A CHALLENGE.
“Hey, there, wake up!”
“Um--um. Don’t bother me.”
“Wow! Git up, man----”
“Say, Texas, didn’t I tell you I wanted to sleep this hour? Haven’t I
been awake now two nights in succession helping you haze the yearlings?
Now I want to take a nap; so let me alone.”
“Wake up!” repeated Texas. “Ain’t you got sense enough, Mark Mallory,
to know I’m not pesterin’ you fo’ nothin’? Git yo’ eyes open thar and
listen. I got something to tell you. I know you’re sleepy--thar ain’t
no need tellin’ me that aire ag’in. I know you were up night afore last
hazin’ them ole yearlin’s, an’ last night, too, ’cause they tied us up
an’ fired us into that freight train goin’ to New York. But this hyar’s
more ’portant than sleepin’!”
“What is it?” demanded Mark.
“There’s a committee from the first class wants to see you.”
“What!”
“Thar, naow! I knew you’d get yo’ eyes open,” laughed the other
triumphantly.
“What do they want?” inquired Mark.
“You know what they want well as I do,” responded Texas. “They want
you. They want you ’cause you’re the most B. J. plebe ever came to West
Point, ’cause you dared to defy ’em, to refuse to be hazed, to lick ’em
when they tried it, an’ to all ’round raise the biggest rumpus this
hyar ole place ever see. That’s what!”
“Do you mean,” laughed Mark, “that they want me to fight some more?”
“Course they do!” roared Texas. “You old idiot, you! Why ain’t yo’ up
hustlin’ fo’ the chance? You don’t appreciate yo’ opportunity, sah. Ef
I had the chance to wallop them ole cadets like you’ve got--wow! You
know what I’d do?”
“I’m not a fire-eating, wild and woolly cowboy hunting for fight,”
responded Mark.
“That’s all right,” grinned the other. “You’ll do it when the time
comes. I never see you run yit when you ought to be fightin’, an’
neither did them ole cadets. An’ say, Mark! There’s fun ahead! Whoop!
You remember ever since you had the nerve to go to the hop, somethin’
no plebe ever dared do afore, them ole first class fellers vowed they’d
make you sorry. You made ’em madder since by lickin’ one of ’em when
they dared you to. An’ now they’re comin’ ’roun’ to git square.”
“Do you mean they’re going to make me fight every man in the class, as
they said?” inquired Mark.
“That’s jes’ what I do!” cried Texas, gleefully. “Jes’ exactly! Come
out hyer an’ see ’em yo’self.”
Mark had been making his toilet before the little looking-glass that
hung on the tent pole; he turned then and accompanied his friend out of
camp and over to Trophy Point, where sat in all stateliness and dignity
three solemn-looking seniors, a committee from the first class to Mark
Mallory, the desperate and defiant and as yet untamed “B. J.” plebe.
But he wasn’t going to remain untamed very long if that committee had
anything to do with it.
They arose at his approach.
“Mr. Mallory?” said the spokesman.
Mr. Mallory bowed.
“You come from the first class, I believe,” he said. “Let us proceed
right to business.”
The committee, through its spokesman, cleared its throat with a solemn
“Ahem!”
“Mr. Mallory,” said he, “I presume you have not forgotten that a short
while ago you ventured to defy our class openly. The class has not
forgotten it, for such conduct in a plebe cannot be tolerated here.
Your conduct ever since you came has been unbearably defiant; you have
set at naught every cadet law of the academy. And therefore, as the
class warned you beforehand, you must expect trouble.”
Mr. Mallory bowed; he’d had a good deal of it already, he thought to
himself.
“The class has been waiting,” continued the other, “for you to recover
from the effects of a dislocated shoulder, an injury due to another
unpleasant--ahem--accident----”
“Or, to be more specific,” inserted Mark, very mildly, “due to the fact
that I was--er--attacked by some--ahem--fifty members of the first
class in a body.”
“Not quite so many,” said the chairman, flushing. “The incident is
regretted by the class.”
“By me also,” said Mark, rubbing his shoulder suggestively.
“It appears,” the other continued hurriedly, “that you are now
recovered. Therefore, to be brief, the class has sent us to inquire as
to your wishes concerning the duty you undertook when you ventured to
defy them. You know what I mean. You stand pledged, and you will be
compelled to defend yourself before every member of our class in turn
until you agree to apologize and become a plebe once more.”
The spokesman stopped and Mark answered without hesitation, looking him
squarely in the eye.
“Tell the class,” said he, “that I am ready to meet any one it may
select, to-day if necessary, and in any place they choose. Tell them
also if they could manage to select one of those who helped to injure
my shoulder I should consider it a favor. Tell them that I have nothing
to apologize for. Tell them that I renew my defiance, with all possible
courtesy, of course; tell them I once more refuse to be hazed, and
shall refuse even when I am beaten; and----”
Here the excitable ex-cowboy, who had been listening with most evident
delight, sprang forward with a whoop.
“An’ tell ’em,” he roared, “doggone their boots, ef they lick Mark fair
or foul they ain’t hardly begun what they’ll have to do! Tell ’em,
sah, there’s a gennelman, what never yit run from man or devil, named
Jeremiah Powers, sah, son o’ the Honorable Scrap Powers, o’ Hurricane
County, Texas. Tell ’em he’s jes’ roaring for a scrap, an’ that he’ll
start in whar Mallory quits! An’ tell ’em----”
But the committee had turned away and started across the parade ground
by that time. The committee didn’t consider it necessary to listen to
Mr. Jeremiah Powers.
Mark had listened however; and as he took Texas by the hand the
excitable Texas saw in his eyes that he appreciated the offer.
“And now,” said Mark at last, “if I am to do some fighting I’d best
go back and finish that nap. I’ll need to make up for the sleep I’ve
missed.”
An important event had happened to that company that day, one that had
made a great change in their lives. A month and a half of drill and
discipline, the most rigorous possible, had been judged to have had its
effect. And that day the plebes were honored by being put in the cadet
battalion.
Previously they had “herded” alone, a separate roll call, separate
drills, separate seats in mess hall. But now all was changed. The plebe
company was broken up, the members each going to their own company in
the battalion, to hear their names called with the others at roll call,
to march down to meals and sit with them, too. And that afternoon for
the first time the plebes were to march on parade, Mark and Texas under
the command of Fischer, cadet-captain of Company A.
Concerning Fischer, the high and mighty first classman, it may be
well to say a word, for he will figure prominently in this story.
Fischer was a member of the first class, and its idol. Tall, handsome
and athletic, he made an ideal captain; even the plebes thought that,
and strange to say, our B. J. plebes most of all. For Fischer was a
fair-minded, gentlemanly fellow and more than once he had interfered to
see that Mallory got fair play with his enemies.
He came in that same afternoon to have a word with Mark as to the
latest excitement; it was an unusual thing indeed for a cadet-captain
even to speak to a plebe, but Fischer chose to be different. And,
moreover, Mallory had earned for himself many privileges most plebes
had never dreamed of.
“I got a letter from your friend, Wicks Merritt,” said Fischer. “His
furlough is coming to an end. Poor Wicks is very much agitated for
fear you’ll be hazed out of West Point before he gets here. But I told
him there wasn’t much danger. I think you’ll stick.”
“I shall try,” laughed Mark, while Texas sat by in awe and gazed at the
young officer’s chevrons and sash. “I shall try. Have you heard of my
engagement--the latest?”
“Yes,” answered the other, “I have. That’s what I came in for. I don’t
envy you.”
“I don’t myself,” said the plebe thoughtfully. “I don’t like to fight.
I’d a thousand times rather not, and I always say ‘no’ when I can. But
I’ve vowed I wouldn’t stand the kind of hazing I got, and I don’t mean
to so long as I can see.”
“I wish you luck,” said Fischer. “I’ve told the men in my own class
that, for I haven’t forgotten, as they seem to, the time you rescued
that girl in the river.”
“Do you know who’ll be the first man I meet?” inquired the other,
changing the subject.
“I do not; the class is busily holding a conclave now to decide who’s
the best. They’ll send their prize bantam the first time, though I
doubt if we’ve a man much better than Billy Williams, the yearling you
whipped. Still you’ve got to be at your best, I want to tell you, and
I want you to understand that. When a man’s been three years here at
West Point, as we have, he’s in just about as perfect trim as he ever
will be in his life.”
“So am I,” responded Mark.
“You are not,” said Fischer, sharply. “That’s just the trouble. I
wouldn’t be warning you if you were. I’ve heard of the monkey shines
you’ve been kicking up; Bull Harris, that good-for-nothing yearling,
was blowing ’round that he’d put you on a train for New York. The whole
thing is you’ve been losing sleep.”
Mallory tried to pass the matter over lightly, but Fischer was bound to
say what he’d come for.
“I suppose it’s none of my business,” he continued, “but I’ve tried to
see you get fair play. And I want to say this: You rush in to fight
those fellows to-day, as they’ll try to make you, and you’ll regret
it. That’s all. As the challenged party the time is yours to name. If
you refuse for a week at least, I’ll back you up and see that it’s all
right, and if you don’t you’ll wish you had.”
Having delivered himself of which sage counsel the dignified captain
arose to go. Perhaps his conscience troubled him a little anyhow that
he’d stayed so long in a plebe tent.
He thought of that as he came out and espied three members of his own
class coming down the street and looking at him. They hailed him as he
passed.
“Hey, Fischer!”
They were three who had been the “committee”; they were a committee
still, but for a different purpose. Their purpose was to see Fischer,
and when he came toward them, they led him off to one side. The message
that committee had to give was brief, but it nearly took Fischer off
his feet.
“Fischer,” said one, “the fellows have decided about that Mallory
business.”
“Yes,” said Fischer. “What?”
“They’ve decided that you’ll be the man to meet him first.”
And the committee wondered what was the matter with Fischer.