A PLOT TO BEAT "THE GENERAL."
Now the adventures of Texas were wild and exciting, to him, anyway. But
up at camp in the meantime another plebe was having adventures that
fairly put Texas into the shade. The plebe was "Indian," and you may
listen and judge for yourself of the adventures.
Indian had been rather less credulous of late, but the yearlings were
still anxiously watching for another chance to have some fun with him.
The chance came that day.
Nelson A. Miles is a hero of a hundred fights, and as major general he
commands the United States army. The more they considered the importance
of that mighty visitor, the more the yearlings began to think of that
plan. There were a dozen of them got together that morning and swore
they'd fool Indian or die in the effort.
Indian of course had seen the review and had been mightily impressed in
his innocent soul. From the distance he had admired the military figure
and imposing features of the great man. And then, filled with resolves
to fight loyally under him and perhaps some day to be like him, he had
turned away and strolled solemnly back to camp.
He entered his tent, still in that serious, that really heroic mood.
There was no one in the tent, and so Indian had it all alone for his
meditations philosophical.
"Oh, what a fine thing it must be to be a great hero like that!" he
mused. "To gaze upon the world from a large, ethereal standpoint"--an
ethereal standpoint would have made unsteady standing even for a hero;
but Indian did not think of that. "I can have no higher ambition in life
than to imitate that man. As the poet has said:
'Lives of great men all remind us,
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints----'
"Bless my soul!"
Indian had stopped his meditations with startling suddenness; and this
was the reason thereof.
He had heard mysterious sounds in the Company B tent next door. It was a
yearling tent. Two cadets had crept into it silently; and Indian heard
one of them mutter a subdued "S-sh!"
Have you seen a pointer dog prick up his ears suddenly? That was the way
Indian did.
"A plot?" said one of the yearlings. "A plot did you say? What is it?
Tell me? I'll come in!"
"S-sh!" said the other. "Do you swear eternal secrecy, swear it by the
bones of the saints?"
"I swear!" growled the other in a low, sepulchral voice. "Out with it!"
"All the fellows know," continued the other. "They'll all help. But not
the plebes! Do you hear? Not a word to the plebes! If any plebe should
hear he'd surely tell on us, and that would ruin us. He might do it, you
know, for he'd get no end of reward. They might even promote him, make
him a yearling."
Indian's little fat heart was bounding with delight. A plot! And he knew
it! Ye gods! Bless my soul! He crept close to the wall of his tent,
straining eyes and ears to listen, not to lose the faintest sound of
this most important news.
"It must be something desperate," gasped the other.
"Yes, it is. S-sh! You'll nearly drop I know when I tell you. We're----"
Indian's eyes were like walnuts, half out of his head.
"We're going," continued the yearling, slowly, "we're going to beat the
general!"
"Beat the general!" echoed the other. "By George, I'll help! I'm glad of
it. I----"
Indian heard no more. Quietly he had arisen from the tent floor,
glancing about like a serpent rearing his glittering head from the
grass. He arose; he crept to the tent door; and a moment later he was
striding down the street as fast as his little legs could carry him.
So that was the plot! Those wicked and reckless cadets who had hazed him
so much were now going to beat the general! The general could, of
course, mean only one general, the great general. There was no general
at West Point but Major General Miles.
Indian never once stopped until he was well out of camp, out of the
enemies' hands. A man with so mighty a secret as that could afford to
take no risks; he must lurk in the shadows until he saw his chance to
reveal the whole daring conspiracy. Visions rose up before his delighted
mind, visions of himself a hero like Mark, congratulated by all, even
made a yearling as the cadets had hinted. Indian even imagined himself
already as hazing the rest of the plebes.
These thoughts in his mind, he was suddenly startled by seeing two
yearlings coming near. Were they after him? Indian trembled. Nearer and
nearer. No, they had passed him. And then, once more, he heard the
words:
"Yes, yes! We're going to beat the general!"
"What! Heavens, suppose some one should find it out."
That settled it. Indian sprang up boldly and strode away, determination
in his very waddle. He knew! And he would tell!
At that moment Indian saw Cadet Fischer crossing the parade ground.
Surely, thought Indian, so high and responsible an officer as this had
nothing to do with the plot! Why not tell him? And so at him Indian made
a dash.
"Mr. Fischer! Oh, Captain Fischer!"
The officer turned in surprise. Hailed by a common plebe.
"Mr. Fischer!" gasped Indian. "Bless my soul! I hear they're going to
beat the general!"
"Yes," said the other. "In half an hour. But why----"
Good heavens, he knew it too! And like a flash, the frightened plebe
wheeled and dashed away. There was only one resource left now. He would
tell the general himself.
Across the parade ground dashed Indian, panting, gasping. Down by the
headquarters building, he saw a group of horses standing. One charger he
recognized instantly. The general was inside the building, and a moment
later a group of officers appeared in the doorway. The handsome,
commanding figure in front. Indian's heart bounded for joy; and then
suddenly the amazed General Miles was greeted by a gasping, excited
cadet in plebe fatigue uniform.
"General, oh, general! Bless my soul!"
The officer stared at him.
"A plot!" panted Indian. "Oh, general, please don't go"--puff--"near the
camp--bless my soul! A plot!"
"A plot!" echoed the other. "A plot! What do you mean?"
"They're going to hurt you--bless my soul!"
"Hurt me! Who?"
"The cadets, sir! Bless my soul, I--puff--heard them say, they
were--puff--oh!--going to b-b-beat the general."
There was a moment of silence, then a perfect roar of laughter came from
the staff officers. The general laughed too, for a moment, but when he
saw the plebe's alarm and perplexity he stopped and gazed at him with a
kindly expression. "My boy," he said, "you've been letting the yearlings
fool you."
"Fool me!" echoed Indian in horror. "Bless my soul!--how?"
"Beating the general means," answered the officer, "beating the general
assembly, which is a drum call."
The officers shook with laughter again, and as for poor Indian, he was
thunderstruck. So he had been fooled again! So he had let those mean
cadets haze him once more! And--and----
Poor Indian's eyes began to fill with tears. And he choked down a great
big sob. The old officer saw his look of misery.
"Do they fool you often that way, my boy?" he asked, sympathetically.
"Ye--yes!" answered Indian, at the verge of a weeping spell. "Ye--yes,
th-they do. And I think it's real mean."
"So do I," said the general, smiling. "I tell you how we'll fix it.
Don't you let on they succeeded."
"I can't help it," moaned Indian. "They know! L-look!"
With trembling finger he pointed across the street to where in the
shadow of the sally port of the academy stood a group of hilarious
yearlings, fully half the class, wild with glee. The general shook his
head as he looked, and poor Indian got out his handkerchief as a
precaution.
"Too bad!" said the former. "Too bad, I declare! We'll have to turn that
joke on them somehow or other. Let me see. Let me see. How would you
like it for me to help you get square, as you boys say?"
Indian gazed up at the stalwart and kindly form confidingly; he was all
smiles in a moment.
"I'll tell you," said the general at last, "you and I'll take a walk.
And when they see you with me, they'll be sorry they sent you. Come on."
He took the arm of the delighted Indian, who was scarcely able to
realize the extent of his good fortune.
"You'll excuse me a short while, gentlemen," said General Miles to his
military staff. "I'll return shortly. And now," to Indian, "where shall
we go? I guess I'll let you show me about camp."
And sure enough, pinching himself to make sure if he really were awake,
Indian, on the arm of the mighty guest of West Point, commander of Uncle
Sam's whole army, marched away up the road past the parade ground and
all through Camp McPherson.
The general was enjoying the joke hugely, but he affected not to notice
it, and plied the plebe with questions.
Why did the yearlings haze him so much? Was he B. J.? Oh, it was because
he was a friend of Mark Mallory's, was it! General Miles had heard of
Mark Mallory. He was the plebe who had saved the life of the general's
friend, Judge Fuller's daughter. A beautiful girl that! And a splendid
act! Indian had seen it, had he? Colonel Harvey had described it to the
general. The general would like to meet Mark Mallory. No, he was not
joking; he really would. Mr. Mallory was in hospital, was he? Too bad!
Had been too B. J., had he? The general liked B. J. plebes. He hoped
Mark was not badly hurt. And----
Then suddenly the conversation was interrupted by a cry of joy from
Indian.
"There's Mark now! He's out of hospital!"
"That handsome lad down the street there?" inquired the general, "let us
go down by all means."
A moment later, Mark, to his great amazement, was confronted by the
curiously contrasted pair. Indian was beaming like a sunflower.
"Mr. Mallory," he said, with a flourish, "allow me to present my friend,
General Miles."
Mark bowed, and the general took the hand he held out.
"Mr. Mallory," he said, "I am proud to meet you. I have heard of what
you have done. The service needs such men as you."
And the whole corps heard him say so, too. The general had been very
careful to say those words in a loud and clear voice that made the camp
ring. Then he turned and spoke to an orderly who was passing.
"Tell my staff to ride up here for me," he said, and added, turning to
the two radiant plebes: "Now, my young friends, I must ask you to excuse
me. I am very pleased to have met you both. Good-morning, Mr. Smith, and
Mr. Mallory."
With which he turned and strode away up the street again, smiling at the
recollection of the incident. And Mark stood and stared at his grinning
friend Indian.
"Well," said he, "you blessed idiot, you certainly do beat the Dutch!"
And then he turned and went into the tent.