SEVEN LUNATICS AND A REPORTER.
There was not a boat to be seen anywhere, so the crowd was helpless
and terrified. The only thing that prevented a serious accident was
first, the fact that the boat was very near to the shore; and second,
that the furious beast had gotten his horns well wedged into the wood
so that he could not chase the plebes if he had wanted to.
Mark Mallory was a strong swimmer, as those who remember his rescue of
Grace Fuller can testify; his hands were all bandaged up, which
interfered with him considerably, but he had gotten off his coat in
expectation of some such smash-up as this, and so he was able to take
care of himself. The only person who needed help was Indian. As Dewey
had said, Indian was too fat to sink; he fairly bounced about on the
top of the water, something after the fashion of a bubble. He was
scared, none the less, however, and his yells and gurgles made the
horrified people on the shore imagine he was being gored to death.
Several of the plebes got him by the hair of his round little head and
towed him in, where he was pulled ashore by some one. The others
straggled in one by one, Mark and the dignified Chauncey, who
considered it bad form to hurry, coming last. Once on land they stared
at each other in disgust, while the crowd gathered about them to ask
questions; and then suddenly Mark gave an exclamation of alarm. He
noticed that one of the Seven was missing.
“Where’s Texas?” he cried.
That was the first time any one had missed the gallant cowboy; for,
sure enough, he was not there.
“That rope was tied about his waist,” shouted Dewey. “He couldn’t get
away.”
Dewey made a dash for the water, several of the others at his heels.
But at that moment a voice was heard from the darkness that made them
stop in surprise.
“You fellers needn’t be a-comin’ out hyar fo’ me,” said the voice. I’m
a-gittin’ in all right, only it’s slow. Git up, thar, you ole coyote
of a buffalo, you.”
The sight which loomed up in the darkness a few minutes later was
rather a startling one. There was the huge, shaggy buffalo, exhausted
and subdued, but still swimming, and there was the hilarious Texas
mounted on his back!
That insult and indignity had taken all the spirit out of the beast;
he was allowing himself to be steered meekly by the horns, and when he
scrambled up the bank he allowed Smithers’ men to tie him up without a
word of protest, the triumphant cowboy still keeping his seat.
And that was the end of the excitement.
The amazement of Smithers, the proprietor of the circus, may be
imagined. The last time he had seen Texas was while Mark Mallory
(Professor Salvatori) had been making a speech to the crowd in the
dime museum tent, when Texas had made an attack upon the professor and
been chased out of the town. Here he was again, driving a buffalo in
the Hudson. And there was Professor Salvatori, too, still in his old
tennis blazer, talking to the cowboy without a trace of anger. Truly
it was puzzling.
There were other people thought that, too, as the Seven outlandishly
costumed creatures turned and started to hurry away. Nobody there had
the least idea who they were; the idea of their being cadets had never
occurred to a soul――that is, except one. It is our purpose to tell
about him now.
He was a young man, spry and chipper. In one hand he held a rather
portly notebook and in the other a fountain pen. He had been making
all sorts of inquiries of Smithers and his men, assuming the killingly
businesslike air always worn by young reporters, who think thereby to
hide the fact that they are young. This young reporter thought he had
right here the chance of his lifetime to make himself famous. He saw a
chance for three columns on the first page about the things that had
happened to Smithers’ circus that day and he meant to work that chance
for every word it was worth.
As we have said, a vague sort of an idea had flitted across his mind
that they were cadets; if they were they would not want to tell; but
also if they were it would mean a still bigger chance for him. And he
registered a solemn vow that he was going to trace this mystery up if
he died for it.
So when he saw the Seven sneak away he followed and spoke to them,
notebook in hand.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I wish you would let me have your names and
full particulars about this matter. I’m a reporter, from the New York
_Globe_, and I must get the facts.”
The alarm which his announcement created served to increase his
suspicions. The Seven held a consultation, at the end of which one of
them, evidently their leader, responded:
“We can’t give our names.”
“Why not?” inquired the reporter.
“We don’t want to.”
“Well, I’ve got to get them, that’s all.”
“But you won’t.”
“Well, you watch me and see.”
“Do you mean you’re going to follow us?”
“That’s exactly what I do.”
“What! You little coyote, you, doggone your boots, I’ll――――”
“Shut up, Texas. Come here.”
“After that there was another consultation; it ended in a most
surprising and, to the reporter, unexpected move. The Seven wheeled
about and dashed away at top speed into the woods.
The reporter saw the ruse, and he chuckled merrily to himself; two can
play at that game, he thought, and set out in pursuit.
We who know who the Seven were can readily understand that he had no
trouble in keeping them in sight. Indian would have made a first-rate
center rush on a football team, but as a long distance runner he was
“no go.” So the Seven gave up in disgust and despair, and let the
reporter catch up to them again.
Texas’ temper had been rising during this brief sprint, and when he
stopped he reached for his wet revolver.
“I’ll stop him,” he muttered. “Hang him, I’ll scare him till he’s
blue.”
“It won’t do any good,” said Mark, holding his excitable friend back.
“He’s got an idea we are cadets, and he’ll say so in the paper anyhow.
Then there’ll be an investigation, and out we go.”
“Oo-oo!” wailed Indian, still gasping for breath. “I wish we hadn’t
come. Bless my soul!”
“What’ll we do, then?” growled Texas, speaking to Mark, who still held
him back.
“We’ve simply got to fool him,” declared Mark. “We’ve got to make him
think we’re somebody else. It’s going to be hard work, too.”
The reporter had been watching them from the distance during this. He
saw them talking together in consultation for some ten minutes more,
and then one of their number, the one with the bandaged hands, stepped
out and spoke to him.
“I suppose there’s no use trying to fool you,” said he. “Come up here
and we’ll tell you who we are. You may be able to help us, anyway.”
* * * * * * *
Extract from the New York _Globe_, a special late edition on Sunday
morning:
“EXTRA! EXTRA!
“Brutality in an Asylum!
“Inmates Driven to Desperation by Outrages!
“Special to the Globe.
“The Harrowing Tale of Seven Escaped Lunatics.
“GARRISONS, N. Y., August 11.――The _Globe_ is enabled to
present to its readers to-day a tale of official cruelty
such as has seldom been known in this State. This
extraordinary series of incidents was discovered by the
matchless enterprise and indomitable persistence of the
_Globe_ men and will be found in this paper exclusively.
Read the _Globe_!”
This was in big type across the top of the first page; below it was a
huge picture, labeled, “Faces of the Seven Lunatics. Sketched by a
_Globe_ Artist on the Spot.” After that were about half a dozen
columns of the “news.”
“The Adventures of the Seven!
“Wild Doings of the Escaped Lunatics Which Led to Their
Identification.
“A Raid Upon a Circus!
“There was intense excitement in Highland Falls to-day.
Driven to desperation by the excessive cruelties, all of
which are described in another part of the paper in the very
words of the unfortunate wretches, the latter forced their
way from the asylum and took Highland Falls by storm. One of
them, a lad from Texas, with a history that is perfectly
harrowing in its details (see seventh column) ran amuck and
nearly killed the proprietor of the circus by lassoing him
and dragging him around the ring (page two, third column).
After that he released one of the buffaloes in the show and
rode the animal out into the river.
“The seven have now disappeared into the woods. The mayor of
Highland Falls is organizing a searching party to recapture
them. The lunatics have vowed to die first; they consented
to talk to the _Globe_ reporter only because, knowing the
great influence of the paper, they thought that the outrages
might be suppressed.
“This will surely be done. The _Globe_ is already drafting a
bill for the new legislature, abolishing the frightful house
of torture. It is the New York Home for the Insane, its
precise location being as yet unascertained. The officials
of the place have kept the escape of the prisoners a secret
through fear of having their nefarious practices made
public. But the enterprise of the _Globe_ has thwarted them.
“The tale told by the wretched prisoners is almost beyond
belief. They are dangerous, all of them, showing their
delusions in every act, though constantly protesting that
they are not mad. One of them wears a dilapidated clerical
costume and preached a most extraordinary sermon while the
others were telling their stories to the reporter. Another
wears a bellboy’s uniform, and persists in running an
elevator at all times, though he is the son of a prominent
Washington official.
“The man from Texas flourished a lasso and a revolver and
seemed under the delusion that the _Globe_ reporter’s
notebook was meant for target practice. An idea of the risks
run by those who procured this extraordinary news may be
gained when it is said that it was only by the utmost
cunning that the reporter managed to prevent this wild
creature from shooting him. The maniac danced about and
shouted strange cowboy exclamations during the whole
proceedings.
“Still another of the seven was a rather stout and seemingly
harmless person who persisted in claiming that he was a head
waiter. He wore a tattered dress suit and amused himself in
collecting tips. The reporter could get no leisure to take
notes except by fleeing this extraordinary character
continually.
“Number five was clad in a most remarkable outing suit and
spoke with a decided London accent. Apparently his only
idiosyncracy was the idea that he was a baronet. The rest
informed the reporter that his father was a noted criminal
and formerly a bootblack, but this was indignantly denied by
the Englishman, who grew quite violent and vowed that he
would not stand the insult.
“Another had perhaps the strangest delusion of all. He
persisted in calling himself the “Sleeping Beauty,” though
no one less beautiful could possibly be imagined. He dozed
incessantly during the interview, and his companions stated
that he seldom did anything else while in the institution
where they were imprisoned. The unfortunates spoke
mournfully of the frightful amount of work they had been
compelled to do there. They are evidently fearful of having
to return, but this the _Globe_ is determined to prevent.
“The most horrible specimen among the maniacs is mentioned
last. He is a tall and exceedingly handsome young man, and
to all appearances is perfectly sane. He stated that he had
been incarcerated in that institution by a cruel uncle, who
has thus defrauded him of his rights. This uncle he
continually referred to as ’Uncle Sam.’
“This young man offered to show the reporter his back, which
was bruised by blows inflicted upon him by cruel tormentors,
his superiors who objected to some trifling acts of his.
Also both his hands were completely bandaged; he had been
tortured by fire. It makes one shudder to think that such
things can be in this nineteenth century of ours.
“In concluding this introductory article, the _Globe_ wishes
to call the attention of its readers to its extraordinary
enterprise in securing this absolutely first account. The
paper’s servants ran most terrible risks in venturing into
the woods with these desperate maniacs. Yet such sacrifices
the search for truth demands.
“The _Globe_ intends to probe this matter to the very
bottom. A special corps of detectives has been engaged, and
our readers may rest assured that this first account will be
supplemented by all possible details. Etc., etc., etc.,
etc.”
* * * * * * *
Can you imagine how the Banded Seven howled when that paper arrived at
West Point?
“The best joke yet, b’gee,” said Dewey, and the rest agreed with him.
But the end was not yet.