"Which reminds me, b'gee," put in the newcomer, "of a story I once heard
of----"

"Drop the story, too!" exclaimed Mark. "I want to know what the Parson
was so indignant about."

"Yes, yes!" put in Texas. "That's what I say, too. And be quick about
it. We've only ten minutes 'fore drill, an' if there's anybody got to be
licked, why, we got to hustle."

"Well," said Stanard, drawing a long breath. "Well! Since it is the
obvious and, in fact, natural desire of the company assembled, so
expressed by them, that I should immediately proceed to a summary and
concise statement of the matter in hand, pausing for no extensive
introductions or formal perorations, but endeavoring assiduously to
impart to my promulgations a certain clarified conciseness which in
matters of this peculiar nature is so eminently advantageous----"

The Parson was interrupted at this place by a subdued "B'gee!" from
Dewey, followed by a more emphatic "Wow!" and a scarcely audible "Bless
my soul!"

"What's the matter?" he inquired, stopping short and looking puzzled.

"Nothing," replied Mark. "I didn't say anything."

"Oh!" said the Parson. "Excuse me. Where was I? Oh, yes, I was just
saying I would be brief. Gentlemen--ahem!--when I entered this room I
was in a condition of violent anger. As I stated, an outrage had been
offered me such as neither Parmenides, nor Socrates, nor even Zeno,
stoic of stoics, could have borne. And I have resolved to seek once
more, as a prodigal son, the land of my birth, where science is fostered
instead of being repressed as in this hotbed of prejudice and ignorance.
I----"

"What's up?" cried the four.

"I am coming to that," said the Parson, gravely, stretching out his long
shanks, drawing up his trousers, and displaying his sea-green socks.
"This same morning--and my friend Indian will substantiate my statement,
for he was there--a low, ignorant cadet corporal did enter into my room,
for inspection, by Zeus, and after generally displaying his ill-manners,
he turned to me and conveyed the extraordinary information that,
according to rules, forsooth, I must be deprived of the dearest object
of my affections, solace of my weary hours, my friend in time of need,
my companion in sickness, which through all the trials of adversity has
stuck to me closer than a brother, my only joy, my----"

"What?" cried the four, by this time wrought up to the highest pitch of
indignation and excitement.

"My one refuge from the cares of life," continued the solemn Parson,
"the one mitigating circumstance in this life of tribulation, the
only----"

"What? What? What?"

"What? Of all things what, but this? What but my life, my pride, my
hope--my beloved volume of 'Dana's Geology,' friend of my----"

And the roar of laughter which came then made the sentry out on the
street jump in alarm. The laughing lasted until the cry came:

"New cadets turn out!" which meant drill; and it lasted after that, too,
so that Cadet Spencer, drillmaster, "on duty over plebes," spent the
next hour or two in wondering what on earth his charges kept snickering
at. Poor Texas was the subject of a ten-minute discourse upon
"impertinence and presumption," because he was guilty of the heinous
offense of bursting out laughing in the midst of one of the irate little
drillmaster's tirades.

CHAPTER XVII.

INDIAN IN TROUBLE.

What manner of torture is squad drill has already been shown; and so the
reader should have some idea of what our five friends were going
through. Squad drill lasts for the first two weeks or so of plebe
life--that is, before the move into camp. The luckless victims begin
after breakfast, and at regular (and frequent) periods until night are
turned out under the charge of some irascible yearling to be taught all
manner of military maneuvers--setting up drill, how to stand, to face,
and, in fact, how to walk.

Most people, those who have not been to West Point, are under the
delusion that they know how to walk already. It usually takes the
luckless plebe a week to get that idea hammered out of his head, and
another week besides to learn the correct method. The young instructor,
presenting, by the way, a ludicrous contrast in his shining uniform of
gray and white and gold, with his three or four nervous and variously
costumed pupils, takes the bayonet of his gun for a drill stick and
marches "his" squad over into a secluded corner of the area and thus
begins the above-mentioned instructions:

"At the word forward, throw the weight of the body upon the right leg,
the left knee straight. At the word march, move the left leg smartly
without jerk, carry the left foot forward thirty inches from the right,
the sole near the ground, the toe a little depressed, knee straight and
slightly turned out. At the same time throw the weight of the body
forward (eyes to the front) and plant the foot without shock, weight of
the body resting upon it; next, in like manner, advance the right foot
and plant it as above. Continue to advance without crossing the legs or
striking one against the other, keeping the face direct to the front.
Now, forward, common time, march. Depress the toe so that it strikes the
ground at the same time as the heel (palms of the hands squarely to the
front. Head up)"--and so on.

That is the way the marching exercise goes, exclusive, of course, of all
interruptions, comments and witticisms on the instructor's part. The
plebe begins to get used to it after the first week or so, when the
stiffness rubs off, and then a certain amount of rivalry begins to
spring up among various squads, and everybody settles down to the
business of learning. The squads are consolidated later on, and
gradually the class is merged into one company. Such as they are, these
drills, together with inspections, meals and "rests" (with hazing),
occupy almost the entire time of the two weeks in barracks.

And now for our five "rebels."

That particular Monday morning the plebes had an hour's rest before
dinner, in which to do as they pleased (or as the yearlings pleased).
And during this hour it was that one of "the five," the always luckless
and unhappy one, got into trouble. The one was Indian, or the Mormon.
Indian, it seemed, was always thought of whenever there was any deviling
to be done. The other plebes did as they were told, and furnished
amusement on demand, but they always realized that it was all in fun.
Indian, however, was an innocent, gullible youth, who took everything
solemnly, and was in terror of his unhappy life every moment of the day.
And he was especially unfortunate this time because he fell into the
hands of "Bull" Harris and his gang.

It is not the intention of the writer to give the impression that all
cadets at West Point were or are like "Bull" Harris, or that hazing of
his peculiar variety is an everyday affair. But it would be hard to find
one hundred men without a cowardly, cruel nature among them. "Bull"
Harris and his crowd represented the lower element of the yearling
class, and made hazing their business and diversion. They were the
especial dread of the plebes in consequence. Bull had tried his tricks
upon Mark to his discomfort, and ever since that had left Mark strictly
alone, and confined his efforts to less vigorous victims, among which
were Dewey, and now Indian.

Indian had selected a rather grewsome occupation, anyhow, at the
particular moment when he was caught. It was just in keeping with the
peculiarly dejected frame of mind he was in (after squad drill). He was
wandering through the graveyard, which is situated in a lonely portion
of the post, way off in the northwestern corner. Some heroes, West
Point's bravest, lie buried there, and Indian was dejectedly wondering
if those same heroes would ever have stuck through plebe days in
barracks if they had had a drill master like that "red-headed coyote,"
Chick Spencer. He had about concluded they would not have, when he heard
some muffled laughter and the sound of running feet. A moment later the
terrified plebe found himself completely surrounded by a dozen merry
yearlings, out for a lark. Prominent among them were Bull and his
toadying little friend, Baby Edwards.

It is correct West Point etiquette for a plebe, when "captured" to go
meekly wherever desired. Indian went, and the party disappeared quickly
in the woods on one side, the captive being hidden completely in the
circle of cadets.

There was one person who had seen him, however, and that one person was
the Parson, who had been about to enter the gate to join his friend. And
the Parson, when he saw it, turned quickly on his heel and strode away
back to barracks as fast as his long legs could carry him without loss
of scholarly dignity.

"Yes, by Zeus," he muttered to himself. "Yea, by Zeus, the enemy is
fierce upon our trail. And swiftly, forsooth, will I hie me to my
companions and inform them of this insufferable indignity."

All unconscious of the learned gentleman's discovery, the yearlings
meanwhile were hurrying away into a secluded portion of the woods; for
they knew that their time was short, and that they would have to make
haste. The terrified victim was pushed over logs and through brambles
until he was almost exhausted, the captors meanwhile dropping dire hints
as to his fate.

"An Indian he is!" muttered Bull Harris. "An Indian!" (The plebe was as
red as one then.) "He shall die an Indian's death!"

"That's what he shall!" echoed the crowd. "An Indian! An Indian! We'll
burn him at the stake!"

"He, he! the only good Indian's a dead Indian, he, he!" chimed in Baby,
chuckling at his own witticism. "He, he!"

All this poor Joseph did not fail to notice, and as was his habit, he
believed every word of it. Nor did his mind regain any of its composure
as the procession continued its solemn marching through the lonely
woods, to the tune of the yearlings' cheerful remarks. The latter were
chuckling merrily to themselves, but when they were in hearing of their
victim their tone was deep and awful, and their looks dark and savage.
Poor Indian's fat, round eyes stared wider and rounder every minute; his
equally round, red face grew redder, and his gasping exclamations more
frequent and violent.

"Bless my soul!" he cried, "what extraordinary proceedings!"

"Ha! ha!" muttered the yearlings. "See, he trembles! Behold how the
victim pales!"

A short distance farther in the woods the party came upon a small
clearing.

"Just the spot!" cried Bull. "See the tree in the center. That is the
stake, and to that we will tie him, while the smoke ascends to the
clouds of heaven."

"Just the spot!" echoed Baby, chuckling gleefully.

"It is quiet," continued Bull, in a low, sepulchral tone. "Yes, and his
cries of agony will be heard by none. Advance, wretched victim, and
prepare to die the death which your savage ancestors did inflict upon
our fathers. Advance!"

"Advance!" growled the crowd.

"Bless my soul!" cried the Indian.

He was no more capable of advancing than he was of flying. His knees
were shaking in violent terror. Great beads of perspiration rolled from
the dimples in his fat little cheeks. Limp and helpless, he would have
sunk to the ground, but for the support of his captors.

"Advance!" cried Bull, again, stamping on the ground in mock impatience
and rage. "Bodyguard, bring forth the wretch!"

In response to this order several of the cadets dragged the unhappy
plebe to the tree and held him fast against it. Bull Harris produced
from under his coat a coil of rope, and Indian felt it being wrapped
about his body.

Up to this point he had been silent from sheer terror; but the feeling
of the rough rope served to bring before him with startling reality the
awfulness of the fate that was in store for him. He opened his mouth and
forthwith gave vent to a cry so weird and unearthly that the yearlings
burst out into a shout of laughter. It was no articulate cry, simply a
wild howl. It rang and echoed through the woods, like the hoot of an owl
at night, or the strange, half-human cry of a frightened dog. And it
died into a gasp that Bull Harris described as "the sigh of a homesick
bullfrog."

Indian's musical efforts continued as the horrible rope was wound about
his body. Each wail was louder and more unearthly, more mirth-provoking
to the unpitying cadets, until at last, when Bull Harris finished and
stepped back to survey his work, the frightened plebe could be likened
to nothing less than a steam calliope.

The yearlings were so much amused by his powers that they resolved
forthwith that the show must not stop. And so, without giving the
performer chance to breathe even, they set to work diligently collecting
sticks and leaves.

"Heap 'em up! Heap 'em up!" cried Bull. "Heap 'em up! And soon shall the
fire blaze merrily."

Naturally, since Indian's shrieks and howls continued unabated in
quantity or variety through all this, the yearlings were in no hurry to
finish, but took care to prolong the agony, sport as they called it, as
long as possible. So, while the red-faced, perspiring victim panted,
grunted, howled, and wriggled, they piled the wood about him with
exasperating slowness, rearranging, inspecting, and discussing the
probable effect of each and every stick of wood they laid on.

It was done, at last, however, and the result was a great pile of fagots
surrounding and half covering the unfortunate lad. They were fagots
selected as being the driest that could be found in the dry and
sun-parched clearing. There was a moment or two later on when Bull
wished they had not been quite so dry, after all.

The crowd stood and admired their work for a few moments longer, while
Indian's weird wails rose higher than ever. Then Bull stepped forward.

"Art thou prepared to die?" he inquired in his most sepulchral tone.

Indian responded with a crescendo in C minor.

"He answereth not!" muttered the other. "Let him scorn our questions who
dares. What, ho! Bring forth the torch! We shall roast him brown."

"And when he is brown," roared another, "then he will cease to be
Smith!"

"Yes," cried Bull, "for he will be dead. His bones shall bleach on the
plains. On his flesh we will make a meal!"

"An Indian meal!" added Baby, chuckling merrily over his own joke.

"Several meals," continued Bull, solemnly. "There is enough of him for a
whole _table d'hote_. How about that? Aren't you?"

"Wow! Wo-oo-oo-oooo!" wailed Indian.

"He mocks us!" cried the spokesman. "He scorns to answer. Very well! We
shall see. Is the torch lit?"

The torch, an ordinary sulphur match, was not lit. But Bull produced one
from the same place as the rope and held it poised. He waited a moment
while the yearlings discussed the next action.

"I say we let him loose," said one. "He's scared enough."

"Nonsense!" laughed Bull, "I'm not going to stop yet. I'm going to set
him afire."

"Set him afire!" echoed the crowd, in a whisper.

"'Sh! Yes," responded the other. "Not really, you know, but just enough
to scare him. We'll set fire to the wood and then when it's begun to
smoke some we'll put it out."

"That's risky," objected somebody. "I say we----"

"Nonsense!" interrupted the leader. "If you don't want to, run home. I
am."

And so once more he turned toward the wretched captive, who still kept
up his shrieks.

"Ha, ha!" he muttered, "thy time has come. Say thy last prayer."

With which words he stepped quickly forward, struck the match upon his
heel, and after holding it for a moment knelt down before the pile of
leaves and wood.

"Wow! Wow!" roared Indian. "Stop! Stop! Help! Wo-oo-oo!"

Another of those steam calliope wails.

"He shrieks for mercy!" muttered Bull. "He shrieks in vain. There!"

The last exclamation came as he touched the match to the leaves, stood
up and worked off to join his companions.

"Form a ring," he said, "and dance about him as he dies."

The terror of Indian can scarcely be imagined; he was almost on the
verge of fainting as the hot choking smoke curled up and around his
face. His yells grew louder and increased to a perfect shriek of agony.

"Don't you think we'd better stop it now?" inquired one of the
yearlings, more timid than the rest.

"Rats!" laughed Bull. "It's hardly started. I'll manage it."

Bull's "management" proved rather untrustworthy; for Bull had forgotten
to take into account the dryness of the twigs, and also another factor.
The air had been still as he struck the match, but just at that moment a
slight breeze swept along the ground, blowing the leaves before it. It
struck the little fire and it seized one tiny flame and bore it up
through the pile and about the legs of the imprisoned plebe.

The next instant the yearlings were thrown into the wildest imaginable
confusion by a cry from one of them.

"Look out! Look out! His trousers are afire!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

TO THE RESCUE.

Things happened in a whirl of confusion after that. To the horrified
cadets a thousand incidents seemed to crowd in at one moment.

In the first place there was the terrified captive, bound helplessly to
the tree, his clothing on fire, himself shrieking at the top of his
lungs. Then there were the yearlings themselves, all crying out with
fright and alarm and rushing wildly in to drag the burning wood away.
Finally there were other arrivals, whom, in the excitement, the
yearlings scarcely noticed. There were two of them; one tore a knife
from his pocket and cut the rope in a dozen places, the other flung off
his jacket and wrapped it quickly about Indian's feet, extinguishing the
flames. And then the two stood up and gazed at the rest--the frightened
yearlings and their infuriated victim.

Infuriated? Yes, wildly infuriated! A change had come over Indian such
as no one who knew him had ever seen before. The fire had not really
hurt him; it had only ruined his clothing and scorched his legs enough
to make him wild with rage. He had tugged at his bonds savagely; when he
was cut free he had torn loose from the friendly stranger who had knelt
to extinguish the fire, and made a savage rush at the badly scared
cadets.

Indian's face was convulsed with passion. His arms were swinging wildly
like a windmill's sails in a hurricane, while from his mouth rushed a
volley of exclamations that would have frightened Captain Kidd and his
pirate band.

It made no difference what he hit; the fat boy was too blind with rage
to see. He must hit something! If a tree had lain in his path he would
have started in on that. As luck would have it, however, the thing that
was nearest to him was a yearling--Baby Edwards.

Baby could have been no more frightened if he had seen an express train
charging on him. He turned instantly and fled--where else would he flee
but to his idol Bull? He hid behind that worthy; Bull put up his hands
to defend himself; and the next instant Indian's flying arms reached the
spot.

One savage blow on the nose sent Bull tumbling backward--over Baby.
Indian, of course, could not stop and so did a somersault over the two.

There was a pretty _mêlée_ after that. Baby was the first to emerge,
covered with dirt and bruises. Indian got up second; he gazed about him,
his rage still burning; he gave one snort, shook his head clear of the
soil as an angry bull might; and then made another savage rush at Baby.
Baby this time had no friend to hide behind; Harris was lying on the
ground, face down, as a man might do to protect himself in a cyclone.
And so Baby had no resource but flight; he took to his heels, the
enraged plebe a few feet behind; and in half a minute more the pair were
lost to sight and sound, far distant in the woods, Indian still
pursuing.

It might be pleasant to follow them, for Indian in his rage was a sight
to divert the gods. But there was plenty more happening at the scene of
the fire, things that ought not be missed.

In the first place, who were the two new arrivals? It was evident that
they were plebes--their faces were familiar to the cadets. But beyond
that no one knew anything about them. They had freed their helpless
classmate and saved him from serious injury, as has been told. They had
done one thing more that has not been mentioned yet. One of them, the
smaller, just after Indian had broken loose, had reached over and dealt
the nearest yearling he could reach a ringing blow upon the cheek.

"Take that!" said he. "Bah Jove, you're a cur."

There was another _mêlée_ after that.

Of course the setting fire to Indian had been a pure accident; but the
two strangers did not know it. They saw in the whole thing a piece of
diabolical cruelty. The yearling the wrath chanced to fall upon was Gus
Murray--and his anger is left to the imagination. He sprang at the
throat of the reckless plebe; and the rest of the crowd rushed to his
aid, pausing just for an instant to size up the pair.

They did not seem "to be any great shucks." The taller was a big
slouchy-looking chap in clothes that evidently bespoke the farmer, and
possessing a drawl which quite as clearly indicated the situation of the
farm--the prairies. Having cut Indian loose he was lounging lazily
against the tree and regarding his more excitable companion with a
good-natured grin.

The companion was even less awe-inspiring, for one had to look at him
but an instant to see that he was one of the creatures whom all
well-regulated boys despise--a dude. He wore a high collar, ridiculously
high; he was slender and delicate looking, with the correct Fifth Avenue
stoop to his shoulders and an attitude to his arms which showed that he
had left his cane behind only on compulsion when he "struck the Point."
And any doubts the yearlings may have had on this question were settled
as the yearlings stared, for the object turned to the other and spoke.

"Aw say, Sleepy," said he, "come help me chastise these fellows, don't
ye know."

As a fact there was but little choice in the matter, it was fight or die
with the two, for at the same instant Gus Murray, wild with rage, had
leaped forward and made a savage lunge at the dude.

What happened then Murray never quite knew. All he made out was that
when he hit at the dude the dude suddenly ceased to be there. The
yearling glanced around in surprise and discovered that his victim had
slid coolly under his elbow and was standing over on the other side of
the clearing--smiling.

The rest of the crowd, not in the least daunted by Murray's miss, rushed
in to the attack; and a moment later a wild scrimmage was in progress,
a scrimmage which defied the eye to comprehend and the pen to describe.
The former never moved from the tree, but with his back flat against it
and his great clumsy arms swinging like sledge hammers he stood and bid
defiance to his share of the crowd.

The dude's tactics were just the opposite. He was light and slender, and
should have been easy prey. That was what Bull Harris thought as he
hastily arose from the spot where Indian had butted him and joined his
eager comrades in the hunt. The hunt; a hunt it was, and no mistake.
While the farmer stayed in one place, the dude seemed everywhere at
once. Dodging, ducking, running, he seemed just to escape every blow
that was aimed at him. He seemed even to turn somersaults, to the amazed
yearlings, who had been looking for a dude and not an acrobat.

The dude did not dodge all the time, though; occasionally he would stop
to cool the ardor of some especially excited cadet with a sudden punch
where it wasn't looked for. Once also he stuck out his foot and allowed
Bull Harris to get his legs caught in it, with a result that Bull's nose
once more plowed the clearing.

The writer wishes it were his privilege to chronicle the fact that the
two put the eight to flight; or that Indian, having put the Baby "to
sleep," returned to perform yet greater prodigies of valor. It would be
a pleasure to tell of all that, but on the other hand truth is a
stubborn thing. Things do not always happen as they should in spite of
the providence that is supposed to make them.

The farmer, after a five-minute gallant stand, was finally knocked
down--from behind--and once down he was being fast pummeled into
nothingness. The dude--his collar, much to his alarm, having wilted--was
in the last stage of exhaustion. In fact, Bull had succeeded in landing
a blow, the first of the afternoon for him. The dude was about to give
up and perish, when assistance arrived. For these gallant heroes were
not fated to conquer alone.

The first warning of the arrival of reinforcements was not the
traditional trumpet call, nor the roll of a drum, nor even the tramp of
soldiers, but a muttered "Wow!" This was followed by Texas himself,
bursting through the bushes like a battering ram. Mark was at his side,
and behind them came the Parson. Dewey, being rather crippled, brought
up the rear.

The four lost no time in questions; they saw two plebes in distress, and
they had met Indian on the warpath and learned the cause of the trouble.
They knew it was their business to help and they "sailed right in" to do
it.

Mark placed himself by the side of the panting "dude." Texas and the
Parson made a V formation and speedily got the farmer to his feet and in
fighting array once more. And after that the odds of the battle were
more even.

It was a very brief battle, in fact. A mere skirmish after that. Mark's
prowess was dreaded, and that of Texas but little less. After Texas had
chased two yearlings into the woods, and Mark had stretched out
Bull--that was Bull's third time that afternoon--the ardor of the eight
began to wane. It was not very long then before the attack stopped by
mutual consent, and the combatants took to staring at each other
instead.

The rage of Bull as he picked himself up and examined his damages must
be imagined.

"You confounded plebes shall pay for this," he roared, "as sure as I'm
alive."

"Now?" inquired Mark, smiling, rubbing his hands, and looking ready to
resume hostilities.

"It's a case of blamed swelled head, that's what it is," growled the
other, sullenly.

"Which," added the Parson's solemn voice, "might be somewhat
more classically expressed by the sesquipedalian Hellenic
vocable--ahem!--Megalacephalomania."

With which interesting bit of information--presented gratis--the Parson
carefully laid his beloved "Dana" on the ground and sat down on it for
safety.

"Why can't you plebes mind your business, anyhow?" snarled Gus Murray.

"That's what I say, too!" cried Bull.

"Curious coincidence!" laughed Dewey. "Reminds me of a story I once
heard, b'gee--I guess it's most too long a story to tell through. Remind
me of it, Mark, and I'll tell it to you some day. One of the most
remarkable tales I ever heard, that! Told me by a fellow that used to
run a sausage factory. It was right next door to a 'Home for Homeless
Cats,' though, b'gee, I couldn't ever see how the cats were homeless if
they had a home there. They didn't stay very long, though. That was the
funniest part of it. They used to sit on the fence near the sausage
factory, b'gee----"

Dewey could have prattled on that way till doomsday with unfailing good
humor. It made the yearlings mad and that was all he cared about. But by
this time Bull had perceived that he was being guyed, and he turned away
with an angry exclamation.

"You fellows may stay if you choose;" he said, "I'm going back to camp.
And those plebes shall pay for this!"

"Cash on demand!" laughed Mark, as the discomfited crowd turned and
slunk off.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE ALLIANCE IS COMPLETED.

Having been thus easily rid of their unpleasant enemies, the plebes set
out in high feather for home.

"I must get back in time to dress for dinner, don't ye know," said the
dude.

"I'm 'bliged to yew fellows," put in the farmer, getting up from his
seat with a lazy groan. "My name's Methusalem Zebediah Chilvers, and
I'll shake hands all raound."

"And mine's Chauncey Van Rensallear Mount-Bonsall, don't ye know," said
the other, putting on his immaculate white gloves. "Bah Jove! I've lost
a cuff button, quarreling with those deuced yearlings!"

Chauncey's cuff button was found at last--he vowed he wouldn't go to
dinner without it--and then the party started in earnest, the two
strangers giving a graphic and characteristic account of the scrimmage
we have just witnessed.

Mark in the meantime was doing some thinking, wondering if here were
not two more eligible members of the "alliance." While he was debating
this question the "dude" approached him privately and began thus:

"I want to say something to you," he said. "Dye know, I can't see why we
plebes suffer so, bah Jove! I was thinking aw, don't ye know, if some of
us would band together we could--aw--chastise the deuced cadets and----"

Master Chauncey Van Rensallear Mount-Bonsall got no further, for Mark
came out then and told the secret. In a few moments the alliance had
added Number Six and Number Seven.

"And now, b'gee, I say let's organize, b'gee!" cried Dewey.

The sound of a drum from barracks put a stop to further business then,
but before supper there was a spare half hour, and during that time the
seven conspirators met in Mark's room to "organize." Indian was there,
too, now calm and meek again.

"In the first place," said Mark, "we want to elect a leader."

"Wow!" cried Texas, "what fo'? Ain't you leader?"

"I say, Mark, b'gee!" cried Dewey.

"Mark," said the Parson, solemnly.

"Mark," murmured Indian from the corner, and "Mark" chimed in the two
newcomers.

"It seems to be unanimous," said Mark, "so I guess I'll have to let it
go. But I'm sure I can't see why you think of me. What shall we call
ourselves?"

That brought a lengthy discussion, which space does not permit of being
given. The Loyal Legion, the Sons of the Revolution, the Independents,
the Cincinnati--suggested by the classic Parson--and also the Trojan
Heroes--from the same source--all these were suggested and rejected.
Then somebody moved the Seven Rebels, which was outvoted as not
expressive enough, but which led to another one that took the whole
crowd with a rush. It came from an unexpected source--the unobtrusive
Indian in the corner.

"Let's name it 'The Seven Devils'!" said he.

And the Seven Devils they were from that day until the time when the
class graduated from the Point.

"Three cheers for the Seven Devils!" cried Dewey, "b'gee!"

"Now," said the Parson, rising with a solemn look, "let us swear eternal
fealty by all that man holds holy. Let us swear by the Stygian Shades
and the realms of Charon, whence all true devils come. Yea, by Zeus!"

"And we'll stand by one another to the death, b'gee," cried Dewey.
"Remember, we're organized for no purpose on earth but to do those
yearlings, and we'll lick 'em, b'gee, if they dare to look at us."

"Show 'em no mercy, don't ye know," said "Chauncey."

"And let's have a motto," cried Indian, becoming infected with the
excitement. "'Down with the yearlings.'"

"I suggest 'We die but we never surrender,' b'gee."

"'_Veni, vidi, vici_,'" remarked the Parson, "or else '_Dulce et decorum
est pro patria mori_,' in the immortal words of Horace, poet of the
Sabine farm."

"A motto should be brief," laughed Mark. "I can beat you all. I'll give
you a motto in three letters of the alphabet."

"Three letters!" echoed the crowd. "Three letters! What is it?"

"It expresses all our objects in forming," said Mark, "and we'll have
lots of fun if we obey it. My motto is 'B. B. J.'"

"Bully, b'gee!" cried Dewey, and the rest echoed his approval with a
rush.

That was, all except the unobtrusive Indian in the corner.

"I--I don't quite," he stammered, "quite see it. Why is----"

"Ahem!" Mark straightened himself up and put on his best professional
air in imitation of the Parson. "Ahem! If you had lived in Boston, and
devoted yourself to the cultivation of the intellectualities--yea, by
Zeus!--instead of learning to lose your temper and chase yearlings like
a wild Texan---- However, I'll explain it."

"Please do!" cried Indian, innocently. "I'll never chase the yearlings
again."

"That's good! B. J. stands for 'before June,' and is West Point slang
for 'fresh.'"

"I knew what B. J. means," put in Indian.

"What! Then why didn't you say so and save me the trouble? The other B.
is the present imperative of the verb to be; he was, being, been, is,
am, ain't. And the only way I can explain what B. B. J. means is to say
that it means be B. J., be B. J. with a vengeance, and when you get
tired of being B. J., B. B. J. some more. Do you see?"

"Er, yes," said Indian.

"And now," laughed Mark, "since we're through, three cheers for the
Seven Devils!"

And that is the story of the forming of West Point's first and only
secret society, a society which was destined to introduce some very,
very exciting incidents into West Point's dignified history, the Seven
Devils, B. B. J.

CHAPTER XX.

INDIGNATION OF THE YEARLINGS.

"By George, he's the freshest plebe that ever struck this place!"

The speaker was Bull Harris, and he was sitting on the steps of the
library building along with half a dozen classmates, excitedly and
angrily discussing the fight.

"Now I tell you Mark Mallory's got to be put out of this place in a
week," continued the first speaker. "And I don't care how it's done,
either, fair or foul."

"That's just what I say, too!" chimed in Baby Edwards. "He's got to be
put out in a week!"

Bull Harris smiled benignly upon his toadying echo, while the rest of
the gang nodded approvingly.

"I'm sure everybody agrees that he's got to be taken down," put in
somebody else. "The only trouble is I don't see how on earth it is to be
done."

"That's the worst of it!" snarled Bull. "That fellow Mallory seems to
get the best of us everything we try; confound him!"

"I'm sure such a thing has never been known at West Point," said
another. "Just think of it! Why, it's the talk of the post, and
everybody's laughing at us, and the plebes are getting bolder every
minute. One of them actually dared to turn up his nose at me to-day.
Think of it--at me--a yearling, and he a vile beast!"

"It's perfectly awful," groaned Bull. "Perfectly awful! Imagine a crowd
of yearlings allowing themselves to be stopped while hazing a
plebe--stopped, mind you, by half as many plebes--and then to make it a
thousand times worse to have the fellow they were hazing taken away!"

"And the yearlings all chased back to camp by a half-crazy Texan,"
chimed in another, who hadn't been there and so could afford to mention
unpleasant details.

"Yet what can we do?" cried Baby. "We can't offer to fight him. He's as
good as licked Billy Williams, and Bill's the best man we could put up.
That Mallory's a regular terror."

"Mark Mallory's got to be taken down."

This suggestion was good, only rather indefinite, which indefiniteness
was remarked by one of the crowd, Merry Vance, the cadet who had
interposed the same objection before. Merry was a tall, slender youth,
with a whitish hue that suggested dissipation, and a fine, scornful
curve to his lips that suggested meanness no less clearly.

"It's all very well to say we've got to do him," said he, "but that
don't say how. As I said, we can't find a man in our class to whip him
fair. And we can't tackle him in a crowd because in the first place he
seems to have his own gang, and in the second place none of us dares to
touch him. I know I don't, for one."

"Pooh!" laughed Bull, scornfully. "I'm not afraid of him."

"Me either!" chimed in the little Baby, doubling up his fists.

"All right," said the other. "Only I noticed you both kept good and
quiet when he stepped up to loosen Indian."

There was an awkward silence for a few minutes after that; Bull Harris
could think of nothing to say, for he knew the charge was true; and as
for Baby Edwards, he never said anything until after his big friend had
set him an example.

"We can't get him into any trouble with the authorities, either,"
continued Vance at last. "In fact, I don't know what we are to do."

"He's simply turned West Point's customs topsy-turvy," groaned another.
"Why, when we were plebes nobody ever dared to think of defying a
yearling. And this Mallory and his gang are running the place. No one
dares to haze a plebe any more."

"Talking about that," said Gus Murray, another yearling who had just
strolled up. "Talking about that, just see what happened to me not five
minutes ago. Met one of the confounded beasts--that fellow, by the way,
we did up, though it don't seem to have done him the least bit of
good--just as B. J. as ever. You know who I mean, the rather handsome
chap they call Dewey. He went to pass the color guard up at camp just
now and he didn't raise his hat. The sentry called him down for it, and
then as he went off I said to him: 'You ought to know better than that,
plebe.' 'Thank you,' says he, and when I told him he should say 'sir' to
a higher cadet, what on earth do you suppose he had the impudence to
say?"

"What?" inquired the crowd, eagerly.

"Said he wouldn't do it because I hadn't said 'sir' to him!"

"What!"

"Yes, indeed! Did you ever hear of such impudence? Why, I'll leave the
academy to-morrow if that kind of thing keeps up."

And with that dire threat Gus Murray seated himself on the steps and
relapsed into a glum silence.

"I heard you sat down on that Mallory last Saturday," observed some one
at last.

"That's what I did!" responded Murray, brightening up at the mention of
a less discouraging incident. "Mary Adams introduced me to him and I cut
him dead. Gee, but he was mad!"

"Wonder, if he'll try to make you apologize," said Bull.

"It would be just like him," put in Merry.

The other looked as if he didn't relish the possibility one bit; he
turned the conversation quickly.

"Wait till he tries it," said he. "In the meantime I'm more interested
in the great question, what are we going to do to take him down?"

"Can't think of a thing," said Vance, flatly. "Not a thing!"

"By George!" cried Bull. "I'm going to think of something if I die for
it."

"I'll shake with you on that," put in Murray. "We won't rest till we get
a plan."

"Let me in too," said Vance.

"And me too!" cried Baby.

And so it happened that when the informal assembly dissolved for supper
it dissolved with but one idea in the mind of every cadet in the
party--that Mark Mallory must be taken down!

A plan came at last, one which was enough to do for any one; and when it
came it came from a most unexpected source, none other than the Baby,
who never before in the memory of Bull had dared to say anything
original. The baby's sweet little brain, evolving the interesting
problem, struck an idea which, so to speak, brought down the house.

"I'll tell you what!" he cried. "I've a scheme!"

"What is it?" inquired Bull, incredulously.

"Let's soak him on demerits!"

And with a look of delight Bull turned and stared at Murray.

"By the lord!" he cried, "that's it. We'll soak him on demerits!"

Then the precious trio locked arms and did a war on the campus.

"Just the thing!" gasped Bull, breathlessly. "Murray's a corporal and he
can do it! Whoop!"

"Yes!" cried the Baby. "And he was put over plebes to-day. Will you do
it, Murray?"

And Murray lost no time in vowing that he would; Bull Harris felt then
that at last he was on the road to victory.

It is necessary to explain the system of discipline which prevails at
West Point. A cadet is allowed to receive only one hundred "demerits"
during the first six months of his stay. These demerits are assigned
according to a regular and inflexible schedule; thus for being late at
roll call, a minor offense, a cadet receives two demerits, while a
serious offense, such as disobedience of orders or sitting down on post
while on sentry duty, brings ten units of trouble in its wake. These
demerits are not given by the instructor or the cadet who notices the
offense; but he enters the charge in a book which is forwarded to
headquarters. The report is read out after parade that same day and
posted in a certain place the next day; and four days later the
superintendent assigns the demerits in all cases where "explanations"
have not been received.

The following is an example of an explanation:

      "West Point, N. Y., ---- --, 18--. Report--Bedding not
      properly folded at police inspection.

      "Explanation--Some one disarranged my bedding after I
      had piled it. I was at the sink at the time of
      inspection, and I readjusted the bedding upon my
      return.

      "Respectfully submitted,

      "---- ----,

      "Cadet ----, Co. ----, ---- Class.

      "To the Commandant of Cadets."

Cadets usually hand in explanations, though the explanations are not
always deemed satisfactory.

Reports are made by the army officers, and also by cadets themselves,
file closers, section marchers and others. It was in this last fact that
Bull Harris and his friend Murray saw their chance.

It very seldom happens that a cadet reports another except where the
report is deserved; a man who does otherwise soon gets into trouble. But
Bull and his gang saw no obstacle in that; most of them were always
head over heels in demerits themselves, including Murray--though he was
a "cadet-corporal." Being thus, and in consequent danger of expulsion,
they were reckless of possible trouble. And besides, Bull had sworn to
haze that plebe, and he meant to do it.

The plan in brief was simply this: Mark Mallory must be demerited right
and left, everywhere and upon every possible pretext, just or
unjust--and that was all. The thing has been done before; there is talk
of doing it whenever a colored lad is admitted to the Point. And Murray
was the man to do it, too, because he had just been transferred and put
"on duty over plebes." It was only necessary to give one hundred
demerits. One hundred demerits is a ticket of leave without further
parley or possibility of return.

CHAPTER XXI.

A MILD ATTEMPT AT HAZING.

If Cadet Corporal Murray had any doubts about the necessity for putting
this very dirty scheme into practice, or if his not over squeamish
conscience was the least bit troubled by the prospect, something
happened that same evening which effectually squelched such ideas. It
was after supper, during half an hour of so-called "rest," which is
allowed to the over-drilled plebe. Mr. Murray, in whose manly breast
still burned a fire of rage at the insult which "B. J." Dewey had
offered him, resolved in his secret heart that that same insult must and
should be avenged. That evening he thought an especially favorable time,
for Dewey was still an "invalid," as a result of his last B. J. effort.

With this purpose in view, Cadet Murray stole away from his companions
and set out for barracks, around which the luckless plebes were
clustered. Arriving there, he hunted; he spent quite a while in hunting,
for the object of his search was nowhere to be seen. He caught sight of
Mark and his "gang," but Dewey was not among them. When he did find him
at last it was a good way from that place--way up on Flirtation Walk;
and then Cadet Murray got down to business at once.

"Look a here, B. J. beast!" he called.

The object of this peremptory challenge turned, as also did his
companion, the terrified Indian--once more about to be hazed. The two
stared at the yearling; a lady and gentleman passing glanced at him
also, probably wondering what was in store for the luckless plebes; and
then they passed on, leaving the place lonely, and deserted, just the
spot for the proposed work. So thought the yearling, as he rubbed his
hands gleefully and spoke again.

"Beast!" said he, "I want to tell you that you were very impudent to me
to-day!"

"Strange coincidence!" cried Dewey, with one of his merry laughs.
"Reminds me of a story I once heard, b'gee. Two old farmers got stuck in
a snowdrift--five feet deep, and getting deeper. Says one of 'em, b'gee,
'It's c-c-c-cold!' 'B'gee!' cried the other. 'B'gee, naow ain't that
pecooliar! Jes' exactly what I was goin' to say myself, b'gee!'"

Cadet Murray listened to this blithe recital with a frowning brow.

"You think that's funny, don't you!" he sneered.

"No, b'gee!" laughed Dewey, "because I didn't write it. 'Nother fellow
told me that--the queerest chap I think I ever knew, he was. Had a
mother-in-law that used to----"

"Shut up!" cried Murray, in anger, seeing that he was being "guyed."

"B'gee!" cried Dewey, "that's just what she didn't!"

There was an ominous silence after that, during which the yearling
glared angrily, and Indian muttered "Bless my soul!"

"It's quite evident," began the former, at last, "that you are inclined
to be fresh."

"Ink-lined to be fresh," added Dewey, "as the stamped egg remarked when
it was dated three days after it was laid. That's another far-fetched
joke, though. Still I've heard some more far-fetched than that--one a
friend of mine read on an Egyptian pyramid and brought home to tell for
new. Queer fellow that friend of mine was, too. He didn't have a
mother-in-law, this one, but he slept in a folding bed, and, b'gee, that
bed used to shut up oftener than the mother-in-law didn't. Handsome
bed, too--an inlaid bed--and it shut up whenever it was laid in, b'gee."

Dewey could have prattled on at this merry rate for an hour, for he knew
more jokes--good ones--and could make up more bad ones on the spur of
the moment than half a dozen ordinary mortals. But he was brought to a
sudden halt just then, and muttered a suppressed "B'gee!" For the
yearling, wild with anger, leaped forward and aimed a savage blow at his
head.

The plebe ducked; he was quick and agile in body as he was in mind. And
then as the big cadet aimed another blow, he put up his one well
arm--the other was in a sling--and defended himself to the best of his
ability, at the same time calling Indian to his aid.

But before there was time for another move something else happened.
Dewey was debating whether discretion were not really the whole of
valor, and whether it were not better to "run away and live to fight--or
run away--some other day;" and Indian was actually doubling up his fat
little fists about to strike the first blow in his fat little life; when
suddenly came a shout behind them, and a moment later a strong hand
seized the advancing yearling by the back of his collar and flung him
head first to the ground.

Cadet Murray sprang to his feet again and turned purple with rage and
soiled with dirt, to confront the stalwart form of Mark, and Mark
rubbing his hands together and smiling cheerfully.

"Will you have any more?" he inquired, politely. "Step right up if you
will--and by the way, stop that swearing."

"A very timely arrival," remarked Dewey, smoothing his jacket. "Very
timely, b'gee! Reminds me----"

"Bless my soul!" cried Indian.

"Going, are you?" put in Mark, as the discomfited Murray started to
slink away. "Well, good-evening. I've had my satisfaction for being
called a coward by you."

"You shall pay for this," the furious cadet muttered. "Pay for it as
sure as I'm alive!"

His threat was taken lightly by the plebes; they had little idea of what
he meant when he spoke. And they were chatting merrily about the
adventure as they turned and made their way back to barracks.

"It only goes to show," was Mark's verdict, "that an alliance is a
first-rate idea. I saw that fellow prowling around barracks and I knew
right away what he was up to. We've one more enemy, that's all."

That was not all, by a good sight. The angry yearling hurried back to
camp, nursing his feelings as he went; there he poured out the vials of
his wrath into the ears of his two sympathetic companions, Bull and the
Baby. And the three of them spent the rest of that evening, up to
tattoo, discussing their revenge, thinking up a thousand pretexts upon
which Cadet Mallory might be "skinned." There was a bombshell scheduled
to fall into the midst of the "alliance" the next day.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE BOMBSHELL FALLS.

Nothing happened that evening; Mark and his friends passed their time in
serene unconsciousness of any danger, merrily discussing the latest
hazing effort of the enemy. Bull Harris and his crowd did not put in
appearance, or try to put their plot into execution, for the simple
reason that there was no chance. The first "whack," so to speak, was
scheduled for the A. M. inspection the next day. The only inspection at
night is made by a "tac"--a practical officer--who goes the rounds with
a dark lantern after taps to make sure that no plebes have been run away
with.

Reveille and roll call the next morning passed without incident, except
that Cadet Mallory was reported "late" at the latter function; the
charge being true, no suspicions were awakened. After that came the
march to mess hall, the plebe company, which was by this time able to
march presentably though rather stiffly, falling in behind the rest of
the corps. During that march "File Closer" Vance had occasion to rebuke
Cadet Mallory for loud talking in ranks. It hadn't been loud, at least
not very loud, but Mark swallowed it and said nothing.

Breakfast passed without incident, and the plebes were marched back to
barracks, there breaking ranks, and scattering to quarters to "spruce
up" for inspection. Mark and Texas, who shared the same room, lost no
time in getting to work at the sweeping and dusting and arranging.

It seems scarcely necessary to say that there are no chambermaids at
West Point. Cadets do their own room cleaning, "policing," as it is
called, and they do it well, too. A simpler, barer place than a room in
barracks it would be hard to imagine. Bare white walls--no pictures
allowed--and no wall paper--a black fireplace, a plain table, an iron
bedstead, a washstand, two chairs, and a window is about the entire
inventory. And every article in that room must be found placed with
mathematical precision in just such a spot and no other. There is a
"bluebook"--learned by heart--to tell where; and there are penalties for
every infringement. Demerits are the easiest things in the world to
get; enough might be given at one inspection to expel.

The signal, dreaded like poison by all plebes, that the time for
inspection has come, is a heavy step in the hall and a single tap upon
the door. It came that morning while the two victims-to-be were still
hard at work. In accordance with orders each sprang up, stood at
attention--heels together, head up, eyes to the front, chest out,
etc.--and silently awaited developments.

Mark gasped for breath when he saw who it was that entered; Cadet
Corporal Jasper had been transferred and the man who was to do the work
this time was none other than Murray, next to Bull Harris, Mark's
greatest enemy on earth.

Cadet Murray looked handsome in his spotless uniform of gray and white,
with his chevrons of gold; he strode in with a stern and haughty look
which speedily changed to one of displeasure as he gazed about him at
the room. He took a rapid mental count of the possible charges he could
make; and then glanced up at the name which is posted on the wall,
telling who is "room orderly" for the week--and so responsible for the
faults. It was Mallory, and the yearling could scarcely hide a smile of
satisfaction.

"You plebes have had nearly two weeks now," he began, frowning with
well-feigned displeasure, "in which to learn to arrange your rooms. The
disorder which I see shows not only carelessness but actual
insubordination. And I propose to make an example of you two for once
and for all."

The two victims were expected to say nothing; and they said it. But Mark
did a pile of thinking and his heart sank as he realized what his enemy
might do if he chose. It is possible to find a thousand faults in the
most perfect work if one only hunts long enough and is willing to split
hairs.

Cadet Corporal Murray took out a notebook and pencil with obvious
meaning.

"In the first place," said he, "where should that broom be? Behind the
door, should it not? Why is it not? I find that your bedding is piled
carelessly, very carelessly. The blanket is not evenly folded; moreover,
the bluebook states particularly that the blanket is to be placed at the
bottom of the pile. You may see that it is not so. Why, Mr. Mallory, I
do not think it has ever happened to me to find a room so utterly
disorderly, or a cadet so negligent! Look at that bluebook; it belongs
upon the mantelpiece, and I see it on the bed----"

"I was reading it," put in Mark, choking down his anger by a violent
effort.

And as he spoke the corporal's face grew sterner yet.

"In the first place, sir," said he, "you have no business to be reading
while awaiting inspection, and you know it--though I must say a more
frequent study of that book would save you much trouble. In the second
place, you are not expected to answer under such circumstances; the
proper thing for you to do is to hand in the explanation to the
authorities, and you know that, too. I am sent here to notice and report
delinquencies and not to argue about them with you. I regret now that I
shall be obliged to mention the fact that you remonstrated with an
officer during inspection, a most serious charge indeed."

And Cadet Corporal Murray made another note in his book, chuckling
inwardly as he did it.

"What next?" thought the two plebes.

There was lots more. The yearling next stepped over to the mantelpiece
and ran his finger, with its spotless white glove, along the inner
edge. Texas had rubbed that mantel fiercely; yet, to get it so clean as
not to soil the glove was almost impossible, and so the corporal first
held up the finger to show the mark of dirt and then--wrote down "dust
on mantel."

There is no need to tell the rest in detail, but simply to say that
while Mark and his roommate gazed on in blank despair, their jubilant
enemy made out a list of at least a dozen charges, which he knew would
aggregate to at least half of the demerit maximum, and for every one of
which there was some slight basis of justification. The yearling was
shrewd enough to suspect this fact would prevent their being excused,
for he did not think that Mark would sign his name to a lie in his
explanation.

The disastrous visit was closed with a note--"floor unswept"--because
three scraps of paper were observed peering out from under the table;
and then without another word the cadet turned on his heel and marched
out of the room. And Mark and Texas stood and stared at each other in
utter and abject consternation.

It was a minute at least before either of them spoke; they were both
too dumfounded. The bombshell had struck, and had brought ruin in its
path. Mark knew now what was the power of his enemies; knew that he was
gone. For with such a weapon as the one the cowardly Murray had struck
his dismissal was the matter of a week or less. Already he was more than
halfway to expulsion; already the prize for which he had fought so long
and so hard was slipping from his grasp. And all on account of a
cowardly crowd he had made his enemies because he had been strong and
manly enough to do what he knew was right.

It was a cruel fact and Mark felt pretty bitter toward West Point just
then. As for Texas, his faithful friend and roommate, Texas said not one
word; but he went to the chimney, up which he had hidden his sixteen
revolvers for safety, calmly selected two of the biggest, and having
examined the cartridges, tucked them safely away in his rear pockets.
Then he sat down on the bed and gave vent to a subdued "Durnation!"

About this same time Cadet Corporal Murray, having handed in his reports
at headquarters, was racing joyfully back to camp, there to join his
friend, Bull Harris, with a shout of victory.

"Rejoice! Rejoice!" he cried, slapping his chum on the back. "We've got
him! I soaked him for fifty at least!"

CHAPTER XXIII.

IN THE SHADOW OF DISMISSAL.

The rest of that day passed without incident. Mark managed after a good
deal of trouble to postpone Texas' hunting trip; and the two struggled
on through the day's drills disconsolately, waiting to see what would
happen next.

Evening came, and the plebes being lined up in barracks area the roll
was called, the "orders" read, and then the reports of the day. The
cadet who did the reading rattled down the list in his usual hurried,
breathless style. But when he came to M he paused suddenly; he gazed at
the list incredulously, then cleared his throat, took a long foreboding
breath and began:

"Mallory--Late at roll call.

"Same--Laughing loud in ranks.

"Same--Bedding improperly arranged at A. M. inspection.

"Same--Broom out of place at A. M. inspection.

"Same--Remonstrating with superior officer at A. M. inspection."

And so the cadet officer went on, the whole plebe class listening with
open-eyed amazement while one charge after another was rattled off, and
gazing out of the corners of their eyes at the object of the attack, who
stood and listened with a look of calm indifference upon his face.

The list was finished at last, when the listeners had about concluded
that it was eternal; the rest of the reports were quickly disposed of,
and then: "Break ranks, march!" and the line melted into groups of
excited and eagerly talking cadets, discussing but one subject--the ruin
of Mallory.

Of course it was known to every one that this was simply one more effort
of the yearlings to subdue him; and loud were the threats and
expressions of disapproval. Mark's bravery in making a fight for his
honor had won him the admiration of his class, and the class felt that
with his downfall came a return of the old state of affairs and the
complete subjection of the "beasts" once more.

There were jealous ones who rejoiced secretly, and there were timid ones
who declared that they had always said that Mallory was too B. J. to
last. But in the main there was nothing but genuine anger at the upper
classmen's "rank injustice," and wild talk of appealing to the
superintendent to bring it to a stop.

The utter consternation of the seven allies is left to the reader's
imagination. After the first shock of horror had passed the crowd had
sat down and made a calculation; they found fifty-five demerits due that
day, which, together with ten previously given, left thirty-five to go,
and then--why it made them sick to think of what would happen!

Having striven to realize this for half an hour, they got together and
swore a solemn oath, first, that if Mark were dismissed, a joint
statement of the reasons thereof, incidentally mentioning each and every
act of hazing done by the yearlings, naming principals, witnesses, time
and place, should be forwarded to the superintendent, signed by the six;
and second, that every yearling who gave a demerit should be "licked
until he couldn't stand up."

Texas also swore incidentally that he'd resign if Mark were "fired," and
take him down to Texas to make a cowboy of him. And after that there was
nothing to do but wait and pray--and clean up for next day's
inspection, a task at which the whole seven labored up to the very last
minute before tattoo.

It was the afternoon of the following day; the rays of a scorching July
sun beat down upon the post, and West Point seemed asleep. Up by Camp
McPherson the cadets were lounging about in idleness, and it was only
down at barracks that there was anything moving at all. Inside the area
the hot and shimmering pavement echoed to the tread of the plebe company
at drill; outside the street was deserted except for one solitary figure
with whom our story has to do. The figure was a cadet officer in
uniform, Captain Fischer, of the first class, resplendent in his
chevrons and sash.

He was marching down the street with the firm, quick step that is second
nature to a West Pointer; he passed the barracks without looking in and
went on down to the hospital building; and there he turned and started
to enter. The door opened just as he reached it, however, and another
cadet came out. The officer sprang forward instantly and grasped him by
the hand.

"Williams!" he cried. "Just the fellow I was coming to see. And what a
beautiful object you are!"

Williams smiled a melancholy smile; he was beautiful and he knew it. His
face was covered in spots with Greek crosses of court-plaster, and
elsewhere by startling red lumps. And he walked with a shy, retiring
gait that told of sundry other damages. Such were the remains of
handsome "Billy," all-round athlete and favorite of his class, defeated
hero.

Williams had waited scarcely long enough for this thought to flash over
the young officer before he spoke again, this time with some anxiety.

"Tell me! Tell me about Mallory! I hear they're skinning him on
demerits."

"Yes, they are," returned Fischer, "and they've soaked him twenty more
this morning!"

"Twenty more! Then how many has he?"

"Eighty-five."

"What!" cried Williams. "You don't mean it! Why, he'll be out in a week.
Say, Fischer, that's outrageous!"

"Perfectly outrageous!" vowed the officer.

And Williams brought his hand down on his knee with a bang.

"By George!" he cried, "I'm going around to see him about it!"

With which words he sprang down the stairs and, leaving the cadet
officer to gaze at him in surprise, hurried up the street to barracks.

Squad drill was just that moment over; without wasting any time about
it, Williams hurried into the building and made his way to Mallory's
room. He found the plebe, and got right to work to say what he had to
say.

"Mr. Mallory," he began, "I've come up in the first place to shake hands
with you, and to say there's no hard feeling."

"Thank you," said Mark, and his heart went with the grip of his hand.

"You made a good fight, splendid!" continued the yearling. "And some day
I'll be proud to be your friend."

"I'm afraid," returned Mark, with a sad smile, "that I'll not be here
that long."

"That's the second thing I've come to see you about," vowed Williams.
"Mr. Mallory, I want you to understand that the decent men of this
class don't approve of the work that Mur--er, I suppose you know who's
back of it. And I tell you right now that I'm going to stop it if it's
the last act I ever do on this earth!"

"I'm afraid it won't do much good," responded the other, shaking his
head. "I could never pass six months without getting fifteen demerits."

"It's a shame!" cried the other. "And you have worked for your
appointment, too."

"I have worked," exclaimed Mark, something choking his voice that
sounded suspiciously near a sob, "worked for it as I have never worked
for anything in my life. It has been the darling ambition of my heart to
come here. And I came--and now--and now----"

He stopped, for he could think of no more to say. Williams stood and
regarded him in silence for some moments, and then he took him by the
hand again.

"Mr. Mallory," said he, "just as sure as I'm alive this thing shall
stop! Keep up heart now, and we'll make a fight for it! While there's
life there's hope, they say--and, by Heaven, you shan't be expelled!"

The following evening, when the reports were read, Mark's list of
demerits had reached a total of ninety-five.

The excitement among plebes and cadets alike was intense, and it was
known far and wide that Mark Mallory, the "B. J." plebe, stood at last
"in the shadow of dismissal."

CHAPTER XXIV.

A LETTER.

      "MY DEAR FISCHER: I promised to drop you a line just
      to let you know how I'm getting along, though it does
      take a tremendous pile of energy to write a letter on
      a hot afternoon like this. I'm sure I shall go to
      sleep in the middle of it, and naturally, too, for
      even writing to you is enough to bore anybody. I can
      almost imagine you leaning over to whack at me in
      return for that compliment.

      "Well, I am home on furlough; and I don't know whether
      I wish I were back or not, for I fear that you will
      have cut me out on all the girls, especially since you
      are a high and mighty first captain this year.
      Speaking of girls, you just ought to be here. The
      girls at West Point are _blasé_ on cadets, for they
      see so many; but here a West Point officer is cock of
      the walk, and I have to fight a jealous rival once a
      week."

Cadet Captain Fischer dropped the letter at this stage of it and lay
back and laughed.

"Wicks Merritt's evidently forgotten I was on furlough once myself," he
said. "He's telling me all about how it goes."

"What's he got to say?" inquired Williams, the speaker's tentmate,
looking up from the gun he was cleaning.

"Oh, nothing much; only a lot of nonsense--jollying as usual. Wicks
always is."

And then Fischer picked up the letter again, and went on.

The two were seated near the door of a tent in "Company A Street," at
Camp McPherson. Fischer was lying in front of the tent "door," which was
open to admit the morning breeze that swept across the parade ground.
His friend sat over in an opposite corner and rubbed away.

There was silence of some minutes, broken only by the sound of the
polishing and the rustling of Fischer's paper. And then the latter spoke
again.

"Oh, say!" said he. "Here's something that'll interest you, Billy.
Something about your friend Mallory."

"Fire away," said Williams.

      "'By the way, when you answer this let me know
      something about my pet and _protégé_, future football
      captain of the West Point eleven. The last time I
      heard from where you are, Mark Mallory was raising
      Cain. I heard that he was a B. J. plebe for fair; that
      he'd set to work to make war on the yearlings, and had
      put them to rout in style; also, incidentally, that
      he was scheduled to fight Billy Williams, the
      yearling's pet athlete. Tell Billy I hope the plebe
      does him; tell him I say that if Mallory once whacks
      him on the head with that right arm of his he'll see
      more stars from the lick than the Lick telescope can
      show----'"

"Billy" broke in just then with a dismal groan.

"I don't know whether that's because of the pun," laughed Fischer, "or
because of your recollection of the blow. However, I'll proceed.

      "'Now, I don't care how much you fellows haze my
      Mallory; he's tough and he can stand it. He'll
      probably give you tit for tat every time, anyhow. But
      I do want to say this--watch out that nobody tries any
      foul play on him, skins him on demerits or reports him
      unfairly. Do me a favor and keep your eye out for
      that. Watch particularly Bull Harris, who is, I think,
      the meanest sneak in the yearling class, and also his
      chum, Gus Murray.

      "'I know it for a fact that Mallory caught Bull in a
      very dirty act about a month ago and knocked spots out
      of him for it. I can't tell you what the act was; but
      Bull has sworn vengeance and he'll probably try to get
      it, so watch for me. If you let Mallory get into
      trouble, mind what I say, I'll never forgive you as
      long as you live. I'll cut you out with Bessie Smith,
      who, they say, is your fair one at present. Mallory is
      a treasure, and when you know him as well as I you'll
      think so, too.'"

Cadet Captain Fischer dropped the letter, sat up, and stared at
Williams; and Williams stared back. There was disgust on the faces of
both.

"By George!" cried the latter at last, striking his gunstock in the
ground. "By George! we've let 'em do it already!"

And after that there was a silence of several unpleasant minutes, during
which each was diligently thinking over the situation.

"He's a fine fellow, anyway," continued Williams. "And we were a pack of
fools to let that Bull Harris gang soak him as we did. They've gone to
work and given him ninety-five demerits in a week on trumped-up charges.
And it's perfectly outrageous, that's what it is! The plebe's
confoundedly fresh, of course, but he's a gentleman for all that, and he
don't deserve one-quarter of the demerits he's gotten. The decent
fellows in the class ought to be ashamed of themselves."

"That's what I say! He only has to get five demerits more and then he's
fired for good."

"Which means," put in the officer, "that's he's sure to be fired by next
week."

"Exactly! And then what will Wicks say? I went over to barracks to see
Mallory about it yesterday; he's nearly heart-broken, for he's worked
like a horse to get here, and now he's ruined--practically expelled.
Yet, what can we do?"

"Can't he hand in explanations and get the demerits excused?" suggested
Fischer.

"No, because most of the charges had just enough basis of truth in them
to make them justifiable. I tell you I was mad when he told me about it;
I vowed I'd do something to stop it. Yet what on earth can I do? I can't
think of a thing except to lick that fellow Bull Harris and his crowd.
But what possible good will that do Mallory?"

"Mallory will probably do that himself," remarked Fischer, smiling for a
moment; his face became serious again as he continued. "I begin to agree
with you, Billy, about that thing. I've heard several tales about how
Mallory outwitted Bull in his hazing adventures, and the plebe's
probably made him mad. It's a dirty revenge Bull has taken, and I think
if it's only for Wicks' sake I'll put a stop to it."

"You!" echoed Williams. "Pray, how?"

"What am I a first captain for?" laughed Fischer. "Just you watch me and
see what I do! I can't take off the ninety-five, but I can see that he
don't get the other five, by Jingo! And I will do it for you, too!"

And with that, the cadet arose and strode out of the tent, leaving his
friend to labor at the gun in glum and disconsolate silence.

At the same time that Williams and Fischer were discussing the case of
this particularly refractory plebe, there were other cadets doing
likewise, but with far different sentiments and views. The cadets were
Bull Harris and his cronies.

They were sitting--half a dozen of them--beneath the shade trees of
Trophy Point at the northern end of the parade ground; they were waiting
for dinner, and the afternoon, which, being Saturday, was a holiday and
for which they had planned some particular delicious hazing adventure.

Foremost among them was Bull Harris himself, seated upon one of the
cannon. Beside him was Baby Edwards. Gus Murray sat on Bull's other side
and made up a precious trio.

Murray was laughing heartily at something just then, and the rest of the
crowd seemed to appreciate the joke immensely.

"Ho! ho!" said he. "Just think of it! After I had soaked the confounded
plebe for fifty and more, ho! ho! they got suspicious up at headquarters
and transferred me, and ho! ho! put M-m-merry Vance on instead, and he,
ho! ho! soaked him all the harder!"

And Gus Murray slapped his knee and roared at this truly humorous state
of affairs.

"Yes," chimed in Merry Vance. "Yes, I thought when Gus told me he'd been
transferred again that we'd lost our chance to skin Mallory for fair.
And the very next night up gets the adjutant and reads off the orders
putting me on duty over the plebes. Oh, gee! Did you ever hear the
like?"

"Never," commented Bull, grinning appreciatively.

"Never," chimed in Baby's little voice. "Positively never!"

"Tell us about it," suggested another. "What did you do?"

"Oh, nothing much," replied Vance. "I went up there at the A. M.
inspection, and I just made up my mind to give him twenty demerits, and
I did it, that's all. They had spruced up out of sight; but it didn't
take me very long to find something wrong, I tell you."

"I guess not!" agreed Baby.

"I gave him the twenty, as you saw; and say, you ought to have seen how
sick he looked! Ho! ho!"

And then the crowd indulged in another fit of violent hilarity.

"I guess," said Bull, when this had finally passed, "that we can about
count Mallory as out for good. He's only got five more demerits to run
before dismissal, and he'll be sure to get those in time, even if we
don't give 'em to him--which, by the way, I mean to do anyhow. But we'll
just parcel 'em one at a time just enough to keep him worried, hey?"

"That's it exactly!" commented the Baby.

"He deserves it every bit!" growled Bull. "He's the B. J.est 'beast'
that ever struck West Point. Why, we could never have a moment's peace
with that fellow around. We couldn't haze anybody. He stopped us half a
dozen times."

The sentiment was the sentiment of the whole gang; and they felt that
they had cause to be happy indeed. Their worst enemy had been disposed
of and a man might breathe freely once more. The crowd could think of
nothing to talk about that whole morning but that B. J. "beast" and his
ruin.

They found something, however, before many more minutes passed. Bull
chanced to glance over his shoulder in the direction of the camp.

"Hello!" he said. "Here comes Fischer."

"Good-afternoon, Mr. Fischer," said Bull.

"Good-afternoon," responded the officer, with obvious stiffness; and
then there was an awkward silence, during which he surveyed them in
silence.

"Mr. Harris," he said, at last, "I'd like to speak to you for a moment;
and Mr. Murray, and you, too, Mr. Vance."

The three stepped out of the group with alacrity, and followed Fischer
over to a seat nearby, while the rest of the gang stood and stared in
surprise, speculating as to what this could possibly mean.

The three with the officer were finding out in a hurry.

"I am told," began the latter, gazing at them, with majestic sternness,
"that you three are engaged in skinning a certain plebe----"

"Why, Mr. Fischer!" cried the three, in obvious surprise.

"Don't interrupt me!" thundered the captain in a voice that made them
quake, and that reached the others and made them quake, too.

"Don't interrupt me! I know what I am talking about. I was a yearling
once myself, and I'm a cadet still, and there's not the least use trying
to pull the wool over my eyes. I know there never yet was a plebe who
got fifty demerits in one day and deserved them."

The captain did not fail to notice here that the trio flushed and looked
uncomfortable.

"You all know, I believe," he continued, "just exactly what I think of
you. I've never hesitated to say it. Now, I want you to understand in
the first place that I know of this contemptible trick, and that also I
know the plebe, who's worth more than a dozen of you; and that if he
gets a demerit from any one of you again I'll make you pay for it as
sure as I'm alive. Just remember it, that's all!"

And with this, the indignant captain turned upon his heel, and strode
off, leaving the yearlings as if a bombshell had landed in their midst.

"Fischer's a confounded fool!" Bull Harris broke out at last.

"Just what he is!" cried the Baby. "I'd like to knock him over."

And after that there was silence again, broken only by the roll of a
drum that meant dinner.

"Well," was Bull's final word, as the crowd set out for camp, "it's
unfortunate, I must say. But it won't make the least bit of difference.
Mallory'll get his demerits sure as he's alive, and Fischer's
interference won't matter in the least."

"That's what!" cried the rest of them.

CHAPTER XXV.

A SWIMMING MATCH.

The manner in which the cadets dine has not as yet been described in
these pages; perhaps here is just as good a place as any to picture the
historic mess hall where Lee and Grant and Sherman once dined, and
toward which on that Saturday afternoon were marching not only the group
we have just left, but also the object of all their dislike, the B. J.
plebe who fell in behind the cadets as the battalion swung past
barracks.

The cadets march to mess hall; they march to every place they go as a
company. The building itself is just south of the "Academic" and
barracks; it is built of gray stone, and forcibly reminds the candid
observer of a jail. They tell stories at West Point of credulous
candidates who have "swallowed" that, and believed that the cadet
battalion was composed of disobedient cadets, about to be locked up in
confinement.

There is a flight of iron steps in the center, and at the foot of these
steps, three times every day, the battalion breaks ranks and dissolves
into a mob of actively bounding figures. Upon entering, the cadets do
not take seats, but stand behind their chairs, and await the order,
"Company A, take seats!" "Company B, take seats!" and so on. The plebes,
who, up to this time, are still a separate company, come last, as usual;
they are seated by themselves, at one side of the dining-room.

The tables seat twenty-two persons, ten on a side, and one at each end.
The cadets are placed according to rank, and they always sit in the same
seats. The tables are divided down the center by an imaginary line, each
part being a "table"; first class men sit near the head, and so on down
to the plebes, who find themselves at the center (that is, after they
have moved into camp, and been "sized" and assigned to companies; before
that they are "beasts," herded apart, as has been said).

The dinner is upon the table when the cadets enter; the corporals are
charged with the duty of carving, and the luckless plebe is expected to
help everybody to water upon demand, and eats nothing until that duty
has been attended to. After the meal, for which half an hour is allowed,
the command, "Company A, rise!" and so on, is the signal to leave the
table and fall into line again on the street outside. This, however,
does not take place until a lynx-eyed "tac" has gone the rounds, making
notes--"So-and-so, too much butter on plate." "Somebody else, napkin not
properly folded," and so on. This ceremony over, the battalion marches
back to camp, a good half mile, in the broiling sun or pouring rain, as
the case may be.

That Saturday afternoon being a hot one, and a holiday, our friends of
the last chapter, Bull Harris and his gang, sought out an occupation in
which fully half the cadets at the post chanced to agree; they went in
swimming, a diversion which the superintendent sees fit to allow. "Gee's
Point," on the Hudson, is within the government property, and thither
the cadets gather whenever the weather is suitable.

That particular party included Bull and Baby (who didn't swim, but liked
to watch Bull), Gus Murray, Vance and the rest of their retainers. And,
on the way, they passed the time by discussing their one favorite topic,
their recent triumph over "that B. J. beast." There was a new phase of
the question they had to speculate upon now, and that was what the
"beast" could possibly have done to move to such unholy wrath so
important a personage as the senior captain of the Battalion. Also,
they were interested in trying to think up a method by which those extra
demerits might be speedily given without incurring the wrath of that
officer. Though each one of the yearlings was ready, even anxious, to
explain that he wasn't the least bit afraid of him.

"I tell you," declared Bull, "he couldn't prove anything against us if
he tried. It's all one great bluff of Fischer's, and he's a fool to act
as he did."

"I'd a good mind to tell him as much!" assented Baby.

"It won't make any difference," put in Murray, "we'll soak the plebe,
anyhow. We can easily give him five demerits in short order, and without
attracting any attention, either."

"He's out, just as sure as he's alive!" laughed Bull. "We wouldn't need
to do a thing more."

"Exactly!" cried the echo. "Not a thing!"

"All the same," continued the other, "I wish we could get up a scheme to
get him in disgrace, so as to clinch it. I wish we could----"

Just here Bull was interrupted by a sudden exclamation from Murray.
Murray had brought his hand against his knee with a whack, and there
was a look of inspiration upon his face.

"Great Cæsar!" he cried, "I've got it!"

"Got it! What?"

"A scheme! A scheme to do him!"

"What is it?"

"Write him a letter, or something--get him to leave barracks at
night--have a sentry catch him beyond limits, or else we'll report him
absent! Oh, say!"

The crowd were staring at each other in amazement, a look of delight
spreading over their faces, as the full possibilities of this same
inspiration dawned upon them.

"By the lord!" cried Bull, at last. "Court-martial him! That's the
ticket!"

"Shake on it!" responded Murray.

In half a minute the gang had sworn to put that plan into execution
within the space of twenty-four hours. And after that they hurried on
down to the point to go in swimming.

"Speak of angels," remarked Murray, "and they flap their wings. There's
the confounded plebe now."

"Of angels!" sneered Vance. "Of devils, you mean."

"By George!" muttered Bull. "You can't phaze that fellow. I thought
he'd be up in barracks, moping, to-day!"

"Probably wants to put up a bluff as if he don't care," was the clever
suggestion of the Baby. "I bet he's sore as anything!"

"I told him I'd make him the sickest plebe in the place," growled Bull,
"and I'll bet he is, too."

The yearling would have won his bet; there was probably no sadder man in
West Point than Mark Mallory just then, even though he did not choose to
let his enemies know it.

"Look at him dive!" sneered Baby, watching him with a malignant frown.
"He wants to show off."

"Pretty good dive," commented a bystander, who was somewhat more
disinterested.

"Good, your grandmother!" cried the other. "Why, I could beat that
myself if I knew how to swim!"

And then he wondered why the crowd laughed.

"Come on, let's go in ourselves," put in Bull, anxious to end his small
friend's discomfort. "Hurry up, there!"

The crowd had turned away, to follow their leader in his suggestion;
they were by no means anxious to swell the number of those who had
gathered for the obvious purpose of watching Mark Mallory's feats as a
swimmer. In fact, they couldn't see why anybody should want to watch a
B. J. beast, and a "beast" who had only a day or two more to stay, at
that.

Just then, however, a cry from the crowd attracted their attention, and
made them turn hastily again.

"A race! A race!"

And Bull Harris cried out with vexation, as he wheeled and took in the
situation.

"By the Lord!" he cried. "Did you ever hear of such a B. J. trick in
your life? The confounded plebe is going to race with Fischer!"

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE FINISH OF A RACE.

So it was; certain of the cadets, being piqued at the evident
superiority which that B. J. Mallory (his usual title by this time) had
displayed in the water, had requested their captain to take him down.
The "captain" had good-naturedly declared that he was willing to try;
and the shout that attracted Bull's attention was caused by the plebe's
ready assent to the proposition for an impromptu race.

"Fischer ought to be ashamed of himself, to have anything to do with
him!" was Bull Harris' angry verdict. "I almost hope the plebe beats
him."

"I don't!" vowed Murray, emphatically. "Let's hurry up, and see it."

The latter speaker suited the action to the word; Bull followed,
growling surlily.

"Look at that gang of plebes!" he muttered. "They're the ones who helped
Mallory take away the fellow we were hazing; they think they're right in
it, now."

"Yes," chimed in Baby. "And see that fellow, Texas, making a fool of
himself."

"That fellow Texas" was "making a fool of himself" by dancing about in
wild excitement, and raising a series of cowboy whoops in behalf of his
friend, and of plebes in general.

"There they are, ready to go!" cried Murray, betraying some excitement.

"I wish the confounded plebe'd never come up again!" growled Bull, in
return, striving hard to appear indifferent.

"I bet Fischer'll do him!" exclaimed the Baby. "He swims like a fish.
Say, they're going to race to that tree way down the river. Golly, but
that's a long swim!"

"Long nothing!" sneered Vance. "I could swim that a dozen times. But,
say, they'll finish in the rain; look at that thunderstorm coming!"

In response to this last remark, the crowd cast their eyes in the
direction indicated. They found that the prediction seemed likely to be
fulfilled. To the north, up the Hudson, dense, black clouds already
obscured the sky, and a strong, fresh breeze, that smelled of rain, was
springing up from thence, and making the swimmers shiver apprehensively.

The preparation for the race went on, however; nobody cared for the
storm.

"Gee whiz!" cried the Baby, in excitement. "Won't it be exciting! I
don't mind the rain. I'm going to run down along the shore, and watch
it! Hooray!"

"Rats!" growled Bull, angrily. "I don't care about any old race. I'm
going to keep dry, let me tell you!"

Even the damper of his idol's displeasure could not change Master
Edwards' mind, however; he and nearly the whole crowd with him made a
dash down the shore for a vantage point to see the finish.

"There! They're off!"

The cry came a moment later, as the two lightly-clad figures stepped to
the mark from which they were to start.

They were about of one size, magnificently proportioned, both of them,
and the race bid fair to be a close one.

"Ready?" called the starter, in a voice that rang down the shore.

"Yes," responded Mark, and at the same moment a heavy cloud swept under
the sun, and the air grew dark and chilly. The wind increased to a
gale, blowing the spray before it; and then----

"Go!" called the starter.

The two dived as one figure; both took the water clean and low, with no
perceptible splash; two heads appeared a moment later, forging ahead
side by side; a cheer from the cadets arose, that drowned, for a moment,
the roars of the storm; and the race was on.

It is remarkable how closely nature follows a rule in her most perfect
work; here were two figures, built by her a thousand miles apart, racing
there, and each striving with might and main, yet the sum total of the
energy that each was able to expend so nearly alike that yard by yard
they struggled on, without an inch of difference between them.

"Fischer! Fischer!" rose the shouts of the cadets.

"Mallory! Mallory!" roared the excited plebes, backed up by an
occasional "Wow!" in the stentorian tones of the mighty Texan, who, by
this time, was on the verge of epilepsy.

Onward went the two heads, still side by side, seeming to creep through
the water at a snail's pace to the excited partisans on the shore. But
it was no snail's pace to the two in the water; each was struggling in
grim earnestness, putting into every stroke all the power that was in
him. Neither looked at the other; but each could tell, from the cries of
the cadets, that his opponent was pressing him closely.

Nearer and nearer they came to the far distant goal; higher and higher
rose the shouts:

"Fischer! Fischer!" "Mallory! Mallory!" "He's got him!" "No." "Hooray!"

"Gee! but it is exciting," screamed Baby. "Go it, Fischer! Do him!"

"And I wish that confounded 'beast' was in Hades!" snarled Bull, whose
hatred of Mark was deeper, and more malignant than that of his friend.

"I believe I could kill him!"

During all this excitement the storm had been sweeping rapidly up, its
majesty unnoticed in the excitement of the race. Far up the Hudson could
be seen a driving cloud of rain; and the wind had risen to a hurricane,
while the air grew dark and chill.

The race was at its most exciting stage--the finish, and the cadets were
dancing about, half in a frenzy, yelling incoherently, at the two still
struggling lads, when some one, nobody knew just who, chanced to glance
for one brief instant up the river. A moment later a cry was heard that
brought the race to a startling and unexpected close.

"Look! look! The sailboat!"

The cry sounded even above the roar of the storm and the shouts of the
crowd. The cadets turned in alarm and gazed up the river. What they saw
made them forget that such a thing as a race ever existed.

Right in the teeth of the wind, in the center of the river, was a small
catboat, driven downstream, before the gale, with the speed of a
locomotive. In the boat was one person, and the person was a girl. She
sat in the stern, waving her hands in helpless terror, and even as the
spectators stared, the boat gibed with terrific violence, and a volume
of water poured in over the gunwale.

The crowd was thrown into confusion; a babel of excited voices arose,
and the race was forgotten in an instant.

The racers were not slow to notice it; both of them turned to gaze
behind them, and to take in the situation.

"Help! Help!" called a faint voice from the distant sailboat.

Help! Who was there to help? There was not a boat in sight; the cadets
were running up and down in confusion, hunting for one in vain. They
were like a nest of frightened ants, without a leader, skurrying this
way and that, and only contributing to the general alarm. The girl
herself could do nothing, and so it seemed as if help were far away,
indeed.

There was one person in the crowd, however, who kept his head in the
midst of all that confusion. And the person was Mark. Exhausted though
he was by his desperate swim, he did not hesitate an instant. Before the
amazed cadet captain at his side could half comprehend his intention, he
turned quickly in the water, and, with one powerful stroke, shot away
toward the center of the stream.

The cadets on the shore scarcely knew whether to cry out in horror, or
to cheer the act they saw. They caught one more glimpse of the catboat
as it raced ahead before the gale; they saw the gallant plebe struggling
in the water.

And then the storm struck them in its fury. A blinding sheet of driving
rain, that darkened the air and drove against the river, and rose again
in clouds of spray; a gale that lashed the water into fury; and darkness
that shut out the river, and the boat, and the swimmer, and left nothing
but a humbled group of shivering cadets.

CHAPTER XXVII.

WHAT MARK DID.

The surprise of the helpless watchers on the shore precludes
description. They knew that out upon that seething river a tragedy was
being enacted; but the driving rain made a wall about them--they could
not aid, they could not even see. They stood about in groups, and
whispered, and listened, and strained their eyes to pierce the mist.

Mark's friends were wild with alarm; and his enemies--who can describe
their feelings?

A man has said that it is a terrible thing to die with a wrong upon
one's soul; but that it is agony to see another die whom you have
wronged, to know that your act can never be atoned for now. That there
is one unpardonable sin to your account on the records of eternity. That
was how the yearlings felt; and even Bull Harris, ruffian though he was,
trembled slightly about the lips.

The storm itself was one of those which come but seldom. Nature's mighty
forces flung loose in one giant cataclysm. It came from the north, and
it had a full sweep down the valley of the Hudson, pent in and focused
to one point by the mountains on each side. It tore the trees from the
tops as it came; it struck the river with a swish, and beat the water
into foam. It flung the raindrops in gusts against it, and caught them
up in spray and whirled them on; and this, to the echoing crashes of the
thunder and the dull, lurid gleam of the lightning that played in the
rear.

One is silent at such times at that; the frightened cadets on the shore
would probably have stood in groups and trembled, and done nothing
through it all, had it not been for a cry that aroused them. Some one,
sharper eyed than the rest, espied a figure struggling in the water near
the shore. There was a rush for the spot, and strong arms drew the
swimmer in. It was Captain Fischer, breathless and exhausted from the
race.

He lay on the bank, panting for breath for a minute, and then raised
himself upon his arms.

"Where's Mallory?" he cried, his voice sounding faint and distant in the
roar of the storm.

"Out there," responded somebody, pointing.

"W-why don't somebody go help him?" gasped the other. "He'll drown!"

"Don't know where to go to," answered the first speaker, shaking his
head.

Fischer sank back, too exhausted, himself, to move.

"He'll drown! He'll drown!" he muttered. "He is tired to death from the
race."

And after that there was another anxious wait, every one hesitating,
wondering if there were any use venturing into the tossing water.

The storm was one that came in gusts; its first minute's fury past,
there was a brief let up in its violence, and the darkness that the
black clouds had brought with them yielded to the daylight for a while.
During that time those on the shore got one brief glimpse of a startling
panorama.

The boat was sighted first, still skimming along before the gale, but
obviously laboring with the water she had shipped. The frightened
occupant was still in the stern, clinging to the gunwale with terror.
There was a shout raised when the boat was noticed, and all eyes were
bent upon it anxiously. Then some one, chancing a glance down the river
below, caught a glimpse of a moving head.

"There's Mallory!" he cried. "Hooray!"

There was Mallory, and Mallory was swimming desperately, as the crowd
could dimly see. For the boat he was aiming at was just a little farther
out in the stream than he, and bearing swiftly down upon him. Whatever
happened must happen with startling rapidity, and the crowd knew it, and
forebore to shout--almost to breathe.

The boat plunged on; the swimmer fairly leaped through the waves. Nearer
it came, nearer--up to him--past him! No! For, as it seemed, the bow
must cleave his body, the body was seen to leap forward with it. He had
caught the boat! And a wild cheer burst from the spectators.

"He's safe! He's safe!"

But the cheer, as it died out, seemed to catch in their throats, and to
change into a gasp of suspense, and then of horror.

Mallory had clung to the bow for a moment, as if too exhausted to move.
His body, half submerged, had cut a white furrow in the water, drawn on
by the plunging boat. Then the girl, in an evil moment, released her
hold and sprang forward to help him. She caught his arm, and he flung
himself upon the boat.

And then came the crash.

Leaning to one side, with the sudden weight, the boat half turned, and
then gibed with terrific violence. The great boom swung around like a
giant club, driven by the pressure of the wind upon the vast surface of
the sail. The watchers gave a half-suppressed gasp, Mallory was seen to
put out his arm, and the next instant the blow was struck.

It hit the girl with a crash that those on shore thought they heard; it
flung her far out into the water, and almost at the same instant Mallory
was seen to leap out in a low, quick dive. Then, as if the scene was
over, and the book shut, the rain burst out again in its fury, and the
darkness of the raging storm shut it all out.

This time there could be no mistaking duty; the cadets knew now where
the struggling pair were, and they had no reason to hesitate. First to
move was one of a group of six anxious plebes, who had been waiting in
agony; it was Texas, and the spectators saw him plunge into the water
and vanish in the driving rain. Then more of that crowd followed him;
Fischer, too, sprang up, exhausted though he was, and in the end there
were at least a dozen sturdy lads swimming with all their might toward
the spot where Mallory had been seen to leap.

They were destined, however, to do but little good; so we shall stay by
those upon the shore.

The weakening of Bull Harris' followers has been mentioned; it increased
as the plebe's self-sacrificing daring was shown.

"He certainly is spunky," one of the crowd ventured to mutter, as he
shivered and watched. "I hope he gets ashore."

And Bull turned upon him with a savage oath.

"You fool!" he cried. "You confounded fool! If he does, I could kill
him! Kill him! Do you hear me?"

There are some natures like that. Have you read the tale of
Macauley's?--

    "How brave Horatius held the bridge
    In the good old days of yore."

There was just such a hero then battling with the waves as now--

    "Curse him!" cried false Sextus.
    "Will not the villain drown?"

And on the other hand--

    "Heaven help him," quoth Spurius Laritus,
    "And bring him safe to shore!
    For such a gallant feat of arms
    Has ne'er been seen before."

There were few of Bull's crowd as hardened in their hatred as was he;
Murray was one, and the sallow Vance another. Baby Edwards followed
suit, of course. But, as for the rest of them, they were thinking.

"I don't care!" vowed one. "I'm sorry we've got him fired."

"Do you mean," demanded Bull, in amazement, "that you're not going to
keep the promise you made a while ago?"

"That's what I do!" declared the other, sturdily. "I think he deserves
to stay!"

And Bull turned away in alarm and disgust.

"Fools!" he muttered to himself. "Fools!" and gritted his teeth in rage.
"I hope he's never seen again."

It seemed as if that might happen; the cadets during all this time had
been standing out in the driving rain, striving to pierce the darkness
of the storm. From the river came an occasional shout from some one of
the rescue party; but no word from the plebe or the girl.

Once the watchers caught sight of a figure swimming in; it proved to be
Fischer once more. The cadets had rushed toward him with sudden hope,
but he shook his head, sadly.

"Couldn't--couldn't find him," he panted, shaking the water from his
hair and shielding his face from the driving rain. "I was too tired to
stay long."

The storm swept by in a very short while. Violence such as that cannot
last long in anything. While the anxious cadets raced up and down the
shore, each striving to catch a glimpse of Mallory, the dark clouds
sailed past and the rain settled into an ordinary drizzle. The surface
of the white-capped river became visible then, and gradually the heads
of the swimmers came into view.

"There's Billy Williams!" was the cry. "And that's Texas, way over
there. Here's Parson Stanard! And Jones!"

And so on it went, but no Mallory. Those on the shore could not see him
and those in the river had no better luck. Most of them had begun to
give up in despair, when the long-expected cry did come. For Mark was
not dead by a long shot.

A shout came from a solitary straggler far down the stream, and the
straggler was seen to plunge into the water. Those on the shore made a
wild dash for the spot and those in the water struck out for the shore
so as to join them. And louder at last swelled the glad cry.

"Here he is! Hooray!"

The plebe was about a hundred yards from the shore, and swimming weakly;
the girl, still unconscious, was floating upon her back--and her
rescuer, holding her by the arms--was slowly towing her toward the
shore.

A dozen swam out to aid him as soon as he was seen; strong arms lifted
the girl and bore her high upon the bank, others supporting the
half-fainting plebe to a seat.

"Is she dead?" was Mark's first thought, as soon as he could speak at
all.

"I don't know," said Fischer, chafing the girl's hands and watching for
the least sign of life. "Somebody hustle up for the doctor there!
Quick!"

Several of the cadets set out for the hospital at a run; and the rest
gathered about the two and offered what help they could.

"It's Judge Fuller's daughter," said Fischer, who was busily dosing the
unconscious figure with a flask of reddish liquid surreptitiously
produced by one of the cadets.

"Do you know her?" inquired Mark, in surprise.

"Know her!" echoed half the bystanders at once. "Why, she lives just
across the river!"

"That's an ugly looking wound on the head there," continued Fischer,
bending over the prostrate form. "Gosh! but that boom must have struck
her. And here, Mallory," he added, "you'd best take a taste of this
brandy. You look about dead yourself."

"No, I thank you," responded Mark, smiling weakly. "I'm all right. Only
I'm glad it's all over and----"

Mark got no farther; as if to mock his words came a cry that made the
crowd whirl about and look toward the river in alarm.

"Help! Help!"

"By George!" cried Fischer, "it's one of the fellows!"

"It's Alan!" shouted Mark. "Alan Dewey!"

And before any one could divine his intention he sprang up and made a
dash for the river. For Mark knew how Dewey had come there; he had swum
out, cripple though he was, to hunt for him; and with his one well arm,
poor gallant Dewey was finding trouble in getting back.

Mark had been quick, but Fischer was a bit too quick for him and seized
him by the arm.

"Come back here!" he commanded, sternly. "And don't be a fool. You're
near dead. Some of you fellows swim out and tow that plebe in."

Half a dozen had started without being asked; and Mark's overzealous
friend was grabbed by the hair and arms and feet and rushed in in great
style. He came up smiling as usual.

"Got out too far, b'gee!" he began. "Very foolish of me! Reminds me of a
story I once heard---- Oh, say!"

This last explanation came as the speaker caught sight of the figure of
the young girl; and his face lost its smile on the instant.

"She's alive, isn't she?" he cried.

"Don't know," said Fischer. "Here comes the doctor now."

"Well, she certainly is a beautiful girl!" responded Dewey, shaking his
head. "B'gee, we don't want that kind to die!"

The doctor was coming on a run; and a minute later he was kneeling
beside the young girl's body.

"Jove!" he muttered. "Almost a fractured skull! No, she's alive! See
here, who got her out?"

"Mr. Mallory," responded the captain, turning toward where Mark had sat.
And then he gave vent to a startled exclamation.

"Good heavens! He's fainted! What's the matter?"

"Fainted?" echoed the surgeon, as he noticed the young man's white lips
and bloodless cheek. "Fainted! I should say so! Why, he's almost as near
dead as she! We must take him to the hospital."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MARK MEETS THE SUPERINTENDENT.

"Yes, colonel, the lad is a hero, and I want to tell him so, too!"

The speaker was a tall, gray-haired gentleman, and he whacked his cane
on the floor for emphasis as he spoke.

"It was a splendid act, sir, splendid!" he continued. "And I want to
thank Mark Mallory for it right here in your office."

The man he addressed wore the uniform of the United States army; he was
Colonel Harvey, the superintendent of the West Point Academy.

"I shall be most happy to have you do so," he replied, smiling at this
visitor's enthusiasm. "You have certainly," he added, "much to thank the
young man for."

"Much!" echoed the other. "Much! Why, my dear sir, if that daughter of
mine had been drowned I believe it would have killed me. She is my only
child, and, if I do say it myself, sir, the sweetest girl that ever
lived."

"Wasn't it rather reckless, judge," inquired the other, "for you to
allow her to go sailing alone?"

"She is used to the boat," responded Judge Fuller, "but no one on earth
could have handled it in such a gale. I do not remember to have seen
such a one in all the time I have lived up here."

"Nor I, either," said the superintendent. "It was so dark that I could
scarcely see across the parade ground. It is almost miraculous that
Mallory should have succeeded in finding the boat as he did."

"Tell me about it," put in the other. "I have not been able to get a
consistent account yet."

"Cadet Captain Fischer told me," responded the colonel. "It seems that
he and Mallory were just at the finish of a swimming race when the storm
broke. They caught sight of the boat with your daughter in it coming
down stream. The plebe turned, exhausted though he was, and headed for
it. It got so dark then that those on shore could scarcely see; but the
lad managed to catch the boat as it passed and climbed aboard. Just then
the boom swung round and flung the girl into the water. Mallory dived
again at once----"

"Splendid!" interrupted the other.

"And swam ashore with her."

"And then fainted, they say," the judge added.

"Yes," said Colonel Harvey. "Dr. Grimes told me that it was one of the
worst cases of exhaustion he had ever seen. But the lad is doing well
now; he appears to be a very vigorous youngster--and I've an idea
several of the yearlings found that out to their discomfort. The doctor
told me that he thought he would be out this morning; the accident was
only two days ago."

"That is fortunate," responded the other. "The boy is too good to lose."

"He appears to be a remarkable lad generally," continued the
superintendent. "I have heard several tales about him. Some of the
stories came to me 'unofficially,' as we call it, and I don't believe
Mallory would rest easily if he thought I knew of them. Young Fischer,
who's a splendid man himself, I'll tell you, informed me yesterday that
the plebe had earned his admission fee by bringing help to a wrecked
train and telegraphing the account to a New York paper."

"I heard he had been in some trouble about demerits," put in Judge
Fuller.

"In very serious trouble. I had to take a very radical step to get him
out of it. Every once in a while I find that some new cadet is being
'skinned,' as the cadets call it, demerited unfairly. I always punish
severely when I find that out. In this case, though, I had no proof;
Mallory would say nothing, though he was within five demerits of
expulsion. So I decided to end the whole matter by declaring a new rule
I've been contemplating for some time. I've found that new cadets get
too many demerits during the first few weeks, before they learn the
rules thoroughly. So I've decided that in future no demerits shall be
given for the first three weeks, and that delinquencies shall be
punished by extra hours and other penalties. That let Mallory out of his
trouble, you see."

"A very clever scheme!" laughed the other. "Very clever!"

It may be of interest to notice that Colonel Harvey's rule has been in
effect ever since.

There was silence of a few moments after that, during which Judge Fuller
tapped the floor with his cane reflectively.

"You promised to let me see this Mallory," he said, suddenly. "I'm ready
now."

By way of answer, the superintendent rang a bell upon his desk.

"Go over to the hospital," he said to the orderly who appeared in the
doorway, "and find out if Cadet Mallory is able to be about. If he is,
bring him here at once."

The boy disappeared and the colonel turned to his visitor and smiled.

"Is that satisfactory?" he inquired.

"Very!" responded the other. "And I only wish that you could send for my
daughter to come over, too. I hope those surgeons are taking care of
her."

"As much as if she were their own," answered the colonel. "I cannot tell
you how glad I was to learn that she is beyond danger."

"It is God's mercy," said the other, with feeling. "She could not have
had a much narrower escape."

And after that neither said anything until a knock at the door signaled
the arrival of the orderly.

"Come in," called the superintendent, and two figures stepped into the
room. One was the messenger, and the other was Mark.

"This," said the superintendent after a moment's pause, "is Cadet
Mallory."

And Cadet Mallory it was. The same old Mark, only paler and more weak
just then.

Judge Fuller rose and bowed gravely.

"Sit down," said he, "you are not strong enough to stand."

And after that no one said anything for fully a minute; the last speaker
resumed his seat and fell to studying Mark's face in silence. And Mark
waited respectfully for him to begin.

"My name," said he at last, "is Fuller."

"Judge Fuller?" inquired Mark.

"Yes. And Grace Fuller is my daughter."

After that there was silence again, broken suddenly by the excitable old
gentleman dropping his cane, springing up from his chair, and striding
over toward the lad.

"I want to shake hands with you, sir! I want to shake hands with you!"
he cried.

Mark was somewhat taken aback; but he arose and did as he was asked.

"And now," said the judge, "I guess that's all--sit down, sir, sit down;
you've little strength left, I can see. I want to thank you, sir, for
being the finest lad I've met for a long time. And when my daughter gets
well--which she will, thank the Lord--I'll be very glad to have you
call on us, or else to let us call on you--seeing that we live beyond
cadet limits. And if ever you get into trouble, here or anywhere, just
come and see me about it, and I'll be much obliged to you. And that's
all."

Having said which, the old gentleman stalked across the room once more,
picked up his hat and cane, and made for the door.

"Good-day, sir," he said. "I'm going around now to see my daughter.
Good-day, and God bless you."

After which the door was shut.

It was several minutes after that before Colonel Harvey said anything.

"You have made a powerful friend, my boy," he remarked, smiling at the
recollection of the old gentleman's strange speech. "And you have
brought honor upon the academy. I am proud of you--proud to have you
here."

"Thank you, sir," said Mark, simply.

"All I have to say besides that," added the officer, "is to watch out
that you stay. Don't get any more demerits."

"I'll try not, sir."

"Do. And I guess you had best go and join your company now if the doctor
thinks you're able. Something is happening to-day which always interests
new cadets. I bid you good-morning, Mr. Mallory."

And Mark went out of that office and crossed the street to barracks
feeling as if he were walking on air.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE SEVEN IN SESSION.

It is fun indeed to be a hero, to know that every one you pass is gazing
at you with admiration. Or if one cannot do anything heroic, let him
even do something that will bring him notoriety, and then--

    "As he walks along the Boulevard,
    With an independent air."

he may be able to appreciate the afore-mentioned sensation.

There was no boulevard at West Point, but the area in barracks served
the purpose, and Mark could not help noticing that as he went the
yearlings were gazing enviously at him, and the plebes with undisguised
admiration. He hurried upstairs to avoid that, and found that he had
leaped, as the phrase has it, from the frying pan to the fire. For there
were the other six of the "Seven Devils" ready to welcome him with a
rush.

"Wow!" cried Texas. "Back again! Whoop!"

"Bless my soul, but I'm glad!" piped in the little round bubbly voice of
"Indian." "Bless my soul!"

"Sit down. Sit down," cried "Parson" Stanard, reverently offering his
beloved volume of "Dana's Geology" for a cushion.

"Sit down and let us look at you."

"Yes, b'gee!" chimed in Alan Dewey. "Yes, b'gee, let's look at you.
Reminds me of a story I once heard, b'gee--pshaw, what's the use of
trying to tell a good story with everybody trying to shout at once."

The excitement subsided after some five minutes more, and Mark was glad
of it. With the true modesty natural to all high minds he felt that he
would a great deal rather rescue a girl than be praised and made
generally uncomfortable for it. So he shut his followers up as quickly
as he could, which was not very quickly, for they had lots to say.

"How is the girl?" inquired Dewey, perceiving at last that Mark really
meant what he said, and so, hastening to turn the conversation.

"She's doing very well now," said Mark.

"Always your luck!" growled Texas. "She's beautiful, and her father's a
judge and got lots of money. Bet he runs off and marries her in a week.
Oh, say, Mark, but you're lucky! You just ought to hear the plebes talk
about you. I can't tell you how proud I am, man! Why----"

"Right back at it again!" interrupted Mark, laughing. "Right back again!
Didn't I tell you to drop it? I know what I'll do----"

Here Mark arose from his seat.

"I hereby declare this a business meeting of the Seven Devils, and as
chairman I call the meeting to order."

"What for?" cried the crowd.

"To consider plans for hazing," answered Mark. "I----"

"Wow!" roared Texas, wildly excited in an instant. "Goin' to haze
somebody? Whoop!"

And Mark laughed silently to himself.

"I knew I'd make you drop that rescue business," he said. "And Mr.
Powers, you will have the goodness to come to order and not to address
the meeting until you are granted the floor. It is my purpose, if you
will allow me to say a few words to the society--ahem!"

Mark said this with stern and pompous dignity and Texas subsided so
suddenly that the rest could scarcely keep from laughing.

"But, seriously now, fellows," he said, after a moment's silence. "Let's
leave all the past behind and consider what's before us. I really have
something to say."

Having been thus enjoined, the meeting did come to order. The members
settled themselves comfortably about the room as if expecting a long
oration, and Mark continued, after a moment's thought.

"We really ought to make up our mind beforehand as to just exactly what
we're going to do. I suppose you all know what's going to happen
to-day."

"No!" cried the impulsive Texas. "I don't. What is it, anyhow?"

"We're to move to camp this afternoon," responded Mark.

"I know; but what's that got to do with it?"

"Lots. Several of the cadets have told me that there's always more
hazing done on that one day than on all the rest put together. You see,
we leave barracks and go up to live with the whole corps at the summer
camp. And that night the yearlings always raise Cain with the plebes."

"Bully, b'gee!" chimed in Dewey, no less pleased with the prospect.

"So to-night is the decisive night," continued Mark. "And I leave it for
the majority to decide just what we'll do about it. What do you say?"

Mark relapsed into silence, and there was a moment's pause, ended by the
grave and classic Parson slowly rising to his feet. The Parson first
laid his inevitable "Dana" upon the floor, then glanced about him with a
pompous air and folded his long, bony arms. "Ahem!" he said, and then
began:

"Gentlemen! I rise--ahem!--to put the case to you as I see it; I rise to
emulate the example of the immortal Patrick Henry--to declare for
liberty or death! Yea, by Zeus, or death!"

"Bully, b'gee!" chimed in Dewey, slapping his knee in approval and
winking merrily at the crowd from behind the Parson's back.

"Gentlemen!" continued the Parson. "Once before we met in this same room
and we did then make known our declaration of independence to the world.
But there is one thing we have not yet done, and that we must do! Yea,
by Zeus! I am a Bostonian--I may have told you that before--and I am
proud of the deeds of my forefathers. They fought at Bunker Hill; and,
gentlemen, we have that yet to do."

"Betcher life, b'gee!" cried Dewey, as the Parson gravely took his seat.
Then the former arose and continued the discussion. "Not much of a hand
for making a speech," he said, "as the deaf-mute remarked when he lost
three fingers; but I've got something to say, and, b'gee, I'm going to
say it. To-night is the critical night, and if we are meek and mild now,
we'll be it for the whole summer. And I say we don't, b'gee, and that's
all!"

With which brief, but pointed and characteristic summary of the
situation, Alan sat down and Texas clapped his heels together and gave
vent to a "Wow!" of approval.

"Anybody else got anything to say?" inquired Mark.

"Yes, bah Jove! I have, don't ye know."

This came from Mr. Chauncey Van Rensallear Mount-Bonsall. Chauncey wore
a high collar and a London accent; he was by this time playfully known
as "the man with a tutor and a hyphen," both of which luxuries it had
been found he possessed. But Chauncey was no fool for all his
mannerisms.

"Aw--yes," said he, "I have something to say, ye know. Those deuced
yearlings will haze us more than any other plebes in the place. Beastly
word, that, by the way. I hate to be called a plebe, ye know. There is
blue blood in our family, bah Jove, and I'll guarantee there isn't one
yearling in the place can show better. Why, my grandfather----"

"I call the gentleman to order," laughed Mark. "Hazing's the business on
hand. Hazing, and not hancestors."

"I know," expostulated Chauncey, "but I hate to be called a plebe, ye
know. As I was going to say, however, they'll haze us most. Mark
has--aw--fooled them a dozen times, bah Jove! Texas chastised four of
them. Parson, I'm told, chased half a dozen once. My friend Indian here
got so deuced mad the other day that he nearly killed one, don't ye
know. Dewey's worse, and as for me and my friend Sleepy here--aw--bah
Jove!----"

"You did better than all of us!" put in Mark.

Chauncey paused a moment to make a remark about "those deuced drills, ye
know, which kept a fellah from ever having a clean collah, bah Jove!"
And then he continued.

"I just wanted to say, ye know, that we were selected for the hazing
to-night, and that we might as well do something desperate at once, bah
Jove! that's what I think, and so does my friend Sleepy. Don't you,
Sleepy?"

"I ain't a-thinkin' abaout it 't all," came a voice from the bed where
Methusalem Zebediah Chilvers, the farmer, lay stretched out.

"Sleepy's too tired," laughed Mark. "It seems to be the unanimous
opinion of the crowd," he continued, after a moment's pause, "that we
might just as well be bold. In other words, that we have no hazing."

"B'gee!" cried Dewey, springing to his feet, excitedly. "B'gee, I didn't
say that! No, sir!"

"What did you say, then?" inquired Mark.

"I said that we shouldn't let them haze us, b'gee, and I meant it, too.
I never said no hazing! Bet cher life, b'gee! I was just this moment
going to make the motion that we carry the war into the enemy's country,
that we upset West Point traditions for once and forever, and with a
bang, too. In other words"--here the excitable youngster paused, so that
his momentous idea might have due weight--"in other words, b'gee, that
we haze the yearlings!"

There was an awed silence for a few moments to give that terrifically
original proposition a chance to settle in the minds of the amazed
"devils."

Texas was the first to act and he leaped across the room at a bound and
seized "B'gee" by the hand.

"Wow!" he roared. "Whoop! Bully, b'gee!"

And in half a minute more the seven, including the timid Indian, had
registered a solemn vow to do deeds of valor that would "make them ole
cadets look crosseyed," as Texas put it.

They were going to haze the yearlings!

CHAPTER XXX.

THE MOVE INTO CAMP.

The new cadets at West Point are housed in barracks for two weeks after
their admission. During this time "squad drill" is the daily rule, and
the strangers learn to march and stand and face--everything a new
soldier has to learn, with the exception of the manual of arms. After
that they are adjudged fit to associate with the older cadets, and are
marched up to "Camp McPherson." This usually takes place about the first
day of July.

Our friends, the seven, had been measured for uniforms along with the
rest of the plebe company during their first days in barracks. The
fatigue uniforms had been given out that morning, to the great
excitement of everybody, and now "cit" clothing, with all its fantastic
variety of hats and coats of all colors, was stowed away in trunks "for
good," and the plebes costumed uniformly in somber suits of gray, with
short jackets and only a black seam down the trousers for ornament. Full
dress uniforms, such as the old cadets up at camp were wearing, were
yet things of the future.

That morning also the plebes had been "sized" for companies.

Of "companies" there are four, into which the battalion of some three
hundred cadets is divided, "for purposes of instruction in infantry
tactics, and in military police and discipline." (For purposes of
"academic instruction," they are of course divided into the four
classes: First, second, third, or "yearlings," and fourth, the
"plebes".) The companies afore-mentioned are under the command of
tactical officers. These latter report to the "commandant of cadets,"
who is, next to the superintendent, the highest ranking officer on the
post.

The companies are designated A, B, C and D. A and D are flank companies,
and to them the tallest cadets are assigned. B and C are center
companies. Mark and Texas, and also the Parson and Sleepy, all of whom
were above the average height, found themselves in A. The remainder of
the Seven Devils managed to land in B; and the whole plebe class was
ordered to pack up and be ready to move immediately after dinner.

The cadets are allowed to take only certain articles to camp; the rest,
together with the cit's clothing, was stored in trunks and put away in
the trunk room.

Right here at the start there was trouble for the members of our
organization. Texas, it will be remembered, had a choice assortment of
guns of all caliber, sixteen in number. These he had stored up the
chimney of his room for safety. (The chimney is a favorite place of
concealment for contraband articles at West Point). But there was no
such place of concealment in camp; and no way of getting the guns there
anyhow. There are no pockets in the cadets' uniforms except a small one
for a watch. Money they are not allowed to carry, and their
handkerchiefs are tucked in the breasts of their coats.

It was a difficult situation, for Texas, with true Texan cautiousness,
vowed he'd never leave his guns behind.

"Why, look a yere, man," he cried. "I tell you, t'ain't safe now fo' a
feller to go up thar 'thout anything to defend himself. You kain't tell
what may happen!"

The Parson was in a similar quandary. His chimney contained a various
assortment of chemicals, together with sundry geological specimens,
including that now world-famous cyathophylloid coral which had been
discovered "in a sandstone of Tertiary origin." And the Parson vowed
that either that cyathophylloid went to camp or he stayed in
barracks--yea, by Zeus!

There was no use arguing with them; Mark tried it in vain. Texas was
obdurate and talked of holding up the crowd that dared to take those
guns away; and the Parson said that he had kept a return ticket to
Boston, his native town, a glorious city where science was encouraged
and not repressed.

That was the state of affairs through dinner, and up to the moment when
the cry, "New cadets turn out!" came from the area. By that time Texas
had tied his guns in one of his shirts, and the Parson had variously
distributed his fossils about his body until he was one bundle of lumps.

"If you people will congregate closely about me," he exclaimed, "I
apprehend that the state of affairs will not be observed."

It was a curious assembly that "turned out"--a mass of bundles, brooms
and buckets, with a few staggering plebes underneath. They marched up to
camp that way, too, and it was with audible sighs of relief that they
dropped their burdens at the end.

A word of description of "Camp McPherson" may be of interest to those
who have never visited West Point. It is important that the reader
should be familiar with its appearance, for many of Mark's adventures
were destined to happen there--some of them this very same night.

The camp is half a mile or so from barracks, just beyond the Cavalry
Plain and very close to old Fort Clinton. The site is a pretty one, the
white tents standing out against the green of the shade trees and the
parapet of the fort.

The tents are arranged in four "company streets" and are about five feet
apart. The tents have wooden platforms for floors and are large enough
for four cadets each. A long wooden box painted green serves as the
"locker"--it has no lock or key--and a wooden rod near the ridge pole
serves as a wardrobe. And that is the sum total of the furniture.

The plebes made their way up the company streets and the cadet officers
in charge, under the supervision of the "tacs," assigned them to their
tents. Fortunately, plebes are allowed to select their own tent mates;
it may readily be believed the four devils of A company went together.
By good fortune the three remaining in B company, as was learned later,
found one whole tent left over and so were spared the nuisance of a
stranger in their midst--a fact which was especially gratifying to the
exclusive Master Chauncey.

Having been assigned to their tents, the plebes were set to work under
the brief instructions of a cadet corporal at the task of arranging
their household effects. This is done with mathematical exactness. There
is a place for everything, and a penalty for not keeping it there.
Blankets, comforters, pillows, etc., go in a pile at one corner. A
looking-glass hangs on the front tent pole; a water bucket is deposited
on the front edge of the platform; candlesticks, candles, cleaning
materials, etc., are kept in a cylindrical tin box at the foot of the
rear tent pole; and so on it goes, through a hundred items or so. There
are probably no more uniform things in all nature than the cadet tents
in camp. The proverbial peas are not to be compared with them.

The amount of fear and trembling which was caused to those four friends
of ours in a certain A company tent by the contraband goods of Texas and
the Parson is difficult to imagine. The cadet corporal, lynx-eyed and
vigilant, scarcely gave them a chance to hide anything. It was only by
Mark's interposing his body before his friends that they managed to
slide their precious cargoes in under the blankets, a temporary hiding
place. And even when the articles were thus safely hidden, what must
that officious yearling do but march over and rearrange the pile
accurately, almost touching one of the revolvers, and making the four
tremble and quake in their boots.

They managed the task without discovery, however, and went on with their
work. And by the first drum beat for dress parade that afternoon,
everything was done up in spick-and-span order, to the eye at any rate.

Dress parade was a formality in which the plebes took no part but that
of interested spectators. They huddled together shyly in their newly
occupied "plebe hotels" and watched the yearlings, all in spotless snowy
uniforms, "fall in" on the company street outside. The yearlings were
wild with delight and anticipation at having the strangers right among
them at last, and they manifested great interest in the plebes, their
dwellings, and in fact in everything about them. Advice and criticism,
and all kinds of guying that can be imagined were poured upon the
trembling lads' heads, and this continued in a volley until the second
drum changed the merry crowd into a silent and motionless line of
soldiers.

Mark could scarcely keep his excitable friend Texas from sallying out
then and there to attack some of the more active members of this
hilarious crowd. It was evident that, while no plebe escaped entirely,
there was no plebe hotel in A company so much observed as their own. For
the three B. J.-est plebes in the whole plebe class were known to be
housed therein. Cadet Mallory, "professional hero," was urged in all
seriousness to come out and rescue somebody on the spot, which
oft-repeated request, together with other merry chaffing, he bore with a
good-natured smile. Cadet Stanard was plagued with geological questions
galore, among which the "cyathophylloid" occupied a prominent place.
Cadet Powers was dared to come out and lasso a stray "tac," whose
blue-uniformed figure was visible out on the parade ground. And Mr.
Chilvers found the state of "craps" a point of great solicitude to all.

It was all stopped by the drum as has been mentioned; the company
wheeled by fours and marched down the street, leaving the plebes to an
hour of rest. But oh! those same yearlings were thinking. "Oh, won't we
just soak 'em to-night!"

And, strange to say, the same thought was in the minds of seven
particular plebes that stayed behind. For Mark had a plot by this time.

CHAPTER XXXI.

"FIRST NIGHT."

Dress parade leaves but a few moments for supper, with no chance for
"deviling." But when the battalion marched back from that meal and broke
ranks, when the dusk of evening was coming on to make an effective
screen, then was the time, thought the cadets. And so thought the