STEALING FROM THIEVES.
“Now,” said Mark, when he rejoined his companions, “we’ve got pretty
definite information to go on with now. Mr. Chandler’s got our money in
his room. The question is what are we to do next?”
The plebes were sitting over in a secluded corner of Trophy Point
discussing this. Texas doubled up his fists with an angry exclamation.
“Git it back!” growled he, with a characteristic disregard of details.
“But how?” said Mark. “Of course we could have him arrested, for he
knew the money was ours. But if we did he’d tell how we skipped camp to
dig it and we’d be dismissed from West Point. Then there’d be the old
Nick to pay.”
“One case where I’d be thankful I’m not in the habit of paying my
debts,” observed Dewey, tacking on a stray “b’gee” as usual. “As to
Bull and his cousin, I say we punch their faces till they give up the
money. Punch their faces, b’gee!”
“Doggone their boots!” growled Texas.
“That might hurt their boots,” laughed Mark, “but it wouldn’t do us any
good. I haven’t heard any feasible suggestion yet. You know possession
is nine points, and they’ve got that.”
It was Mark who finally hit upon a plan that seemed possible. It was a
wild and woolly plan, too, and it took Texas with a rush.
“They stole it from us,” said Mark. “I don’t see what better we can do
than steal it back again.”
“You don’t mean----” gasped Dewey--“b’gee----”
“Yes, I do,” laughed Mark. “And I mean this very night, too. I mean
that we turn burglars and get our money out of there.”
And Mr. Jeremiah Powers let out a whoop just then that made the windows
rattle over in that selfsame hotel. Jeremiah Powers hadn’t been quite
so excited since the time he rode out and tried to hold up the cadet
battalion. When the others assented to the plan and vowed their aid, he
nearly had a fit.
After that the Seven did almost nothing but glance at their watches
during the fast-waning Sunday afternoon. There was no parade to pass
the time. It seemed an age between the sunset gun and supper; and as
for tattoo, all the Parson’s much-vaunted geologic periods, times,
ages and eras, Silurian, Devonian, Carboniferous, Treassic, Jurassic
and Cretaceous, were not to be compared with it in length. When they
did finally get into bed they waited another age for taps to sound,
and another for the tac to inspect, and another till the sentry called
half-past ten, and another for eleven, and another for half-past that,
and then twelve, and they couldn’t stand it any longer.
No matter if it was a rather early hour for burglars to begin
operations, they could not wait any longer. Not a man of them had gone
to sleep (except Indian), such was their impatience. They got up, all
of them, and began to dress hastily, putting on some old clothes a
drum orderly had smuggled in. And a few minutes later that momentous
expedition crossed the sentry post unseen and sat down in old Fort
Clinton.
Nobody means to say for a moment that there was one of them who was
not badly scared just then. None of them was used to playing burglar
and they could not but see that it was a very serious and dangerous
business at best. Old hands at it often get into serious scrapes, so
what shall we say of greenhorns? The only one of them who had ever
“done a job” was Texas, who had once gotten Mark out of a bad scrape
that way.
They discussed the programme they were to follow. They knew where the
room was and that it could be reached by climbing the piazza pillars
to the roof above. Texas had climbed those pillars once before, and he
had a rope to help Mark and the rest up this time. After that they were
to enter that room, and Texas, the desperate cowboy, was to hold young
Chandler up till the deed was done. That was all, very simple. But, oh,
how they shivered!
They were ugly enough looking fellows externally. The clothes they wore
were old and tough-looking, turned up at the collars. Mark had in his
free hand a dark lantern, and Texas was clutching in his pocket a heavy
forty-four caliber which he meant to use. They had masks, every one of
them, or such masks as they could make out of their handkerchiefs. And
anybody who saw them stealing across the grass to the hotel grounds
would have been very much alarmed indeed.
Fortunately it was a cloudy night, black as pitch.
Even the white trousers of the lonely sentries who paced the walks
about the camp were scarcely distinguishable. The hotel was a black,
indistinct mass looming up in front of them. The chances of recognition
under such circumstances were few, the plebes realized with a sense of
relief.
Once hiding close under the shadow of the building they wasted
but little time in consultation. It was a creepy sort of business
altogether, but then they had started, and so there was nothing to
do but go right ahead. Most of them had recovered from their first
nervousness at this crisis anyway, of course excepting poor Indian, who
had seated himself flat on the ground in a state of collapse. Dewey was
behind him ready to grab him by the mouth in case one of Indian’s now
famous howls of terror should show any signs of breaking loose.
Texas and Mark meanwhile were proceeding calmly to business. The
pillars were very wide and high, and Mark foresaw trouble in getting
himself up them with his crippled arm. And there was still more trouble
in the case of the gentleman from Indianapolis, whose fat little legs
wouldn’t reach halfway around. The difficulty was fortunately removed
by the finding of a short ladder in back of the house. A very few
minutes later the seven anxious plebes were lying upon the piazza roof.
They wormed their way up close to the wall of the building where they
were safe from observation. And while Mark devoted himself to keeping
Indian quiet Texas set out to reconnoiter. Poor Indian didn’t want to
come, and worse yet, he didn’t want to stay. He felt safer in the hotel
as a burglar than all alone outside in the darkness, and he had an idea
that even Camp McPherson wasn’t safe without Mark. “Alas, poor Indian!”
Meanwhile as to Texas. Did you ever walk on a tin roof? If you have you
can imagine what a soul-stirring, ear-splitting operation it is, at
midnight, especially when you are in burglar’s costume, with a revolver
in one hand and a dark lantern in the other. Every single individual
bit of tin on the flooring seemed to have a new and original kind of
sound to make, and the six watchers quailed at every one of them.
Texas was hunting for the window that led into the hall of the
building. The room they meant to enter was unfortunately on the other
side. They had to force the window, creep down the hall and get into
that room. If they could simply have entered it from a window, they
might have gotten out of this foolish scrape a good deal more simply
than they did.
Texas managed to locate the window without much trouble, and
fortunately he found it open. He beckoned the others silently, and they
crept one by one down to the place, Indian making twice as much noise
as any one because he weighed more. At any rate they climbed through
the window and into the lonely hall of the hotel, where they stood and
listened anxiously. They had not been very quiet, but they did not
believe they had awakened any one; and after this they could be quieter.
They would have been very much scared and terrified plebes, more so,
all of them, than was Master Smith now, if they could have known the
true state of affairs. For they had awakened some one. And though
they had not the least suspicion of it, a pair of sharp eyes had been
watching their every move.
They were very beautiful eyes, too. They belonged to a young girl, a
girl with lovely features and bright golden hair. She was sleeping in
one of the rooms on the second floor that fronted on the piazza, and
the sound that awakened her had been the gentle tap upon the roof when
the ladder had been raised. She sat up in bed, and a moment later arose
and crept tremblingly to the window. Peering out into the darkness she
saw the top of the ladder, and a moment later saw a masked face appear
above it, and a masked figure climb up and creep into the shadow of the
building. Another followed it instantly, and another; and then without
a sound the girl dodged down and stole across the floor of the room.
She crept silently to a trunk that was in one corner; she raised the
lid and fumbled about anxiously in the darkness for something. It felt
cold, like polished steel, when she found what she wanted. She picked
it up and slipped a wrapper over her shoulders, then softly opened the
door of her room to peer out into the hall.
Meanwhile as to the Seven whom we left standing inside of the window
down near the other end. They were, as has been said, entirely
unconscious of what has just been mentioned. Texas had crept forward
and extinguished the light that burned in the hall, and they were now
standing in total darkness but for the single ray of the lantern. They
held a whispered conversation as to what they should do next.
Parson Stanard volunteered to pick the lock of Chandler’s door; he
wasn’t a burglar by profession, by Zeus, said he, but he believed
in a gentleman of culture knowing something about all the arts and
professions. (This was whispered in all seriousness.) And so the
Parson crept up to the door, the lantern in his hand. He knelt down
before the lock and fell to examining it cautiously, finally thrusting
in a bent piece of wire and getting to work. He said he could get that
door open in two minutes.
Meanwhile the others were huddled together waiting anxiously. Indian
was leaning against the wall, making it shake with his nervous
trembling, and Texas was peering out of the window to make sure
that there was no sign of danger there. And then suddenly came the
thunderclap.
Nothing could be imagined more terrifying to the amateur burglars than
what actually happened in the next half minute. There came first the
sound of a creaking door, a sound that made them start back. And an
instant later a figure sprang out into the hallway, a figure that they
could plainly see in the darkness, for it was white as snow. The figure
raised one arm and called in a voice that was clear and unfaltering:
“What are you doing there?”
The plebes stood aghast, trembling. They knew the voice, and that but
increased their horror. For it was Grace Fuller, their dearest friend!
They all recognized her but one, and that was Texas; Texas had been
leaning out of the window and the voice was not so distinct to him. He
wheeled about with the swiftness of a panther, giving vent to a cry of
anger as he did so. He flung his hand around to his pocket and whipped
out his revolver. Before the others could make a move to stop him he
swung it up to his shoulder.
And an instant later there came a blinding flash of light and a loud
report that awoke the echoes of the silent building.