MARK, THE COWARD.
The taunting of which Mark spoke with such grim and quiet determination
was soon to begin; in fact, he was not destined to lie down for that
night of rest without a taste of it. He had barely removed the weight
of his uniform jacket, with its collar fastened inside, before he heard
a sound of voices near his tent.
He recognized them instantly; it was the “committee,” and a moment
later, in response to his invitation, the three first classmen entered,
bowing most courteously as usual.
“Mr. Mallory,” said the spokesman, “I have come, if you will pardon my
disturbing you, to deliver to you the decision of our class.”
“Yes,” said Mark, simply. “Well?”
It was evident that Fischer had not seen them, and that they suspected
nothing. A storm was brewing. Mark gritted his teeth.
“It might just as well come now as any time,” he thought. “Steady!”
“The class will send a man to meet you this evening in Fort Clinton,”
said the cadet.
“Ah,” responded Mark. “Thank you. And who is the man?”
“He is the captain of your company, Mr. Fischer. And that is about all,
I believe.”
“It is not all,” observed Mark, very quietly; and then, as the other
turned in surprise, he clinched his fists. “I refuse to fight Mr.
Fischer,” he said.
“Refuse to fight him?”
The three gasped it all at once, in a tone of amazement that cannot be
shown on paper.
“And pray,” added the spokesman, “why do you refuse to fight Mr.
Fischer?”
“My reasons,” said Mark, “are my own. I never try to justify my conduct
to others. I simply refuse to fight Mr. Fischer. I’ll fight any other
man you send.”
“You’ll fight no one else!” snapped the cadet. “Mr. Fischer is the
choice of the class. If you refuse to meet him, and give no reason, it
can only be because----”
“Because you know he’s too good a man for you!” put in one of the
others. “Because you’re afraid of him!”
Mark never winced at that; he gave the man a look straight in the eye.
“There are some people,” he said, “I am not afraid of. I am not afraid
of you.”
The cadet’s face turned scarlet, and he clinched his fists angrily.
“You shall pay for that,” he cried. “You----”
But the spokesman of the committee seized him and forced him back.
“Shut up, old man,” he exclaimed. “Don’t you see what he’s trying to
do. He’s afraid of Fischer, and he’s trying to force a fight with some
one else. He’s a dirty coward, so let him alone.”
Mark heard that plainly, but he never moved a muscle. It was too much
for our tinder-box Texan, however; Texas had been perspiring like a
man in a torture chamber during this ordeal, and just then he leaped
forward with a yell.
“You ole white-faced coyote, you, doggone your boots, I’ll----”
“Texas!” said Mark, in his quiet way.
And Texas shut up like an angry oyster and went back into the corner.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Mark, “I think our interview is at an end. You
understand my point. And that is all.”
“And as for you,” retorted the other. “Do you understand your position?
You will be branded by the cadets as a coward. You will fight Fischer
as sure as the class can make you. And you will fight no one else,
either, until you fight him.”
Mark bowed.
“And you’ll allow me to express my opinion of you right here,” snapped
the insulted one, who was going to fight a moment ago. “You needn’t
get angry about it, either, because you’ve no redress till you fight
Fischer. You’re a coward, sir! Your whole conduct since you came here
has been one vulgar attempt to put up a bluff with nothing to back it.
And you lack the first instincts of a gentleman, most of all, sir,
because you’ll swallow such insults from me instead of fighting, and
taking the licking you’ve earned. You can’t fight me till you’ve fought
Fischer.”
“Can’t, hey! Say, d’ you think I’m a-goin’ to stan’ sich----”
“Texas!”
And once more there was quiet, at the end of which the indignant
committee faced about without a word and marched out in disgust.
“He’s not worth fooling with,” said the spokesman, audibly. “He’s a
coward.”
After which Mark turned to Texas and smiled.
“That was the first dose, old man,” said he. “How did you like it?”
From Texas’ face he liked it about as well as a mouthful of quinine,
and if Texas hadn’t been very, very sleepy he would probably have lain
awake all night growling like an irate volcano, and wondering how Mark
could snore away so happily while such things were happening.
Though Mark slept, there were no end of others who didn’t sleep on
account of him. The committee, just as soon as they had gotten outside,
had rushed off to tell the story of “Mallory’s flunk,” and pretty soon
there were groups of first classmen and yearlings standing about the
camp indignantly discussing the state of affairs. There were various
opinions and theories, but only one conclusion:
That plebe Mallory’s a coward!
Fischer was not there to gainsay it, he being absent on duty, and so
the cadets had no one to shed any light on the matter, which they
continued to rave about right up to the time for tattoo. The first
class was so worked up over it that there was an impromptu meeting
gathered to discuss it just outside of the camp.
The angry mob was reduced to an orderly meeting a little later by the
president of the class, who appeared on the scene and called the cadets
to order to discuss ways and means of “swamping Mallory.” For every
one agreed that something ought to be done that very night. As has
been stated, they never dispersed until the very moment of tattoo; by
that time they had their campaign mapped out. It was a very unpleasant
programme for poor Mark.
He had to dress and turn out, of course, at tattoo to answer to his
name before he retired for the night. Not a word was said to him then;
yet he could see by the angry looks and frowns he met with that the
story of his conduct was abroad. But Mark had not the least idea of
what was coming, and he went back to his tent and fell asleep again in
no time.
It is an old, old story, an old, old incident. To tell it again would
weary the reader. That night a dozen men, chosen by the class for their
powerful build, instead of going to sleep when taps sounded, lay awake
and waited till the camp got quiet. They waited till the tac had gone
the rounds with his lantern, and then to his tent for the night. They
waited till the sentry’s call had been heard for the fourth time since
taps.
“Twelve o’clock and all’s we-ell!”
They they got up and dressed once more, and stole silently out into the
darkness of the night. Outside, in the company street, they met and had
a whispered consultation, then surrounded a certain “plebe hotel” and
finally stole away in triumph, bearing four helpless plebes along with
them. A while later they had passed the sentry and had their victims
bound and gagged, lying in a lonely corner of old Fort Clinton.
The cadets thought four would be enough that night. They meant to
give those plebes the worst licking they had ever had in their lives.
That would be a pretty severe one, especially for Mallory, who had
been roughly handled before. But the first classmen had agreed among
themselves that there was no call for mercy here.
The reader may perhaps wish to be spared the details of the
preparation. Suffice it to say that those heavily bound unfortunates
were stretched out upon the ground, that their backs were bared, and
then that the four brawniest of the desperate cadets took four pieces
of rope in their hands and stepped forward. It was estimated that when
they stepped back those four plebes would be in a more docile mood than
previously.
A dead silence had fallen upon the group; it had increased in numbers
every moment, for other cadets had stolen out to see what was being
done. And just then every one of them was leaning forward anxiously,
staring at Mallory, for nobody cared anything much about the other
three, whether they were attended to or not. It was Mallory, the
coward, against whom all the hatred was; Mallory, whom the biggest
man had been deputed to attend to. All the other “executioners” were
waiting, leaning forward anxiously to see how Mallory took it.
The cadet who held the rope seized it in a firm grip, and swung it
about his head. A moment later it came down through the air with a
whirr. It struck the white flesh of the helpless plebe with a thud that
made the crowd shudder. A broad red streak seemed to leap into view,
and the victim quivered all over. The cadet raised the lash once more
and once more brought it down; and again an instant later.
The end of it came soon, fortunately; and it came without waiting the
wish of the “hazers.”
Once before that game had been tried on Mallory, then by the infuriated
yearlings. An alarm from camp had interrupted it at an earlier stage.
And that happened again. This time there broke upon the stillness of
the midnight air the sharp report of a gun. It came from nearby, too,
and it brought no end of confusion with it, confusion that will be told
of later.
As to the hazers, they glanced at each other in consternation. That gun
would awaken the camp! And they would be discovered! There was not a
second to lose!
In a trice the four plebes were cut loose, left to get back to their
tent as best they could; and a few moments later a mob of hurrying
figures dashed past the sentry and into Camp McPherson, which they
found in an uproar. The hazing of Mallory was over for that night
beyond a doubt.