twice, when he
got riled. Reckon I'll end this yere letter now. I jest wanted to tell
him to send 'long some money.
"Now let's go out and hunt up some o' them old yearlin's."
And that was the beginning of Texas' reformation.