BACK AGAIN.
The sergeant had gotten over his anger, but he meant to be consistent,
all the same. If this was another one of those “bloated aristocrats”
he’d better look out for trouble, that was all.
The carriage drew up in the usual fashion, the sergeant seized his
club. There was a flash of white shirt front and the sergeant made a
leap for the door. The next moment he staggered back as if he had been
shot. It was Millionaire No. 1, hatless and breathless, almost coatless
and senseless, dragging in his wake--the captain of the precinct!
The sergeant saluted and gasped.
“I told you,” cried Millionaire No. 1.
“You’ve a prisoner here named Smith?” cried the captain.
“Er--yes,” stammered the sergeant.
“Send him here, quick!”
The poor officer was too much amazed and thunder-struck to be chagrined
at his defeat. He made a rush for the cell; shouted to the prisoners;
and half a minute later Chauncey, green August overcoat and all, was in
his uncle’s arms.
The sergeant turned to the smiling police captain.
“Allow me to present----”
He was interrupted by a yell; Chauncey had glanced up at the clock.
“Good heavens!” he cried. “We’ve ten minutes to make the train!”
Chauncey, aristocratic and Chesterfieldian Chauncey, alas, I blush to
record it, had forgotten in one instant that there was such a thing on
earth as a rule of etiquette. He forgot that there was such a person on
earth as a police captain. He never even looked at him. His two friends
at his side, he made one wild dash for the door.
He was not destined to get out of it, however. During the excitement no
one had noticed the approach of another white shirt front and in rushed
Millionaire No. 2.
No. 2 had the chief of police!
“You’ve a prisoner here named Smith----” cried the latter excitedly.
“Release----”
Just then the millionaire caught sight of Chauncey, and again there
were handshakes and apologies, another scurrying toward the door.
“I can’t stop, I tell you!” roared Chauncey. “I’ll miss the
train--quick--bah Jove, ye know, I’ll be ruined--I----”
There was another clatter of wheels at the door.
“Good gracious!” gasped the unfortunate cadet. “It’s somebody else! Bah
Jove! Deuce take the luck!”
Nothing has been said of the unfortunate sergeant during this. He was
leaning against his desk in a state of collapse. Millionaire No. 3 had
entered the room.
Millionaire No. 3 had a police commissioner!
“You’ve a prisoner here named Smith,” cried he. “Release----”
This time the plebes were desperate. They could stand it no longer.
Chauncey had forced his way to the door and made a dash for one of the
carriages.
“Drive----” he began, and then he stopped long enough to see
another carriage rush up--Millionaire No. 4. Millionaire No. 4 had
somebody--Chauncey didn’t know who. But the agonized sergeant did.
It was no less a personage than his honor, the mayor.
(His honor the mayor was mad, too, and you may bet the sergeant caught
it.)
With that our three friends had nothing to do. They had piled into the
carriage, Millionaire No. 1 with them, and likewise the captain, to
make sure that they weren’t arrested for fast driving. And away they
rattled down the street.
“Christopher Street--seven minutes!” roared Chauncey. “For your
life--bah Jove!”
After which there was fun to spare. New York streets aren’t made for
race tracks, and the way that carriage swayed and bumped was a caution.
The driver had taken them at their word and was going for dear life.
Three times the captain had to lean out of the window to quell some
policeman who was shouting at them to slow up.
As for the plebes, there was nothing for them to do but sit still and
wait in trembling anxiousness. Chauncey’s uncle had a watch in his hand
with the aid of which he told off the streets and the seconds.
“If we make it,” said he, “we won’t have ten seconds to spare. Faster,
there, faster!”
The poor cadets nearly had heart failure at that.
“If we miss it,” groaned Mark, “we are gone forever. The whole
story’ll come out and we’ll be expelled sure as we’re alive. What time
did you say it was?”
“Drive, there, drive!” roared Chauncey.
All things come to an end. Those that haven’t will some day. It seemed
an age to the suffering plebes, but that drive was over at last. And
the end of it was so terrible that they would have preferred the
suspense.
The carriage was yanked up and brought to stop in front of the ferry
gates just as the boat was gliding from her slip.
The look that was upon the faces of the three would have moved a Sphinx
to tears. They sank back in the carriage and never said one word. It
was all over. West Point was gone. To the three that meant that life
was no longer worth the living.
It seemed almost too terrible to be true. Mark Mallory pinched himself
to make sure he was alive; that all this dream had really happened,
that he really was beyond hope.
And then suddenly the police captain gave vent to a startled
exclamation and whacked his knee.
“Desbrosses Street!” he roared to the startled driver, and an instant
later the carriage was speeding away down along the wharves.
Where they were going, or why, none of them had the least idea, except
the captain; and he said nothing. The trip was a short one, only three
or four blocks. At the end of it he sprang from the carriage.
“Quick, quick!” he cried, and made a dash for one of the piers.
The rest did not need to be urged to follow. They beat the captain
there in their haste. For they saw then where he was going; a police
tug was lying at the wharf.
“Quick!” roared the captain, leaping aboard. “Follow that ferry!”
And half a minute later the engines of the tug were throbbing and the
tug was sweeping out into the river.
A few minutes after that there were three tough-looking tramps
contentedly dozing in a Pullman car of the West Shore express.
The same three sneaked into Camp McPherson at the very moment when
Cadet Corporal Vance (of the Bull Harris gang) was superintending the
loading of the réveille gun.