and reagents. Then also Texas got up and stole out of the tent, past
the sentry, and over to the hotel.

It had been agreed that the place was to be watched from the distance
every moment that night. Texas had put in a claim to be first, and he
was on his way to spend an hour hiding in the bushes. Chandler and Bull
Harris weren’t going to remove that treasure without a “scrap.”

As it happened, Texas was not going to have to wait long. It appears
that Bull imagined that the Seven were going to try burglary again; his
plan to fool them was to hide the treasure early, before the people
in the hotel were quiet, and so before the plebes could do anything.
Then, the treasure once out of the way, Chandler might easily trap the
plebes. It was quite a clever scheme indeed, and Bull was in a hurry to
put it into execution.

He stole out of camp as Texas had done, and stole into the hotel at the
rear entrance. At the same moment Texas rose up out of the bushes and
sped away toward camp at the top of his speed.

Which was where the excitement began.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE SEVEN IN A TRAP.

Some ten minutes after Bull Harris vanished in the shadow of the hotel,
two figures came down the stairs, bearing a heavy burden between them.
There was no one in the neighborhood to observe them. They crept out
the back door and gently deposited their load upon a wheelbarrow that
stood near. A moment more and they and the wheelbarrow, too, had
disappeared in the shadow of the trees.

At the same instant six figures dashed past the sentry at the camp and
set out to follow swiftly. They were the members of the Banded Seven,
minus the chemical Parson. The other two were Chandler and his cousin.

The latter were wary as foxes; they were aware of the fact that they
might be followed, and Bull was glancing over his shoulder at every
step. But owing to the sentries that patrol the post, he had to keep
in the dark shadow of the woods by the river front, and that was where
the six got their chance to hide. They were cautious, too; even our
fat friend, Joseph Smith, was as silent and stealthy as any genuine
“Indian.”

Bull and his companion skirted the buildings to the south, and emerged
upon the road to Highland Falls. Down this they hurried for a short
distance, and then turned into a patch of thick woods just above cadet
limits. In the center of the woods they halted, set down their load and
went right to work without further parley. They were going to bury the
treasure, where it would be safe beyond possibility of danger.

That was their plan. To be very brief, I may say that they did not
get far. Bull had barely had time to plunge his spade into the ground
before there came a sound of a snapping twig that made him start as if
he had been shot.

It was a dark night, very dark, and the two frightened rascals could
distinguish little. But one thing they did see; that was the grinning
countenance of the “son o’ the Hon. Scrap Powers, o’ Hurricane County,
Texas,” at the present moment peering over the barrel of a luminous and
voluminous revolver.

There never was a hold up more sudden and complete than that, at least
not in the experience of our cowboy friend. Chandler had a revolver
in his pocket (the one that Texas had dropped), but he did not dare
to make a move to touch it. He was too well aware of Jeremiah Powers’
reputation among the cadets. Chandler and Bull could do nothing but
stare and gasp.

It was not part of the programme of the six to keep them in suspense
for any time. Texas kept his gun leveled, reinforced by another in his
other hand, while Mark and his companions, smiling cheerfully, stepped
out and proceeded to take possession in genuine Dick Turpin style.

In the first place, there were the prisoners to be attended to. They
were too much confounded and frightened to resist, and they speedily
found themselves lying flat as pancakes on the ground, tied hand and
foot, with handkerchiefs in their mouths for an extra precaution.
Then, and then only, Texas shoved his revolvers back where they came
from; and the others laid hold of the wheelbarrow and the whole crowd
strolled merrily away, whistling meanwhile.

For which please score one for the Banded Seven.

Unfortunately, their triumph was destined to be a very transitory
one. I blush to record it of my most cautious and wary friend from
Texas, but it is true, and truth must be told. Texas actually forgot to
search his man when he held him up! The result was that the revolver, a
terrible bit of evidence, was still in Chandler’s pocket. But that was
not all. So sure were the six plebes of their complete triumph, that
they even failed to tie their prisoners apart.

The last of the party had scarcely turned away before Bull, glancing
about him with his cunning, catlike eyes, rolled swiftly over until he
was at his cousin’s side. He bit at the rope that tied the latter’s
hands; he could not have chewed more savagely if he had hold of
Mallory’s flesh. Chandler’s hands were free in a moment, and it was the
work of but a few moments more to whip out his knife and loosen Bull.
The sound of the plebes’ merry laughter had not died away in the woods
before the two were on the trail, creeping stealthily up behind their
unsuspecting victims with their load of gold. And Chandler had the
revolver in his hand now by way of a precaution.

Not so very far back in the woods on the way to Highland Falls stood
an old and dilapidated icehouse. Some may remember that icehouse; it
figured rather prominently in one of Mark’s adventures. Mark had not
been in West Point a week before his cheerful friend Bull had tried to
lock him up in that place so as to have him absent from réveille. Bull
had failed, fortunately, and Mark had turned the tables on him. Bull
had had unpleasant recollections of that icehouse ever since.

It was toward that building the six happy and triumphant plebes
were heading; Mark had chanced to think of it, and of the fact that
its soft sawdust would make a most excellent hiding place for the
wonderful treasure. The plebes could hardly realize that they had that
treasure safe. After all the vicissitudes it had been through, all
the disappointments and anxiety it had caused them, it seemed to be
too good to be true. And they ran their fingers through the chinking
contents of the old chest; it was too dark to see it, but they could
feel it, and that was enough to make them chuckle for joy.

They were in a particularly jolly humor as they hurried through the
woods. Dewey was as lively as a kitten, and was being reminded of jokes
enough to take up the rest of this story; and he kept it up until the
building they were looking for loomed up in front of them.

The plebes lost no time about the matter; they opened the creaky door
and the whole six of them hurried in to superintend the all-important
burial ceremony.

Their figures had scarcely been lost in the darkness before the other
two stole out of the woods and halted at the edge of the clearing. The
two were stooping low, creeping with the stealth of catamounts. So
silent were they there was not even the snap of a twig to betray them,
and when they stopped they scarcely dared breathe as they listened. One
of the crouching figures clutched a revolver in his hand; the other’s
fists were clinched until the nails dug into his flesh. His teeth were
set, and his eye gleamed with a hatred and resentment that he alone
knew how to feel. Bull Harris felt that his time had come, the time he
had waited for, for two long months of concentrated yearning.

There were sounds of muffled laughter from inside, and the thud of the
spade that some one was using. Bull glanced at his companion.

“Are you ready?” he whispered.

And the other nodded, though his hand shook.

“Are you afraid?” hissed Bull. “It is a risk, for that fiend of a Texan
may fight. You may have to shoot. Do you hear me?”

Once more Chandler nodded, and gripped the revolver like a vise.

There was not another word said. The two crouched low and stepped out
of the shadow of the bushes. Silently as the shadows themselves they
sped across the open space. And then suddenly Bull halted again; for
the sound of murmuring voices from inside the little building grew
audible as they advanced.

“B’gee, it’s a regular Captain Kidd business! I don’t think Bull was a
success as a Kidd, that is, if you spell it with two d’s. He----”

“Say, Mark,” interrupted another voice, “do you remember the time that
ole coyote tried to lock you in hyar? Doggone his boots, I bet he don’t
try that very soon again.”

“I’m afraid not,” laughed Mark, softly. “Bull had his chance once, but
he failed to make the most of it.”

And at the words Bull seized his cousin convulsively by the arm and
forced him back. Before the other could see what the yearling meant he
had sprung forward, gasping with rage. The next instant the heavy door
creaked and swung too.

Mark and his allies started back in alarm. Before they could make
another move, before they could even think, they heard the rusty lock
grate, heard a heavy log jammed against the door to hold it tight.

And then a low, mocking laugh of triumph rang on their ears. Bull
Harris’ time had come at last.

CHAPTER XV.

BUYING THEIR RELEASE.

Our business just now is with Parson Stanard, the scholarly geologist
and chemist, sitting all by himself in his silent tent and diligently
analyzing his hematites and gottabites and outasights. The Parson made
a curious figure; you would have laughed if you could have seen him. A
solitary candle gave the flickering light by which he worked.

The Parson was a trifle agitated about that candle, because, as you
know, it is the correct thing for a scholar to burn “midnight oil.”
The midnight part was all right, but it took a long stretch of the
imagination to convert tallow into kerosene. That kind of chemistry was
too much for even the Parson.

However, it had to be borne. The Parson was seated in tailor fashion,
in spite of which posture he was managing as usual to display his
sea-green socks to the light. He had a row of bottles in a semicircle
about him, like so many soldiers on parade; and at that moment he was
engaged in examining a most interesting and complicated filtrate.

Parson Stanard was at the climax of his important night’s work. It
will be remembered he was testing for potassium nitrate. He had it. He
had put some of the substance in the fire and gotten the violet flame
he wanted. Then, to make sure, he reached forward and took one of the
bottles.

But the Parson never made that test. If the Banded Seven had seen him
at that moment they would assuredly have been frightened, for his face
underwent a most startling and amazing transformation. He had picked up
the bottle; glanced at its label. And the next instant his eyes seemed
fairly to pop up out of his head. His jaw dropped, his hands relaxed,
and the wondrous and long-sought powder was scattered over the floor.

The Parson was ordinarily a quick thinker, but it took a time for that
thought, whatever it was, with all its horrible import, to flash across
his mind. And meanwhile his face was a picture of consternation.

Then suddenly he leaped to his feet with a perfect gasp of horror,
knocking the candle over and making the bottles rattle.

“By the thunderbolts of Jove!” he cried. “By the hounds of Diana! By
the distaff of Minerva!”

The Parson was striding up and down his tent by this time, utterly
regardless of chemistry, geology, and possible discovery in the bargain.

“By the steeds of Apollo!” he muttered. “By the waters of the Styx,
by the scepter of Zeus, by the cap of Mercury, by the apple of Venus
and the bow of Ulyssus! By the nine immortals and the Seven Hills of
Rome!----”

At this stage of the proceedings the agitated chemist was out in the
company street, and striding away in the darkness.

“By the eagle of Ganymede, by the shield of Mars, by the temple of
Janus, by the trident of Neptune!”

During this the gentleman was speeding out of camp, causing the sentry,
who thought he was crazy, so much alarm that he forgot to challenge. By
the time he recovered the Parson was gone and only an echo of his voice
remained----

“By the forge of Vulcan, by the cave of Æolus, by the flames of Vesta!”

Not to continue the catalogue, which it would be found contained all
the mythology from Greek and Sanskrit to Hindoostanee, suffice it to
say that the agitated scholar strode straight down the road to Highland
Falls with all the speed that a scholar could assume without loss of
dignity and breath. Also that he turned off the road at the precise
place his comrades had and vanished in the woods.

“They said they were going to bury it in the icehouse,” muttered the
Parson. “It is there I shall endeavor to intercept them and inform them
of this most extraordinary conditions of affairs. Yea, by the all-wise,
high-thundering Olympian Zeus.”

The more excited the Parson got the more Homeric epithets it was his
custom to heap upon the helpless head of his favorite divinity; he was
very much excited just now.

Fortunately, the Parson did not know just where the icehouse was; he
had never been to it but once, and he wandered about the woods hunting
in vain for at least half an hour. Then he sat down in despair and
gasped for breath, and listened. And in that way he was suddenly made
aware of the whereabouts of the object of his search.

A sound came to his ears, a loud laugh in the distance.

“Ho, ho! You fools! Dig a tunnel, hey? Ho, ha! Well, suppose you dig
it. I’ve a revolver here, and I’ll blow the blamed head off the first
man that comes out. How do you like that. Guess again, Mark Mallory.”

The Parson sprang up as if he had sat down on the proverbial haystack
with a needle in it. That voice was the voice of the “enemy,” Bull
Harris! A moment later the Parson was creeping toward the sound with
stealthiness that would have done credit to an Apache.

“We are in the hands of the enemy,” he gasped. “By the all-wise,
high-thundering, far-ruling Olympian Zeus!”

“Ho, ho!” roared the voice, nearer now. “Think you can break the door
down, hey? Well! well! Guess I’ll have to put a new log against it. How
do you like that! That’s right! Whack away! Bully! Keep it up and you
may get out by to-morrow night. Ho! ho!”

The unfortunate Zeus got a few more epithets then, and the Parson crept
nearer still. In fact, he got so near that peering out of the bushes,
he could spy the clearing with the little building and the two figures
dancing gayly in front of it. Bull Harris was fairly convulsed with joy.

“I’ve got my revenge!” he roared. “I’ve got it! I told you I’d get
it! Didn’t I tell you so? I told you I’d have you B. J. plebes out of
here if I died for it. And now my time’s come! Hooray! You’ll be found
to-morrow, beyond cadet limits, and out you go. You can’t deny it! How
do you like it?”

“You’ll go to Halifax! you ole coyote,” growled a smothered voice from
the inside.

“Me! Ho, ho! What do I care? I’ve nothing to lose. I’m ready to go. But
you--ho, ho! Ask that fool Mallory how he likes it.”

“Very well,” responded a cheery voice. “You must remember that we’ve
got the treasure.”

“Much good it’ll do you,” chuckled Bull. “You’ll be in State’s prison
in a week or so. Ho, ho! Let’s tell ’em, Chandler. The secret’s too
good a one to keep. Ask Texas what became of the revolver he dropped in
the hotel last night playing burglar. The revolver with the initials J.
P. on it.”

That was a thunderbolt. From the way it struck the horrified prisoners
dumb. Bull knew it, and laughed with yet more malignant glee.

“You can’t prove it!” roared Texas furiously.

“Can’t I?” chuckled Bull. “You’d hate to have me try. It would
take all your gold to get you out of that scrape, I fancy. Ho, ho!
Court-martial! State’s prison! I guess I’ve got the best of it for
once.”

“It’s the first time,” growled Texas.

During all this the Parson had been hiding in the bushes, trembling,
gasping, slowly taking in the situation, the dilemma his friends were
in. All thoughts of the excitement under which he had originally set
out were gone. He was cudgeling his head to see what he was to do to
turn the tide of battle.

It was a difficult problem, for Chandler had a revolver and the Parson
had none. This was evidently a case where cunning and not brute force
were to tell, and the Parson knitted his learned brows thoughtfully.
Meanwhile the conversation was going on, and taking a new turn. Bull
Harris had a proposition.

“I suppose you fellows are ready to acknowledge you’re beaten,” he
sneered. “And I suppose you’ve got sense enough to see what a fix
you’re in.”

To tell the truth, the whole Seven saw it clearly, but they were not
ready to acknowledge it to Bull.

“I just want to say,” the latter continued, after a moment’s pause,
“that there’s a way for you fools to get out of this. If you don’t
choose to do it you may as well make up your minds to stay all night.”

“I suppose,” responded Mark, laughing at this introduction to a very
obvious offer. “I suppose you think we’re going to let you get hold of
our treasure. I suppose you think we’ll purchase our freedom with that.”

“That’s what I do,” said Bull, “else you stay.”

“We’ll stay,” laughed Mark, coolly. “And you can go to blazes.”

This proposition was not lost upon the Parson, lying in the bushes
outside. The Parson had drunk in every word of it, and for some reason
began to gasp and wriggle with suppressed excitement as he realized
the meaning of the offer. As Mark spoke the last time the Parson slid
back into the woods and stole softly around to the rear of the little
building.

A few moments later, Mark, to his astonishment, heard a faint whisper
in one of the crevices at the back. “Say, Mark!” That voice Mark would
have known had he heard it in China. He ran to the spot and there was
a minute’s quick conversation. At the end of it the Parson turned and
crept way again, unseen by the two in front.

Perhaps five minutes later Bull Harris, who was still crowing merrily,
was electrified to learn that the plebes had reconsidered their first
defiance--that the gold was his!

“I guess we’ll have to give it up,” said Mark, briefly. “You’ve got us,
and that’s all that there is to it.”

“Do you mean,” cried Bull, unable to hide his joy, “that if we let you
out and give you the revolver you are willing to give up the treasure
altogether?”

“Yes,” said Mark. “We are.”

“But how am I trust you?” demanded Bull. “If I open the door how do I
know you won’t----”

“I’ve said I wont!” interrupted Mark, with angry emphasis. “You know
me, I guess.”

It was a funny thing. Bull himself would have lied all day without his
conscience troubling him. But somehow or other he was sure that Mark
wouldn’t. In spite of his cousin’s protestations, he stepped forward,
removed the barricades and turned the key.

The six plebes came out, looking sheepish enough. Texas received his
lost revolver meekly, though he felt like braining Bull with it. A
minute later the six hurried off into the woods, leaving Bull and his
cousin to gloat for hours over the chest of gold they left inside.

Truly, it was a triumph for Bull.

CHAPTER XVI.

BULL HARRIS REAPS HIS REWARD.

It was the evening of the following day, and the scene was Highland
Falls. It was about twelve o’clock at night, to be more exact as to
time; as to place, the scene was a low tavern on the roadside.

This hour was long after the time that cadets are supposed to be in
their tents asleep, but as we have seen, cadets do not always do as
they are supposed to. It is safe to say that in spite of all the talk
about the severity of West Point discipline, if the commandant of
cadets should take it into his head to wander through Camp McPherson
every night for a week running, he would find some things to surprise
him. He might not find any geological chemists hard at work, but he
might find a small game of some sort going on on the sly, and he’d
be sure to find a surreptitious banquet or two. He might also see
occasional parties steal past an obliging sentry who was looking the
other way. It is probable, however, that none of this would surprise
him very much, for he did it all himself in his day.

There are always bolder and more reckless spirits who are ever ready
for such a lark, enjoying it in proportion to the risk they run. There
are always some among these who think it manly to drink and smoke, and
frequent low places; it is upon one of these latter assemblages that we
are about to look in. We must not mind a rather unpleasant odor of bad
tobacco, or a still more unpleasant odor of bad liquor.

It is quite needless to say that one of the crowd was Bull Harris; it
would be hard to find a crowd of cadets amusing themselves as these
were without Bull among them. This tavern was the regular resort of him
and his “gang” on occasions when they visited Highland Falls. It has
not been mentioned before, because the less said about such places the
better.

Bull liked this place for many reasons. It was quiet, and there was
nobody to disturb them. Then, too, the proprietor, a fat Irishman,
known as “Jake,” was a man who told no secrets and minded his own
business, thus keeping an ideal place for a crowd of young “gentlemen”
to come for a lark. Bull was there to-night, and what was more
important, he was acting as host. Bull was “blowing off” his friends.

There was first, his Cousin Chandler, whom we know; then there was Gus
Murray, who needs but little introduction. As an ally and worshiper
of Bull and a malignant enemy of Mark Mallory’s, Gus Murray yielded
to no one, with the possible exception of Merry Vance, the shallow
and sour-faced youth on his right. The cause of Merry’s pessimistic
complexion we once guessed to be indigestion; inasmuch as he was just
then pouring down his third dose of bad brandy a revision of this
surmise will be allowed. To complete the party, there was one more, a
very small one, our young friend, Baby Edwards, a sweet-tempered little
sneak who had not even manliness enough to be vicious.

When we peered in the party was in full swing. Baby Edwards had
half gone to sleep, having drunk two glasses of beer. Bull had just
completed for the third time a graphic description of how that Mallory
had been duped, a story which was a never-failing source of interest
and hilarity to the rest, who were whacking their glasses on the table
and cheering merrily, in fact, so merrily that the cautious proprietor
was forced to come to the door and protest.

“How much did you say it was worth?” demanded Vance, after the man had
gone away again.

“Fifty thousand dollars,” chuckled Bull. “Fifty thousand if a cent.
Fill ’em up, boys. Chandler and I calculated it weighed two hundred
pounds. Whoop!”

Merry’s eyes glistened feverishly as he listened, whether from brandy
or from what he heard it would be hard to say.

“Whereabouts is it now?” demanded he. “Are you sure Mallory can’t get
it?”

“Dead sure,” laughed Bull. “Do you suppose I’d be fool enough to let
Mallory sneak up behind me twice. Not much! It’s safe.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Oh, it’s buried up here in the woods a piece,” said the other,
cautiously. “It’s where we can get it any time we want to. Oh, say, but
it’s fine to know you’re rich--no trouble about paying any confounded
bills. And that Irish villain Jake can’t kick because we drink more
than we can pay for. Whoop! Help yourselves!”

The others were helping themselves for all they were worth. It seldom
happened to that crowd to get a chance such as this, and cadet duties
might go to blazes in the meantime. They were singing and shouting and
fast getting themselves into a very delightful state, indeed, keenly
enjoying themselves every minute of the time, so they thought.

Fun like that can’t last very long, however. Baby Edwards went to sleep
as I said! it is to be hoped he dreamed of better things. Merry Vance
got quiet and stupid also, while Gus Murray waxed cross and ugly. So
pretty soon Bull concluded it was time to go home. Anybody who glanced
at the bottles scattered about on the floor and table would have
thought so too.

At this stage of the game Jake bowed himself in. Jake was usually a
Nemesis, an undesired person altogether, for he came to collect. But
Bull didn’t mind this time.

“I wants me money,” began the man, surlily, gazing about him at the
scene of destruction. “An’ what’s more, I wants to say you fellows has
got to make less noise here nights. I ain’t goin’ to have my license
taken away for no cadet. See?”

Bull gazed at him sneeringly during this discourse.

“Anything more?” he demanded.

“Yes, there is. You fellers ain’t a-comin’ here no more till you pays
yer bills. This is the third time you’ve tried to let ’em run, an’
by thunder I ain’t a-goin’ to stand it. I don’t believe you’ve got no
money anyhow, an’ I’m goin’ to stop this----”

“Oh, shut up, confound ye!” broke in Bull, impatiently. “Who asked you
to trust them? Don’t be a fool! Take that and shut up your mouth.”

These not over polite remarks came as Bull flung three or four of the
five-dollar gold pieces with a lordly air onto the table. The fellow
eyed them greedily, then gathered them up and left the room.

Bull turned to rouse his companions, chuckling to himself as he did so.

“Come on, boys,” said he. “Get up there and hustle.”

Baby Edwards, having been kicked unceremoniously to the floor, got
up growling. Merry Vance likewise wanted to fight Gus, who woke him.
But the five got started finally and made for the door. Beyond that,
however, they did not get, for there they encountered the brawny form
of Jake.

“Stop!” said he, briefly.

“What do you want now?” demanded Bull.

The other extended his hand, in which lay the coins.

“Don’t want ’em,” said he.

Bull stared at him in amazement.

“Don’t want ’em!” he echoed. “In the name of Heaven why not?”

“No good,” said the other, sententiously.

The effect of those two words upon Bull was like that of a bullet; he
staggered back against the wall, gasping, his eyes fairly starting out
of his head. The others understood dimly and turned pale.

It took several minutes for that idea to dawn upon Bull Harris in all
its frightful horror. When he realized it he sprang forward with a
shriek.

“No good!” he cried. “Great Heavens, man, what do you mean?”

The proprietor’s response was brief, but effective. He put his hand in
his pocket and brought out a shining stone. He rubbed it against the
gold and held it up so that Bull might see the color that resulted.

“’Tain’t gold,” said he. “It’s counterfeit.”

Bull staggered back against the wall again. Counterfeit! Counterfeit!
He saw it all now! Saw why Mallory had given it up! Saw what a fool
he--Bull Harris--had been! Saw that he had let them out of the trap,
given them the weapon, the only proof. Let them go in safety, leaving
him a chest full of brass. It made Bull sick to think of it. Oh, surely
it could not be true!

Another thought flashed over him then. Why had Mallory fought so for
it, why been so reluctant to give it up? No, it must be genuine! It
must be a mistake! Perhaps those few were bad, but all the coins could
not be. Trembling with dread, Bull sprang forward, wrenched the stone
from the hand of the astonished “Jake,” burst out of the place, and
sped away up the road.

The man was at his heels at this effort to dodge him without paying.
Behind him rushed the other four, frightened and sobered by this
terrible blow. But Bull’s anxiety lent speed to him and he easily
outdistanced the crowd.

When they came upon him again they found him in the woods on his knees,
digging savagely in the ground with his fingers. In response to his
shouts they flung themselves down to help him, while the breathless
Irishman stood by and stared in amazement.

Bull was in a frenzy. He fairly tore his way down to the chest,
and seizing it by the handles, jerked it out with the strength of
a Hercules. He flung back the lid, jerked the bit of rock from his
pocket, and seized a handful of the coins.

A moment more and he staggered back, and sank to the ground, limp and
helpless.

The chest of “gold” was worthless.

We must revert to the conversation of the Seven the night before, for
the benefit of those who are curious. Mark and his friends, as they
disappeared in the woods, were joined by the solemn Parson. You may
believe that it was a merry crowd.

“Look here, Parson,” demanded Mark, the first thing. “Are you sure that
money is no good?”

“Sure?” echoed the Parson. “Sure as I am that the most reliable and
mathematical of all the sciences is true. Perhaps you will wish,
gentlemen, that I explain to you the most extraordinary state of
affairs. I shall do so, yea, by Zeus. I feel that I owe it to myself by
way of explanation of a most unaccountable--ahem--blunder I have made.”

The Parson drew a long breath and continued.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “when first we set out upon that treasure hunt
I took with me two bottles of acid. One was a test for the presence
of argenic compounds, that is, silver, and the other for what is
popularly designated gold. In the excitement of the discovery of the
chest, to my everlasting humiliation, be it said, I used the wrong
acid. The reaction I got proved the presence of copper. I thought it
was gold.”

After this extraordinary speech of self-abnegation the Parson bowed
his head in shame. It was at least a minute before he could muster
the courage to go on. Truly that had been a frightful blunder for an
analytical chemist to make.

“To-night,” he continued at last, “I was testing for potassium, and I
reached for that bottle of gold reagent. I expected to find it half
empty. I found it full, and I knew in an instant that I could not have
used a drop of it. Gentlemen, that told me the story of my error. I
shall do penance for it as long as I may live.”

CHAPTER XVII.

THE SEVEN MAKE A NEW MOVE.

“For Heaven’s sake, man, what has happened?”

The cause of this exclamation was Dewey. At the moment his uniform was
dirty and torn, and his face was far from handsome. It was bruised and
blue in lumps, and there were ugly places of a bright red, lending a
startling effect indeed.

The speaker was Mark. He had been sitting at his tent door rubbing his
gun diligently, but he sprang up in alarm when he espied the other.

“What on earth has happened to you, Dewey?” he repeated.

Dewey laughed to himself, in spite of his sorry condition.

“I don’t exactly know,” he said. “B’gee, I’ve forgotten lots of things
in the last ten minutes. I’ll come in and think ’em over and tell you.”

He entered the tent, and after gazing at himself ruefully in the
looking-glass that hung by the tent pole, wet a towel and fell to
washing things gently.

“B’gee!” he muttered, “Mark Mallory, there’s going to be no end of
trouble on account of this.”

“You haven’t told me yet,” said the other. “You don’t mean that you’ve
been getting hazed some more?”

“Would you call it hazing,” responded Dewey, “if you’d been pummeled
until you looked like rare beef? You needn’t be getting angry about it.
We’ll have plenty of time for that later. Meantime, just you listen
to my tale of woe, b’gee! I was down on Flirtation Walk a while ago,
off in a lonely part. And all of a sudden I came across half a dozen
yearlings. One of them was Bull Harris, and when he saw me he turned
to the other cadets and called: ‘There’s one of the gang now! We
might just as well start at what we agreed on.’ And then, b’gee, they
started. Do you think that eye’ll shut up entirely?”

“What did they do?” demanded Mark, his blood boiling as he surveyed his
comrade’s bruises.

“Well, b’gee, they sailed up, in the first place, and began a lot
of talking. ‘You belong to that Mallory gang, don’t you?’ said Bull
Harris. ‘Yes,’ says I, ‘I do, and I’m proud of it, too. What’s the
matter with Mallory?’ ‘Matter?’ roared Gus Murray. ‘B’gee, he’s the
confoundedest freshest plebe that ever came to this academy. Hasn’t
he dared to refuse to let us haze him? Hasn’t he played all kinds of
tricks upon us, made life miserable for us? Hasn’t he even dared to go
to the hop, something no plebe has ever dared to do in the history of
West Point?’ ‘Seeing that you’re asking the question, b’gee,’ I said,
‘I don’t mind telling you by way of answer that he has, and also that
he’s outwitted you and licked you at every turn. And that he’ll do it
again the first chance he gets, and b’gee, I’ll be there to help him,
too! How’s that?’”

Here the reckless youngster paused while he removed the cork of a
vaseline bottle; then he continued:

“That made old Bull wild; he hates you like fury, Mark, and he’s simply
wild about the way we fooled him with that treasure. He began to rear
around like a wild man. ‘If you fool plebes think we’re going to stand
your impudence,’ he yelled, ‘you’re mistaken! I want you to understand
that we’ve found out about that confounded organization Mallory’s
gotten up among the plebes to fight us----’”

“Did he say that?” cried Mark, in surprise. “How did they learn?”

“They didn’t,” said Dewey. “They don’t know we call it the Banded
Seven, or anything else about it, but they’ve seen us together so much
when they’ve tried to haze us that they’ve sort of guessed it. Anyway,
they’ve determined to break it up, b’gee.”

“They have! How?”

“Simply by walloping every man in it, b’gee. And they started on yours
truly. The whole crowd piled on at once, Mark.”

“The cowards!” exclaimed Mark.

“Well, I gave ’em a good time, anyway,” laughed Dewey, whose natural
light-heartedness had not been marred in the least. “I made for Bull.
B’gee, I was bound one of them would be sorry, and I chose him. I
lammed him two beauties and tumbled him into a ditch. But by that time
they had me down. And----”

“Where are the rest of the Seven?” cried Mark, springing up
impatiently. “By George, I’m going to get square for this outrage if
it’s the last thing I ever do in my life. I’ll fight them fair just as
long as they want it. I’m ready to meet any man they send, as I did.
But, by jingo, I won’t stand the tricks of that miserable coward Bull
Harris another day. He’s done nothing but try to get me into scrapes
since the day I came here, and refused to let him haze me. And now I’m
going to stop it or bust. Where are the rest of the fellows?”

“I don’t know,” began Dewey, but he was interrupted by an answer from
an unexpected quarter. Texas came rushing down the company street and
bounded into Mark’s tent.

He, too, was marred with the scars of battle. His clothing was soiled,
and his bronzed features were sadly awry. And Texas was wild.

“Wow!” he roared, his words fairly tripping each other up, in such
rapid succession did they come. “Whoop! Say, you fellows, you dunno
what you been a-missin’! I ain’t had so much fun since the day I come
hyar. Jes’ had the rousin’est ole scrap I ever see. There was a dozen
of ’em, them ole yearlin’s, and they all piled on to once. Whoop! Mark,
git up thar an’ come out an’ help me finish it.”

Texas was prancing around the tent in excitement, his fingers twitching
furiously. He gasped for breath for a moment, and then continued.

“It was that air ole Bull Harris and his gang. Bull had been a-fightin’
somebody else, cuz one eye was black.”

“Bully, b’gee!” put in Dewey.

“An’ he was mad’s a hornet. ‘Look a yere,’ says he, ‘you rarin’ ole
hyena of a cowboy, I want you to understand that you an’ that air
scoundrel Mallory’----an’, Mark, I never gave him a chance for another
word, jes’ piled right in. An’ then all the rest of ’em lit on to me
an’ there was the wust mess I ever heerd tell of.”

Angry though Mark was, he could not help being amused at the hilarity
of his bloodthirsty friend and fellow-warrior, who was still dancing
excitedly about the tent.

“Who won?” inquired Mark.

“I dunno,” said Texas. “I never had a chance to find out. First they
jumped on me and smothered me, an’ then I got out and jumped on them,
only there was so many I couldn’t sit on ’em all to once, an’ so I had
to git up ag’in. Oh, say, ’twas great. I wish some o’ the boys could a’
been thar to see that air rumpus. An’ I ain’t through yit, either. I’m
a-goin’ to lambast them air yearlin’s--what d’ye say, Mark?”

Texas gazed at his friend inquiringly; and Mark gripped him by the hand.

“I’ll help you,” he said. “I’m going to settle that crowd for once and
for all if I have to put them in hospital. And now let’s go out and
hunt for the rest of the Seven and see what’s happened to them.”

Mark’s patience was about exhausted; he had stood much from Bull
Harris, but as he left that tent and strode out of camp with the other
two at his side, there was a set look about his mouth and a gleam in
his eyes that meant business.

He had scarcely crossed the color line that marked the western edge
of the camp before he caught sight of one more of the Seven. And Mark
had seen him but an instant before the thought flashed over him that
this one had been through just the same experience as Texas and “B’gee”
Dewey.

The new arrival was Parson Stanard. His face was not scarred, but it
was red with anger, and his collar was wilted by excitement which
betrayed itself even in his hasty stride as he walked.

“Yea, by Zeus!” he cried, as soon as he reached his friends.
“Gentlemen, I have tidings. The enemy is risen! Even now he is hot upon
our trail. My spirit burns within me like that of Paul Revere, the
messenger of liberty, riding forth from good old Boston town. Boston,
cradle of liberty, father of----”

The Parson’s news was exciting, but even then he could not withstand
the temptation to deliver a discourse upon the merits of his native
town. Mark had to set him straight again.

“Has Bull been after you, too?” he asked.

“Yea!” said the Parson. “He has, and that, too, with exceeding great
vehemence. Truly the persistency of the yearling is surprising; like
the giant Antaeus of yore, he springeth up afresh for the battle,
when one thinks he is subdued at last. Gentlemen, they attacked me
absolutely without provocation. I swear it by the undying flame of
Vesta. I was peregrinating peacefully when I met them. And without
even a word, forsooth, they sprang at me. And mighty was the anger
that blazed up in my breast, yea, by Zeus! As Homer, bard immortal of
the Hellenic land, sang of the great Achilles, ‘his black heart’--er,
let me see. By Zeus, how does that line go? It is in the first book,
I know, and about the two hundred and seventy-fifth line, but really
I----”

“Never mind Homer,” laughed Mark. “What about Harris? What did you do?”

“I replied to their onslaughts in the words of Fitz James: ‘This
rock shall fly from its firm base as soon as I!’ The two who reached
me first I did prostrate with two concussions that have paralyzed my
prehensile apparatus----”

“Bully for the Parson!” roared Texas.

“And then,” continued the other sheepishly, “observing, by Zeus, that
there were at least a dozen of them, I concluded to think better of
my resolution and effect a retreat, remembering the saying that he
who runs away may live to renew his efforts upon some more auspicious
occasion.”

The Parson looked very humble indeed at this last confession; Mark
cheered him somewhat by saying it was the most sensible thing he could
have done. And Dewey still further warmed his scholarly heart by a
distinction that would have done credit to even Lindley Murray, the
grammarian.

“You didn’t break your resolution,” said Dewey.

“Why not?” inquired Stanard.

“Because, b’gee, you vowed you wouldn’t fly. And you haven’t flown
since, that I see. What you did was to flee, b’gee. If you flyed you
wouldn’t have fleed, but since you fleed you didn’t fly. Some day,
b’gee, when you’ve been bitten, you’ll understand the difference
between a fly and a flea. You’ll find that a flea can fly a great deal
faster than a fly can flee, b’gee, and that----”

Somebody jumped on Dewey and smothered him again just then, but it
wasn’t a yearling. He bobbed up serenely a minute later, to find that
the Parson’s grammatical old ribs had been tickled by the distinction
so carefully made.

“People are very grammatical in Boston, aren’t they, Parson?” inquired
Dewey. “Reminds me of a story I once heard, b’gee--you fellows needn’t
groan so, because this is the first story I’ve told to-day. Fellow
popped the question to his best girl. She said, ‘No, b’gee.’ ‘Say it
again,’ says he. ‘No!’ says she. ‘Thanks,’ says he. ‘Two negatives make
an affirmative. You’ve promised. Where shall we go for our honeymoon?’
B’gee, Parson, there’s a way for you to fool your best girl. She’s sure
to say no, and I don’t blame her either.”

The lively Dewey subsided for a moment after that. But he couldn’t keep
quiet very long, especially since no one took up the conversation.

“Speaking of oranges,” said he, “reminds me of a story I once heard,
b’gee----”

“Who was speaking of oranges?” cried Texas.

“I was,” said Dewey solemnly, and then fled for his life.

The other three members of the Banded Seven arrived upon the scene just
then and put an end to hostilities. Chauncey, Sleepy and Indian had
not had the luck to meet with the yearlings yet, and they listened in
amazement and indignation while Mark told the story of Bull Harris and
his latest tactics.

“Bless my soul,” gasped Indian in horror. “I--I’m going home this very
day!”

“I’ll go home myself,” vowed Mark, “if I don’t succeed in stopping this
sort of business. I honestly think I’d report it to the authorities,
only Bull knows I’ve been out of bounds and he’d tell. As it is, I’m
going to settle him some other way, and a way he’ll remember, too.”

“When?” cried the others.

“This very night.”

“And how?”

“The cave!” responded Mark; and it was evident from the way the others
jumped at the word that the suggestion took their fancy.

And in half a minute more the Seven had sworn by all the solemn oaths
the classic Parson could invent that they would haze Bull Harris and
his cronies in “the cave” that night.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE CAPTURE OF MARK.

The afternoon of that momentous day passed without incident. Mark
noticed Bull Harris glowering at him as he passed his tent, but beyond
that the “subduing” programme got no further. The Banded Seven kept
near to camp, so as to prevent it.

That is, all of them but one; Sleepy was that one. The lanky farmer
was a member of the guard that day, getting his first lessons in the
terrible dangers of sentry duty at Camp McPherson. Now it was necessary
for some one to go up and fix that cave for the night’s work, and since
Sleepy succeeded in getting excused during his four hours off duty that
afternoon, he was unanimously elected to be the one to attend to the
task.

It was to clear away the effects of that treasure hunt that Sleepy
went. He removed all traces of the Parson’s energetic digging. Also he
fixed quite a number of other things, according to Mark’s well-planned
directions.

“It’s evident to me,” said Mark, “from the fact that Bull didn’t
bother me this morning, hating me most, as he does, that he’s putting
up a plan for to-night.”

“He’s afraid to tackle you in the day,” growled Texas.

“I should say so,” chirruped Indian’s fat, round voice. “Didn’t you
lick him once, and the whole crowd besides. Bless my soul!”

“I think,” continued Mark, “that we may take it for granted that Bull
will try to kidnap me to-night. You know they did that once, took me
off into the woods and beat me. They’ll beat harder this time. If a big
crowd of them tries it you fellows’ll just have to make a noise and
wake everybody so that they’ll have to drop me and run for their tents.
But if there’s only a few you can follow and overpower them. It all
depends.”

Texas rubbed his hands gleefully at this attractive programme.

“What are we a-goin’ to do when we ketch ’em?” he demanded.

“You leave that to me,” laughed Mark, rising from his seat to end the
“conference.” “I’ve got a scheme fixed up to frighten them to death.
Just wait.”

“Just wait” seemed to represent about all there was to do, though the
Seven did not like it a bit. They watched dress parade that evening
with far less interest than usual, and sighed with relief when the
sunset gun finally sounded. It may be interesting to note that there
were some other cadets in just exactly the same impatient state of mind.

It was just as Mark had suspected--Bull Harris had a plot.

The sunset gun was welcomed with relief. They spent the evening
strolling about the grounds and discussing the effort they were going
to make that night, also occasionally chuckling over the “success” of
their attacks during the morning. And then tattoo sounded, and they
knew that the time was nearer still.

Bull Harris and his three cronies waited until the sentry had called
the hour of eleven. They thought the plebes had had time enough to get
to sleep then, so they got up and dressed and sallied forth in the
darkness. It was cloudy that night, and black, a circumstance which
Bull considered particularly fortunate.

There was no hesitation, no delay to discuss what should be done. The
four made straight for a certain A company tent; cadets sleep with
their tent walls rolled up in hot weather, and so the yearlings could
easily see what was inside. They made out three figures stretched
out upon the blankets, all sound asleep; the fourth occupant--the
farmer--was now diligently marching post.

The four crept up with stealthiness that would have done credit to
Indians. A great deal depended on their not awakening Mallory. Bull,
who was the biggest and strongest of the crowd, stole into the tent and
placed himself at Mallory’s feet; Merry Vance and Murray calculated
each upon managing one stalwart arm, while to Baby, as smallest, was
intrusted the task of preventing outcry from the victim. Having placed
themselves, the four precious rascals paused just one moment to gloat
over their hated and unsuspecting enemy. And then Bull gave the signal,
and as one man they pounced down.

Mallory, awakened out of a sound sleep, found himself as helpless as
if he had been buried alive. Bull’s sinewy arms were wrapped about his
limbs; his hands were crushed to the earth; and Baby was smothering him
in a huge towel. They lifted him an instant later and bore him swiftly
from the tent.

A whistle was the signal to the sentry, who faced about and let them
cross his beat; the four clambered up the embankment and sprang down
into Fort Clinton, chuckling to themselves for joy, having secured the
hated plebe with perfect success and secrecy. And now he was theirs,
theirs to do with as they saw fit. And how they did mean to “soak” him!

All this, of course, was Bull’s view of the matter. But there were some
things, just a few, that that cunning young gentleman did not know of.
The reader will remember that the yearlings had tried that trick on
Mark just once before; ever since then Mark’s tent was protected by a
very simple but effective burglar alarm. There was a thread tied about
his foot. That thread the yearlings had not noticed. It broke when they
carried off their victim, but it broke because it had tightened about
the wrist of Texas, who sat up in alarm an instant later, just in time
to observe the four disappearing in the darkness. By the time they
had crossed the sentry beat the rest of the Banded Seven were up and
dressing gleefully.

After that the result was never in doubt for a moment. The five all
crossed the sentry’s post without trouble, because they had heard the
signal the yearlings gave. And a moment later the triumphant kidnapers,
who were off in a lonely corner of the deserted fort binding up their
prisoner as if he were a mummy, were horrified to find themselves
confronted by five stalwart plebes.

Bull and his gang were helpless. They did not dare make any outcry,
in the first place, because they were more to blame than the plebes
in case of discovery, and in the second, because they were “scared to
death” of that wild cowboy, who had already made his name dreaded by
riding out and holding up the whole artillery squadron. But, oh, how
they did fairly grit their teeth in rage!

The imperturbable Texas stood and faced them, twirling two revolvers
carelessly while they had the unspeakable humiliation of watching the
others ungaging and unbinding the delighted Mallory, who rose to his
feet a moment later, stretched his arms and then merrily took command.

Bull Harris was selected, as leader and head conspirator, to undergo
the first torture. Mark placed himself in front of him, and with a
light smile upon his face.

“Lie down!” said he.

Bull found himself staring into the muzzle of one of the menacing
Texan’s revolvers. That took all of Bull’s nerve, and he very promptly
“lay.”

“Now then, Dewey,” said Mark, “tie him up.”

Dewey used the very ropes that had been meant for Mark. He tied Master
Harris’ unresisting feet together. Then rolled him unceremoniously over
on his back and tied his hands. After which Bull was kicked to one
side, and Dewey was ready for the next frightened yet furious victim.

Pretty soon there were four helpless bodies lying side by side within
the fort. They were bound hand and foot; there were gags tied in their
mouths and heavy towels wrapped about their eyes. And then the Banded
Seven were ready.

“Come ahead,” said Mark.

He set the example by tossing Bull’s body upon his shoulders and
setting out. The rest followed close behind him.

It was quite a job carrying the four bodies where our friends wanted to
take them, especially without being seen by any one.

They made for the Hudson. In Mark’s day cadets were allowed to hire
rowboats, that is, all except plebes. But it was easy enough for a
plebe to get one, as indeed to get anything else, tobacco or eatables.
The small drum orderly is always bribable, and that accounts for the
fact that two big rowboats lay tied in a quiet place, ready for the
expedition.

Since the den was near the shore oars furnished an easier way to carry
the prisoners to the place.

They found the boats without trouble, and deposited the yearlings in
the bottom. They weren’t very gentle about it, either. Then the rest
scrambled in, and a long row began, during which those who were not
working at the oars made it pleasant for the unfortunate yearlings by
muttering sundry prophecies about tortures to come, and in general the
disadvantages of being wicked. The Parson recited some dozen texts from
Scripture to prove that obvious fact.

We shall not here stop to picture the infuriated Bull Harris’ state
of mind under this mild torture. Enough of that later. Suffice it to
say the row came to an end an hour or so later, and the party stepped
ashore. And also that before, they started into the woods a brilliant
idea occurred to the ingeniously cruel Texas. They meant to make those
cadets shiver and shake; what was the matter with letting them start
now, where there was plenty of nice cold water handy?

A whispered consultation was held by the six; it was agreed that in
view of all the brutality of Bull and his gang, there was no call to
temper justice with mercy. As a result of that decision each one of the
yearlings was held tight by the heels, and, spluttering and gasping,
dipped well under water and then hauled up again. That did not cool
their anger, but it made them shiver, you may well believe. During this
baptismal ceremony the classic Parson was interesting, as usual. He sat
on a rock nearby and told the story, embellished with many allusions,
how the “silver-footed Thetis, daughter of the old man of the sea,” as
Homer calls her, took her son, “the swift-footed” Achilles, and dipped
him into a magic fountain to give him immortality. All got wet but the
heel she held him by, and so it was a blow in the heel that killed the
Grecian hero.

“Therefore, gentlemen,” said the Parson, “since you don’t want Bull
Harris to die from the treatment he gets to-night, I suggest with all
sincerity that you stick him in again and wet his feet.”

While this was being done, the learned Boston scholar switched off
onto the subject of Baptists and their views on total immersion; which
promptly reminded Dewey of a story of a “darky” camp meeting.

“Brudder Jones was very fat,” said he, “and b’gee, when he got religion
and wanted to be baptized there was only a little brook to put him
in. They found the deepest place they could, but b’gee, Brudder Jones
stomach was still out of water. Now the deacon said his ‘wussest’ sin
was gluttony, and that if he didn’t get all the way under water the
devil would still have his stomach and Brudder Jones would be a glutton
all his life, b’gee. So all the brothers and sisters had to wade out
into the water and sit on Brudder Jones’ stomach so that all his sins
would get washed away.”

Those who were doing the immersing in this case were so much overcome
by Dewey’s way of telling that story that they almost let Baby Edwards,
the last victim, slip out of their hands. But they pulled him in safely
in the end, and after that the merry party set out for the “Banded
Seven den.”

They knew the contour of the mountains so well by this time that even
in the darkness they had no difficulty in finding the place. They had
relapsed into a grave and solemn silence by that time, so as to get
the shivering victims into proper mood for what was next to come. Some
of the crowd climbed in, and then, like so many logs of wood, the
yearlings were poked through the opening in the rocks and laid on the
floor inside. The rest of the plebes followed. The time for Mark’s
revenge had come at last.

Mark lit one of the lamps which hung from the ceiling of the cave
and then went forward to make sure that everything was ready for the
proposed hazing. The little room in which the bones of the trapped
counterfeiters lay was up at the far end of the place. There was a
heavy wall of masonry to shut it off, with only one entrance, that
afforded by the heavy iron door, which was built like that of a safe.
Mark entered the room and after fumbling about some came out and nodded
to his companions. He did not say a word; none of them had since they
had come in; but there was still that firm, set look about his mouth
that boded ill for those four cowardly yearlings.

It is difficult for one to imagine the state of mind of these latter.
Their rage and vexation at the failure of their scheme, at the way
they had been trapped, had long since given place to one of constantly
increasing dread as they felt themselves carried further and further
away, evidently to the lonely mountain cave from which Bull had stolen
the treasure a couple of days ago. They were in the hands of their
deadliest enemies; Bull knew that they had earned no mercy from Mark,
and he knew also that the wild Texan was along, the Texan to whom,
as they thought, murder was an everyday affair. That dousing, too,
had done its work, for it had chilled them to the bone, and made them
shiver in mind as well as in body. The yearlings felt themselves
carried a short way on; they felt some one test the ropes that bound
them, tighten every knot, and then finally bind them to what seemed
to be a series of rings in a rough stone wall. They heard a low voice
whisper:

“They’re safe there. They can’t get near each other.”

And then one by one the bandages were taken from their eyes and the
gags out of their tortured mouths.

They saw nothing but the blackest of darkness. Absolutely the place
was so utterly without a trace of light that the figure which stood
in front to untie the gag was as invisible as if it were a spirit.
Bull heard a step across the floor. But even that ceased a few moments
later, and the place grew silent as the grave.

The yearlings, though their tongues were free, did not dare to whisper
a word. They were too much awed in the darkness. They knew that
something was coming, and they waited in suspense and dread.

It came. Suddenly the air was split by a sound that was perfectly
deafening in the stillness. It was the clang of a heavy iron door,
close at hand. The yearlings started in alarm, and then stood waiting
and trembling. They knew then where they were, and what door that was.
There was an instant’s silence and then a horrified shout.

“Great Heavens! The door has slammed!”

The cadets recognized that voice; it was the mighty one of Texas, but
it sounded faint and dull, as if it had passed through a heavy wall.
It was succeeded by a perfect babel of voices, all of which sounded
likewise. And the meaning of the voices, when once the cadets realized
it, chilled the very marrow of their bones.

“Open it! Open it, quick!”

“Can’t! Oh, horrors, it locks on the inside!”

“Merciful heavens! They are prisoners!”

“They’ll suffocate!”

“Quick, quick, man, get a crowbar! Anything! Here, give me that!”

And then came a series of poundings upon the same iron door,
accompanied by shouts and exclamations of horror and despair.

“I can’t budge it. It’s a regular safe. They are locked in for good!”

CHAPTER XIX.

TORTURE OF THE YEARLINGS.

Imagine, if you can, the state of mind of the agonized four when the
import of those terrible words burst upon them. They were locked in!
And tied, each one of them, so that they could not move a hand to help
themselves! The darkness made the whole thing yet more awful. They were
entombed alive! And suffocating! Already the air seemed to grow hot,
their breath to come in choking gasps. They screamed aloud, fairly
shrieked in agony. They tore at their bonds, beat upon the wall with
their helpless hands and feet. And all the while outside their cries
were answered by the equally terrified shouts of the plebes.

“Let us out! Let us out!” shrieked Bull.

“Can’t you get loose?” they heard a voice reply; they recognized it as
Mallory’s. “Oh, man, you must get loose! Try! Try! We can’t help you!
There’s a knob inside there! Turn it, turn it, and the door’ll open.”

“How can I turn it?” screamed Bull. “I can’t get near it! I’m tied!
I--oh, merciful Heaven help me! We’re suffocating.”

The cries from the yearlings increased in terror; outside they heard
the blows of a pickax beating against the wall. Their hearts bounded in
hope; they gasped in suspense; but then suddenly the sound ceased.

“I can’t do a thing!” It was Texas who spoke. “The walls are too hard.
We can’t help them, they’re gone.”

“And we!” cried Mark. “Fellows, we’re murderers!”

“Who knows of this yere place?” demanded Texas. “Nobody’ll ever find
’em. Fellers, let’s go back to camp and swear we never saw ’em.”

“Oh, don’t leave us! Don’t leave us!” wailed Bull. “Oh! oh!”

The others joined in with their horrified shrieks, but they might as
well have cried to the stones. They heard rapidly receding footsteps,
and even a heartless, triumphant laugh. And a moment later there was
nothing left but stone for the agonized yearlings to cry to.

The six conspirators outside, having retreated to a far corner of the
cave, to talk over the success of their ruse, were considering that
last mentioned point then. Indian, ever tender-hearted and nervous,
wanted to let them out now, he was sure they’d dropped dead of fright;
all their vociferous yells from the distance could not persuade him
otherwise.

“Bless my soul!” he whispered, in an awe-stricken voice. “They’ll
suffocate.”

“Not for an hour in that spacious compartment,” said the scientific
Parson.

“Anyhow, I say we let ’em out,” pleaded Indian.

“An’ I say we don’t!” growled Texas. “That air feller Bull Harris
jes’ deserves to be left thar fo’ good! An’ I wouldn’t mind doin’ it,
either.”

Texas was usually a very mild and kind-hearted youth, but he was wont
to get wroth over the very name of Harris.

“That ole yearlin’s been the cause o’ all our trouble an’ hazin’ since
we come hyar!” he cried. “Ever since the day Mark caught him trying to
bully a young girl, an’ knocked him down fo’ it, he’s tried everything
but murder. He’s too much a coward to fight fair, but he’s laid fo’ us
and pitched in to lick us with his gang every time he’s seen us alone.
He’s sent Dewey and you, Mark, to the hospital! He got the yearlin’s to
take Mark out in the woods an’ beat him.

“An’ he got up that air dirty scheme to skin Mark on demerits; he did
all the demeritin’, besides the beatin’. An’ he put up a plot to git
Mark out o’ bounds and dismissed. An’ now I say let him stay there till
he’s too durnation scared to walk!”

This sentiment was the sentiment of the rest; but Mark smiled when he
heard it.

“I think,” he said, “it’s punishment enough to stay in there a minute.
We’ll have to let them out pretty soon.”

“An’ ain’t you goin’ to work the other scheme?” cried Texas.

“We’ll work that now,” responded Mark, whispering. “See, there’s the
light, anyway.”

This last remark was caused by a glance he had taken in the direction
of the dungeon. A faint glimmer of light appeared in a crack at the top
of the old, fast-falling door. And Mark arose and crept swiftly across
the room.

We must go inside now and see what was going on there, for that
light was destined to bring a new and startling development for the
yearlings; it was what Texas had called “the other scheme.”

To picture the horror of the abandoned four during the few moments that
had elapsed is beyond our effort. Suffice it to say, that they were
still shrieking, still despairing and yet daring to hope. And then came
the new scheme.

The silence and blackness had both been unbroken except by them; but
suddenly came a faint, spluttering, crackling sound. And an instant
later a faint, white light shone about the narrow cell. It came from
right in front of the horrified four, seeming to start in some ghostly
way of its own to issue from a shining ball of no one could say what.
But it was not the light, it was what it showed that terrified the
cadets, and made them give vent to one last despairing shriek.

In the first place, let it be said that the light came from an inverted
basket hiding a candle, set off by a time fuse the ingenious Parson
had made. As for the rest, well, there were six gleaming skeletons
stretched about on the floor of that horrible place, the skulls
grinning frightfully, seeming to leer at the helpless victims.

The four were incapable of the least sound; their tongues were
paralyzed, and their bodies too. Their eyes fairly started from their
heads as they stared. They were beyond the possibility of further
fright, and what came next seemed natural.

Those skeletons began to move!

First one round, white head, with its shining black holes of eyes and
rows of glistening teeth, began to roll slowly across the floor. Then
it sailed up into the air; then it dropped slowly down again, and
finally settled in one corner and grinned out at the gasping cadets.

“Wasn’t that smart of me?” it seemed to say. “I’ll do it again. Watch
me now. Watch!”

And it sailed up into the air once more, and swung about in the
blackness and went over toward the prisoners and then started back.
Finally it tumbled down to the ground, hitting its own original bones
with a hollow crack. And then it was still.

That head was not the only moving thing in the cell. One skeleton
raised its long, trembling arm and pointed at them; another’s legs
rattled across the floor. And a fourth one seemed to spring up all at
once, as though it had dozens of loose bones, and hurl itself with a
clatter into one corner. It lay there a scattered heap, with only one
lone white rib to mark the place where it had been.

That was the way it seemed to the yearlings; of course, they did not
see the black threads that ran through cracks in the door, where the
six could stand and jerk them at their pleasure.

It was all over a moment later. The four heard a knob turn, and then,
to their amazement, saw the iron door, which they had thought would
never open on them alive, swing back and let in a flood of glorious
light. And an instant later the familiar and even welcome figure of
Mallory came in.

He stepped up to each and quickly cut the ropes that hound them. And
when all four were free he stepped back and gazed at them. As for them,
they never moved a muscle, but stared at him in consternation and
confusion.

“Come out, gentlemen,” said Mark. “Come out and make yourselves at
home.”

That voice was real, anyway, thank Heaven for that! The four had not
yet succeeded in recovering their wits enough to realize the state of
affairs. They followed Mark mechanically, though they were scarcely
able to stand. They found themselves in the well-lit and furnished
apartment, the rest of their enemies bowing cordially. Then indeed they
began to realize the hoax, its success, the way they had been fooled!
And they staggered back against the wall.

The silence lasted a minute at least, and then Mark stepped forward.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I hope you understand why we did this. It may
seem cruel, but we could think of no other way of bringing you to your
senses. We could have done much more if we had wanted to; but, we trust
this will be a lesson that----”

“Confound you!” snarled Bull.

“Steady,” said Mark, smiling, “or in there you go again.”

That suggestion alone made Bull shiver, and he ventured not another
sound.

“And now,” said Mark, “if you will let us, we will conduct you back to
camp. And all I want to say besides is, the next time you want to haze,
try fair, open tactics. If you try any more sneaking plots I shall not
show the mercy I did this time. Come on.”

Some ten minutes later the four were poked through the crevice in the
rocks again, and led blind-folded to the boats and to camp. Which was
the end of that adventure. But Bull Harris vowed he’d get square, and
that very soon.

CHAPTER XX.

A NEW VENTURE.

Bull Harris was resolved to “get square or die.”

To “get square” was in his mind constantly, until he hit on another
scheme of hazing.

It was several nights later that he and his cronies crept to the tent
wherein lay Mark and three of the others.

“Don’t let him move, now,” whispered Bull Harris. “Hold him tight, for
he’ll fight like fury.”

“And take that wild hyena they call Texas along, too,” added another.
“It was he who broke up all our fun the other night.”

“He won’t get a chance to use his guns this time,” snarled the first
speaker. “And we’ve got enough of a crowd to handle any of the others
if they wake up. Ready, now!”

This conversation was held in a low tone off to one side. Then, having
agreed just what each was to do, the crowd scattered and stole silently
up to the tent.

It was important that the yearlings should not awaken the others; they
placed themselves stealthily about the two victims, waited an instant,
and then at the signal stooped and pinned them to the earth. The
yearlings were quite expert at that now, and the two never even got a
chance to gasp. They were lifted up and run quickly away, held so tight
that they couldn’t even kick. It was easy when there were three or four
to one plebe.

The plan worked perfectly, and it seemed as if no one had discovered
it. Neither of the other two sleepers had moved. Over in the next tent,
however, some one was awakened by the noise, a plebe of Company B,
another member of the immortal Seven. He sprang to his tent door, and
an instant later found himself powerless in the grip of two yearlings
who had stayed behind to watch out for just that accident. Evidently
this attack was better planned than the last one.

Master Chauncey Van Rensselaer Mount-Bonsall, of Fifth Avenue, New
York, was the unfortunate third prisoner. He felt himself rushed
over the beat of the purposely negligent sentry and hurried into the
confines of the solitary old Fort Clinton, where he was bound and
gagged with celerity and precision and unceremoniously tumbled to the
ground by the side of Mark and Texas.

Everything was ready for the hazing then.

The eight who had participated in that kidnaping, speedily resolved
themselves into two groups of four each. The members of one group we
do not know, but the other four were our old friends, Bull Harris, Gus
Murray, Merry Vance and Baby Edwards. They had stepped to one side to
talk over the fate of their unfortunate prisoners.

“By Heaven!” cried Bull, clinching his fists in anger. “Fellows, we’ve
got him at last! Do you realize it, he’s ours to do with as we please.
And if I don’t make him sorry he ever lived this night, I hope I may
die on the spot.”

Bull was striding up and down in excitement as he muttered this. And
there was no less hatred and malice in the eyes of his three whispering
companions.

“I could kill him!” cried Gus; and he said it as if he meant it.

“He’s been the torment of my life,” snarled Bull. “I hate him as I
never hated any one, and every time I try to get square on him, somehow
everything goes wrong. Just think of being penned up in a black cave
with a lot of skeletons. Confound him! But he won’t get away this time
as he did before.”

This interesting and charitable dialogue was cut short just then by one
of the other four.

“What are you fellows going to do?” he cried.

“We’ll be there in a moment!” whispered Bull. “Don’t talk so loud. Say,
fellows (this to his own crowd) I say we take Mallory off by ourselves.
Those other fellows won’t stand half we want to do to him.”

“That’s so,” assented the dyspeptic Vance. “What in thunder did we let
them come for?”

“We couldn’t have handled Mallory and Texas alone,” replied Bull,
sourly. “And we had to take Texas, else he’d have waked up and followed
us sure. But I guess it’ll be all right. Come ahead.”

The four walked over and joined the rest of the yearlings then.

“We’ve decided what we’ll do,” said Bull. “We won’t need you fellows
any more. We’re very much obliged to you for helping us.”

“Pshaw!” growled one of them. “I want to stay and see the fun.”

“But there’s more danger with so many away,” said Bull, persuasively.

“I’ll stand my share,” laughed the other. “I want to stay. I’ve a
grudge against that plebe Mallory myself.”

Bull bit his lip in vexation.

“The fact is, fellows,” he said, “we want to take these plebes to a
place we don’t know anything about.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that before you asked us?” growled the four.
“I’m going to stay, I don’t care what you say.”

The fact of the matter was that the four yearlings were just a little
chary about leaving their prisoner in Bull’s hands, though they did not
care to say so. They knew Bull Harris’ character. His hatred of Mallory
was well known. Who had not seen Bull, one night when the yearling
class took Mallory and started to beat him into submission, seize a
lash and leap at the helpless victim in a perfect frenzy of hatred. And
who had not heard him all that day wrathfully telling the story of how
Mallory and his gang, in an effort to cure him of his meanness, had
frightened him almost to tears? Truly, thought the four, Bull’s hazing
was a thing to be supervised.

So they stayed, and finally Bull had to accept the situation.

“Come on,” he growled, surlily.

The crowd lifted their helpless victims from the ground and set out to
follow Bull’s guidance. They had no idea where they were going, and in
fact Bull had none himself. He could think of no form of torture that
was quite cruel enough for that hated Mallory, and he did not have the
brains to think of one that was as ingenious and harmless as Mallory
had worked on him.

“I’d tie him up and beat the hide off him,” thought Bull, “if I could
only get rid of those confounded fellows that are with us. As it is,
I’ll have to find something else, plague take it.”

The crowd had been scrambling down the steep bank toward the river in
the meanwhile. Bull thought it would be well to douse Mallory in the
water, which was one of the tricks Mallory had tried on him. After that
he said to himself it’ll be time enough to think of something more.
They skirted the parade ground and made their way down past the riding
hall and across the railroad track near the tunnel.

“I’d like to drop him on the track,” thought Bull to himself, as he
heard the roar of a train approaching. “By Heaven, that would settle
him!”

The crowd had barely crossed before the engine appeared at the
tunnel’s mouth, after it a long freight train slowly rumbling past
them. And at that instant Gus Murray seized Bull convulsively by the
arm.

“I’ve got a scheme!” he cried. “Do you hear me, a scheme?”

“What is it?” shouted Bull, above the noise of the train.

“It’s a beauty,” gasped Murray. “By George, we’ll get ’em fired.
They’ll go nobody knows where, and be missed in the morning. And we can
swear we didn’t do it. Hooray! We’ll put ’em on the train!”

Bull staggered back and cried out with excitement.

“That’s it!” he muttered, and an instant later, before the horrified
four could comprehend his purpose he and Edwards had torn the helpless
body of Mallory from their arms and made a rush at a passing car. It
was an empty car, and the door was half open; to fling the plebe in was
the work of but an instant; then with Murray and Vance he quickly slid
the other two in also. Half a minute later the train was gone.

The four outsiders turned and stared at Bull’s gang in horror.

“What on earth have you done?” they gasped.

And Bull chuckled to himself.

“I’ve sent those infernal plebes to New York,” he said. “By Jingo, I’d
like to send them to Hades. If they aren’t fired as it is it’ll be
because you kids give us away. And now let’s go back to bed.”

CHAPTER XXI.

MARK COMES TO TOWN.

Mr. Timothy O’Flaherty was a tramp. That was the plain unvarnished
statement of the case. Mr. O’Flaherty would have called himself a
knight of the road, and a comic editor would have called him Tired Tim;
but to everybody else he was a plain tramp.

Mr. O’Flaherty was very, very tired, having walked nearly twenty miles
that day without getting even so much as a square meal. One whole pie
was the sum total of his daily bread and that was so bad that he had
fed it to the bulldog for revenge and walked on. He was walking still,
at present on the tracks of the West Shore Railroad some thirty miles
north of New York.

From what has been said of Mr. O’Flaherty you may suppose that his
heart leaped with joy when along came a rumbling night freight. He
watched it crawl past with a professional and critical eye; there was a
platform he might ride on, but he was liable to be seen there. If only
he could find an open car. There was one! He made a leap at the door,
swung himself aboard with as much grace as if he had lived all his
life on Broadway, and then crawled into the car.

Mr. O’Flaherty looked around. There was some one else in that car!

“Another tramp,” thought the newcomer, and so to awaken him he gave him
a friendly prod with his toe.

“Hello!” said he; but there was no answer.

“Drunk,” was the next conjecture, but then he heard a low sound that
was very much like a groan.

That scared Timothy, and he seized the figure and jerked it to the
light of the moon that shone in through the door. “Be the saints!” he
muttered in alarm, “it’s a sojer, an’ he’s all tied up.”

“Um--um--um!” groaned the figure in a “nasal” tone.

It was Chauncey whom the tramp had found; Chauncey had slipped into
his plebe trousers before he ran to the tent door, which accounted for
the man’s exclamation, a “sojer.” If he had found Mark or Texas he
would have exclaimed still more, for the latter two were clad in their
underclothing.

Mr. O’Flaherty was a man of quick action; he saw that he couldn’t
gratify his curiosity about that strange traveler unless he cut him
loose; so he did it.

Chauncey’s first act to celebrate his liberty was a stretch and a yawn;
his second was to seize the knife and rush to the back of the car,
with the result that two more persons appeared in the moonlight a few
minutes later.

Of Mr. Timothy O’Flaherty they did not take the least bit of notice;
they appeared to have something else of much more importance to talk
about just then. And Timothy sat in the shadow and stared at them with
open mouth.

“Well, this is a scrape,” muttered one of them, gazing at his own
scantily clad figure and at the landscape rushing by.

“What kin we do?” cried a second. “The old Nick take them old
yearlin’s!”

“Bah Jove!” cried the third. “This is deucedly embarrassing. I cawn’t
go out on the street, don’t cher know, dressed in this outlandish
fashion!”

“And we can’t get a train back,” cried the first.

“An’ we got no money!” said the second.

“Bah Jove!” added the third, the one Timothy recognized as “Trousers”
because he was the only one who had them. “Réveille’ll sound, don’t
cher know, and we won’t be there.”

This entertaining conversation was kept up for some fifteen minutes
more. All Mr. O’Flaherty managed to make out was that they had been
sent away from somewhere and they hadn’t the least idea how to get
back. Presently one of them--Trousers--discovered that he did have some
money, plenty of it, whereupon Timothy’s mouth began to water. That
cleared the situation in his eyes, but it didn’t seem to in theirs.
They were afraid of being late and getting caught by some wild animal
called réveille; moreover, they couldn’t take a train because they had
no clothes. Here Timothy thought he’d better step in.

“Hey, Trousers!” said he.

The “dude” thus designated didn’t recognize himself, so Timothy edged
up and poked him to make him look.

“Hey, Trousers!” said he. “I kin git you ducks some togs.”

To make a long story short the “ducks” “tumbled” to that proposition
in a hurry. Even Trousers, the aristocrat, condescended to sit down
and discuss ways and means with that very sociable tramp. To make the
story still shorter Timothy propounded a plan and found it agreeable;
“jumped” the car when it was finally switched off at Hoboken; and set
out with ten dollars of the stranger’s money, to buy second-hand
clothing at one o’clock in the morning.

“You’ll be sure to come back,” said Mark. “Because we’ll make it
fifteen if you do.”

That settled whatever idea of “taking a sneak” was lurking in the
messenger’s mind. He vowed to return, “sure as me name is Timothy
O’Flaherty,” which, as we know, it was. And he came too. He flung a
pile of duds into the car and went off whistling with the promised
reward of virtue in his pocket. It was a “bully graft” for him anyhow,
and he promised himself a regular roaring good time. That is the last
we shall see of Timothy.

As to the plebes their joy was equally as great. They felt that this
hazing was the supreme effort of the desperate Bull Harris, and it
failed. Now that they were safe they could contemplate the delight of
turning up smiling at réveille to the consternation of “the enemy.”
Truly this involuntary journey had panned out to be a very pleasant
affair indeed.

Mark’s first thought was as to a return train. They rushed off to the
depot to find out, where they discovered a ticket agent who gazed
doubtfully at their soiled and ragged clothing. The three realized then
for the first time that their benefactor had kept a good deal of that
ten dollars for himself, and poor Chauncey, to whom a wilted collar was
agony, fairly groaned as he gazed at himself. However, they found that
there was a train in ten minutes; and another at three-thirty-due at
West Point at four-thirty-eight. That was the essential thing, and the
three wandered out to the street again.

“We mustn’t go far, don’t cher know,” observed Chauncey. “We don’t want
to miss that train.”

Chauncey’s was not a very daring or original mind. There was an idea
floating through Mark’s head just then that never occurred to Chauncey;
it would have knocked him over if it had.

“When we went up there to West Point,” began Mark, suddenly, “we
expected to stay there two years without ever once venturing off the
post.”

“Yes,” said Chauncey. “Bah Jove, we did.”

“And here we are down at Hoboken, opposite New York.”

“Yes,” assented Chauncey again.

“It feels good to be loose, don’t it?” observed Mark.

And still Chauncey didn’t “tumble”; Texas’ eyes were beginning to dance
however.

“It’s awfully stupid back there on the reservation, not half as lively
as New York.”

Still Chauncey only said “Yes.”

“Rather kind of the yearlings to give us a holiday, wasn’t it?”
observed Mark.

Another “Yes,” and then seeing that his efforts were of no use Mark
came out with his proposition.

“Stupid!” he laughed. “Don’t you see what I mean? I’m not going back on
that first train.”

“Not going back on that train!” gasped Chauncey. “Bah Jove! then
what----”

His horrified inquiries were interrupted by a wild whoop from the
delighted Texas. Texas was beginning to wriggle his fingers, which
meant that Texas was excited. And suddenly he sprang forward and
started down the street, seizing his expostulating companion under the
arm and dragging him ahead as if he had been a child.

Some ten minutes later those three members of the Banded Seven--B. B.
J.--were on a Christopher Street ferryboat bound for New York and bent
upon having some “fun.” When the Seven set out for fun they usually got
it; they had all they could carry in this case.

It was with a truly delicious sense of freedom that they strolled
about the deck of that lumbering boat. Only one who has been to West
Point can appreciate it. Day after day on that army reservation, with a
penalty of dismissal for leaving it, grows woefully monotonous even to
the very busy plebe. Zest was added to their venture by the fact that
they knew they were breaking rules and might be found out any moment.

“Still if we are,” laughed Mark, “we can lay the blame on Bull. And now
for the fun.”

They half expected the fun would come rushing out to welcome them the
moment they got into the light of the street. They expected a fire or a
murder at the very least. And felt really hurt because they met only a
sleepy hack driver talking to a sleepy policeman. And an empty street
car and a few slouchy-looking fellows like themselves lounging about
a saloon. However it was exciting to be in New York anyway; what more
could the three B. J. plebes want?

They strolled across Christopher Street, gazing curiously. Mark
had never been in New York before and Chauncey was worried because
he couldn’t see a better part of it, for instance, “my cousin, Mr.
Morgan’s mansion on Fifth Avenue, don’t cher know.” He even offered to
take Mark up there, until he chanced to glance at his clothing. Then
he shivered. Truly the three were a sight; Chauncey’s shapely plebe
trousers were hidden in a huge green threadbare overcoat (August)! Mark
could not help laughing whenever he gazed at the youthful aristocrat.

“Never mind,” he laughed. “Cheer up, nobody’ll try to rob us, which is
one comfort.”

“I wish we would get robbed,” growled Texas. “Whar’s that aire fun we
came fo’?”

That began to be a pressing question. They wandered about for at least
half an hour and the clocks showed two, and still nothing had happened.
The city seemed to be provokingly orderly that night.

“Durnation!” exclaimed Texas. “I reckon we got to make some fun
ourselves.”

When a person is really looking for excitement, it takes very little
to have him imagine some. The three had just been discussing the
possibility of robbery down in this “tough” quarter when suddenly Mark
seized the other two by the arm.

“Look, look!” he cried.

The others turned; and straightway over the whole three of them
flashed the conviction that at last their hour had come. There was a
burglar!

The three started in surprise, and a moment later they slid silently
into the shadow of an awning to watch with palpitating hearts.

There was only one burglar. That is, he had no confederates visible.
But his own actions were desperate enough for two. In the first place
he crept softly up the steps of the house, stooping and crouching as
he did so. He tried the door softly, shook it; and then finding it
resisted his purpose he stole down again, glancing about him nervously.

He went down into the area, where it was dark; the three, trembling by
this time, peered forward to watch him. They saw him try the window
and to their horror saw it go softly up. The next moment the man
deliberately sat down and removed his shoes. The plebes could see them
in his hands as he arose again and with the stealthiness of a cat slid
quickly in.

The three hesitated not a moment, but rose up and crept silently and
swiftly across the street. Mark stole down into the area, his heart
beating high. He peered in and a moment later beckoned the others. They
came; they saw the burglar in the act of striking a light and creeping
up the basement stairs. In an instant more he was gone.

“What shall we do?” whispered the three. “What?”

Mark answered by an act. There was only one thing he could do; he
stooped and crept in at the window. The three followed him immediately
and their forms were lost in the darkness of that imperiled house.

CHAPTER XXII.

BURGLAR HUNTING.

It was an uncanny business wandering about a dark house at night; it
is especially so if it be a strange house and if one knows for certain
that there is a desperate burglar creeping about somewhere in it. Many
a man has shrunk from that task; but the three had been bemoaning
a lack of excitement, and now here it was. So they had no right to
complain.

Mark waited a moment for the others to join him and then side by side
they stood and peered into the darkness. From what they had seen of the
room when the man struck a light it was a dining-room with a flight of
stairs running up from it. Up those stairs the man had gone; and a few
moments later the three cadets were standing hesitatingly at the foot
of them.

“He may have a gun,” whispered Chauncey.

Texas reached around to his hip pocket instinctively at that; he
groaned when he realized his defenseless condition.

“That’s the worst o’ these yere ole Eastern ways,” he muttered. “Ef
a feller had bought these yere pants in Texas more’n likely he’d ’a’
found some guns in ’em.”

Texas had but a few moments more to growl however, for Mark stepped
forward, suddenly and started up the steps.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s have it over with. He can’t shoot all of us
at once.”

Slowly they crept up the stairs, pausing at every step to listen. They
reached the top and peering around found a dimly-lit hall without a
sign of life about it.

“Perhaps he’s in one o’ them aire rooms,” whispered Texas. “I----”

“S’h!” muttered Mark.

His exclamation was caused by a slight noise on the floor above, a
faint tread.

“He’s upon the next floor!” gasped the three. “Shall we----”

They did; Mark led the way and with still more trembling caution they
stole on, crouching in the shadow of the banisters, trying to stifle
the very beatings of their hearts and breathing fast with excitement.

Up, up. There were twenty-one stairs to that flight; Mark knew that,
because they stopped a long while on each listening for another clew
to the burglar’s whereabouts, and trembling as they imagined him
peering over at them.

Not a sign of him did they see or hear, however, until they reached
the level of the floor, where they could lean forward and look around
the balustrade. First they heard a sound of heavy breathing, as from
a sleeper. That was in the rear room, and Mark, peering in, saw the
person clearly.

There was a faint light in the room, a light from a dimly-burning gas
jet. The room was apparently deserted except for the sleeper. It was a
woman, for Mark could see her hair upon the pillow. But where was the
burglar?

The answer came with startling suddenness, suddenness that precipitated
a calamity. The room next to the rear one was dark and silent until,
without a moment’s warning, all at once a light flashed out. And there
was the burglar. The reckless villain had lit the gas, so sure was he
of his safety. And he was standing now in the middle of the floor,
stealthily taking off his coat before starting to work.

Naturally that sudden flash of light startled the three; it startled
them so much that Chauncey leaped back with a gasp of alarm; and a
moment later, his heel catching in the end of his huge green overcoat,
he tripped and staggered, clutched wildly at nothing, and with a shriek
of alarm tumbled backward, rolling over and over with a series of
crashes that made the building shake. And then there was fun.

In the first place, as to the burglar; he started back in horror,
realizing his discovery; in the second place, as to the woman; she sat
up in bed with the celerity of a jack-in-the-box, and an instant later
gave vent to a series of screams that awoke the neighborhood.

“Help! Help! Burglars! Murder! Thieves! Fire! Help!”

In the third place, as to the cadets. Their first thought was of
Chauncey, and they turned and bounded down the steps to the bottom.
They found him “rattled” but unhurt, and they picked him up and set him
on his feet. Their second thought was of the burglar, that ruthless
villain who perhaps even now was making his escape by a window. The
thought made them jump.

“Forward!” shouted Mark.

And to a man they sprang up the stairs, two or three steps at a time,
shouting “Burglars!” as they went. They reached the top and bounded
into the room, where they found the man in the very act of rushing out
of the door. Mark sprang at him, seized him by the throat and bore him
to the ground. And the two others plunged upon the pile.

“Hold him! Hold him! Help! Help!” was the cry.

Meanwhile the woman had arisen from the bed, very naturally, and was
now rushing about the hall in typical angelic costume, occasionally
poking her head out of the windows and shrieking for burglars and help,
using a voice that had a very strong Irish brogue.

In response to her stentorian tones help was not slow in arriving. A
crash upon the door was heard; the door gave way, and up the stairs
rushed two men.

“Help us hold him!” roared Texas, who was at this moment trying his
level best to push the criminal’s nose through the carpet. “Help us to
hold him!”

But to his infinite surprise the two newcomers made a savage rush on
him, and in an instant more the true state of affairs flashed over
Texas.

“They’re friends of the burglar!” he cried. “Whoop! Come on, thar!”

The two men were not slow to accept his invitation. They added their
bodies to the already complicated heap of arms and legs that were
writhing about on the floor, and after that the _mêlée_ was even
livelier than ever. Even the woman took a hand; her Irish blood would
not let her stay out of the battle long, and she pitched in with a
broom, whacking everything promiscuously.

What would have been the end of all this riot I do not pretend to say;
I only know that Mark was devoting himself persistently to the task of
holding the burglar underneath him, in spite of all manner of punches
and kicks, and that Texas was dashing back and forth across the room,
plowing his way recklessly through every human being he saw when the
“scrap” was brought to an untimely end by the arrival of one more
person.

This latter was a policeman, a policeman of the fat and unwieldy type
found only in New York. He had plunged up the stairs, club in hand, and
now stood red and panting, menacing the crowd.

“Stop! stop!” he cried. “Yield to the majesty of the la-aw.”

Every one was glad to do that, as it appeared; the battling ceased
abruptly and all parties concerned rose up and glared at each other in
the dim light.

“What’s the meaning of this?” cried the “cop.”

If he had realized the terrible consequence of that question he would
never have asked it. For each and every person concerned sprang forward
to answer it.

“There’s the burglar!” cried Mark, pointing excitedly at the original
cause of all the trouble, who was wiping his fevered brow with
diligence. “There’s the burglar! Arrest him!”

“Yes, yes!” roared Texas. “Grab him! I’ll tell you how it was----”

“Howly saints!” shrieked the woman, “don’t let them get away! They’ve
broken me head, in faith! An’ look at me poor husband’s oi!”

“Me a burglar!” roared the person thus alluded to by Mark, shaking one
fist at Mark and the other at the officer. “So it’s a burglar they call
me, is it? So that’s their trick, be jabbers! An’ a foine state of
affairs it is when a man can’t come into his own house without being
called a burglar, bad cess to it. Bridget, git me that flat-iron there
an’ soak the spalpeen! Be the saints!”

During that tirade of incoherent Irish the three cadets had suddenly
collapsed. The situation had flashed over them in all its horror and
awfulness. The “burglar” lived in the house! The woman was his wife!
And they were the burglars!

The three gazed at each other in consternation and sprang back
instinctively. The policeman took that for a move to escape and he
whipped out his revolver with a suddenness that made Texas’ mouth water.

“Stop!” he cried.

His command received even more emphasis from the fact that another
policeman rushed up the stairs at that moment. The three stopped.

“See here, officer,” said Mark, as calmly as he could. “This is all a
mistake. We aren’t burglars; we are perfectly respectable young men----”

“You look like it,” put in the other, incredulously.

Mark’s heart sank within him at that. He glanced at his two companions
and realized how hopeless was their case. New rags and tatters had been
added by the battle. Disheveled hair, and dirt and blood-stained faces
made them about as disreputable specimens as could be found in New
York. Respectable young men! Pooh!

“I could explain it,” groaned Mark. “We thought this man was a burglar
and we followed him in. We aren’t tramps if we do look it. We are----”

And then he stopped abruptly; to tell that they were cadets would be
their ruination anyway.

“You’re a lot of thaves an’ robbers! Sure an’ thot’s what yez are!”
shouted the irate “burglar,” filling in the sentence and at the same
time making a rush at Mark.

“Come,” said the policeman, stopping him. “Enough of this. You fellers
can tell your yarn to the judge to-morrow morning.”

Mark gasped as he realized the full import of that sentence. It was two
o’clock and their train left in an hour or two--their last chance! And
they could tell their story to the judge in the morning!

The policeman jerked a pair of handcuffs from his pockets and stepped
up to Mark. The latter saw that resistance was hopeless and though it
was torture to him he held out his wrists and said nothing. Texas,
having no gun, could do nothing less. Chauncey was the only one who
“kicked,” and he kicked like a steer.

“Bah Jove!” he cried. “This is an insult, a deuced insult! I won’t
stand it, don’t cher know! Stop, I say. I won’t go, bah Jove! I’ll
send for my father and have every man on the blasted police force
fired! I----”

The snap of the handcuffs and the feeling of the cold steel subdued
Chauncey and he subsided into growls. The officer took him by the
arm, saying something as he did so about an “English crook.” And then
the three filed downstairs, the indignant and much-bruised Irishman
following and enlivening the proceedings with healthy anathemas.

That walk to the station house the three will never forget as long as
they live, it was so unspeakably degrading; it was only a short way,
just around the corner, but it was bad enough. Idlers and loafers fell
in behind to jeer at them, scarcely giving them chance to reflect upon
the desperately-horrible situation they were in.

Mark was glad when at last the door of the station house shut upon
them to hide them from curious eyes. There was almost no one in here
to stare at them, but a sleepy sergeant at the desk; he looked up with
interest when they entered, and were marched up before him.

“What’s this?” he inquired.

“Burglars,” said one of the officers, briefly.

Chauncey’s wrath had been pent up for some ten minutes then, and at
that word it boiled over again.

“I’m no burglar!” he roared. “I tell you, you fools, I’m no burglar!
Bah Jove, this is an outrage.”

“Faith an’ yez are a burglar!” shouted the Irishman, likewise
indignant. “An’ faith, Mr. Sergeant, the divils broke into me house and
near broke me head, too, bad cess to ’em. An’ thot, too, whin Oi’d been
to the club an’ were a-thryin’ to git to sleep without wakin’ me wife.
An’ faith she’ll be after me wid a shtick, thot she will, to-morrer!”

“We aren’t burglars, I say!” protested Chauncey. “We thought he was a
burglar. We’re cade----”

Here Mark gave him a nudge that nearly knocked him over; he looked up
and caught sight of a spruce young man with pencil and notebook working
diligently. It was a reporter and Chauncey took the hint and shut up.

“Name?” inquired the sergeant, seeing him quiet at last.

“My name, bah Jove?” exclaimed the other. “Chauncey Van Ren----”

Again Mark gave him a poke.

“Peter Smith,” said Chauncey.

“And yours?”

“John Jones,” said Texas.

“And yours?”

Mark glanced at the others with one last dying trace of a smile.

“Timothy O’Flaherty,” said he. “You understand,” he added, to ease his
conscience, “they’re all fictitious, of course.”

The sergeant nodded as he wrote the names.

“We’ll find the right ones in the Rogues’ Gallery,” he remarked
sarcastically.

That fired Chauncey again, and he went off into another tirade of abuse
and indignation, which was finally closed by the officers offering
to “soak him” if he didn’t shut up. Then they were led off to a
cell--number seven, curiously enough. And as the door shut with a clank
the three gasped and realized that it was the death knell of their
earthly hopes.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAUNCEY HAS AN IDEA.

Three more utterly discouraged and disgusted plebes than our friends
would be hard to manufacture. There wasn’t a ray of hope, any more
than a ray of light to illumine that dark cell. There was only one
possibility to be considered, apparently--they would be hauled up in
the police court the next morning and required to give an account of
themselves. If they gave it, said they were cadets, it would be good-by
West Point; for they had broken a dozen rules. If on the other hand
they chose to remain Peter Smith, John Jones and Timothy O’Flaherty,
young toughs, it would be something like “One thousand dollars’ bail,”
or else “remanded without bail for trial”--and no West Point all the
same!

The three had characteristic methods of showing their disgust. Texas
had gone to sleep in a corner, seeing no use in worrying. Mark was
sitting moodily on the floor, trying his best to think of something to
do. Chauncey was prancing up and down the cell about as indignant as
ever was a “haughty aristocrat,” vowing vengeance against everybody
and everything in a blue uniform as sure as his name was Chaun--er,
Peter Smith.

Mad and excited as Chauncey was, it was from him that the first gleam
of hope came. And when Chauncey hit upon his idea he fairly kicked
himself for his stupidity in not hitting on it before. A moment later
his friends, and in fact the whole station house, were startled by his
wild yells for “somebody” to come there.

An officer came in a hurry thinking of murder or what not.

“What do you want?” he cried.

“Bah Jove!” remarked our young friend, eying him with haughty scorn
that made a hilarious contrast with his outlandish green August
overcoat. “Bah Jove, don’t be so peremptory, so rude, ye know!”

“W--why!” gasped the amazed policeman.

“I want to know, don’t ye know,” said Chauncey, “if I can send a
telegram, bah Jove?”

“Yes,” growled the other. “That is, if you’ve got any money.”

Chauncey pulled out his “roll,” which had been missed when they
searched him, and tossed a five-dollar bill carelessly to the man.

“Take that,” said he. “Bah Jove, I don’t want it, ye know. Come now,
write what I tell you.”

The man took the bill in a hurry and drew out a pencil and notebook,
while Chauncey’s two fellow-prisoners stared anxiously. Chauncey
dictated with studied scorn and indifference.

“Am--arrested,” said he, “for--burglary--ye--know.”

The policeman wrote the “ye know,” obediently, though he gasped in
amazement and muttered “lunatic.”

“Under--name--of--Peter--Smith-- ---- Street--station. Come--instantly
Chauncey.”

“Who shall I send it to?” inquired the “stenographer.”

“Let me see,” Chauncey mused. “Bah Jove, not to fawther, ye know.
They’d see the name, ruin the family reputation. A deuced mess! Oh yes,
bah Jove, I’ll have all me uncles, ye know! Ready there? First, Mr.
Perry Bellwood, ---- Fifth Avenue----”

“What!” gasped the officer.

“Write what I say,” commanded Chauncey, sternly; “and no comments!
Second, Mr. W. K. Vanderpool, ---- Fifth Avenue. Third--bah Jove--Mr.
W. C. Stickhey, ---- Fifth Avenue. Fourth----”

“How many do you want?” expostulated the other.

“Silence!” roared the “dude.” “Do as I say! I take no chances. Fourth,
Mr. Bradley-Marvin, ---- Fifth Avenue. And that’ll do, I guess, ye
know. Run for your life, then, deuce take it, and I’ll give you another
five if they get here in a hawf hour, bah Jove.”

There was probably no more amazed policeman on the metropolitan force
than that one. But he hustled according to orders none the less.
Certainly there was no more satisfied plebe in the whole academy class
than Mr. Chauncey Van Rensselaer Mount-Bonsall of New York. “It’s all
right now, bah Jove,” said he. “They’ll be here soon.”

And with those words of comfort Chauncey subsided and was asleep from
sheer exhaustion two minutes later. Though he slept, forgetful of the
whole affair, there were a few others who did not sleep, messenger boys
and millionaires especially.

The sergeant at the desk had had no one but one “drunk” to register
during the next half hour, and so he was pretty nearly asleep himself.
The doorman was slumbering peacefully in his chair, and two or three
roundsmen and officers were sitting together in one corner whispering.
That was the state of affairs in the police station when something
happened all of a sudden that made everybody leap up with interest.

A carriage came slamming up the street at race-horse speed. Any one who
has lain awake at night, or rather in the early hours of morning, when
the city is as silent as a graveyard, has noticed the clatter made by
a single wagon. An approaching tornado or earthquake could not have
made much more of a rumpus than this one. The sergeant sat up in alarm
and the doorman flung upon the door and rushed out to see what was the
matter.

They were soon to learn--the driver yanked up his galloping horses
directly in front of the building. At the same instant the coach door
was flung open with a bang. It was an elderly gentleman who hopped out,
and he made a dash for the entrance, nearly bowling the doorman over in
his haste.

Now it is not often that a “swell bloke” like that visits a station
house at such hours. The sergeant gazed at him in alarm, expecting a
burglary, a murder, or perhaps even a dynamite plot.

“What’s the matter?” he cried.

The man dashed up to the desk, breathless from his unusual exertion.

“My boy!” he cried. “Where is he?”

“Your boy?” echoed the sergeant. “Where is he? What on earth?”

The sergeant thought he had a lunatic then.

“My boy!” reiterated the man excitedly. “Chauncey! He’s a prisoner
here!”

The officer shook his head with a puzzled look.

“I’ve got nobody named Chauncey,” said he. “You’ve come to the wrong
place.”

The man happened to think of the telegram; he glanced at it.

“Oh, yes,” he cried, suddenly. “I forgot. Peter Smith is the name he
gave. You’ve a Peter Smith here!”

The sergeant gazed at the excited man in indescribable amazement.

“Peter Smith!” he stammered. “Why, yes. But he’s a tramp. He’s arrested
for burglary, and----”

The strange gentleman was evidently angry at having been stirred out of
bed so early in the morning. Moreover he was insulted at the outrageous
idea of his nephew’s being in a common prison house as a burglar.
Altogether he was mad through, and didn’t take the trouble to be
cautious.

“Let him out this instant, I say,” he demanded, indignantly. “How dare
you----”

Now the sergeant was a pompous individual and he had no idea of being
“bossed” like that by any one, whoever he might be, least of all in
the presence of his men. Moreover, he was an Irishman, and this angry
individual’s superior way got him wild.

“Who are you?” he demanded, with more conciseness than courtesy.

“I’m Perry Bellwood,” said the other with just as much asperity. “And
what is more----”

“Who in thunder is Perry Bellwood?” roared the sergeant.

That took all the wind out of the elderly and aristocratic gentleman’s
sails.

“You don’t know Perry Bellwood?” he gasped. “Perry Bellwood, the
banker!”

“Never saw him,” retorted the sergeant.

“And you won’t release my nephew?”

“No, sir. I won’t release your nephew!” roared the officer, hammering
on his desk for emphasis. “I wouldn’t release him for you or any other
banker in New York, or the whole crowd of them together. Do you hear
that? I’d like to know what you think a police sergeant is, anyhow. A
nice state of affairs it would be if I had to set loose every burglar
and murderer in prison because of some man who thinks he owns the earth
because he is a banker.”

The sergeant was red in the face from anger as he finished this pointed
declaration. Mr. Bellwood was pacing up and down the room furiously. He
turned upon the man suddenly when he finished.

“I’ll bet you all I own,” he said, “that you’ll do as I say, and in an
hour, too.”

“And I’ll bet you my job I don’t,” snapped the sergeant. “I’ll see
who’s running this place----”

By that time the outraged banker had made a dash for his carriage. The
outraged sergeant planked himself down on his chair and gazed about him
indignantly.

“The very idea!” vowed he. “The very idea! That fellow talked to me as
if he were the mayor. I’d a good mind to lock him up. I wouldn’t let
those burglars loose now for all Fifth Avenue.”

He was given a chance to prove that last assertion of his, a good deal
more of a chance than he expected when he made it. He had hardly gotten
the words out of his mouth, and the rattle of the carriage had not yet
died away before another one dashed up to the door.

The sergeant thought it was the same fellow back, and he got up
angrily. The door was flung open and in dashed another man, even more
aristocratic in bearing than the other.

“My name is Mr. Stickhey,” said he, gravely, “and I’ve come----”

“I suppose you want to raise a rumpus about that confounded Chauncey,
too!” cried the sergeant, getting red to the ends of his whiskers.

“W-why! What’s this?” gasped the astonished millionaire.

“And I suppose you want me to let him go, don’t you?”

“W-why!” gasped the astonished millionaire again. “What----”

“Well, if you do you might as well understand that I don’t mean to
do it. And you needn’t be wasting any breath about it either. I’ve
stood about all of this I mean to stand from anybody. I don’t set my
prisoners loose for the devil himself, and I won’t for you. Now then!”

It would be difficult to describe the look of amazement that was on
the dignified Mr. Stickhey’s face. He stared, and then he started again.

“Why, officer!” said he. “I’m sure----”

“So’m I!” vowed the sergeant. “Dead sure! And all your talk won’t
change the fact, either, that Peter Smith, or Chauncey, or whoever he
is, stays where he is till morning. And the sooner you realize it the
better.”

The millionaire stared yet half a minute more, and then he whirled
about on his heel and strode out, without another word.

“I’ll see about this,” said he.

The sergeant did not return to his seat; he was too mad. He pranced up
and down the room like a wild man, vowing vengeance on all the dudes
and bankers in existence.

“I wonder if any more of them are coming,” exclaimed he. “By jingo, I
just wish they would. I’m just in the humor--gee whiz!”

It was another! Yet older and more sedate than either of the others he
marched in and gazed haughtily about him.

“I’ve a nephew----” he began; and there he stopped.

“Oh!” said the sergeant. “You have! Get out!”

“Why--er----”

“Get out!”

“What in----”

“Do you hear me? Get out of here, I say! Not a word, or I’ll have
you--ah! I wonder if there’ll be any more of ’em.”

This last was a chuckle of satisfaction as Millionaire No. 3 fled
precipitately. The sergeant rubbed his hands gleefully. This sport bade
fair to last all night, he realized to his great satisfaction as he
faced about and waited.

He was waiting for number four to show up. He was getting madder still
and this time he was fingering his club suggestively. At the very first
gleam of a white shirt front he drew it and made a dash for the door.

It was Mr. Vanderpool, number four.

“Get out!” said the irate sergeant, menacingly, and he swung up his
weapon. The gentleman thought he had met with a maniac; he gave one
glance and then made a dash for the carriage. The officer faced about,
replaced his club, and softly murmured “Next.”

But the “next” never came. The sergeant got weary of pacing about and
finally sat down again. Half an hour passed and he began to doze; the
fun for that night was over, thought he, and laughed when he thought
how mad be had been.

“I’d just like to see any Fifth Avenue dudes running this place,” he
muttered. “I never heard of such a piece of impertinence in my life!”

Through all this the plebes were peacefully sleeping. What poor
Chauncey would have done if he had seen his four uncles insulted by
that irate policeman is left to the imagination of the reader. It would
most infallibly have been the death of Chauncey, and so perhaps it is
just as well that he didn’t awaken.

The clock over the station house door was at three. It will be
remembered that the train left at three-thirty. The only train that
could possibly save those unfortunate plebes. Three-thirty was the time
the ferryboat left. But the station house was two miles and more from
the ferry-slip. Altogether things were getting very interesting. For
the sergeant dozed on, and the prisoners slept on and the clock went on
to three-fifteen. It was a wonder Mark Mallory didn’t have a nightmare.

It is of the nature of thunderbolts to strike swiftly. There is no
parleying, no stopping for introductions, no delays. Therefore there
will be none in describing what happened next.

The sergeant sat up with a start; so did the doorman, and so did
everybody else in the place. There was the rattle of another carriage!

CHAPTER XXIV.

BACK AGAIN.

The sergeant had gotten over his anger, but he meant to be consistent,
all the same. If this was another one of those “bloated aristocrats”
he’d better look out for trouble, that was all.

The carriage drew up in the usual fashion, the sergeant seized his
club. There was a flash of white shirt front and the sergeant made a
leap for the door. The next moment he staggered back as if he had been
shot. It was Millionaire No. 1, hatless and breathless, almost coatless
and senseless, dragging in his wake--the captain of the precinct!

The sergeant saluted and gasped.

“I told you,” cried Millionaire No. 1.

“You’ve a prisoner here named Smith?” cried the captain.

“Er--yes,” stammered the sergeant.

“Send him here, quick!”

The poor officer was too much amazed and thunder-struck to be chagrined
at his defeat. He made a rush for the cell; shouted to the prisoners;
and half a minute later Chauncey, green August overcoat and all, was in
his uncle’s arms.

The sergeant turned to the smiling police captain.

“Allow me to present----”

He was interrupted by a yell; Chauncey had glanced up at the clock.

“Good heavens!” he cried. “We’ve ten minutes to make the train!”

Chauncey, aristocratic and Chesterfieldian Chauncey, alas, I blush to
record it, had forgotten in one instant that there was such a thing on
earth as a rule of etiquette. He forgot that there was such a person on
earth as a police captain. He never even looked at him. His two friends
at his side, he made one wild dash for the door.

He was not destined to get out of it, however. During the excitement no
one had noticed the approach of another white shirt front and in rushed
Millionaire No. 2.

No. 2 had the chief of police!

“You’ve a prisoner here named Smith----” cried the latter excitedly.
“Release----”

Just then the millionaire caught sight of Chauncey, and again there
were handshakes and apologies, another scurrying toward the door.

“I can’t stop, I tell you!” roared Chauncey. “I’ll miss the
train--quick--bah Jove, ye know, I’ll be ruined--I----”

There was another clatter of wheels at the door.

“Good gracious!” gasped the unfortunate cadet. “It’s somebody else! Bah
Jove! Deuce take the luck!”

Nothing has been said of the unfortunate sergeant during this. He was
leaning against his desk in a state of collapse. Millionaire No. 3 had
entered the room.

Millionaire No. 3 had a police commissioner!

“You’ve a prisoner here named Smith,” cried he. “Release----”

This time the plebes were desperate. They could stand it no longer.
Chauncey had forced his way to the door and made a dash for one of the
carriages.

“Drive----” he began, and then he stopped long enough to see
another carriage rush up--Millionaire No. 4. Millionaire No. 4 had
somebody--Chauncey didn’t know who. But the agonized sergeant did.

It was no less a personage than his honor, the mayor.

(His honor the mayor was mad, too, and you may bet the sergeant caught
it.)

With that our three friends had nothing to do. They had piled into the
carriage, Millionaire No. 1 with them, and likewise the captain, to
make sure that they weren’t arrested for fast driving. And away they
rattled down the street.

“Christopher Street--seven minutes!” roared Chauncey. “For your
life--bah Jove!”

After which there was fun to spare. New York streets aren’t made for
race tracks, and the way that carriage swayed and bumped was a caution.
The driver had taken them at their word and was going for dear life.
Three times the captain had to lean out of the window to quell some
policeman who was shouting at them to slow up.

As for the plebes, there was nothing for them to do but sit still and
wait in trembling anxiousness. Chauncey’s uncle had a watch in his hand
with the aid of which he told off the streets and the seconds.

“If we make it,” said he, “we won’t have ten seconds to spare. Faster,
there, faster!”

The poor cadets nearly had heart failure at that.

“If we miss it,” groaned Mark, “we are gone forever. The whole
story’ll come out and we’ll be expelled sure as we’re alive. What time
did you say it was?”

“Drive, there, drive!” roared Chauncey.

All things come to an end. Those that haven’t will some day. It seemed
an age to the suffering plebes, but that drive was over at last. And
the end of it was so terrible that they would have preferred the
suspense.

The carriage was yanked up and brought to stop in front of the ferry
gates just as the boat was gliding from her slip.

The look that was upon the faces of the three would have moved a Sphinx
to tears. They sank back in the carriage and never said one word. It
was all over. West Point was gone. To the three that meant that life
was no longer worth the living.

It seemed almost too terrible to be true. Mark Mallory pinched himself
to make sure he was alive; that all this dream had really happened,
that he really was beyond hope.

And then suddenly the police captain gave vent to a startled
exclamation and whacked his knee.

“Desbrosses Street!” he roared to the startled driver, and an instant
later the carriage was speeding away down along the wharves.

Where they were going, or why, none of them had the least idea, except
the captain; and he said nothing. The trip was a short one, only three
or four blocks. At the end of it he sprang from the carriage.

“Quick, quick!” he cried, and made a dash for one of the piers.

The rest did not need to be urged to follow. They beat the captain
there in their haste. For they saw then where he was going; a police
tug was lying at the wharf.

“Quick!” roared the captain, leaping aboard. “Follow that ferry!”

And half a minute later the engines of the tug were throbbing and the
tug was sweeping out into the river.

A few minutes after that there were three tough-looking tramps
contentedly dozing in a Pullman car of the West Shore express.

The same three sneaked into Camp McPherson at the very moment when
Cadet Corporal Vance (of the Bull Harris gang) was superintending the
loading of the réveille gun.

CHAPTER XXV.

A CHALLENGE.

“Hey, there, wake up!”

“Um--um. Don’t bother me.”

“Wow! Git up, man----”

“Say, Texas, didn’t I tell you I wanted to sleep this hour? Haven’t I
been awake now two nights in succession helping you haze the yearlings?
Now I want to take a nap; so let me alone.”

“Wake up!” repeated Texas. “Ain’t you got sense enough, Mark Mallory,
to know I’m not pesterin’ you fo’ nothin’? Git yo’ eyes open thar and
listen. I got something to tell you. I know you’re sleepy--thar ain’t
no need tellin’ me that aire ag’in. I know you were up night afore last
hazin’ them ole yearlin’s, an’ last night, too, ’cause they tied us up
an’ fired us into that freight train goin’ to New York. But this hyar’s
more ’portant than sleepin’!”

“What is it?” demanded Mark.

“There’s a committee from the first class wants to see you.”

“What!”

“Thar, naow! I knew you’d get yo’ eyes open,” laughed the other
triumphantly.

“What do they want?” inquired Mark.

“You know what they want well as I do,” responded Texas. “They want
you. They want you ’cause you’re the most B. J. plebe ever came to West
Point, ’cause you dared to defy ’em, to refuse to be hazed, to lick ’em
when they tried it, an’ to all ’round raise the biggest rumpus this
hyar ole place ever see. That’s what!”

“Do you mean,” laughed Mark, “that they want me to fight some more?”

“Course they do!” roared Texas. “You old idiot, you! Why ain’t yo’ up
hustlin’ fo’ the chance? You don’t appreciate yo’ opportunity, sah. Ef
I had the chance to wallop them ole cadets like you’ve got--wow! You
know what I’d do?”

“I’m not a fire-eating, wild and woolly cowboy hunting for fight,”
responded Mark.

“That’s all right,” grinned the other. “You’ll do it when the time
comes. I never see you run yit when you ought to be fightin’, an’
neither did them ole cadets. An’ say, Mark! There’s fun ahead! Whoop!
You remember ever since you had the nerve to go to the hop, somethin’
no plebe ever dared do afore, them ole first class fellers vowed they’d
make you sorry. You made ’em madder since by lickin’ one of ’em when
they dared you to. An’ now they’re comin’ ’roun’ to git square.”

“Do you mean they’re going to make me fight every man in the class, as
they said?” inquired Mark.

“That’s jes’ what I do!” cried Texas, gleefully. “Jes’ exactly! Come
out hyer an’ see ’em yo’self.”

Mark had been making his toilet before the little looking-glass that
hung on the tent pole; he turned then and accompanied his friend out of
camp and over to Trophy Point, where sat in all stateliness and dignity
three solemn-looking seniors, a committee from the first class to Mark
Mallory, the desperate and defiant and as yet untamed “B. J.” plebe.
But he wasn’t going to remain untamed very long if that committee had
anything to do with it.

They arose at his approach.

“Mr. Mallory?” said the spokesman.

Mr. Mallory bowed.

“You come from the first class, I believe,” he said. “Let us proceed
right to business.”

The committee, through its spokesman, cleared its throat with a solemn
“Ahem!”

“Mr. Mallory,” said he, “I presume you have not forgotten that a short
while ago you ventured to defy our class openly. The class has not
forgotten it, for such conduct in a plebe cannot be tolerated here.
Your conduct ever since you came has been unbearably defiant; you have
set at naught every cadet law of the academy. And therefore, as the
class warned you beforehand, you must expect trouble.”

Mr. Mallory bowed; he’d had a good deal of it already, he thought to
himself.

“The class has been waiting,” continued the other, “for you to recover
from the effects of a dislocated shoulder, an injury due to another
unpleasant--ahem--accident----”

“Or, to be more specific,” inserted Mark, very mildly, “due to the fact
that I was--er--attacked by some--ahem--fifty members of the first
class in a body.”

“Not quite so many,” said the chairman, flushing. “The incident is
regretted by the class.”

“By me also,” said Mark, rubbing his shoulder suggestively.

“It appears,” the other continued hurriedly, “that you are now
recovered. Therefore, to be brief, the class has sent us to inquire as
to your wishes concerning the duty you undertook when you ventured to
defy them. You know what I mean. You stand pledged, and you will be
compelled to defend yourself before every member of our class in turn
until you agree to apologize and become a plebe once more.”

The spokesman stopped and Mark answered without hesitation, looking him
squarely in the eye.

“Tell the class,” said he, “that I am ready to meet any one it may
select, to-day if necessary, and in any place they choose. Tell them
also if they could manage to select one of those who helped to injure
my shoulder I should consider it a favor. Tell them that I have nothing
to apologize for. Tell them that I renew my defiance, with all possible
courtesy, of course; tell them I once more refuse to be hazed, and
shall refuse even when I am beaten; and----”

Here the excitable ex-cowboy, who had been listening with most evident
delight, sprang forward with a whoop.

“An’ tell ’em,” he roared, “doggone their boots, ef they lick Mark fair
or foul they ain’t hardly begun what they’ll have to do! Tell ’em,
sah, there’s a gennelman, what never yit run from man or devil, named
Jeremiah Powers, sah, son o’ the Honorable Scrap Powers, o’ Hurricane
County, Texas. Tell ’em he’s jes’ roaring for a scrap, an’ that he’ll
start in whar Mallory quits! An’ tell ’em----”

But the committee had turned away and started across the parade ground
by that time. The committee didn’t consider it necessary to listen to
Mr. Jeremiah Powers.

Mark had listened however; and as he took Texas by the hand the
excitable Texas saw in his eyes that he appreciated the offer.

“And now,” said Mark at last, “if I am to do some fighting I’d best
go back and finish that nap. I’ll need to make up for the sleep I’ve
missed.”

An important event had happened to that company that day, one that had
made a great change in their lives. A month and a half of drill and
discipline, the most rigorous possible, had been judged to have had its
effect. And that day the plebes were honored by being put in the cadet
battalion.

Previously they had “herded” alone, a separate roll call, separate
drills, separate seats in mess hall. But now all was changed. The plebe
company was broken up, the members each going to their own company in
the battalion, to hear their names called with the others at roll call,
to march down to meals and sit with them, too. And that afternoon for
the first time the plebes were to march on parade, Mark and Texas under
the command of Fischer, cadet-captain of Company A.

Concerning Fischer, the high and mighty first classman, it may be
well to say a word, for he will figure prominently in this story.
Fischer was a member of the first class, and its idol. Tall, handsome
and athletic, he made an ideal captain; even the plebes thought that,
and strange to say, our B. J. plebes most of all. For Fischer was a
fair-minded, gentlemanly fellow and more than once he had interfered to
see that Mallory got fair play with his enemies.

He came in that same afternoon to have a word with Mark as to the
latest excitement; it was an unusual thing indeed for a cadet-captain
even to speak to a plebe, but Fischer chose to be different. And,
moreover, Mallory had earned for himself many privileges most plebes
had never dreamed of.

“I got a letter from your friend, Wicks Merritt,” said Fischer. “His
furlough is coming to an end. Poor Wicks is very much agitated for
fear you’ll be hazed out of West Point before he gets here. But I told
him there wasn’t much danger. I think you’ll stick.”

“I shall try,” laughed Mark, while Texas sat by in awe and gazed at the
young officer’s chevrons and sash. “I shall try. Have you heard of my
engagement--the latest?”

“Yes,” answered the other, “I have. That’s what I came in for. I don’t
envy you.”

“I don’t myself,” said the plebe thoughtfully. “I don’t like to fight.
I’d a thousand times rather not, and I always say ‘no’ when I can. But
I’ve vowed I wouldn’t stand the kind of hazing I got, and I don’t mean
to so long as I can see.”

“I wish you luck,” said Fischer. “I’ve told the men in my own class
that, for I haven’t forgotten, as they seem to, the time you rescued
that girl in the river.”

“Do you know who’ll be the first man I meet?” inquired the other,
changing the subject.

“I do not; the class is busily holding a conclave now to decide who’s
the best. They’ll send their prize bantam the first time, though I
doubt if we’ve a man much better than Billy Williams, the yearling you
whipped. Still you’ve got to be at your best, I want to tell you, and
I want you to understand that. When a man’s been three years here at
West Point, as we have, he’s in just about as perfect trim as he ever
will be in his life.”

“So am I,” responded Mark.

“You are not,” said Fischer, sharply. “That’s just the trouble. I
wouldn’t be warning you if you were. I’ve heard of the monkey shines
you’ve been kicking up; Bull Harris, that good-for-nothing yearling,
was blowing ’round that he’d put you on a train for New York. The whole
thing is you’ve been losing sleep.”

Mallory tried to pass the matter over lightly, but Fischer was bound to
say what he’d come for.

“I suppose it’s none of my business,” he continued, “but I’ve tried to
see you get fair play. And I want to say this: You rush in to fight
those fellows to-day, as they’ll try to make you, and you’ll regret
it. That’s all. As the challenged party the time is yours to name. If
you refuse for a week at least, I’ll back you up and see that it’s all
right, and if you don’t you’ll wish you had.”

Having delivered himself of which sage counsel the dignified captain
arose to go. Perhaps his conscience troubled him a little anyhow that
he’d stayed so long in a plebe tent.

He thought of that as he came out and espied three members of his own
class coming down the street and looking at him. They hailed him as he
passed.

“Hey, Fischer!”

They were three who had been the “committee”; they were a committee
still, but for a different purpose. Their purpose was to see Fischer,
and when he came toward them, they led him off to one side. The message
that committee had to give was brief, but it nearly took Fischer off
his feet.

“Fischer,” said one, “the fellows have decided about that Mallory
business.”

“Yes,” said Fischer. “What?”

“They’ve decided that you’ll be the man to meet him first.”

And the committee wondered what was the matter with Fischer.

CHAPTER XXVI.

“I HAVE THE COURAGE TO BE A COWARD.”

Something which happened immediately after Fischer left the tent
effectually drove from Mark’s mind all ideas of fights and first
classmen. It was the blessed long-expected signal, a roll upon the
drum, the summons to fall in for the evening’s dress parade.

And oh, how those plebes were “spruced up!” The four members of the
Banded Seven who roomed in Mark’s tent had taken turns looking over
each other in the effort to find a single flaw. A member of the
guard trying for colors was never more immaculate than those anxious
strangers. Of the many pair of duck trousers allotted to each cadet
every pair had been critically inspected so as to get the very whitest.
Buttons and belt plates were little mirrors, and every part of guns and