THE LONG DELAYED VISIT.
Oh, but Grace Fuller’s was an imposing house, when finally the plebes
managed to find it! It was big and brilliantly lighted, with high,
old-fashioned porticoes. There were spacious grounds about it, too,
and tall, menacing iron gates in front that made the dubious-looking
plebes feel very dubious indeed. As for poor Chauncey, he was simply
floored.
“I’ll not go in,” he vowed, indignantly. “Bah Jove, I look like a coal
heaver. Suppose there should be a lot of people there, don’t cher
know?”
That suggestion was a new one for the rest, and it made them gasp.
They hadn’t counted on seeing any one but Grace, and the idea that she
might have invited a lot of girls to entertain them was indeed
startling, and they talked it over for at least ten minutes before
they ventured another move.
The final decision was that the fate of the nation should be left to
Indian, the only respectable man in the crowd. Indian was to go, and
if he found that any one else had been invited to that “party” he was
to make a break for the door and fly. Otherwise, why then they might
be induced to show themselves. Indian didn’t like the idea a bit, but
the rest threatened him with horrors unnameable until he consented.
Then he crept up timidly and rang the bell while the others lay in the
bushes and hid.
The sight of the man who came to the door reassured the trembling
young hero somewhat, for it was George, the butler, who had once set
off some cannon for the Banded Seven and turned West Point
topsy-turvy. A moment later Grace Fuller herself appeared in the
hallway, a vision of loveliness that made the rest wish they were
Indian.
The six heard her inquire anxiously for them; and then they heard
Indian begin to stammer and stutter furiously, putting in a “Bless my
soul!” every few syllables and making the others grit their teeth with
rage.
“Plague take him!” muttered Mark. “He’ll give it all away.”
He did that in a very short while, for a fact; he had not found out
who was inside at all when suddenly Grace Fuller sprang out upon the
piazza.
“If you boys are out there,” she called, “you might as well come in
and make yourselves at home. Nobody cares how you’re dressed.”
After that, of course, there was nothing for them to do but come, as
gracefully as they could, which was very ungracefully indeed. They
marched sheepishly up the path in single file, each trying to be last.
How they ever got the courage to get into the door nobody knew, but
they did somehow, making a group which almost caused the dignified
butler to commit the heinous sin of smiling, and which made Grace
Fuller fairly go into hysterics.
However, they were in, which was something. And that memorable “party”
had begun.
It wasn’t much of a party, fortunately for the Banded Seven’s peace of
mind. As it turned out, Grace Fuller hadn’t half expected them to
come. She was afraid they wouldn’t dare take the risk. Here Master
Chauncey Van Rensselaer (hero of the smutty white flannel) got in a
Chesterfieldian compliment, the drift of which is left to the reader’s
imagination. Then the girl went on to explain the dilemma she had been
in, not knowing whether to prepare for them or not, which promptly
“reminded” Dewey of a story.
“Story,” said he, “about a tenderfoot who went hunting out West,
b’gee, and he came across a beast that he thought was a deer, and then
again he had half an idea it was a calf. So he looked at his gun and
at the beast, and didn’t know what to do. That was the dilemma, b’gee,
and the way he got over it was a way you might have tried for the
party. He shot to hit it if it was a deer, and miss it if it was a
calf, b’gee.”
Told in Master Dewey’s interesting way, that broke the ice, and then
everybody settled down to have a good time. Judge Fuller came
downstairs a few minutes later and was introduced to the Seven, who
had, so he surmised politely, expected a masquerade ball. That made
them more at ease; they wondered why they hadn’t thought of that
excuse themselves, and Parson Stanard (gentleman in the clerical
costume with a rip up the back) promptly corralled the judge up in one
corner and started him on the subject of the Substance and Attributes
of Spinoza, and the Transcendental Analytic of Kant.
Meanwhile Grace Fuller was entertaining the rest. As Dewey had
predicted, she wanted to thank Mark, though she didn’t fall on his
neck. She must needs have the story of the gallant rescue told all
over again by the rest of the Seven, a proceeding which so embarrassed
Mark that he went over to learn about Spinoza and Kant. He would not
return until Grace went to the piano to sing for them. After that
Texas hauled out a mouth organ, and gave a genuine cowboy jig which
moved the Parson, at Judge Fuller’s invitation, to render Professor
So-and-So’s latest theory as to the tune in the parabasis of a Greek
comedy.
That scared them all away from the piano, and Dewey told the story of
the circus, which he did so vividly that Texas got excited and wanted
to lasso something, even starting to undo the rope at his waist and
show Grace how it was done. He was finally persuaded that there wasn’t
room in the parlor, and then to cool him off they went in and had some
ice-cream.
At last somebody discovered that it was late, and time for that
curious visit to terminate. Perhaps it was Judge Fuller, who hadn’t
been able to escape from the tenacious Parson all evening. Anyway,
they started on their return trip, which was destined to prove
momentous, after a leave-taking which was affecting all around.
We shall not stop to follow them to the boat, but move on to another
place where more lively things were happening, things that were going
to cause the Banded Seven no end of excitement before they were
through. For out in the middle of the Hudson in a leaky tub is by no
means as safe a situation as in bed at Camp McPherson, as the plebes
were soon to learn. They had their night’s fun before them.
Smithers’ World Renowned Circus (!) was the cause of all the trouble.
Smithers, it seemed, was just then engaged in getting out of Highland
Falls; it was rather late at night, in fact Sunday morning, but a
circus is a thing that has to keep moving. It was scheduled for a
place way up the State on Monday, and so every one was hard at work.
There was a long railroad train drawn up at the station a short way
from the circus grounds. The big tents were all aboard and likewise
the most of Mr. Smithers’ World Renowned (!) performers; the
“Magnificent Menagerie” was being moved when the trouble began.
The wonderful trick elephant was safely shut up in his corner of one
car, and likewise Smasher, the fierce untamed bronco ridden by no
man――except “Jeremiah Powers, son of the Honorable ’Scrap’ Powers, o’
Hurricane County, Texas.” The single degenerate specimen of a laughing
hyena, too hungry and disgruntled to laugh at anything, had also
joined the family party. Last of all was the solitary and stray
specimen of a buffalo, making up the quartette which composed that
much-advertised menagerie.
One would not have thought that buffalo had in him the capacity for
causing any trouble; he was a very lean old buffalo――in fact,
everything about Smithers’ circus was lean. Even the living skeleton
used to complain of hunger. This buffalo bull was old and ragged,
reminding one of a moth-eaten rug; and he had a very mild and subdued
look about his eyes. Nobody thought him capable of a rebellious
action, for he used to trot around the ring daily for the edification
of the country people and occasionally he submitted to a yoke and
helped the wild elephant get some one of the circus wagons out of a
muddy place in the road.
Animals are wily, however; perhaps this beast had just been acting to
get a reputation for harmlessness, so that when he did come to rebel
he might be sure of success. For to put the whole matter into a
nutshell, that buffalo ran away that night.
He took matters into his own hands during the course of the move to
the train. They wheeled his cage to the box car and put the door up
close and then prodded him to make him move. He moved, but he did not
go into the car; instead he poked his shoulders in between the car and
the cage and pushed. Before the sleepy circus hands could realize what
had happened, he was standing in the middle of the street, waving his
tail with much friskiness and gusto.
Of course there was excitement. Smithers came up hot and panting, and
after having first sworn at the beast, got an armful of hay and tried
to steal a march on him. The beast waited just long enough to show his
scorn for such artifices, and then, with a bellow of defiance, wheeled
clumsily about and started on a trot up the track.
There was more excitement then. Of course Smithers had to shout and
likewise the other circus men, and ditto the loungers in the
neighborhood. That woke up the town; and when a country town wakes up
at night there is no telling when the thing will stop. Some people
solace themselves by shouting murder under such circumstances; others
prefer fire; but however that may be, there are sure to be bells
ringing, and everybody peering out of their windows to find out if by
any chance they had been murdered without knowing it. Anyhow, that was
the way it happened in Highland Falls.
Smithers leaped upon a horse and started to lead in the chase; it was
a cloudy night, but the moon came out on occasions and just then
Smithers could very plainly see the much-accused buffalo trotting
serenely, head up, along the railroad track. Behind the proprietor
were the rest of the circus performers, professors and madams, and
likewise all the freaks except the fat lady. Behind them was a
nondescript mass of townspeople, farmers and small boys, all out to
see the fun and all shouting so as to assure themselves they were
having it.
That was about as strange a procession of humanity as the West Shore
road had ever seen; but the buffalo knew nothing about it. His mind
was filled with the indescribable joy of freedom, a sensation which we
Americans are supposed to have at all times. He was shaking his head
and his tail defiantly, and also shaking a leg as he skurried on up
the track. The proprietor never gained an inch, though he kept his
horse going for dear life.
It is less than a mile from Highland Falls to West Point; the buffalo
put that distance between him in no time, but not long after that he
struck a snag. The road enters a long, black tunnel at West Point. The
bull didn’t like the looks of the tunnel; neither did he like the
looks of Smithers, who was sweeping up in the rear. To make matters
worse, there came a roaring sound from the tunnel and a glare of
light――the night express. That was too much; the bull plunged down the
bank and into the river. A few minutes more and he was far out from
shore and a mere black spot upon the water.
Having deserted our friends the Banded Seven, we thus find our way to
them again. For the plebes, you remember, were pulling their heavy old
tub across that river when we left them, and their course was such
that it took them very near to that buffalo indeed.
And that was how the fun began.