BIRDS OF A FEATHER.
“Which one of these trunks do you belong to, Gordon?” inquired a young
second-lieutenant, whose duty it was to see that the students were
assigned to rooms as fast as they arrived.
“The one with the canvas cover is mine,” replied Don.
“Any preference among the boys?” asked the lieutenant. “You can’t have
Bert for a room-mate this term, you know. The second sergeant of his
company will be chummed on him.”
Don replied that he didn’t care who he had for a companion, so long as
he was a well-behaved boy; whereupon the lieutenant beckoned to a negro
porter whom he called “Rosebud,” and directed him to take Don’s trunk up
to No. 45, third floor.
“By the way, I suppose that that fellow who has just gone into the
superintendent’s room with Bert is a crony of yours?” continued the young
officer.
“He is from Mississippi,” said Don. He did not wish to publish the fact
that Lester Brigham was no friend of his, for that would prejudice the
students against him at once. Lester was likely to have a hard time of it
at the best, and Don did not want to say or do anything that would make
it harder for him.
“All right,” said the officer. “I will take pains to see that he is
chummed on some good fellow.”
“You needn’t put yourself to any trouble for him on my account,” said Don
in a low tone, at the same time turning his back upon a sprucely-dressed
but rather brazen-faced boy, who persisted in crowding up close to him
and Egan, as if he meant to hear every word that passed between them. “He
is nothing to me, and I wish he was back where he came from. He’ll wish
so too, before he has been here many days. I said everything I could to
induce his father to keep him at home, but he——”
“Let’s take a walk as far as the gate,” said Egan, seizing Don by the arm
and nodding to Hopkins and Curtis. “You stay here, Enoch,” he added,
turning to the sprucely-dressed boy.
“What’s the reason I can’t go too?” demanded the latter.
“Because we don’t want you,” replied Egan, bluntly. “I told you before
we left home, that you needn’t expect to hang on to my coat-tails. Make
friends with the members of your own company, for they are the only
associates you will have after school begins.”
“But they are all strangers to me, and you won’t introduce me,” said
Enoch.
“Then pitch in and get acquainted, as I did when I first came here. You
may be sure I’ll not introduce you,” said Egan, in a low voice, as he
and his three friends walked toward the gate. “An introduction is an
indorsement, and I don’t indorse any such fellows as you are.”
“What’s the matter with him?” asked Don, who had never seen Egan so
annoyed and provoked as he was at that moment.
“Everything,” replied the ex-sergeant. “He’s the meanest boy I ever met—I
except nobody—and if he doesn’t prove to be a second Clarence Duncan, I
shall miss my guess.”
“The boy who came here with me will make a good mate for him,” said Don.
“This fellow’s father has only recently moved into our neighborhood,”
continued Egan. “He went into ecstasies over my uniform the first time
he saw it, and wanted to know where I got it, and how much it cost, and
all that sort of thing. Of course I praised the school and everybody and
everything connected with it; but I wish now that I had kept still. The
next time that I met him he told me that when I returned to Bridgeport he
was going with me. I was in hopes he wouldn’t stick, but he did.”
“Mr. Brigham crowded Lester upon Bert and me in about the same way,” said
Don.
“Was that Lester Brigham?” exclaimed Curtis—“the boy who burned your old
shooting-box and kicked up that rumpus while we were at Rochdale? We
often heard you speak of him, but you know we never saw him.”
“He’s the very one,” replied Don.
“Then he will make a good mate for Enoch Williams,” said Egan. “Why, Don,
this fellow has been caught in the act of looting ducks on the bay.”
Egan’s tone and manner seemed to indicate that he looked upon this as one
of the worst offenses that could be committed, and both he and Hopkins
were surprised because Don did not grow angry over it.
“What’s looting ducks?” asked the latter.
“It is a system of hunting pursued by the pot-hunters of Chesapeake bay,
who shoot for the market and not for sport. A huge blunderbuss, which
will hold a handful of powder and a pound or more of shot, and which is
kept concealed during the day-time, is put into the bow of a skiff at
night, and carried into the very midst of a flock of sleeping ducks; and
sometimes the men who manage it, secure as many as sixty or seventy birds
at one discharge. The law expressly prohibits it, and denounces penalties
against those who are caught at it.”
“Then why wasn’t Enoch punished?”
“Because everybody is afraid to complain of him or of any one else
who violates the law. It isn’t safe to say anything against these
duck-shooters, and those who do it are sure to suffer. Their yachts will
be bored full of holes, their oyster-beds dragged at night or filled with
sharp things for the dredges to catch on, their lobster-pots pulled up
and destroyed or carried off, their retrievers shot or stolen—oh, it
wouldn’t take long to raise an excitement down there that would be fully
equal to that which was occasioned in Rochdale by that mail robbery.”
If the reader will bear these words in mind, he will see that subsequent
events proved the truthfulness of them. The professional duck-shooters
who played such havoc with the wild fowl in Chesapeake bay, were
determined and vindictive men, and it was very easy to get into trouble
with them, especially when there were such fellows as Enoch Williams and
Lester Brigham to help it along.
The four friends spent half an hour in walking about the grounds, talking
over the various exciting and amusing incidents that had happened while
they were living in _Don Gordon’s Shooting-Box_, and then Don went to his
dormitory to put on his uniform, preparatory to reporting his arrival to
the superintendent. Every train that steamed into the station brought a
crowd of students with it, and the evening of the 14th of January found
them all snug in their quarters, and ready for the serious business of
the term, which was to begin with the booming of the morning gun. All
play was over now. There had been guard-mount that morning, sentries
were posted on the grounds and in the buildings, and the new students
began to see how it seemed to feel the tight reins of military discipline
drawn about them. Of course there were a good many who did not like it
at all. Events proved that there was a greater number of malcontents
in the school this term than there had ever been before. Bold fellows
some of them were, too—boys who had always been allowed to do as they
pleased at home, and who proceeded to get up a rebellion before they had
donned their uniforms. One of them, it is hardly necessary to say, was
Lester Brigham. On the morning when the ceremony of guard-mounting was
gone through with for the first time, he stood off by himself, muffled
up head and ears, and watching the proceeding. Presently his attention
was attracted by the actions of a boy who came rapidly along the path,
shaking his gloved fists in the air and talking to himself. He did not
see Lester until he was close upon him, and then he stopped and looked
ashamed.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Lester, who was in no very good humor himself.
“Matter enough,” replied the boy. “I wish I had never seen or heard of
this school.”
“Here too,” said Lester. “Are you a new scholar? Then we belong to the
same class and company.”
“I wouldn’t belong to any class or company if I could help it,” snapped
the boy. “My father didn’t want me to come here, but I insisted, like the
dunce I was, and now I’ve got to stay.”
“So have I; but I didn’t come of my own free will. My father made me.”
“Get into any row at home?” asked the boy.
“Well—yes,” replied Lester, hesitatingly.
“I don’t see that it is anything to be ashamed of. You look like a city
boy; did the cops get after you?”
“No; I had no trouble with the police, but I thought for a while that I
was going to have. I live in the canebrakes of Mississippi, and my name
is Lester Brigham. I used to live in the city, and I wish I had never
left it.”
“My name is Enoch Williams, and I am from Maryland,” said the other. “I
don’t live in a cane-brake, but I live on the sea-shore, and right in
the midst of a lot of Yahoos who don’t know enough to keep them over
night. Egan is one of them and Hopkins is another.”
“Why, those are two of the boys that Don Gordon brought home with him
last fall,” exclaimed Lester. “Do you know them?”
“I know Egan very well. His father’s plantation is next to ours. If he
had been anything of a gentleman, I might have been personally acquainted
with Hopkins by this time; but, although we traveled in company all the
way from Maryland, he never introduced me. Do you know them?”
“I used to see them occasionally last fall, but I have never spoken to
either of them,” answered Lester. “By the way, the first sergeant of our
company is a near neighbor of mine.”
“Do you mean Bert Gordon? Well, he’s a little snipe. He throws on more
airs than a country dancing-master. I have been insulted ever since I
have been here,” said Enoch, hotly. “The boys from my own State, who
ought to have brought me to the notice of the teachers and of some good
fellows among the students, have turned their backs upon me, and told me
in so many words, that they don’t want my company.”
“Don and Bert Gordon have treated me in nearly the same way,” observed
Lester.
“But, for all that, I have made some acquaintances among the boys in
the third class, who gave me a few hints that I intend to act upon,”
continued Enoch. “They say the rules are very strict, and that it is of
no earthly use for me to try to keep out of trouble. There are a favored
few who are allowed to do as they please; but the rest of us must walk
turkey, or spend our Saturday afternoons in doing extra duty. Now I say
that isn’t fair—is it, Jones?” added Enoch, appealing to a third-class
boy who just then came up.
Jones had been at the academy just a year, and of course he was a member
of Don Gordon’s class and company. He was one of those who, by the aid
of Don’s “Yankee Invention,” had succeeded in making their way into the
fire-escape, and out of the building. They failed to get by the guard,
as we know, and Jones was court-martialed as well as the rest. His back
and arms ached whenever he thought of the long hours he had spent in
walking extras to pay for that one night’s fun; and he had made the
mental resolution that before he left the academy he would do something
that would make those who remained bear him in remembrance. He was lazy,
vicious and idle, and quite willing to back up Enoch’s statement.
“Of course it isn’t fair,” said he, after Enoch had introduced him to
Lester Brigham. “You needn’t expect to be treated fairly as long as you
remain here, unless you are willing to curry favor with the teachers, and
so win a warrant or a commission; but that is something no decent boy
will do. I can prove it to you. Take the case of Don Gordon: he’s a good
fellow, in some respects——”
“There’s where I differ with you,” interrupted Lester. “I have known him
for a long time, and I have yet to see anything good about him.”
“I don’t care if you have. I say he’s a good fellow,” said Jones,
earnestly. “There isn’t a better boy in school to run with than Don
Gordon would be, if he would only get rid of the notion that it is manly
to tell the truth at all times and under all circumstances, no matter
who suffers by it. He’s as full of plans as an egg is of meat; he is
afraid of nothing, and there wasn’t a boy in our set who dared join him
in carrying out some schemes he proposed. Why, he wanted to capture the
butcher’s big bull-dog, take him up to the top of the building, and then
kick him down stairs after tying a tin-can to his tail! He would have
done it, too, if any of the set had offered to help him; but I tell you,
I wouldn’t have taken a hand in it for all the money there is in America.”
“He must be a good one,” said Enoch, admiringly.
“Oh, he is. We had many a pleasant evening at Cony Ryan’s last winter
that we would not have had if Don had not come to our aid; but when the
critical moment arrived, he failed us.”
“You might have expected it,” sneered Lester, who could not bear to hear
these words of praise bestowed upon the boy he so cordially hated.
“Well, I didn’t expect it. Don was one of the floor-guards that night,
and he allowed a lot of us to pass him and go out of the building. When
the superintendent hauled him up for it the next day, he acknowledged his
guilt, but he would not give our names, although he knew he stood a good
chance of being sent down for his refusal. I shall always honor him for
that.”
“I wish he had been expelled,” said Lester, bitterly. “Then I should not
have been sent to this school.”
“Well, when the examination came off,” continued Jones, “Don was so far
ahead of his class that none of them could touch him with a ten-foot
pole; and yet he is a private to-day, while that brother of his, who
won the good-will of the teachers by toadying to them, wears a first
sergeant’s _chevrons_. Of course such partiality as that is not fair for
the rest of us.”
“There isn’t a single redeeming feature about this school, is there?”
said Enoch, after a pause. “A fellow can’t enjoy himself in any way.”
“Oh yes, he can—if he is smart and a trifle reckless. He can go to Cony
Ryan’s and eat pancakes. I suppose Egan told you of the high old times we
had here last winter running the guard, didn’t he?”
“He never mentioned it,” replied Enoch.
“Well, didn’t he describe the fight we had with the Indians last camp?”
“Indians!” repeated Enoch, incredulously, while Lester’s eyes opened with
amazement.
“Yes; sure-enough Indians they were too, and not make-believes. We
thought, by the way they yelled at us, that they meant business. Why,
they raised such a rumpus about the camp that some of our lady guests
came very near fainting, they were so frightened. Didn’t Egan tell you
how he and Don deserted, swam the creek, went to the show disguised as
country boys, and finally fell into the hands of those same Indians who
had surrounded the camp and were getting ready to attack us?”
No, Egan hadn’t said a word about any of these things to Enoch, and
neither had Don or Bert spoken of them to Lester; although they might
have done so if the latter had showed them a little more courtesy when
they called upon him at his house. Some of the matters referred to were
pleasant episodes in the lives of the Bridgeport students, and the reason
why Egan had not spoken of them was because he did not want Enoch to
think there was anything agreeable about the institution. He didn’t want
him there, because he did not believe that Enoch would be any credit to
the school; and so he did with him just as Don and Bert did with Lester:
he enlarged upon the rigor of the discipline, the stern impartiality of
the instructors, the promptness with which they called a delinquent to
account, and spoke feelingly of their long and difficult lessons; but he
never said “recreation” once, nor did he so much as hint that there were
certain hours in the day that the students could call their own.
“Tell us about that fight,” said Enoch.
“Yes, do,” chimed in Lester. “If there is any way to see fun here, let us
know what it is.”
Jones was just the boy to go to with an appeal of this sort. He was
thoroughly posted, and if there were any one in the academy who was
always ready to set the rules and regulations at defiance, especially
if he saw the shadow of a chance for escaping punishment, Jones was
the fellow. He gave a glowing description of the battle at the camp;
told how the boys ran the guard, and where they went and what they did
after they got out; related some thrilling stories of adventure of which
the law-breakers were the heroes; and by the time the dinner-call was
sounded, he had worked his two auditors up to such a pitch of excitement
that they were ready to attempt almost anything.
“You have given me some ideas,” said Enoch, as they hurried toward their
dormitories in obedience to the call, “and who knows but they may grow
to something? I’ve got to stay here—I had a plain understanding with my
father on that point—and I am going to think up something that will yield
us some sport.”
“That’s the way I like to hear a fellow talk,” said Jones, approvingly;
“and I will tell you this for your encouragement: we care nothing for
the risk we shall run in carrying out your scheme, whatever it may be,
but before we undertake it, you must be able to satisfy us that we can
carry it out successfully. Do that, and I will bring twenty boys to back
you up, if you need so many. We are always glad to have fellows like you
come among us, for our tricks grow stale after a while, and we learn new
ones of you. Don Gordon can think up something in less time than anybody
I ever saw; but it would be useless to look to him for help. Egan and
the other good little boys have taken him in hand, and they’ll make an
officer of him this year; you wait and see if they don’t.”
“Jones gave me some ideas, too,” thought Lester, as he marched into the
dining-hall with his company, and took his seat at the table; “but I
must say I despise the way he lauded that Don Gordon. Don seems to make
friends wherever he goes, and they are among the best, too; while I have
to be satisfied with such companions as I can get. I am going to set my
wits at work and see if I can’t study up something that will throw that
bull-dog business far into the shade.”
Unfortunately for Lester this was easy of accomplishment. He was not
obliged to do any very hard thinking on the subject, for a plan was
suggested to him that very afternoon. There was but one objection to it:
he would have to wait four or five months before it could be carried out.
Lester’s room-mate was a boy who spelled his name Huggins, but pronounced
it as though it were written Hewguns. He had showed but little
disposition to talk about himself and his affairs, and all Lester could
learn concerning him was that he was from Massachusetts, and that he
lived somewhere on the sea-coast. He and Lester met in their dormitory
after dinner, and while the latter proceeded to put on his hat and
overcoat, Huggins threw himself into a chair, buried his hands in his
pockets and gazed steadily at the floor.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Lester. “You act as if something had gone
wrong with you.”
“Things never go right with me,” was the surly response. “There isn’t a
boy in the world who has so much trouble as I do.”
“I have often thought that of myself,” Lester remarked. “Come out and
take a walk. Perhaps the fresh air will do you good.”
“I don’t want any fresh air,” growled Huggins. “I want to think. I have
been trying all the morning to hit upon something that would enable me to
get to windward of my father, and I guess I have got it at last.”
“What do you mean by getting to windward of him?” asked Lester.
“Why, getting the advantage of him. If two vessels were racing, the one
that was to windward would have the odds of the other, especially if the
breeze was not steady, because she would always catch it first. I guess
you don’t know much about the water, do you?”
“I don’t know much about boats,” replied Lester; “but when it comes to
hunting, fishing or riding, I am there. I have yet to see the fellow who
can beat me.”
“I am fond of fishing,” said Huggins. “I was out on the banks last
season. We made a very fine catch, and had a tidy row with the
Newfoundland fishermen before we could get our bait.”
“What sort of fish did you take?”
“Codfish, of course.”
“Do you angle for them from the banks?”
“I said _on_ the banks—that is, in shoal water.”
“Oh,” said Lester. “I don’t know anything about that kind of fishing. Did
you ever play a fifteen pound brook-trout on an eight-ounce fly-rod?”
“No; nor nobody else.”
“I have done it many a time,” said Lester. “I tell you it takes a man who
understands his business to land a fish like that with light tackle. A
greenhorn would have broken his pole or snapped his line the very first
jerk he made.”
“You may tell that to the marines, but you needn’t expect me to believe
it,” said Huggins, quietly. “In the first place, a fly-fisher doesn’t
fasten his hook by giving a jerk. He does it by a simple turn of the
wrist. In the second place, the _Salmo fontinalis_ doesn’t grow to the
weight of fifteen pounds.”
Lester was fairly staggered. He had set out with the intention of giving
his room-mate a graphic account of some of his imaginary exploits and
adventures (those of our readers who are well acquainted with him will
remember that he kept a large supply of them on hand), but he saw that it
was time to stop. There was no use in trying to deceive a boy who could
fire Latin at him in that way.
“The largest brook-trout that was ever caught was taken in the Rangeley
lakes, and weighed a trifle over ten pounds,” continued Huggins. “And
lastly, the members of the order _Salmonidæ_ don’t live in the muddy,
stagnant bayous you have down South. They want clear cold water.”
“Why do you want to get to windward of your father?” inquired Lester, who
thought it best to change the subject.
“To pay him for sending me to this school,” replied Huggins.
“And you think you know how to do it?”
“I do.”
Lester became interested. He took off his hat and overcoat and sat down
on the edge of his bed.