IN CAMP LOOKOUT.
“By jingo! it certainly was the closest shave that I ever had! I hope
I’ll never get another such scare.”
The speaker was Mark.
It was early in the morning, and the plebes were gathered about Mark’s
tent, awaiting the signal for inspection. There were the members of
the famous Banded Seven.
That crowd, so it appeared, was not the only crowd that was gathered
in the streets of Camp Lookout that morning, for the purpose of
discussing things. In fact, a stranger passing through the place might
have thought it a sewing school, a town pump or an afternoon tea.
These places are quoted as the ones where gossiping is most likely to
occur. It seemed as if every cadet in the camp knew no better
occupation in life than talking――evidently something had happened to
create excitement among the lads.
“We ought to thank our stars we got out of the scrape as we did,” one
of them added. “Do you suppose any of the cadets have an idea that we
had anything to do with the affair?”
“I don’t,” said Mark. “That is, of course, excepting Bull Harris, and
his friends among the third classmen. I overheard one of the first
class talking of it a while ago.”
“What did he say?” asked one, eagerly.
“He said,” answered Mark, “that he didn’t know what to make of the
matter. All he knew was that a frightful lot of yelling had awakened
the camp during the night, and that when Lieutenant Allen, the
tactical officer in command, jumped up to find out what was wrong he
discovered that some one had stolen his uniform. Of course he couldn’t
come out without it, and he raged and stormed about for nearly five
minutes inside. Then he discovered his clothes lying outside of his
tent. When he came out and ordered a roll call he found everybody in
and nothing wrong.”
“And what does he suppose was the cause of his uniform being mislaid?”
“He doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t know whether it was a prank
of some kind or carelessness on his part. Isn’t that a rich joke?”
“Betcher life, b’gee!”
The reader does not need to be told that that observation came from
Dewey.
“I wonder what Allen would say,” chuckled that youngster, “if he only
had any idea of the real way the accident happened. If he knew that a
certain plebe by the name of Mallory had swiped his uniform,
b’gee!――――”
“S’h! not so loud!”
“Sure enough,” remarked Dewey. “I forgot that. Reminds me of a story I
once heard, b’gee――told me by my great uncle on my father’s starboard
side. What’s that? You don’t want to hear it? Well, who was going to
tell it? I never said I was, did I? I was just going to say when you
interrupted me last that I wonder what Allen would think if he knew
that Mallory had borrowed his uniform and had gone off in the woods to
play lieutenant and scare Bull Harris and a party of yearlings away
from a feast they were eating. Hey?”
“He would in all probability be aggravated to a considerable degree,”
observed Parson Stanard. “He would doubtless be in the condition of
mind which was so accurately, scientifically, and at the same time
poetically, described by the immortal Homer in the four hundred and
sixty-third line of the eleventh book of the imperishable Iliad,
beginning――――”
“And ending,” observed Dewey, whereat the indignant Parson stopped his
discourse and went back into his shell like a sulky oyster.
“Allen would be mad fo’ a fact,” remarked Texas. “But, hang it! I
don’t think he’d be half as mad at that as ef he knowed how that air
noise came to be made; ef he learned that there were some yearlin’s in
his company so mean as to raise a rumpus when they knew we were out o’
camp an’ would be missed an’ expelled. I reckon that air’s ’bout as
ornery a trick as I ever heerd ’bout. Hey?”
“It’s hardly as bad as that, Texas,” laughed Mark, generously. “You
see, Bull and the crowd were pretty mad that we plebes had dared to
fool them and spoil their feast. And Bull always has hated me, you
know.”
“I guess I do know it!” growled Texas, angrily. “I’m a goin’ to punch
his ole head fo’ him pretty soon ef he don’t stop them coyote tricks
o’ his. We’d a’ been fired sho’ last night ef you hadn’t had Allen’s
clothes so’s he couldn’t leave his tent to inspect. Bull Harris’ll try
that air thick once too often, doggone his boots!”
Mark laughed gently, and then sat down in front of the tent.
“Fellows,” he said, after a moment’s thought, “I’ve got something to
say to you. Texas’ last remark made me think of it. This is a matter
of business for the Banded Seven to decide on.”
The Seven looked important at that. Indian opened the round little
saucers which did him for a frightened pair of eyes and leaned forward
to listen. Master Chauncey Van Rensselaer Mount-Bonsall bowed with
dignity; and Methusalem Zebediah Chilvers, farmer and populist from
Kansas, who had been lounging as usual at the back of the tent, opened
one eye and waited.
Having thus obtained attention, Mark began:
“Texas observed,” he said, “that Bull would try that trick of raising
a row while we were out of camp at night once too often. Now that’s a
fact; he may. And you know as well as I do that to be caught outside
of the sentry lines at night would mean court-martial and dismissal
for every one of us. I’m beginning to think that it’s hardly worth the
risk. You know how Bull hates us; our cutting up as we did last night
is lots of fun, but it only gives him a weapon to hurt us with.
It――――”
“Say, look a yere,” cried Texas at this stage of the game. “Do you
mean to say that you’re drivin’ at advisin’ us to stay in camp every
night?”
“Yes,” said Mark, “I am.”
“Well, I jes’ tell you I ain’t,” growled Texas. “No, sah, I ain’t!
Why, what fun would there be? Life wouldn’t be worth livin’! I won’t
do it!”
“You might lick Bull Harris instead,” laughed Mark. “That would be
exciting.”
Texas admitted that that was a mitigating circumstance.
“You see,” Mark continued, “we’re safe if we stop now. Allen hasn’t
the least idea that we’ve been cutting up, and none of Bull’s gang
dare tell him, because, you see, they were out of camp, too. And I
think we’ve gone far enough for a while. I don’t want any more such
scares as I had last night.”
“Me neither,” wailed Indian. “Bless my soul!”
And the Parson added:
“Yea, by Zeus!”
It is now necessary for the sake of the story that the Banded Seven be
left where they were, discussing that problem. The reader must be
introduced to another personage.
Lieutenant Allen, tactical officer in command of Company A in the West
Point Battalion, was just then standing in his tent, buckling on his
sword preparatory to the morning inspection. Lieutenant Allen was very
thoughtful that morning; he had been very thoughtful during the night
also. But he had recovered his dignity and equanimity since the
adventure, outwardly at any rate.
The lieutenant had gone to the back of his tent for a moment; then he
stepped to the entrance――and suddenly stopped. An envelope was lying
at his feet.
He gazed at it in surprise and then stooped and picked it up. There
was an address upon it which he read:
“Lieutenant Allen.”
That was a strange way to get mail.
“The “tac” went to the tent door and glanced about him. But he saw no
one and so he went back into his tent and tore open the letter. He
read it. And as he read it his face seemed fairly to turn blue,
whether with anger or amazement, or excitement, no one can say. He
dropped his hands and gazed about him as if to make sure where he was.
Then he raised the letter and stared at it again.
“TO LIEUTENANT ALLEN: The lieutenant may be interested in
knowing who it was that stole his uniform last night. It was
Cadet Mallory! And if the lieutenant doubts this he has only
to watch and he will see Cadet Mallory go out of camp
to-night also. A word to the wise is sufficient!”
And as Allen finished the reading of that note he crushed it in his
hand.
“By Jove!” he muttered. “It was a dirty brute who wrote that. I’ll
catch him as well as Mallory!”
And then he strode out of his tent to begin the morning inspection.