CHAUNCEY HAS AN IDEA.
Three more utterly discouraged and disgusted plebes than our friends
would be hard to manufacture. There wasn’t a ray of hope, any more
than a ray of light to illumine that dark cell. There was only one
possibility to be considered, apparently--they would be hauled up in
the police court the next morning and required to give an account of
themselves. If they gave it, said they were cadets, it would be good-by
West Point; for they had broken a dozen rules. If on the other hand
they chose to remain Peter Smith, John Jones and Timothy O’Flaherty,
young toughs, it would be something like “One thousand dollars’ bail,”
or else “remanded without bail for trial”--and no West Point all the
same!
The three had characteristic methods of showing their disgust. Texas
had gone to sleep in a corner, seeing no use in worrying. Mark was
sitting moodily on the floor, trying his best to think of something to
do. Chauncey was prancing up and down the cell about as indignant as
ever was a “haughty aristocrat,” vowing vengeance against everybody
and everything in a blue uniform as sure as his name was Chaun--er,
Peter Smith.
Mad and excited as Chauncey was, it was from him that the first gleam
of hope came. And when Chauncey hit upon his idea he fairly kicked
himself for his stupidity in not hitting on it before. A moment later
his friends, and in fact the whole station house, were startled by his
wild yells for “somebody” to come there.
An officer came in a hurry thinking of murder or what not.
“What do you want?” he cried.
“Bah Jove!” remarked our young friend, eying him with haughty scorn
that made a hilarious contrast with his outlandish green August
overcoat. “Bah Jove, don’t be so peremptory, so rude, ye know!”
“W--why!” gasped the amazed policeman.
“I want to know, don’t ye know,” said Chauncey, “if I can send a
telegram, bah Jove?”
“Yes,” growled the other. “That is, if you’ve got any money.”
Chauncey pulled out his “roll,” which had been missed when they
searched him, and tossed a five-dollar bill carelessly to the man.
“Take that,” said he. “Bah Jove, I don’t want it, ye know. Come now,
write what I tell you.”
The man took the bill in a hurry and drew out a pencil and notebook,
while Chauncey’s two fellow-prisoners stared anxiously. Chauncey
dictated with studied scorn and indifference.
“Am--arrested,” said he, “for--burglary--ye--know.”
The policeman wrote the “ye know,” obediently, though he gasped in
amazement and muttered “lunatic.”
“Under--name--of--Peter--Smith-- ---- Street--station. Come--instantly
Chauncey.”
“Who shall I send it to?” inquired the “stenographer.”
“Let me see,” Chauncey mused. “Bah Jove, not to fawther, ye know.
They’d see the name, ruin the family reputation. A deuced mess! Oh yes,
bah Jove, I’ll have all me uncles, ye know! Ready there? First, Mr.
Perry Bellwood, ---- Fifth Avenue----”
“What!” gasped the officer.
“Write what I say,” commanded Chauncey, sternly; “and no comments!
Second, Mr. W. K. Vanderpool, ---- Fifth Avenue. Third--bah Jove--Mr.
W. C. Stickhey, ---- Fifth Avenue. Fourth----”
“How many do you want?” expostulated the other.
“Silence!” roared the “dude.” “Do as I say! I take no chances. Fourth,
Mr. Bradley-Marvin, ---- Fifth Avenue. And that’ll do, I guess, ye
know. Run for your life, then, deuce take it, and I’ll give you another
five if they get here in a hawf hour, bah Jove.”
There was probably no more amazed policeman on the metropolitan force
than that one. But he hustled according to orders none the less.
Certainly there was no more satisfied plebe in the whole academy class
than Mr. Chauncey Van Rensselaer Mount-Bonsall of New York. “It’s all
right now, bah Jove,” said he. “They’ll be here soon.”
And with those words of comfort Chauncey subsided and was asleep from
sheer exhaustion two minutes later. Though he slept, forgetful of the
whole affair, there were a few others who did not sleep, messenger boys
and millionaires especially.
The sergeant at the desk had had no one but one “drunk” to register
during the next half hour, and so he was pretty nearly asleep himself.
The doorman was slumbering peacefully in his chair, and two or three
roundsmen and officers were sitting together in one corner whispering.
That was the state of affairs in the police station when something
happened all of a sudden that made everybody leap up with interest.
A carriage came slamming up the street at race-horse speed. Any one who
has lain awake at night, or rather in the early hours of morning, when
the city is as silent as a graveyard, has noticed the clatter made by
a single wagon. An approaching tornado or earthquake could not have
made much more of a rumpus than this one. The sergeant sat up in alarm
and the doorman flung upon the door and rushed out to see what was the
matter.
They were soon to learn--the driver yanked up his galloping horses
directly in front of the building. At the same instant the coach door
was flung open with a bang. It was an elderly gentleman who hopped out,
and he made a dash for the entrance, nearly bowling the doorman over in
his haste.
Now it is not often that a “swell bloke” like that visits a station
house at such hours. The sergeant gazed at him in alarm, expecting a
burglary, a murder, or perhaps even a dynamite plot.
“What’s the matter?” he cried.
The man dashed up to the desk, breathless from his unusual exertion.
“My boy!” he cried. “Where is he?”
“Your boy?” echoed the sergeant. “Where is he? What on earth?”
The sergeant thought he had a lunatic then.
“My boy!” reiterated the man excitedly. “Chauncey! He’s a prisoner
here!”
The officer shook his head with a puzzled look.
“I’ve got nobody named Chauncey,” said he. “You’ve come to the wrong
place.”
The man happened to think of the telegram; he glanced at it.
“Oh, yes,” he cried, suddenly. “I forgot. Peter Smith is the name he
gave. You’ve a Peter Smith here!”
The sergeant gazed at the excited man in indescribable amazement.
“Peter Smith!” he stammered. “Why, yes. But he’s a tramp. He’s arrested
for burglary, and----”
The strange gentleman was evidently angry at having been stirred out of
bed so early in the morning. Moreover he was insulted at the outrageous
idea of his nephew’s being in a common prison house as a burglar.
Altogether he was mad through, and didn’t take the trouble to be
cautious.
“Let him out this instant, I say,” he demanded, indignantly. “How dare
you----”
Now the sergeant was a pompous individual and he had no idea of being
“bossed” like that by any one, whoever he might be, least of all in
the presence of his men. Moreover, he was an Irishman, and this angry
individual’s superior way got him wild.
“Who are you?” he demanded, with more conciseness than courtesy.
“I’m Perry Bellwood,” said the other with just as much asperity. “And
what is more----”
“Who in thunder is Perry Bellwood?” roared the sergeant.
That took all the wind out of the elderly and aristocratic gentleman’s
sails.
“You don’t know Perry Bellwood?” he gasped. “Perry Bellwood, the
banker!”
“Never saw him,” retorted the sergeant.
“And you won’t release my nephew?”
“No, sir. I won’t release your nephew!” roared the officer, hammering
on his desk for emphasis. “I wouldn’t release him for you or any other
banker in New York, or the whole crowd of them together. Do you hear
that? I’d like to know what you think a police sergeant is, anyhow. A
nice state of affairs it would be if I had to set loose every burglar
and murderer in prison because of some man who thinks he owns the earth
because he is a banker.”
The sergeant was red in the face from anger as he finished this pointed
declaration. Mr. Bellwood was pacing up and down the room furiously. He
turned upon the man suddenly when he finished.
“I’ll bet you all I own,” he said, “that you’ll do as I say, and in an
hour, too.”
“And I’ll bet you my job I don’t,” snapped the sergeant. “I’ll see
who’s running this place----”
By that time the outraged banker had made a dash for his carriage. The
outraged sergeant planked himself down on his chair and gazed about him
indignantly.
“The very idea!” vowed he. “The very idea! That fellow talked to me as
if he were the mayor. I’d a good mind to lock him up. I wouldn’t let
those burglars loose now for all Fifth Avenue.”
He was given a chance to prove that last assertion of his, a good deal
more of a chance than he expected when he made it. He had hardly gotten
the words out of his mouth, and the rattle of the carriage had not yet
died away before another one dashed up to the door.
The sergeant thought it was the same fellow back, and he got up
angrily. The door was flung open and in dashed another man, even more
aristocratic in bearing than the other.
“My name is Mr. Stickhey,” said he, gravely, “and I’ve come----”
“I suppose you want to raise a rumpus about that confounded Chauncey,
too!” cried the sergeant, getting red to the ends of his whiskers.
“W-why! What’s this?” gasped the astonished millionaire.
“And I suppose you want me to let him go, don’t you?”
“W-why!” gasped the astonished millionaire again. “What----”
“Well, if you do you might as well understand that I don’t mean to
do it. And you needn’t be wasting any breath about it either. I’ve
stood about all of this I mean to stand from anybody. I don’t set my
prisoners loose for the devil himself, and I won’t for you. Now then!”
It would be difficult to describe the look of amazement that was on
the dignified Mr. Stickhey’s face. He stared, and then he started again.
“Why, officer!” said he. “I’m sure----”
“So’m I!” vowed the sergeant. “Dead sure! And all your talk won’t
change the fact, either, that Peter Smith, or Chauncey, or whoever he
is, stays where he is till morning. And the sooner you realize it the
better.”
The millionaire stared yet half a minute more, and then he whirled
about on his heel and strode out, without another word.
“I’ll see about this,” said he.
The sergeant did not return to his seat; he was too mad. He pranced up
and down the room like a wild man, vowing vengeance on all the dudes
and bankers in existence.
“I wonder if any more of them are coming,” exclaimed he. “By jingo, I
just wish they would. I’m just in the humor--gee whiz!”
It was another! Yet older and more sedate than either of the others he
marched in and gazed haughtily about him.
“I’ve a nephew----” he began; and there he stopped.
“Oh!” said the sergeant. “You have! Get out!”
“Why--er----”
“Get out!”
“What in----”
“Do you hear me? Get out of here, I say! Not a word, or I’ll have
you--ah! I wonder if there’ll be any more of ’em.”
This last was a chuckle of satisfaction as Millionaire No. 3 fled
precipitately. The sergeant rubbed his hands gleefully. This sport bade
fair to last all night, he realized to his great satisfaction as he
faced about and waited.
He was waiting for number four to show up. He was getting madder still
and this time he was fingering his club suggestively. At the very first
gleam of a white shirt front he drew it and made a dash for the door.
It was Mr. Vanderpool, number four.
“Get out!” said the irate sergeant, menacingly, and he swung up his
weapon. The gentleman thought he had met with a maniac; he gave one
glance and then made a dash for the carriage. The officer faced about,
replaced his club, and softly murmured “Next.”
But the “next” never came. The sergeant got weary of pacing about and
finally sat down again. Half an hour passed and he began to doze; the
fun for that night was over, thought he, and laughed when he thought
how mad be had been.
“I’d just like to see any Fifth Avenue dudes running this place,” he
muttered. “I never heard of such a piece of impertinence in my life!”
Through all this the plebes were peacefully sleeping. What poor
Chauncey would have done if he had seen his four uncles insulted by
that irate policeman is left to the imagination of the reader. It would
most infallibly have been the death of Chauncey, and so perhaps it is
just as well that he didn’t awaken.
The clock over the station house door was at three. It will be
remembered that the train left at three-thirty. The only train that
could possibly save those unfortunate plebes. Three-thirty was the time
the ferryboat left. But the station house was two miles and more from
the ferry-slip. Altogether things were getting very interesting. For
the sergeant dozed on, and the prisoners slept on and the clock went on
to three-fifteen. It was a wonder Mark Mallory didn’t have a nightmare.
It is of the nature of thunderbolts to strike swiftly. There is no
parleying, no stopping for introductions, no delays. Therefore there
will be none in describing what happened next.
The sergeant sat up with a start; so did the doorman, and so did
everybody else in the place. There was the rattle of another carriage!