THE WEST POINT RIVALS




BY LIEUT. FREDERICK GARRISON, U. S. A.

Off for West Point

A Cadet’s Honor

On Guard

A West Point Treasure

The West Point Rivals


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STREET & SMITH, _PUBLISHERS_

238 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK CITY




[Illustration:

  “In his hand he held a notebook, upon which he was calmly
  jotting down the names of the cadets he saw.”
                                              (See page 228)]




THE WEST POINT RIVALS

OR

Mark Mallory’s Stratagem

BY

LIEUT. FREDERICK GARRISON, U. S. A.,

AUTHOR OF

“Off for West Point,” “A Cadet’s Honor,” “A West Point Treasure,” “On
Guard,” etc.

[Illustration: Printer's Logo]

NEW YORK AND LONDON

STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS




Copyright, 1903

By STREET & SMITH

The West Point Rivals




                     CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                   PAGE

       I――Accepting a Challenge                7
      II――The Circus at Highland Falls        13
     III――Not on the Programme                23
      IV――Bull Harris Beats a Retreat         35
       V――Another Escapade is Planned         46
      VI――The Long Delayed Visit              63
     VII――Excitement on the River             72
    VIII――Seven Lunatics and a Reporter       78
      IX――Discovering a Plot                  88
       X――The Jail at Highland Falls          98
      XI――Bull Harris Gets into Trouble      106
     XII――“Revenge is Sweet”                 117
    XIII――A Visit to the Cave                127
     XIV――Some Fun with the Yearlings        138
      XV――A Battle with the Enemy            148
     XVI――Abandoning the Fort                155
    XVII――Mortar Practice at West Point      164
   XVIII――A Moment of Deadly Peril           176
     XIX――Indian’s Fight for Life            184
      XX――The Parson’s Battle                192
     XXI――A Camp in the Woods                199
    XXII――A Desperate Conspiracy             212
   XXIII――A Midsummer Night’s Feast          220
    XXIV――A Terrible Revenge                 229
     XXV――In Camp Lookout                    237
    XXVI――A Trap for Mallory                 244
   XXVII――A Strange Discovery                252
  XXVIII――Caught in the Trap                 259
    XXIX――The End of it All                  269




THE WEST POINT RIVALS




CHAPTER I.

ACCEPTING A CHALLENGE.


“Say, boys, listen to this!”

The speaker was a tall, gaunt cadet, dressed in the uniform of a West
Point plebe. He was resting in a tent in summer encampment, and close
at hand were two other plebes.

“What is it, Texas?” asked one of the other cadets.

“Goin’ to be a circus down to Highland Falls.”

“Well, what of it? We can’t go,” came from a cadet known as Parson
Stanard, a tall, thin fellow hailing from Boston.

“Yes, but listen,” went on the first speaker. “This ’ere bill says as
how they got a Texas bronco that nobody kin ride. Now, I ain’t a going
to stand that, nohow. I’ll ride the bronco or bust myself a-tryin’.”

And Texas, otherwise known as Jeremiah Powers, from Hurricane County,
Texas, leaped to his feet in his excitement.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Do? I’m a-goin’ to go down to town after dinner, and ride that
bronco――or――――”

“But it’s out of bounds, I tell you.”

“I’ll git a disguise, that’s wot I’ll do. I ain’t a-goin’ to spend a
holiday afternoon sittin’ roun’ this camp while there’s a circus goin’
on. You fellers kin ef you want to. I ain’t seen a circus only once,
an’ that was the same day I went to church. I rode fifty-six miles
’cross country to take in the both of ’em.”

After imparting that interesting bit of information, Texas seated
himself on the platform of the tent once more and fell to reading
assiduously the vivid programme of Smithers’ Circus, with its
menagerie, dime museum and theatre combined, to say nothing of
Circassian ladies, tattooed South Sea Islanders, fat ladies and living
skeletons. The whole thing impressed Texas mightily, and when he
finished he turned to the other two in the tent.

“I’ll bet you,” he growled, “ef Mark Mallory war here he’d go with me.
I dunno how I’d live in this hyar place ef Mark Mallory warn’t in it.
He’s got more life than any dozen o’ you fellers. The Banded Seven,
that air society we plebes got up to stop the hazin’, wouldn’t ever do
anything ef ’twarn’t fo’ him bein’ leader.”

“When will Mark be out of hospital?” inquired one of the others.

“I dunno,” said Texas, “but I reckon it’ll be pretty soon now. The
burns air most all healed ’cept his hands, an’ durnation, they won’t
keep him in fo’ that.”

“He always war lucky,” Texas continued, after a moment’s pause. “Jes’
think! He won’t have to do anything now but set roun’ an’ watch us
plebes drill all day. An’ see how he’s fooled them ole cadets, too. He
said he wouldn’t let ’em haze him and he’s licked every feller they
sent to fight him. Then when they tried to make him fight Fischer, the
one decent chap in the class an’ Mark’s friend, he said he wouldn’t.
An’ after standin’ all their abuse all day he pitched in an’ rescued
that girl from the fire when they warn’t a man of ’em dared it. They
had to ’pologize after that.”

“He was quite a hero, wasn’t he, Texas?”

It was Mark Mallory’s voice!

Texas wheeled with an exclamation of delight, and the others rushed
out of the tent and made a leap at the cadet who had thus laughingly
spoken. He was a tall, handsome lad, with a frank, merry face. He had
just entered camp and reached the tent as Texas concluded his
discourse.

“Ef it ain’t Mark Mallory!” roared the latter, dancing about him in an
ecstasy of delight. “Whoop! Say, ole man, I’m durnation glad to see
ye. Gee whiz!”

These excited exclamations had brought the rest of the “Banded Seven,”
Mark’s secret society, out of their tents in a hurry. There were
Parson Stanard, and Sleepy, “the farmer,” and “B’gee” Dewey, the prize
story teller, besides, Chauncey, “the dude,” who thought it
undignified to hurry, brought up the rear, with “Indian,” the fat boy
of Indianapolis. And the whole six got around Mark and fairly danced
for joy at having their leader with them again.

“And, b’gee, he’s all well, too,” chuckled Dewey; “all but his hands.”

The “hands” of which this was said were for all the world like boxer’s
gloves, they were so wrapped with bandages. That was the only thing
that kept the six from having a fight to get hold of them and shake.
It was fully ten minutes before they had managed to get enough of
their congratulations expressed to satisfy themselves, and even then
Mallory had to threaten to get mad if they didn’t stop telling him
what a hero he was.

“I’ll run away to Texas,” he vowed, laughing.

“Where there are broncos you can ride,” put in Dewey, with a sly wink
at the object of this allusion.

“Wow!” cried Texas. “That’s so! I mos’ forgot ’bout that air bronco
since Mark come. Whoop!”

“What bronco?” inquired Mark, curious to know what new excitement his
wild friend had found.

Texas told him, and as a clincher held the paper up before his eyes.

“Thar ’tis,” said he. “You kin read it an’ see Smasher――――I’ll smash
him, doggone his boots――――”

“Do Texas horses wear boots?” inquired Dewey, anxiously. “B’gee, we
never go better than plain shoes up our way.”

“Look a-yere, Mark,” demanded Texas, scorning to notice Dewey’s
interruption. “I was jes’ a-sayin’ ef you were hyer you’d go with me
to that air circus an’ bust up the old fake place. Naow will you?”

“Of course I will,” responded Mark. “So will the rest, too, I guess.
I’ve been penned up in that old hospital for an age, and I’m just
dying for a lark.”

“But where’ll we get disguises?” inquired the matter-of-fact Parson.

“I guess one of the drum orderlies can buy us some,” laughed the
other. “We ought to have some ’cits’ clothing handy, anyway, so that
we can be ready for some fun any time.”

“And we can keep it in that cave we found!” chirruped Indian, happily.
“Bless my soul, that’ll be fine! I’ll go! I think it’ll be lots of fun
to go to a circus in disguise.”

“Circuses are deucedly vulgah affairs,” commented the aristocratic
Chauncey, with a sniff.

But even that young gentleman condescended to go when he found that
all the rest were swept away by the prospect of seeing Texas ride
“Smasher.” And as for Texas, he doubled up his fists and gritted his
teeth and vowed he was going “to smash that ole show or git smashed
doin’ it!”

Texas was destined to have all the fun he wanted that afternoon.




CHAPTER II.

THE CIRCUS AT HIGHLAND FALLS.


Drills were over for that day, and likewise dinner, and the corps had
been dismissed, excepting members who had extra tours of guard duty to
do by way of punishment. This included one of the Seven, the
unfortunate granger from Kansas, “Sleepy,” who had forgotten to invert
his washbowl at the “A. M. inspection.”

Poor Sleepy was obliged to shoulder his musket with what grace he
could and sadly watch his friends vanish in the woods.

The wicked drummer boy, who was getting rich nowadays by furnishing
contraband disguises for the yet more wicked Banded Seven, had
designated a place where he would hide the “duds,” and for that place
the six made with all possible speed. Some hour or so later there were
three curious-looking couples strolling down the road to the Falls.

The drum orderly, with considerable appropriateness, had furnished a
full dress evening suit for Chauncey. It being afternoon, Chauncey had
indignantly refused to “dream” of wearing it, and so the meek Indian
had had his fat limbs crowded into the costume. Texas had a flaming
red sweater and huge farmer’s trousers with one suspender. Mark had
the tattered remains of a tennis blazer and checkerboard “pants.” The
Parson was muttering anathemas at the facetious lad who had gotten,
from somewhere, a clerical costume with a rip up the back, and Dewey
was handsome and resplendent in one of the drum orderly’s own cast-off
uniforms. Poor Chauncey having refused the swallow-tails, was doomed
to be commonplace in a white flannel costume last worn by a coal
heaver.

Do you wonder at the phrase “curious-looking couples” used above?

It had been agreed that they would excite less suspicion two by two.
All in a crowd they might be mistaken for the rear guard of the circus
procession, which they could tell from the sound of the band had
proceeded them down the main street of Highland Falls. The six set out
swiftly in pursuit.

Texas was fairly boiling over with anxiety to catch a glimpse of
Smasher. Texas had done nothing but talk about Smasher since he
started.

If there had chanced to be any officers from the post down there they
would probably have recognized their cadets, in spite of false
mustaches and hair. For the plebes were so used to going behind a band
by this time that the tune――“The Girl I Left Behind Me”――set them all
to marching with West Point precision――“left, left! Eyes to the
front――heads up――chest out, little fingers on the seams of the
trousers――left, left!”

Fortunately, however, nobody noticed their rather unusual style, and
down at the far end of the long and narrow town they came upon the
circus grounds. No small boy enjoying his holiday from school was
gazing upon the scene with more interest than our plebes.

There were three big tents in a vacant lot. The band had gone inside
by that time, and a string of people were following, buying their
tickets of a black and long-haired “genuine Australian bushman” who
stood as a walking live hint to the wonders that were inside, and
incidentally made change wrong and talked in Irish brogue to an
invisible some one.

Also worthy of mention was “Tent No. 2.” We shall see a good deal of
the contents of Tent No. 2. Tent No. 2 was the dime museum tent, and
varied and startling were its decorations. A two-headed boy grinned
merrily at a painted hyena on one side. It was a laughing hyena, but
the boy got the best of him because he had two heads to laugh with. A
Norwegian giantess (colored) had the next side to herself, and so tall
was she that a sort of continued-in-our-next arrangement was made with
the roof, where a careful artist had painted half her head. There was
a seal playing a banjo on the next panel, while a charmed boa
constrictor listened. The boa constrictor’s tail was traced to the
other side of the tent, his body having extended all that way. So he
was a pretty big snake. Texas vowed he’d never seen a bigger one. And
after that the six made a stampede for the main tent.

They stopped just long enough for Chauncey, “the gent with the white
clothes and black whiskers,” to invest in peanuts. He told the man to
keep the change with a haughty air, and then bid his friends help
themselves. They took so many there wasn’t any change, at which the
man growled.

In spite of jokes and peanuts they finally got into the tent. They
bought their tickets separately so that their seats might be separate,
and they found to their horror that the Australian bushman had sold
them six in a row, and that every one in the place was staring at
their extraordinary costumes. This rather pleased them, but they tried
to look as if they didn’t care and stared around the tent.

After some munching of peanuts and stamping of feet (this latter
chiefly by Texas, he of the carmine sweater and no coat, who was
anxious to smash Smasher) a bell rang and the show had begun. A
curtain opened at one side and in galloped a white horse and rider.
Texas sprang up and started for the ring. Texas thought it was
Smasher, and he grumbled some when he found it was only “Madam
Nicolini, the daring equestrienne!” Texas admitted that her riding
wasn’t bad, but he vowed he’d make her turn pale with envy when he
once set out on Smasher. Seeing that Madam Nicolini had a perpetual
blush of red paint that beat her rival’s sweater, Texas finally took
back his rash threat and settled down to growl once more.

Mr. Jeremiah Powers had to curb his impatience. The programme wasn’t
going to be changed for him. There were “daring aërial flights” at
which the old ladies gasped and the fair damsels shrieked. There were
performing dogs at which every one observed, “How cute!” a safe remark
which the most critical could not dispute. There were the Alberti
Brothers, who bowed whether you applauded or not, and the usual trick
elephant who rang for his dinner when the clown told him not to,
whereat the old gentlemen who had brought their little boys to enjoy
the show laughed most uproariously and asked the doubtful little boys
if it wasn’t funny.

And then came Smasher!

The curtain opened once more and the little bronco, meek and gentle,
was led out. He was “nothin’ much,” so Texas said; “orter see my Tiger
down home.” Texas had been persuaded by Mark to wait and see what else
would happen before he ventured down, and so Texas was silent though
wriggling anxiously in his seat.

A “gent” in full dress, just like Indian, was leading Smasher by the
bridle. Having reached the middle of the ring he released the horse,
who hung his head and looked like a poor, sleepy, half-starved little
pony that would run from a mouse. Then the gent, who was “Smithers”
himself, began thus:

“Now, ladies and gentlemen! We are about to witness the most
interesting event of the varied programme of this marvelous and
startling show. Behold Smasher, the world-renowned bronco. Now there
must be gents in the audience who can ride, gents with sporting blood
in their veins, gents who are willing, even anxious to show their
skill. Ladies and gentlemen, Smasher challenges the world! Behold
him!”

This masterpiece having finished, Smithers folded his arms. Mark was
sitting on Texas meanwhile.

“Somebody’ll try it, old man,” Mark protested. “Just keep quiet.
He’s not going away yet. It’ll be more fun after he’s thrown
somebody――there now!”

The last exclamation of relief came as some one did come forward to
try. He was a country yokel in his best Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes.
Having brought his best girl to town, and being secure in his skill
with his farm plugs, he strode forward timidly to make a name for
himself in Highland Falls forever.

“Ah!” said Smithers, serenely. “One gent has nerve! I knew that
America with her sons of freedom could produce one man bold enough to
dare this feat.”

The country youth hesitated a moment in front of his mount, while the
crowd leaned forward in expectation. Having petted Smasher in a
professional way and observed that the horse still hung its sleepy
head, the rider summoned all his nerve and straddled the pony. The
pony was so small and the man’s legs so long that his toes still
touched the sawdust.

Smasher never moved an inch; even his eyes never opened. The yokel
took hold of the bridle, straightened himself up to a stiff and
awkward position and gazed about him with an air of delicious triumph.
The multitude began to cheer.

“That’s fine,” said Smithers, smiling blandly. “Really fine! Now make
him go.”

The hayseed laid hold of the bridle and gave it a jerk.

“Git ap!” said he.

And the bronco got. He only moved one-half of his body; his heels went
up in one cataclysmic plunge, and the rider went through the air like
a streak. He picked himself up with a good deal of sawdust in his
mouth, way over in the opposite corner. The crowd simply howled with
laughter and Smithers beamed benignantly.

“The challenge still stands,” said he, laughing at the plight of the
farmer, who limped to his feet with a look on his face that led the
facetious cornetist in the band to play faintly:

“I’ll never go there any more.”

Which made the crowd laugh all the louder.

“Next!” roared the proprietor. “Somebody else come try it now! Next!”

At this stage of the game Mark unbottled Texas; and Texas arose slowly
and made his way down to the ring.

“I reckon I’ll try that air critter,” said he.

Smithers’ smile was as expansive as his shirt front. Two such fellows
as this were a rare treat; usually every one was daunted by the first
failure. This fellow was evidently a regular hayseed, too.

“Most charmed,” said the proprietor. “Step right up, I pray you.
Really, sir――――” There was something about his self-confident smile
that “riled” our excitable Texan.

“Look a-yere!” he demanded, angrily, when he reached the ring. “You
think I kain’t ride this hyar critter, don’t you? Hey?”

The whole crowd in that tent leaned forward excitedly; here was fun, a
chance of a quarrel.

“Why, I’m sure I don’t know,” grinned the proprietor, suavely. “How
should I know? Try it.”

“You got any money?” roared Texas.

“Why――er――yes. A little.”

Mr. Powers jammed his hands into one pocket and yanked out some bills.

“Go you one hundred I ride him!” he shouted.

“Bully, b’gee!” cried a voice in the crowd, and the rest roared in
concert.

Smithers looked embarrassed.

“I――that is――I’ve hardly got so much――I――――”

“Shame! Shame!” howled the delighted spectators.

“Whar’s that air sporting blood ye were a-talkin’ ’bout?” roared
Texas. “Wow! I thought nobody’d ever ridden the critter, doggone
his――er――shoes. Thought ye were so sure? ’Fraid, hey? I knowed it.”

The crowd howled still louder.

“Tell ye what I’ll do,” cried Texas, waving his bills excitedly. “I’ll
go you this yere hundred to twenty! How’s that?”

“Who’ll hold the stakes?” inquired the proprietor, weakly.

“Put ’em down thar in the ring,” said Texas. “Let everybody see ’em.”

Smithers left the tent hurriedly, while the crowd roared with
impatience. He came back with the money, which Texas examined
cautiously, and then dropped with his own on the sawdust. And then he
turned toward the sleepy bronco.

“I’m ready now,” said he. “Bring the critter hyar.”




CHAPTER III.

NOT ON THE PROGRAMME.


You have perhaps read of Ben Hur and the famous chariot race, and
remember how General Wallace describes the staring crowds about that
amphitheatre. There was no one there a bit more thrilled and
interested than the spectators of Smithers’ World Renowned Circus at
this supreme moment. They were leaning forward, some of them having
even risen to their feet; they were staring with open mouth, scarcely
breathing.

The sympathies of every one were with that strange and outlandishly
costumed stranger who seemed to have so much money and nerve.

Texas meanwhile was proceeding with a businesslike cautiousness. He
examined the saddle girth and the stirrups and tightened both. Then
after another survey he concluded that they didn’t suit him, and flung
them off altogether.

“He’s going to ride bareback!” gasped the crowd.

That was the stranger’s purpose, evidently. He next examined the
bridle, giving Smasher’s head a vigorous shake incidentally and making
that wicked animal open one eye in surprise. And after that Texas was
ready.

He stood at the horse’s head regarding him just one moment, and then
seizing him by the mane, swung himself into the air and landed with a
thud upon the pony’s back.

As usual, Smasher never moved. Texas did not wait for him to get ready
to start, but dug his heels into his side with a crash that made the
bronco leap two feet into the air, and gave a yank at the bit that
made his head snap back. And then there was all the fun the most
fastidious could want. The center of the ring was a perfect whirl of
legs and bodies. The pony flung his hind feet into the air and then
danced about on them; Texas simply dug his knees into his side and his
heels into his ribs and sat up straight as an arrow, yelling in Texas
dialect meanwhile.

Then Smasher reared himself upon his hind legs; he bit and plunged,
and he kicked; he whirled around in a circle; he flung himself on the
sawdust and rolled about the ring.

At this last move Texas had slipped off quick as lightning and stood
calmly by, still holding the reins and yelling at the pony. The pony
struggled to his feet again; while he was still on his knees Texas had
thrown himself on his back and was once more kicking and shouting:

“Git up, thar, you vile critter, you! Git up, thar!”

Smasher got, and he started around that ring at breakneck speed,
tossing his head and plunging, his body leaning at an angle of thirty
degrees and the sawdust flying in clouds. Around and around he went.
Smithers was staring in horror, the crowd was roaring with delight,
and as for Texas, he was waving his hat and shouting triumphantly.

“Get up, thar, you ole Smasher! I’ll smash you! That the fastest you
kin go? Whoop!”

Smasher tried a little faster yet, until the crowd got dizzy watching
him. Then he tried one last resort more, stopped short as if he’d hit
a stone wall. Texas simply clung and then gave him a whack that set
him off for dear life again. Texas knew that he’d conquered then.

“Wow!” he roared. “Got any more ov ’em to break? Ain’t had so much fun
in a year! Whoop! You circus folks think you kin ride, don’t you? I’ll
show ye something!”

Suiting the action to the word, Texas, still lashing the horse to keep
him going and still roaring to keep him straight, got upon his knees
and then on his feet. Having stood on one leg for a couple of turns he
dropped the reins turned over and flung his heels into the air. After
that he dropped his hat and swept it up on the next turn around. Then
seizing hold of the horse’s mane, he slid under his belly and a moment
later appeared on the other side, and jerked himself up, Smasher
meanwhile going at railroad speed. Nobody in the crowd saw how he did
it, but they roared with delight all the same, and Smithers gritted
his teeth with rage.

But Texas was by no means through yet. All his cowboy ingenuity had
gone into the task of thinking up a suitable punishment for “that
fresh circus feller” who had ventured to insult the nationality of
cowboys. And Texas was getting ready to put a scheme into practice,
while he still thumped merrily on the ribs of the dizzy bronco. He was
fumbling about the pockets of his voluminous trousers, and suddenly
the crowd, divining his intentions, let out a roar of delight.

“He’s got a lasso!”

Texas did have a lasso, a “rope,” he would have called it; if there
was anything on earth he prided himself on it was his skill at
“throwin’ a rope.” He had an arm half a foot thick as a result, and
had half murdered several venturesome yearlings with it, as our old
readers know. Texas was going to show some of the dexterity of that
arm right now.

Of course the crowd was simply wild with expectation and curiosity.
Even Smithers, from his position in the center of the ring, forgot
about his lost twenty, and began turning around and around to see what
the rider was doing. The rider was unwinding the lariat from his body.
That did not take him very long, and then he flung it into the air and
began to whirl it gracefully about his head.

“Whoop!” he roared, getting faster and faster, and driving Smasher at
a perfect tear. “Whoop!”

“Hooray!” howled the crowd. “Hooray!”

And then suddenly, having gotten his distance and aim, Texas let drive
that lasso. The result electrified and horrified every person in the
place. For the noose sailed through the air, and before the amazed
Smithers could even raise an arm it settled comfortably over his
shoulders and the momentum of the pony jerked it tight as a vise.

The circus proprietor let out a yell that drowned even the roars of
the Texan. He imagined himself hurled to the ground and dragged head
first about the place. That was what the frightened crowd thought,
too, as they sprang up shouting. But Texas had arranged things more
wisely than that.

He had gauged the length of the lasso just so that the proprietor felt
himself jerked forward and obliged to run to maintain his equilibrium.
Onward rushed Smasher in a big circle, and onward also the reluctant,
indignant, vociferously protesting Smithers in a little circle near
the center of the ring. He could not stop; he could do nothing but run
around and around with might and main, while the crowd fairly went
into spasms of delight, and Texas roared whoops by the bucketful.

This delicious game continued until the proprietor stopped from sheer
exhaustion. He stood still, panting, and before he could move again
Texas had worked one more scheme. Around and around he swept in a fast
narrowing circle of rope, while Smithers found, to his horror, that
his arms were bound tight to his sides, he being swiftly reduced to
the state of a mummy or an Indian totem pole. In vain he howled. Texas
had the hilarious crowd with him, and he didn’t care. He finished the
job neatly and then brought Smasher to a halt, and, dismounting, bowed
with mock ceremony to the imprisoned proprietor. Then he pocketed his
money with a flourish and marched back to his seat, the cynosure of
every eye in the place. The sputtering victim he left to be unwound by
one of the circus hands.

It was fully ten minutes before the show could go on. Texas was
obliged to get up and bow to an encore three times, while Smithers
shook his fist in impotent rage. Smasher was led off meekly. As to
him, it may be said here that he never again went on the stage; the
poor beast was sold to an itinerant peddler, for he was so docile that
a child might ride him after that. But meanwhile, there was more
excitement at the circus.

Texas having satiated the applauding multitude, turned to receive the
congratulations of his delighted friends. To his surprise, he found
that two of them, Mark and Dewey, were missing.

“Whar’s Mark?” he cried, anxiously.

“Mark!” echoed the other four, in just as much surprise.

They had not noticed that in the excitement Mark and his friend, the
prize story-teller, had gotten up and slipped away. But gone they
were, after some fun, so Texas surmised, and vowed it was mean in them
to leave him. As if he hadn’t had fun enough already!

We shall follow the mischief-makers, for they were destined to meet
with some interesting adventures before they returned to their
companions.

Mark had a definite reason for stealing away thus unceremoniously. He
had a scheme he meant to put into effect; but as it happened, all
thought of it was driven from his mind by something he chanced to
notice a few minutes later.

At the rear of the circus tent was Smithers’ “Magnificent Menagerie.”
Persons who had tickets to the circus were allowed to visit that
menagerie and gaze upon its treasures――these included a single lean
buffalo which was subsequently led out into the ring to perform; a
single elephant which did likewise; the aforementioned laughing hyena,
whose laugh had been somewhat embittered by bad treatment; and the
world-famous “Smasher.”

Toward this part of the show Mark and Dewey were leisurely strolling,
chatting merrily as usual. And then suddenly from inside the tent the
band struck up a tune.

Now there was nothing startling about that. The band was accustomed to
herald the entrance of each performer in that way. It was a very
unmusical band; Dewey said it was cracked――“cracked into four pieces,
b’gee!” he added. The band apparently knew only three or four tunes,
one of them being “The Girl I Left Behind Me”――the song of Custer’s
famous Seventh. That was where the excitement came in.

The West Point band had often played that tune and the cadets were
used to marching to it. Mark had noticed four young fellows strolling
just ahead of him; at the very first notes of that tune the four
straightened up as one man and stepped forward――left! left! A moment
later they recollected where they were and resumed their former gait.

That little incident was not lost to Mark’s sharp eyes, however. He
turned and nudged Dewey on the arm.

“Did you see that, old man?” he cried.

“Yes, b’gee, I did,” responded Dewey, “and I know what it means, too.”

The four were cadets!

Our two friends fairly gasped with delight as they realized that. The
strangers had disappeared in the tent by that time and quick as a wink
Mark sprang forward.

“Let’s see who they are,” he cried.

The two hurried up to the tent door and peered cautiously around the
edge of the canvas. They could plainly see the backs of the others as
they strolled away. An instant later Mark started back with a cry of
delight. One of the four had turned around and shown his face for one
instant. It was Bull Harris! And the rest were his “gang!”

Mark and Dewey stole away to a safe corner and sat down to consult. Of
course there was but one thought in the minds of both of them. It was
a chance for a joke, a superb one. Bull was in disguise, and would run
for his life at the least suspicion of discovery. It was a golden
opportunity, and such a one must not be allowed to pass, for anything
in the world.

Our readers of course understand what were Mark Mallory’s feelings
toward Bull Harris, the yearling. Bull was Mark’s deadliest enemy in
West Point; Bull hated him with a concentrated hatred that had grown
with each unsuccessful attempt to outwit Mark, to disgrace him, to get
him expelled. As for Mark, he did not hate Bull, but he loved to worry
that ill-natured and malignant youth with all kinds of clever schemes.

That was the reason why, the very instant Mark recognized the
yearling, the thought flashed over him――what a chance for some fun.

“We mustn’t let him see us,” Mark whispered to Dewey. “He’d recognize
us in spite of our disguise. What shall we do?”

“Let’s go in and follow them,” chuckled Dewey. “See what they’re
doing, b’gee!”

This suggestion was acted upon instantly. The two conspirators got up
and stole over to the tent door, slid in, and dodged behind one of the
wagons.

It was a very small tent, and they could almost have touched their
victims with an umbrella. Yet the victims had not the least suspicion
of any danger.

“They are feeding the elephant,” whispered Mark. “’Sh!”

Bull and his three friends had their Dockets stuffed with peanuts and
were amusing themselves immensely. The single elephant was chained to
the back of the tent; there was a small railing in front of him to
keep people from going too near. That did not prevent them from
throwing peanuts, however. It is a lot of fun to get a big elephant to
raise his trunk in eager expectation and then to torment him by not
giving him anything to eat. It is fun, at any rate, if you like to
tease; Bull liked to, and the madder the elephant got the better he
liked it.

An elephant is a peculiarly intelligent-looking animal. He can
indicate his feeling very well with those twinkling little eyes of
his. And the two conspirators chuckled as they noticed the way the
animal was regarding his four tormentors. And then suddenly Dewey,
chancing to put one hand in his pocket, gave a gasp of delight.

“By jingo!” he cried. “I’ve got it!”

Mark stared at him in surprise as he drew forth from his pocket a
small bottle of whitish substance.

“What is it?” he inquired, whispering low.

“Something I got for the Parson,” chuckled Dewey. “It’s caustic
potash! Watch!”

Dewey took the cork out of the innocent little bottle and sprang out
from behind the wagon. It was all done so quickly that Mark scarcely
had time to realize what was up.

There was no one else in the tent to see; the four were too intent
upon their fun. Dewey crept up behind them, and with as much deftness
as if he had been a pickpocket, dumped the contents of the bottle into
Bull’s “peanut” pocket.

A moment more and the excitement began.

Bull did not notice the substance when he reached for another peanut.
He took it out and deftly “chucked” it into the elephant’s mouth.

Concerning the action of caustic potash when moistened there is no
room to write a treatise here. If Parson Stanard had been there he
would doubtless have explained how the latent heat of the substance is
released by decomposition, etc., a process known as “slaking,” and so
on. Suffice it to say that it gets hot.

Bull noticed the elephant look funny, he didn’t know why. There was a
pail of water at the infuriated animal’s side, and he thrust his trunk
into it and drank a huge draught to relieve the pain.

And then he raised his trunk, full of water as it was, and to Bull’s
horror and consternation, deliberately blew a heavy column of it
straight into his tormentor’s face!




CHAPTER IV.

BULL HARRIS BEATS A RETREAT.


The scene that resulted is left to the reader’s imagination. Bull was
simply drenched; he was sputtering and gasping with rage. As for the
elephant, he set up a terrific trumpeting, which, together with the
cries of the cadets, brought the circus attendants in on a run.

(It is needless to say that Mark and Dewey had fled long ago, ready to
burst with hilarity.)

The circus men had expected some danger from the cries they heard.
When they discovered what was really the matter they broke into roars
of laughter, for they were only human. That made Bull all the madder.

“You shall pay for this!” he shouted, furiously. “Why don’t you keep
that beast where he can’t hurt anything?”

“What made you tease him?” retorted one of the others, shrewdly
suspecting that the meek old elephant’s act was not uncaused.

“I wasn’t teasing him!” roared Bull. “You lie if you――――”

Bull was red with rage, but he turned a little pale as one of the men
sprang toward him.

“Shut up!” said he, “or I’ll dump you in the rest of that water and
roll you in the mud besides.”

It was at least half an hour before Mark and Dewey managed to recover.
The whole affair was so utterly ludicrous! Such a tale it would make
to tell the rest of the Seven!

“Gee whiz!” cried Mark, suddenly. “I forgot all about that. Let’s
hustle over and tell ’em now.”

“B’gee, that’s so,” cried Dewey. “I never thought of it, either.
Reminds me of a story I once heard, b’gee――――”

That was a very funny story; it was one of Dewey’s very best, and I
wish that I could repeat it. The only trouble was that it was never
finished. For, standing where they were, near the menagerie tent
again, they heard two voices in conversation. What they heard
completely drove from Dewey’s mind all thoughts of jokes and stories.
It suggested a prospect of sport that knocked all previous adventures
into the shade.

This was the conversation:

“Mike drunk! For heaven’s sakes, man! That’s the second time this
week. How on earth will we ever do without him?”

The voice was that of the proprietor, all his anger at his treatment
by Texas having left him at what was evidently some bad news.

“We’ll have to miss showing the dime museum tent again!” he groaned.
“And it’ll mean five dollars out of my pocket, after I’ve just lost a
twenty, too! Confound it!”

“Can’t you get somebody to take his place?” inquired another voice.

“No! How can I? I couldn’t do it myself, for I can’t remember half the
jokes and things Mike used to get off in his speech when he exhibited
the freaks. He kept the people laughing and they never saw how rotten
the confounded exhibition is. And now what on earth am I to do?”

This dialogue was not meant for Mark and Dewey, but they heard it in
passing. Now they were out for fun, bold and daring, both of them. And
to each at the same moment those words suggested a wildly delicious
idea. They turned and stared at each other with a look of inspiration
on their faces; gave one gasp of delight; and then Dewey seized Mark
by the shoulders.

“B’gee, old man,” he cried, “I dare you!”

An instant later Smithers felt a light tap upon the arm. He turned and
confronted a tramp in a torn yellow and red tennis blazer, with hands
bound up in rags.

“What do you want?”

“I was just going to say I’d exhibit your museum freaks for you. I and
my friend there.”

“You!” gasped the professor. “Who are you?”

“I’m a professional stump speaker,” said the tramp, winking knowingly.
“And my friend here’s a professional joke writer. And if you’ll just
show us the freaks and give us a while to think up jokes, we’ll make
you famous.”

“How much do you want?” inquired Smithers, suspiciously.

“Nothing. We’ll do it for love, to get you out of a scrape.”

The man gazed at them in doubt for a moment more, and then he turned
upon his heel.

“Come,” he said, briefly, and led the way out to the gayly painted
tent mentioned previously.

The four members of the Banded Seven who had stayed behind to see the
rest of the show wandered out disconsolately after it was over. Mr.
Smithers had previously announced from the ring that the marvelous
museum was now on exhibition for the “purely nominal sum of ten
cents,” also that Professor Salvatori would be on hand to deliver one
of his famous addresses, assisted by Mr. So-and-So. Finding that this
bait had been taken by most of the crowd, and not knowing what else to
do with themselves, since their leader had deserted them, the four
strolled into the much painted tent.

They were but little prepared for the amazing sight which greeted them
after a few minutes’ wait. In the first place there were a number of
glass cases with little platforms upon which the professor was to
mount, and in the second there was a crowd of people wandering about
staring curiously. Then suddenly the trumpet blew a blast, and with
Mr. Smithers at their head, in strode――good heavens! Mark and Dewey!

The plebes could hardly believe their eyes; they stared and gasped,
and then gasped and stared. They rubbed their eyes and pinched
themselves. And meanwhile Professor Salvatori beamed down on them
benignly as he stepped lightly up to the platform.

“Wow!” gasped Texas. “He’s a-goin’ to make a speech!”

“Bless my soul!” muttered Indian. “What an extraordinary proceeding!”

Meanwhile Mr. Smithers had stepped out upon the platform with his best
professional style.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I assure you that it gives me the greatest of
pleasure to present to you this afternoon my distinguished friends,
Professor Salvatori (a bow) and his able and witty assistant
(another). Ladies and gentlemen, Professor Salvatori is so well known
to you all that I am sure it would be a presumption on my part to tell
you of his history. The address which he delivered before his royal
highness, the Duke of Bavaria, was published in all the leading
scientific reviews of the day, and I am sure was appreciated by you
all. It was during his remarkable trip through the wilds of Central
Africa that most of these extraordinary specimens were collected,
notably that magnificent painting of a Polar bear devouring a walrus
which you doubtless observed upon the outside of the tent. Ladies and
gentlemen, I assure you you have a treat in store. Listen, all of you.
Professor Salvatori.”

During this most original and startling introduction, Professor
Salvatori had been bowing right and left, and the four had been
staring their eyes out. In the midst of it the fun-loving Texas seized
the others and drew them to one side.

“Fellers,” he whispered, “Mark’s a-goin’ to make a speech. He didn’t
tell us. Let’s git square.”

“How?”

“Let’s guy him!”

And in half a second more those four rascals had vowed to “bust up”
that speech. Truly there was fun in store when once Professor
Salvatori got started, and the conspirators fairly danced about with
impatience.

Professor Salvatori meanwhile had not been hesitating, but with a
jaunty stride had stepped to the fore. He wasn’t the least bit
embarrassed. Why should a man who had lectured before the Duke of
Bavaria care for country bumpkins like these? He wiped his brow with a
graceful flourish and cleared his throat pompously.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said he.

That was a fine starter and the professor gazed at the crowd as much
to say “Could you have done any better?” The four fellows chuckled.

“After the most embarrassing eulogy which my old friend, General
Smithers, has given me, I am sure I need say nothing more about myself
to you. It would be presumptuous and therefore――ahem!――I shall proceed
immediately to the business in hand. Now then!”

This graceful introduction over the professor signaled his assistant
in a superior way to lift the curtain of a glass case disclosing the
“huge” boa constrictor some five feet long.

“In the words of the poem, ladies and gentlemen,” said the professor.

  “‘Oh here’s your anaconda boa constrictor
      Oft called anaconda for brevity.
    He’s noted the world throughout
      For his age and great longevity.

  “‘He can eat himself, crawl through himself,
      And come out of himself with agility;
    He can tie himself in a double bowknot
      And undo himself with the greatest facility.’”

This masterpiece could not prevent a groan of disgust from the crowd
who were disappointed at the size. Texas saw a chance to begin right
there.

“’Tain’t so big as the picture!” he roared, and the spectators
murmured approvingly.

They thought the bold fellow was out for more fun and they meant to
back him up.

“That picture,” returned Mark, smiling, “is the exact size the boa
constrictor would have been if he hadn’t died some fifty years ago, a
misfortune for which I cannot be to blame. At present he is
stuffed――――”

“The whole show’s stuffed!”

It was the Parson who said that. Mark stared at the clerical and
classical gentlemen until he saw that every one in the crowd was
likewise taking in that lank burly form. And then he remarked dryly:

“You’d look a sight better if you were stuffed, too.”

That brought down the house and Professor Salvatori knew that he had
won the crowd over. He beamed upon his chagrined friends benevolently
and went on. He narrated several marvelous tales of his adventures
with large snakes in Africa, the province of Farina land. And then
Dewey was promptly reminded of one of his yarns, b’gee! which he told
in his inimitable way and made everybody laugh.

Then they moved on to the Siamese twins.

“He’s dead, too,” observed Mark. “He died in jail, poor fellow. He’d
committed a crime one-half of him, and it was quite a problem how to
keep in jail without keeping the other one in too. He had committed a
horrible crime――――”

“What was it?” cried Indian, innocently.

“Bigamy,” said Mark, calmly. “He’d been leading a double life.”

By this time things were progressing with delightful smoothness. The
crowd was in good humor, laughing at everything. When you once get
people in a laughing mood they do that. Mr.――er――General Smithers was
beaming serenely, thinking of offering a permanent job to these two
quick-witted unfortunates.

And in the meantime they were still talking.

“And now we come to the India-rubber man,” said Mark. “A little of
this India-rubber man goes a very long way, and therefore I shall move
on to this next curious and most interesting specimen, the man with
the iron jaw. He is indeed worthy of notice.”

Texas and his mischievous friends ventured yet one more effort then.

“Where’s the iron jaw?” they shouted, all in a breath.

“Where’s the jaw!” echoed Mark, indignantly. “Why don’t you use your
eyes and see? It’s lying right there in his lap for you to look at.”

The crowd roared with delight at that; sure enough the man held up a
bit of rusty iron in the shape of a human jaw. As for Texas he started
back and stared about him in bewilderment.

And then suddenly came a most amazing development. The spectators
could put but one construction upon it; the savage Texas was enraged
at having been laughed at.

With a muttered exclamation he leaped forward, sprang at a bound to
the platform, and rushing at Professor Salvatori dealt him a blow upon
the face!

There was the wildest confusion in a moment. The crowd hissed and
shouted indignantly. Smithers rushed forward. The rest of the Banded
Seven gasped. As for Mark he started back white as a sheet with anger.

“Why Texas!” he cried in an amazed whisper.

“You chump!” muttered Texas under his breath. “Don’t you understand?
Fly for your life! Chase me!”

Mark gazed about him in bewilderment; an instant later he caught sight
of something that told him all. Just entering the door of the tent, a
lady leaning upon his arm, was a blue uniformed figure, a tactical
officer, Lieutenant Allen! And quick as a flash Mark saw the ruse, and
with a cry of mock rage made a savage leap at Texas.

Texas sprang to the ground, Mark at his heels, and carefully looking
away from the distant “tac.” Texas plunged through the crowd, Mark
following at full tilt and shouting for vengeance. Texas slid under
the tent wall, Mark after him, and then Dewey and the other plebes in
full hue and cry. A minute more and they were flying across lots to
the shelter of the woods, General Smithers, all his patrons, and in
fact all Highland Falls gazing at their flying figures in amazement.

“A lunatic asylum broke loose,” was the ultimate verdict.

The Banded Seven once in the woods and alone, seated themselves on the
ground and stared at each other and roared with laughter for an hour.

Then they slipped back to camp fully satisfied with the fun they had
experienced that day.




CHAPTER V.

ANOTHER ESCAPADE IS PLANNED.


                      “GARRISONS, N. Y., August 11th, 18――.
     “Miss Fuller requests the pleasure of the Banded Seven’s
     company at an informal party to be given any time they
     please to-night.”

Such was the invitation, a rather curious and unconventional one. But
that gave it no less interest in the eyes of the seven lads who were
all gazing at it at once.

The one who was reading the note was Mark Mallory. Next to him was
Texas, and Texas was dancing about in excitement.

“Wow!” he roared. “Say, fellers, ain’t that great? Think o’ gittin’ an
invitation to a party, an’ we only plebes. Whoop! An’ won’t we have
fun, though!”

“Shall we go?” inquired some one.

“Go!” cried Texas. “O’ course we’ll go!”

“But it’s out of bounds,” protested “Indian,” the fat and timid Joseph
Smith. “It’s ’way across the river at Garrisons, and if we’re found
out we’ll be expelled. Bless my soul!”

“’Tain’t the fust time we’ve been out o’ bounds,” observed Texas,
grinning. “An’ ef I thought ’twar the last, I don’t think I’d stay in
this hyar stupid old place.”

“But we’ve no clothes to go in, bah Jove!” objected Master Chauncey
Van Rensselaer Mount-Bonsall, of Fifth Avenue, New York. “We cawn’t
wear our uniforms, y’know, for some one would recognize the deuced
things, bah Jove; and we have nothing else.”

“Nothin’ else!” exclaimed Texas. “Ain’t we got the ones we wore this
hyar very Saturday afternoon when we ran off to see the circus down to
Highlan’ Falls? Kain’t we wear them?”

“Wear them!” gasped Chauncey, the prim and particular “dude.” “Bah
Jove, I should like to see myself going to call on a girl, y’ know, in
the horrible rags we wore!”

“I guess we know Grace Fuller well enough to make allowances,” put in
Mark, laughing. “You know she told us she was going to ask us to steal
over and pay her a visit some night. She said the cadets often do.”

“But not in such costumes as we wore,” protested Chauncey.

“I don’t imagine they had much better,” answered Mark. “They’d hardly
wear their uniforms through Garrisons, and up the road we’d have to
follow. And if they had cit’s clothing smuggled in, I doubt if it was
much of a fit. However, we’ve got till taps to talk it over.”

Thus enjoined the Seven resolved themselves into a business meeting,
to discuss the important question whether they should accept that
invitation from Judge Fuller’s daughter. It is not the purpose of this
story to report the discussion, but simply to say that they decided
emphatically in the affirmative.

They were going to that party.

Grace Fuller was a member of the Banded Seven, which under its full
and complete title was known as “The Banded Seven and One Angel;” she
was the angel. Mark Mallory had swam out and rescued her from a
capsizing sailboat, and as a result of that the girl, though she was
the belle of West Point, and considered the most beautiful girl about
the post, had declared her sympathies with those desperate plebes, and
vowed to aid them in the fight against hazing.

There was much talking necessary to settle the details of that most
important excursion――and incidentally quite some laughing over the
adventure which had caused so much excitement that afternoon. The
costumes and disguises they had worn were still lying in the woods
where they had left them.

They were impatient plebes who went to bed that night, and blew out
their light to wait. Four of them slept in an A Company tent, and the
other three were in Company B, just across the way. When the watchful
“tac” went the rounds with his lantern they were all snoring
diligently, but in their haste they barely gave him time to get back
to his tent and extinguish the light, before they were up again and in
their uniforms, and stealing out to the side of the camp.

They passed in safety one of the sentries, a plebe whom they had
“fixed” beforehand, and then the whole seven set out on a run for the
woods. It was then about half-past ten, which Chauncey, their
authority upon etiquette, assured them was the correct time for a
party to begin. Just then they came upon the hiding place of the cit’s
clothing, which gave Chauncey something still more important to think
about.

Chauncey had been planning all the way how he was going to have that
full dress suit and be the one aristocrat in the crowd; he knew it
would never enter poor Indian’s head to protest.

But when Chauncey tried it the rest merrily vowed that a man who
disowned a suit in the afternoon had no right to wear it in the
evening, and the result was that the grumbling plebe donned his
graceful white flannels again and Indian’s bulging figure was crammed
into the evening suit. The black-robed Parson stood by in solemn state
meanwhile, and remarked occasionally that “as my friend Shakespeare
observed, ’Consistency, thou art a jewel,’ yea, by Zeus!”

“Though,” the Parson added, “I am by no means convinced that William
Shakespeare was the author of the words. I find that――――”

The Parson found that he was talking to the woods by that time, for
the rest of the crowd had fled in mock terror, setting out for the
river and leaving the solemn lecturer to follow at his leisure. His
gigantic strides soon brought him up with them again, however, and the
address was continued until the party had reached the Hudson’s shore.

Plebes were not supposed to hire boats, but they can very easily
manage it if they have only the money. There was one lying in a
designated and secluded nook for them, and a few minutes later the
Seven were out in the middle of the river. The old tub was nearly
under water with the load, but there was no one willing to stay and
wait for a second trip. That of course excludes the frightened Indian,
who was clutching the gunwale and gazing at the gurgling black waters
in mortal terror.

Poor Indian’s peace of mind was not added to by the remarks he heard
passed round. He was the heaviest in the crowd, and the cause of all
the trouble. If the boat began to sink, over he’d have to be thrown!
He was a regular Jonah anyhow. Dewey wondered if there were any whales
in the Hudson, b’gee. He heard a story, b’gee, etc. Indian wouldn’t
sink anyhow, for he was too fat; and therefore there wasn’t the least
bit of reason for his moaning in that way. That only brought the
sharks around.

This kept up all the way across. The boat grated on the beach just as
Dewey was observing that Indian, in his full dress was such a heavy
swell that it was a wonder he hadn’t swamped them, and that the reason
it was called full dress was because it was so full of Indian. Then
the crowd clambered out and made their way up to the road on which
Grace Fuller’s house was known to be.

There were not many people about at that time of night, but the few
there were stared in unconcealed amazement at that strangely
accoutered group.

That did not tend to make them feel any more at ease, for they were
desirous of attracting as little attention as possible.

Mark soon discovered that they had made a blunder which was destined
to cause them quite some inconvenience. In order to have as short a
row as possible, they had headed straight across the river and landed
north of Garrisons. Grace Fuller’s home lay below the town. The result
was that the seven masqueraders found themselves under the unpleasant
necessity of passing completely through it in order to reach their
destination.

The class of persons who hang about the streets at eleven o’clock at
night are not the very best. The plebes soon discovered that all the
young hoodlums of the place were apparently abroad and waiting for a
chance to annoy some one. It is needless to say that many comments,
more or less witty, more or less loud and coarse, were passed upon our
queerly dressed friends.

To Mark this was a cause of no little alarm. He wished himself
anywhere on earth except upon those streets. For he knew the excitable
temper with which his wild Texas friend was blessed, and he feared a
volcanic eruption any moment. Mark could restrain Texas up to a
certain point; beyond that point a regiment of soldiers could not stop
him.

They were passing at one time a saloon toward the lower end of the
town. It was the lower part in more senses than one, ill-smelling and
generally unpleasant. In front of this saloon three or four young
fellows were lounging. No sooner did they catch sight of the plebes
than instantly there was a cry.

“Hey, fellers! Come out an’ see de guys! Gee whiz, what togs!”

In response to this shout a rude crowd of nearly a dozen tumbled out
of the door to stare, taking no pains to conceal their amusement at
the extraordinary sight.

“Say! D’y’ ever see the beat?” roared one.

“Go on, dem’s mugs from de circus!” laughed a second.

“Hey, sonny, does yer mother know yer out?” cried another, at which
old and senseless remark the crowd had a fit of laughter.

During this rather unpleasant chaffing the Seven had quietly crossed
over to the other side of the street. For obvious reasons they were
not seeking a quarrel, least of all would they have sought it here.

This move was promptly noted by the gang. There is nothing a tough
likes better than to see some sign of cowardice in an adversary,
especially if he be a weak-looking adversary, a “sure thing.” There
was a howl from the crowd.

“Hooray! Look at ’em run!”

“What cher ’fraid of, kids? Nobody wants to hurt yer.”

“Come over an’ have a drink.”

“Let’s see yer run!”

To this the Seven answered not a word, but merely hurried on. Mark
wished that both his hands had not been done up in bandages, however.
It was not that he wanted to fight, but that he wanted to hold Texas.
He was on one side of this excitable youth and Dewey had him by the
arm on the other. The timid Indian, who would have gone around the
world sooner than look at a fight, was behind, pushing Texas along as
if he had been a baby carriage.

In this peculiar fashion they were getting past admirably, though the
Texan’s fingers were twitching rather ominously, and his eyes were
dancing with half-suppressed excitement.

The gang, however, had no idea of losing some promised sport in that
way; the “guying” grew louder and more plentiful.

“Look at de babies run! Gee! dey’re ’fraid to look at us!”

“Come on, boys, let’s foller ’em. Let’s see where dey’re goin’.”

“Look a-here, Mark,” began Texas, at that point. “Look a-yere! I ain’t
a-goin’ to stan’ this hyar――――”

“Go on,” said Mark, sternly. “Hurry up, fellows.”

“But, man――――”

“You’ll have us all in jail, Texas! Not a word, I tell you. I――――”

“Hey, dere, kids! Some o’ you come back an’ we’ll learn you how to
fight.”

By this time the cadets were well started down the street. Beyond talk
the crowd had done nothing, except to fire one pebble, which had hit
Indian. Poor Indian hadn’t made a sound; he was afraid of making Texas
madder still. Indian regarded Texas about as one would a ton of
dynamite.

Mark had managed his friend so diplomatically, however, that he
thought the danger was all over. It never once entered Mark’s head
that anybody else in the seven would lose his temper.

That proved to be the case, however. Chauncey, “the dude,” and Parson
Stanard, both of whom considered it undignified to hurry, were lagging
somewhat in the rear. The contrast of that white flannel and black
broadcloth was too much for the hoodlums.

“Look at de blackbird!”

“’Ray for the preacher!”

“Bet he’s from Boston. Hey, dere, beans, where’s yer specs?”

Now it was right there that the trouble began. As we all know, Parson
Stanard was from Boston. Moreover, as a true Bostonian he was proud of
his native city, the center of American culture and refinement, cradle
of liberty, etc., etc., etc.

Parson Stanard was a very meek and scholarly gentleman. But there are
some things that even a scholar will resent. The proverbial worm will
turn, as any one who has ever baited a fish-hook can testify. As
Webster has put it: “There is a limit to human endurance at which
patience ceases to be a virtue.” To that limit Parson Stanard had
come.

Willingly he would have let them poke fun at him. Perhaps even if they
had seen fit to ridicule his wondrous Cyathophylloid coral he might
have stood it in silence. They might have insulted the immortal Dana’s
geology unharmed. But Boston and Bostonians? Never! Quick as a flash
the Parson had whirled about.

“By the gods!” he cried. “This is indeed intolerable, and by no means
to be suffered unrebuked.”

“’Ray! ’ray! De preacher’s a-goin’ to make a speech!”

“Let her rip, Boston! Fire away, Beans!”

“Hit ’em again!”

“Gentlemen――――”

That was as far as the Parson got. Mark had wheeled in alarm and
dashed back to him.

“For heaven’s sake, man!” he cried. “Stop! Can’t you see――――”

“I see,” responded the Boston geologist, with dignity, “that these
persons are altogether devoid of respect for――ahem――my native city,
the home of freedom. And I mean right here and on this spot to
administer to them a rebuke that will last them until their dying day.
I mean to summon all the power of my ancestor’s eloquence, all the
weight of learning and logic I can command. I mean――――”

“Whoop! Speech! ’Ray for Boston! Git away, there, an’ let him go on!”

The Parson had turned to continue his remarks. Mallory was still
trying to stop him, however, and the crowd didn’t like that. Neither
did the Parson.

“In the words of the immortal Hamlet,” he cried, “I command you,
’Unhand me, gentlemen!’ I will go on! When an orator, burning with the
Promethean fire of inspiration, feels surging up within him immortal
words that clamor for expression, when he feels wild passions
thronging in his breast, passions that cry to be out and smiting the
hordes of iniquity, then I say, in the words of the immortal
Horace――――”

Here the Parson raised his hands solemnly and put on his best Latin
accent:

  “‘_Non civium ardor prava jubentium,
     Non vultus instantis tyrannis
     Mente quatit solida――――_’”

The Parson got no farther than that, though if it had been necessary
he could have chanted the whole of the famous ode. Just then the
affair came to a climax.

The tough gang, of course, understood nothing of this classical
oration, which ought to have moved their souls to tears. All they knew
was that that crazy guy was making a speech and promising no end of
fun. It would be great sport to have a scrap and “push his slats in”
at the end of the proceedings. And accordingly they raised a shout of
delight, interspersed with many encouraging comments, swearing with no
mild profanity at the rest of the Seven, who were trying to stop the
speech.

And then suddenly from the rear a decayed potato came flying and
struck the learned Parson full in the mouth!

Can you imagine a marble statue turning red with rage? That comes
about as near as anything to describing what happened to the scholarly
and solemn orator at that outrageous insult. A thousand things
contributed to his anger. The pain, the disgrace, the rudeness in
interrupting him in the midst of that wonderful poem! Truly it was
enough to “make the very dogs of Rome rise up in rage and mutiny!”

The Parson was not a dog, but he arose, and he arose with a vengeance.
In fact, he seemed fairly to tower up before his startled enemies. He
drew one deep breath, raised his hands to the stars (for even then the
Parson could do nothing hastily) and invoked the aid of his nine
Olympian Immortals; and then with a roar of fury shut his fists and
plunged like an angry bull into the very midst of his astounded
assailants.

Parson Stanard had had one fight before this, as history records it. A
few cadets, no more respectful of his genius and learning than these
young toughs, had tied him in a sack and dragged him about the Cavalry
Plain. The Parson had gotten out of that sack and employed his
geological “prehensile” muscles to just the same effect as he was
employing them now. The result was a sight for the edification of
those immortal gods of his.

The Parson really could hit, and was well up in the theory and
formulas of boxing as he was in everything else. And every time he
smote his adversaries, whom he termed “Philistines,” he called to
witness some new deity of old; finally, having exhausted his available
stock, he was forced to content himself with Hercules, Achilles, and
the rest of the demigods and heroes. But he still whacked just as hard
as ever.

Of course the rest of the plebes had not been slow to rush to his aid.
Mark could do nothing, for his hands were _hors du combat_. But as for
the rest of them, it would have been hard to find much better fighters
in the academy.

Texas, of course, was a perfect giant. He plunged back and forth
through that crowd, sweeping everything before him. Indian’s method
was exactly similar, except that the terrified lad shut his eyes and
hit anything he met, from trees to posts. Chauncey adopted his usual
tactics of leading half a dozen of the enemy to chase him, and then
getting them all breathless from trying to follow his dodging figure.

As for the rest of them, Sleepy backed himself against the wall
(Sleepy seldom stood up without leaning against something) and thus
kept his assailants at bay, and lastly, Dewey hovered around Mark to
protect him from danger. Mark was like a huge battleship without any
powder.

Sometimes we wish that history were different and that we could fix
things as we like. It would have made excellent reading if the gallant
Parson had been a second Samson among these new Philistines, and if
the gallant plebes had put the rowdies to flight. But they didn’t.

The first savage onslaught came very near doing this, but the crowd
speedily rallied, and being of far superior numbers, soon turned the
tide. Roughs are by no means inexperienced fighters, and moreover,
they do not scorn the use of sticks and brickbats when obtainable.
Things began to look very squally indeed for the cadets.

The Parson was down and being sat on, walked on, and danced on. Indian
had gotten off the track and was still blindly fighting the air half a
block up the street. Chauncey was breathless, and Sleepy was tired.
Moreover, one of the cowardly gang had discovered Mark’s plight, and
having subdued Dewey, was punching Mark at his leisure.

Texas alone was unconquered. Texas hadn’t had half enough fight to
suit him, and was still merrily plunging about the scene and through
the crowd, working those cowboy arms like windmills. But Texas, alas,
wasn’t able to hit every one at once, and so the plot continued to
thicken. An interruption, when it came a minute later, was very
welcome indeed to the plebes.

Somebody started a cry that brought confusion to the loafers. It was
“Police! police!” The “scrap” terminated abruptly; the “scrappers” got
up on their feet; and after that there was a wild scurrying in every
direction. Three watchmen, attracted by the noise, had suddenly
appeared upon the scene.

Now the Banded Seven were, for obvious reasons, as much afraid of cops
as their opponents. Texas did everlastingly hate to stop right in the
midst of the fun, but he was the only one that shared that feeling;
the rest sighed with relief when they realized at last that they were
far out of town and beyond danger.

Then they sat down by the side of a little stream and began to wash
away the signs of their injuries, wondering what else would happen
before long to render them still less fit to pay their visit. And that
was the end of Parson Stanard’s battle.




CHAPTER VI.

THE LONG DELAYED VISIT.


Oh, but Grace Fuller’s was an imposing house, when finally the plebes
managed to find it! It was big and brilliantly lighted, with high,
old-fashioned porticoes. There were spacious grounds about it, too,
and tall, menacing iron gates in front that made the dubious-looking
plebes feel very dubious indeed. As for poor Chauncey, he was simply
floored.

“I’ll not go in,” he vowed, indignantly. “Bah Jove, I look like a coal
heaver. Suppose there should be a lot of people there, don’t cher
know?”

That suggestion was a new one for the rest, and it made them gasp.
They hadn’t counted on seeing any one but Grace, and the idea that she
might have invited a lot of girls to entertain them was indeed
startling, and they talked it over for at least ten minutes before
they ventured another move.

The final decision was that the fate of the nation should be left to
Indian, the only respectable man in the crowd. Indian was to go, and
if he found that any one else had been invited to that “party” he was
to make a break for the door and fly. Otherwise, why then they might
be induced to show themselves. Indian didn’t like the idea a bit, but
the rest threatened him with horrors unnameable until he consented.
Then he crept up timidly and rang the bell while the others lay in the
bushes and hid.

The sight of the man who came to the door reassured the trembling
young hero somewhat, for it was George, the butler, who had once set
off some cannon for the Banded Seven and turned West Point
topsy-turvy. A moment later Grace Fuller herself appeared in the
hallway, a vision of loveliness that made the rest wish they were
Indian.

The six heard her inquire anxiously for them; and then they heard
Indian begin to stammer and stutter furiously, putting in a “Bless my
soul!” every few syllables and making the others grit their teeth with
rage.

“Plague take him!” muttered Mark. “He’ll give it all away.”

He did that in a very short while, for a fact; he had not found out
who was inside at all when suddenly Grace Fuller sprang out upon the
piazza.

“If you boys are out there,” she called, “you might as well come in
and make yourselves at home. Nobody cares how you’re dressed.”

After that, of course, there was nothing for them to do but come, as
gracefully as they could, which was very ungracefully indeed. They
marched sheepishly up the path in single file, each trying to be last.
How they ever got the courage to get into the door nobody knew, but
they did somehow, making a group which almost caused the dignified
butler to commit the heinous sin of smiling, and which made Grace
Fuller fairly go into hysterics.

However, they were in, which was something. And that memorable “party”
had begun.

It wasn’t much of a party, fortunately for the Banded Seven’s peace of
mind. As it turned out, Grace Fuller hadn’t half expected them to
come. She was afraid they wouldn’t dare take the risk. Here Master
Chauncey Van Rensselaer (hero of the smutty white flannel) got in a
Chesterfieldian compliment, the drift of which is left to the reader’s
imagination. Then the girl went on to explain the dilemma she had been
in, not knowing whether to prepare for them or not, which promptly
“reminded” Dewey of a story.

“Story,” said he, “about a tenderfoot who went hunting out West,
b’gee, and he came across a beast that he thought was a deer, and then
again he had half an idea it was a calf. So he looked at his gun and
at the beast, and didn’t know what to do. That was the dilemma, b’gee,
and the way he got over it was a way you might have tried for the
party. He shot to hit it if it was a deer, and miss it if it was a
calf, b’gee.”

Told in Master Dewey’s interesting way, that broke the ice, and then
everybody settled down to have a good time. Judge Fuller came
downstairs a few minutes later and was introduced to the Seven, who
had, so he surmised politely, expected a masquerade ball. That made
them more at ease; they wondered why they hadn’t thought of that
excuse themselves, and Parson Stanard (gentleman in the clerical
costume with a rip up the back) promptly corralled the judge up in one
corner and started him on the subject of the Substance and Attributes
of Spinoza, and the Transcendental Analytic of Kant.

Meanwhile Grace Fuller was entertaining the rest. As Dewey had
predicted, she wanted to thank Mark, though she didn’t fall on his
neck. She must needs have the story of the gallant rescue told all
over again by the rest of the Seven, a proceeding which so embarrassed
Mark that he went over to learn about Spinoza and Kant. He would not
return until Grace went to the piano to sing for them. After that
Texas hauled out a mouth organ, and gave a genuine cowboy jig which
moved the Parson, at Judge Fuller’s invitation, to render Professor
So-and-So’s latest theory as to the tune in the parabasis of a Greek
comedy.

That scared them all away from the piano, and Dewey told the story of
the circus, which he did so vividly that Texas got excited and wanted
to lasso something, even starting to undo the rope at his waist and
show Grace how it was done. He was finally persuaded that there wasn’t
room in the parlor, and then to cool him off they went in and had some
ice-cream.

At last somebody discovered that it was late, and time for that
curious visit to terminate. Perhaps it was Judge Fuller, who hadn’t
been able to escape from the tenacious Parson all evening. Anyway,
they started on their return trip, which was destined to prove
momentous, after a leave-taking which was affecting all around.

We shall not stop to follow them to the boat, but move on to another
place where more lively things were happening, things that were going
to cause the Banded Seven no end of excitement before they were
through. For out in the middle of the Hudson in a leaky tub is by no
means as safe a situation as in bed at Camp McPherson, as the plebes
were soon to learn. They had their night’s fun before them.

Smithers’ World Renowned Circus (!) was the cause of all the trouble.
Smithers, it seemed, was just then engaged in getting out of Highland
Falls; it was rather late at night, in fact Sunday morning, but a
circus is a thing that has to keep moving. It was scheduled for a
place way up the State on Monday, and so every one was hard at work.

There was a long railroad train drawn up at the station a short way
from the circus grounds. The big tents were all aboard and likewise
the most of Mr. Smithers’ World Renowned (!) performers; the
“Magnificent Menagerie” was being moved when the trouble began.

The wonderful trick elephant was safely shut up in his corner of one
car, and likewise Smasher, the fierce untamed bronco ridden by no
man――except “Jeremiah Powers, son of the Honorable ’Scrap’ Powers, o’
Hurricane County, Texas.” The single degenerate specimen of a laughing
hyena, too hungry and disgruntled to laugh at anything, had also
joined the family party. Last of all was the solitary and stray
specimen of a buffalo, making up the quartette which composed that
much-advertised menagerie.

One would not have thought that buffalo had in him the capacity for
causing any trouble; he was a very lean old buffalo――in fact,
everything about Smithers’ circus was lean. Even the living skeleton
used to complain of hunger. This buffalo bull was old and ragged,
reminding one of a moth-eaten rug; and he had a very mild and subdued
look about his eyes. Nobody thought him capable of a rebellious
action, for he used to trot around the ring daily for the edification
of the country people and occasionally he submitted to a yoke and
helped the wild elephant get some one of the circus wagons out of a
muddy place in the road.

Animals are wily, however; perhaps this beast had just been acting to
get a reputation for harmlessness, so that when he did come to rebel
he might be sure of success. For to put the whole matter into a
nutshell, that buffalo ran away that night.

He took matters into his own hands during the course of the move to
the train. They wheeled his cage to the box car and put the door up
close and then prodded him to make him move. He moved, but he did not
go into the car; instead he poked his shoulders in between the car and
the cage and pushed. Before the sleepy circus hands could realize what
had happened, he was standing in the middle of the street, waving his
tail with much friskiness and gusto.

Of course there was excitement. Smithers came up hot and panting, and
after having first sworn at the beast, got an armful of hay and tried
to steal a march on him. The beast waited just long enough to show his
scorn for such artifices, and then, with a bellow of defiance, wheeled
clumsily about and started on a trot up the track.

There was more excitement then. Of course Smithers had to shout and
likewise the other circus men, and ditto the loungers in the
neighborhood. That woke up the town; and when a country town wakes up
at night there is no telling when the thing will stop. Some people
solace themselves by shouting murder under such circumstances; others
prefer fire; but however that may be, there are sure to be bells
ringing, and everybody peering out of their windows to find out if by
any chance they had been murdered without knowing it. Anyhow, that was
the way it happened in Highland Falls.

Smithers leaped upon a horse and started to lead in the chase; it was
a cloudy night, but the moon came out on occasions and just then
Smithers could very plainly see the much-accused buffalo trotting
serenely, head up, along the railroad track. Behind the proprietor
were the rest of the circus performers, professors and madams, and
likewise all the freaks except the fat lady. Behind them was a
nondescript mass of townspeople, farmers and small boys, all out to
see the fun and all shouting so as to assure themselves they were
having it.

That was about as strange a procession of humanity as the West Shore
road had ever seen; but the buffalo knew nothing about it. His mind
was filled with the indescribable joy of freedom, a sensation which we
Americans are supposed to have at all times. He was shaking his head
and his tail defiantly, and also shaking a leg as he skurried on up
the track. The proprietor never gained an inch, though he kept his
horse going for dear life.

It is less than a mile from Highland Falls to West Point; the buffalo
put that distance between him in no time, but not long after that he
struck a snag. The road enters a long, black tunnel at West Point. The
bull didn’t like the looks of the tunnel; neither did he like the
looks of Smithers, who was sweeping up in the rear. To make matters
worse, there came a roaring sound from the tunnel and a glare of
light――the night express. That was too much; the bull plunged down the
bank and into the river. A few minutes more and he was far out from
shore and a mere black spot upon the water.

Having deserted our friends the Banded Seven, we thus find our way to
them again. For the plebes, you remember, were pulling their heavy old
tub across that river when we left them, and their course was such
that it took them very near to that buffalo indeed.

And that was how the fun began.




CHAPTER VII.

EXCITEMENT ON THE RIVER.


The Banded Seven were having a first-rate time just then. In the first
place, they were returning in triumph from a daring venture, about
which to tell the angry cadets next morning was a delight to look
forward to. Then, besides, Master Dewey had hit upon a scheme for
their edification. Indian, the fat boy, so Dewey vowed, was taking up
more room and sinking the boat more than anybody else. It was only
fair that Indian should be made to row. That terrible sentence was now
being carried into effect, and poor Indian was in the last stages of
perspiration and exhaustion, when the shores of the river echoed with
the shouts of encouragement from the others.

It was because they were making so much noise that they did not at
first perceive the excitement that was taking place on shore. They
heard the roar of the train as it came through the tunnel, and they
watched it whirl from the station and around a bend in the river. But
Smithers and his circus hands they did not observe for a long time
after that. They were too busy exhorting poor Indian.

By the time that buffalo had been in the water some ten minutes,
however, the crowd had increased in number to a mob, and then all the
Banded Seven’s hilarity could not drown their shouts. The rowing
stopped abruptly, and the plebes turned in surprise and alarm to stare
at the spectators who lined the shore, just barely visible in the
half-hidden moonlight. And a moment later a loud snort and a splash
was heard in the water very near them.

Mr. Smithers’ buffalo had not quite calculated on the size of that
river, and he was beginning to get tired. He dared not go back to the
shore, and so when he made out a black object in front he made for
that in a hurry. The object was the Banded Seven’s boat!

The state of mind of the latter may be imagined. They saw the crowd;
and they heard them shouting warnings to “Look out!”

“It’s something from the circus!” cried Mark. “Something’s got away!”

“Row for your lives!” roared the people on the shore.

All possibility of that was gone, however, for the simple reason that
the rower, the timid and terrified Indian, had dropped his oars into
the water, leaped up from his seat and began to howl. The others,
uncertain as to what the rapidly approaching animal could be, only
added to the excitement. Texas at the first shout had hauled out a
huge revolver and was standing in the bow with a desperately tragic
air ready for anything in the whole realm of nature.

“Oo-oo!” howled Indian. “It’s the elephant!”

That caused still more alarm, so that the heavily-weighted old boat
began to ship water rapidly. But just then the suspense was ended by
the moon’s appearance from behind a cloud; that showed them the huge
buffalo, a sight by no means comforting, even if it was better than an
elephant run amuck.

The bull was a huge one even if he was thin; he swam with his head way
out of the water, tossing his shaggy mane angrily. Having been hunted
and shouted at for some time, the ugly beast was beginning to get mad
now, and his little eyes were gleaming.

When he saw the boat and its crowd he turned and started away with all
his might; for he saw in them only new enemies trying to capture him.
At that the plebes sighed with relief, you may readily imagine. They
were helpless prisoners on that boat, and if the bull had come for
them they would have been in danger. The danger was past now.

There was one factor, however, that the Seven had not counted on. They
forgot that they had a wild Texas cowboy on board, a cowboy with
“sporting blood” and a tendency to hunt for excitement. Nobody had
been watching Texas since that bull hove in sight. Nobody saw that he
was dancing about, his fingers twitching and his eyes sparkling.
Nobody had seen him thrust the revolver into his belt and begin
fumbling about his waist.

Nobody saw him fling his favorite “rope” to the breeze and begin to
whirl it about his head. The first inkling they had of any danger was
when to their indescribable horror they saw the noose sail through the
air, hovering and twisting; saw it settle comfortably about the huge
beast’s neck; and saw the mighty Texan yank it tight with a whoop of
triumph.

Things happened after that. Those on shore could not make out just
what, though the moon was still bright, but they saw the occupants of
the boat rush forward into the bow and a moment later saw the boat
whirl around and set out down stream in pursuit of the buffalo,
seemingly propelled by some magic hand.

It was exciting for the Banded Seven. The bull was wild with fury, and
was plunging through the water at a great rate. Texas had wrapped the
rope about the bow, and was playing his fish something after the
fashion of the lineman in a whaleboat. As for the boat itself, it was
mostly under water, splashing and plunging dangerously. But Texas
didn’t care for that; he only yelled the louder and scared his
prisoner into still greater exertions.

The others who were not quite so much infected with the excitement,
looked to see their heavily-laden boat founder any moment. Mark even
went so far as to inquire who could swim, a question which set poor
Indian (who couldn’t) into howls; Indian was sure that his time had
come; that the others (who could) would go off and leave him to perish
beneath the gurgling black water. He took a preliminary hold on the
Parson’s coat tails to make sure that he was not deserted.

The interesting trip did not last very long, however, for the simple
reason that the buffalo got tired. His speed relaxed, and finally he
stopped entirely and turned around to glare at the boat and his
captors who were in it. Texas, without a word, removed the rope from
where he had fastened it, and calmly proceeded to haul the animal in.
He didn’t pay a bit of attention to the remonstrances of the others,
whose aim it was to keep the creature away; Texas was managing this,
he told them, and he was going to finish that job if he had to drown
the buffalo and them, too.

Nearer and nearer came the savage beast, bellowing furiously, churning
the water all about him, and shaking his head like an angry pickerel
might do under similar circumstances. There was never a fisherman
cooler than Texas, however, and there were few of them ever caught a
stranger fish.

Texas was handicapped, however, by the fact that though he had plenty
of strength to draw his prize to him, he had none to keep it away. And
the whole business failed because of that. When the bull got within a
few feet of the boat he lowered his head and made one more dash. This
time he rushed toward the boat instead of away, and he met with more
success.

The Seven scattered to the bow and stern when they saw their danger;
an instant later one of the sharp horns of the enraged creature struck
the side and crushed through the wood with a snap, keeling the boat
over and sending its occupants flying through the air. And that was
the last the shouting spectators on the shore could see, for the
clouds swept over the moon again, and nothing was audible but the
hoarse bellows of the buffalo and a few smothered cries from the
water.




CHAPTER VIII.

SEVEN LUNATICS AND A REPORTER.


There was not a boat to be seen anywhere, so the crowd was helpless
and terrified. The only thing that prevented a serious accident was
first, the fact that the boat was very near to the shore; and second,
that the furious beast had gotten his horns well wedged into the wood
so that he could not chase the plebes if he had wanted to.

Mark Mallory was a strong swimmer, as those who remember his rescue of
Grace Fuller can testify; his hands were all bandaged up, which
interfered with him considerably, but he had gotten off his coat in
expectation of some such smash-up as this, and so he was able to take
care of himself. The only person who needed help was Indian. As Dewey
had said, Indian was too fat to sink; he fairly bounced about on the
top of the water, something after the fashion of a bubble. He was
scared, none the less, however, and his yells and gurgles made the
horrified people on the shore imagine he was being gored to death.

Several of the plebes got him by the hair of his round little head and
towed him in, where he was pulled ashore by some one. The others
straggled in one by one, Mark and the dignified Chauncey, who
considered it bad form to hurry, coming last. Once on land they stared
at each other in disgust, while the crowd gathered about them to ask
questions; and then suddenly Mark gave an exclamation of alarm. He
noticed that one of the Seven was missing.

“Where’s Texas?” he cried.

That was the first time any one had missed the gallant cowboy; for,
sure enough, he was not there.

“That rope was tied about his waist,” shouted Dewey. “He couldn’t get
away.”

Dewey made a dash for the water, several of the others at his heels.
But at that moment a voice was heard from the darkness that made them
stop in surprise.

“You fellers needn’t be a-comin’ out hyar fo’ me,” said the voice. I’m
a-gittin’ in all right, only it’s slow. Git up, thar, you ole coyote
of a buffalo, you.”

The sight which loomed up in the darkness a few minutes later was
rather a startling one. There was the huge, shaggy buffalo, exhausted
and subdued, but still swimming, and there was the hilarious Texas
mounted on his back!

That insult and indignity had taken all the spirit out of the beast;
he was allowing himself to be steered meekly by the horns, and when he
scrambled up the bank he allowed Smithers’ men to tie him up without a
word of protest, the triumphant cowboy still keeping his seat.

And that was the end of the excitement.

The amazement of Smithers, the proprietor of the circus, may be
imagined. The last time he had seen Texas was while Mark Mallory
(Professor Salvatori) had been making a speech to the crowd in the
dime museum tent, when Texas had made an attack upon the professor and
been chased out of the town. Here he was again, driving a buffalo in
the Hudson. And there was Professor Salvatori, too, still in his old
tennis blazer, talking to the cowboy without a trace of anger. Truly
it was puzzling.

There were other people thought that, too, as the Seven outlandishly
costumed creatures turned and started to hurry away. Nobody there had
the least idea who they were; the idea of their being cadets had never
occurred to a soul――that is, except one. It is our purpose to tell
about him now.

He was a young man, spry and chipper. In one hand he held a rather
portly notebook and in the other a fountain pen. He had been making
all sorts of inquiries of Smithers and his men, assuming the killingly
businesslike air always worn by young reporters, who think thereby to
hide the fact that they are young. This young reporter thought he had
right here the chance of his lifetime to make himself famous. He saw a
chance for three columns on the first page about the things that had
happened to Smithers’ circus that day and he meant to work that chance
for every word it was worth.

As we have said, a vague sort of an idea had flitted across his mind
that they were cadets; if they were they would not want to tell; but
also if they were it would mean a still bigger chance for him. And he
registered a solemn vow that he was going to trace this mystery up if
he died for it.

So when he saw the Seven sneak away he followed and spoke to them,
notebook in hand.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I wish you would let me have your names and
full particulars about this matter. I’m a reporter, from the New York
_Globe_, and I must get the facts.”

The alarm which his announcement created served to increase his
suspicions. The Seven held a consultation, at the end of which one of
them, evidently their leader, responded:

“We can’t give our names.”

“Why not?” inquired the reporter.

“We don’t want to.”

“Well, I’ve got to get them, that’s all.”

“But you won’t.”

“Well, you watch me and see.”

“Do you mean you’re going to follow us?”

“That’s exactly what I do.”

“What! You little coyote, you, doggone your boots, I’ll――――”

“Shut up, Texas. Come here.”

“After that there was another consultation; it ended in a most
surprising and, to the reporter, unexpected move. The Seven wheeled
about and dashed away at top speed into the woods.

The reporter saw the ruse, and he chuckled merrily to himself; two can
play at that game, he thought, and set out in pursuit.

We who know who the Seven were can readily understand that he had no
trouble in keeping them in sight. Indian would have made a first-rate
center rush on a football team, but as a long distance runner he was
“no go.” So the Seven gave up in disgust and despair, and let the
reporter catch up to them again.

Texas’ temper had been rising during this brief sprint, and when he
stopped he reached for his wet revolver.

“I’ll stop him,” he muttered. “Hang him, I’ll scare him till he’s
blue.”

“It won’t do any good,” said Mark, holding his excitable friend back.
“He’s got an idea we are cadets, and he’ll say so in the paper anyhow.
Then there’ll be an investigation, and out we go.”

“Oo-oo!” wailed Indian, still gasping for breath. “I wish we hadn’t
come. Bless my soul!”

“What’ll we do, then?” growled Texas, speaking to Mark, who still held
him back.

“We’ve simply got to fool him,” declared Mark. “We’ve got to make him
think we’re somebody else. It’s going to be hard work, too.”

The reporter had been watching them from the distance during this. He
saw them talking together in consultation for some ten minutes more,
and then one of their number, the one with the bandaged hands, stepped
out and spoke to him.

“I suppose there’s no use trying to fool you,” said he. “Come up here
and we’ll tell you who we are. You may be able to help us, anyway.”

       *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Extract from the New York _Globe_, a special late edition on Sunday
morning:

     “EXTRA!                                 EXTRA!

                “Brutality in an Asylum!
      “Inmates Driven to Desperation by Outrages!
                “Special to the Globe.
     “The Harrowing Tale of Seven Escaped Lunatics.

     “GARRISONS, N. Y., August 11.――The _Globe_ is enabled to
     present to its readers to-day a tale of official cruelty
     such as has seldom been known in this State. This
     extraordinary series of incidents was discovered by the
     matchless enterprise and indomitable persistence of the
     _Globe_ men and will be found in this paper exclusively.
     Read the _Globe_!”

This was in big type across the top of the first page; below it was a
huge picture, labeled, “Faces of the Seven Lunatics. Sketched by a
_Globe_ Artist on the Spot.” After that were about half a dozen
columns of the “news.”

                 “The Adventures of the Seven!
     “Wild Doings of the Escaped Lunatics Which Led to Their
                        Identification.
                    “A Raid Upon a Circus!

     “There was intense excitement in Highland Falls to-day.
     Driven to desperation by the excessive cruelties, all of
     which are described in another part of the paper in the very
     words of the unfortunate wretches, the latter forced their
     way from the asylum and took Highland Falls by storm. One of
     them, a lad from Texas, with a history that is perfectly
     harrowing in its details (see seventh column) ran amuck and
     nearly killed the proprietor of the circus by lassoing him
     and dragging him around the ring (page two, third column).
     After that he released one of the buffaloes in the show and
     rode the animal out into the river.

     “The seven have now disappeared into the woods. The mayor of
     Highland Falls is organizing a searching party to recapture
     them. The lunatics have vowed to die first; they consented
     to talk to the _Globe_ reporter only because, knowing the
     great influence of the paper, they thought that the outrages
     might be suppressed.

     “This will surely be done. The _Globe_ is already drafting a
     bill for the new legislature, abolishing the frightful house
     of torture. It is the New York Home for the Insane, its
     precise location being as yet unascertained. The officials
     of the place have kept the escape of the prisoners a secret
     through fear of having their nefarious practices made
     public. But the enterprise of the _Globe_ has thwarted them.

     “The tale told by the wretched prisoners is almost beyond
     belief. They are dangerous, all of them, showing their
     delusions in every act, though constantly protesting that
     they are not mad. One of them wears a dilapidated clerical
     costume and preached a most extraordinary sermon while the
     others were telling their stories to the reporter. Another
     wears a bellboy’s uniform, and persists in running an
     elevator at all times, though he is the son of a prominent
     Washington official.

     “The man from Texas flourished a lasso and a revolver and
     seemed under the delusion that the _Globe_ reporter’s
     notebook was meant for target practice. An idea of the risks
     run by those who procured this extraordinary news may be
     gained when it is said that it was only by the utmost
     cunning that the reporter managed to prevent this wild
     creature from shooting him. The maniac danced about and
     shouted strange cowboy exclamations during the whole
     proceedings.

     “Still another of the seven was a rather stout and seemingly
     harmless person who persisted in claiming that he was a head
     waiter. He wore a tattered dress suit and amused himself in
     collecting tips. The reporter could get no leisure to take
     notes except by fleeing this extraordinary character
     continually.

     “Number five was clad in a most remarkable outing suit and
     spoke with a decided London accent. Apparently his only
     idiosyncracy was the idea that he was a baronet. The rest
     informed the reporter that his father was a noted criminal
     and formerly a bootblack, but this was indignantly denied by
     the Englishman, who grew quite violent and vowed that he
     would not stand the insult.

     “Another had perhaps the strangest delusion of all. He
     persisted in calling himself the “Sleeping Beauty,” though
     no one less beautiful could possibly be imagined. He dozed
     incessantly during the interview, and his companions stated
     that he seldom did anything else while in the institution
     where they were imprisoned. The unfortunates spoke
     mournfully of the frightful amount of work they had been
     compelled to do there. They are evidently fearful of having
     to return, but this the _Globe_ is determined to prevent.

     “The most horrible specimen among the maniacs is mentioned
     last. He is a tall and exceedingly handsome young man, and
     to all appearances is perfectly sane. He stated that he had
     been incarcerated in that institution by a cruel uncle, who
     has thus defrauded him of his rights. This uncle he
     continually referred to as ’Uncle Sam.’

     “This young man offered to show the reporter his back, which
     was bruised by blows inflicted upon him by cruel tormentors,
     his superiors who objected to some trifling acts of his.
     Also both his hands were completely bandaged; he had been
     tortured by fire. It makes one shudder to think that such
     things can be in this nineteenth century of ours.

     “In concluding this introductory article, the _Globe_ wishes
     to call the attention of its readers to its extraordinary
     enterprise in securing this absolutely first account. The
     paper’s servants ran most terrible risks in venturing into
     the woods with these desperate maniacs. Yet such sacrifices
     the search for truth demands.

     “The _Globe_ intends to probe this matter to the very
     bottom. A special corps of detectives has been engaged, and
     our readers may rest assured that this first account will be
     supplemented by all possible details. Etc., etc., etc.,
     etc.”

       *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Can you imagine how the Banded Seven howled when that paper arrived at
West Point?

“The best joke yet, b’gee,” said Dewey, and the rest agreed with him.

But the end was not yet.




CHAPTER IX.

DISCOVERING A PLOT.


The cadets were building a pontoon bridge, the second one that summer.
The cadets of the first class were the “engineering corps” and they
were giving the orders; the plebes, quite naturally, were doing the
work, carrying out the heavy logs and fastening them in place under
the watchful eyes of their superiors. Cadets when they leave West
Point after their four years of drill and study are supposed to be
fully competent officers, ready to do their share of handling Uncle
Sam’s army. This, of course, includes the building of bridges upon
which an army may cross a river or stream; it was that the corps was
practicing that day.

Mark Mallory had been helping at that task all day, along with his
chums and the other plebes. It was almost over now, and Mark was glad
of it, for he was tired. Bridge-building in army style may sound
romantic, but it is no fun during August when the sun shines. There
was only one redeeming circumstance to the whole thing that the plebes
could see, and that was that on account of it they had been excused
from no less than two inspections, two “policings” and two drills.

A little later Mark and his friends were lying on the grass in a shady
nook up by Trophy Point. We must go up there and listen to what they
are saying, in order to appreciate the adventures in the following
pages.

They were just then discussing with much interest the adventure with
the reporter; they were all anxious to know what the cadets thought of
it, and this was the first chance they had had to compare notes.

“Do you know,” laughed Mark, “there’s not a soul has the least idea it
was we? Nobody seems to have thought for a moment that cadets were the
cause of all the excitement. Just think of it! Lunatics!”

It was but little wonder that nobody connected the Banded Seven with
that band of raving madmen, so called. West Point was fairly on tiptoe
with excitement concerning the creatures, who were supposed to be
still loose in the woods.

Naturally the Seven were hilarious over the state of affairs. Their
discussion of the question was stopped, however, by the arrival of one
of their number upon the scene. It was Texas, who had been over to the
camp for a brief while; from his manner it was evident that Texas had
some news.

“Fellers,” he cried, scarcely waiting till he was close to them before
he began. “I’ve jes’ heerd somebody talkin’, an’ I’ve discovered a
plot!”

“A plot! Whose?”

There was no need of the six asking that so eagerly; one name rose up
before all their minds. There was one yearling, and only one, who got
up plots to discomfort them.

“It’s Bull Harris,” continued Texas, hurriedly. “An’ he――――”

“He hasn’t found out about last night?” cried Mark.

“No,” said Texas, “’tain’t that. He’s a-goin’ to take that air crowd
o’ his’n――Gus Murray, an’ Merry Vance, an’ Baby Edwards, an’ them, up
to our cave! An’ I want to know ef we’re a-goin’ to stand that.”

“I don’t think we will,” laughed Mark, promptly. “At least not if I
have anything to say in the matter.”

“I’ve been expecting just this for some time,” Mark continued, after a
moment’s pause. “You see, ever since we found that secret cavern in
the rock, and had the bad luck to let Bull see us go there, I knew
he’d be taking his friends up there to spoil our fun. He probably
expects to smash everything to pieces.”

“B’gee, I say we lick ’em for daring to think of it, b’gee!” cried
Dewey. “That’s what I say! Reminds me of a story I once heard,
b’gee――――”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Mark, interrupting the unfortunate
_rencontre_. “How does this suit you? Let’s follow them to-night, let
them get inside, and then take them prisoners.”

Texas sprang up with a whoop of delight at that delicious programme.

“Whoop!” he cried. “Secon’ the motion! We’ll hold ’em up, doggone
their boots, an’――――”

Texas felt for his revolvers instinctively as he danced about and
thought of this. He had no revolvers on him, however, owing to the
fact that they would have been visible in his uniform. So Texas had to
content himself with squeezing the hands of the others and vowing by
all things a Texan holds dear that he’d capture those yearlings for
them that night or die in the effort.

Now the plan for the circumvention of Bull Harris was all very well in
its way. But there were certain all-important facts that those
adventurous plebes forgot to take account of in their calculations. We
must mention these at the start, in order that the situation may be
appreciated.

According to the New York _Globe_, there were seven dangerous lunatics
wandering about West Point. That fact every one knew. The sheriff of
the county was there to investigate the matter, for it was clearly his
duty to arrest the fugitives. Also there were the constables from
Highland Falls, the reporters from the New York dailies, and numerous
private individuals out to see the fun.

They had hunted all day, finding no one but two unfortunate tramps;
they meant to hunt likewise all night.

Now, as for the Banded Seven, their situation was just this: They were
going out for a lark that night. They dared not wear their cadet
uniforms, for fear of being seen by some sentry. The only clothes they
owned besides these were the curious disguises already mentioned.
Naturally, knowing nothing of the excitement they had created, they
resolved to wear those.

And that was the way the fun began.

It was about eleven o’clock that evening, as soon as the last
inspection was over and the camp quiet, that four figures crept out of
one of the tents, dashed past the intentionally oblivious sentry and
hid themselves in the shadow of old Fort Clinton. Those who have read
these stories would have been quick enough to recognize them――the
unpleasant features of Bull Harris, and likewise the sallow Vance, the
brutal Gus Murray, and the amiable Baby Edwards. Those four were bound
for the Banded Seven’s den, and, in vulgar parlance, “they weren’t
going to do a thing to it.”

They left the fort and made for the woods, stealing along in the
shadow of the buildings so as to be observed by no one. It was a
difficult task because unfortunately there was a bright moon in the
sky. That moon gave our friends no end of trouble when they set out to
follow.

The Seven entered the fort just as the others left it. Like them they
stowed away their uniforms, and put on the “cits” clothing.

As has been noted, it was no child’s play, that task of following the
four through the woods. Full-fledged Apaches would have found it hard,
and, as you know, in our crowd, there was only one Indian, and that
one as clumsy as a herd of elephants. The woods were bright; also
there were dry leaves and sticks to be stepped on and slippery logs
for Indian to fall off of. It was therefore to be expected that Bull
would very soon discover he was being tracked, which was just exactly
what happened.

Bull Harris was no fool; he had plenty of sense, and he used it, too.
In fact, he completely outwitted the unsuspecting plebes. And this was
how he did it.

Sundry curious sounds from the rear first attracted his attention.
Bull suspected, of course, at the very start that it was Mark; he said
that to Gus Murray, and also that he’d like to “smash that confounded
plebe” for once and for all.

Just then they came to a steep incline, which hid them from their
pursuers’ view, and, quick as a flash, Bull dodged into the bushes and
hid. He lay there with the others, silent as so many mice.

Pretty soon the plebes came along, creeping with stealthiness that was
most laughable to the yearlings. You might hunt for ten years without
finding a sight more ludicrous than Parson Stanard in a ragged, black
clerical frock, lanky and solemn, stealing along on tiptoe and
glancing about him with cunning and wariness such as the villain
assumes in a deep black Bowery melodrama. Indian’s round body and
saucer-like eyes, going through the same contortions, made a close
second for humorous effect. If Bull hadn’t hated the plebes too much
he would have sneered at them as Vance was doing.

As to the costumes they wore, Bull stared at them for some time before
he realized the true state of affairs. Bull noticed their clothes, and
he had read the description in the paper. But it was at least a minute
before he could bring himself to comprehend what the similarity of the
two signified. When he did he seized Gus Murray by the arm in a grip
that cut.

“Great heavens, man!” he gasped. “Don’t you see? Don’t you see? Those
plebes are the seven lunatics!”

The Seven saw no reason for stopping because the yearlings were lost
to view for a moment. They knew where the yearlings were going, and
all they had to do was to go there, too. In a minute or two more they
were out of sight in the darkness, and Bull and his gang were left
alone once more.

Bull said not a word for some minutes. He was too busy thinking,
trying to realize what that extraordinary revelation meant. So it was
Mallory who had caused all this excitement! Mallory who had gotten up
that gigantic hoax! Mallory whom the sheriff and every one else were
hunting for! Bull took in the situation in all its amazing details,
and the more he thought of it the angrier he got.

But then suddenly Bull got an inspiration. He leaped to his feet,
whacked his knee with his fist, and with a whoop of joy seized his
companions and forced them hastily along. It was back toward West
Point he started; the rest were naturally mystified at that.

“Where are you going?” demanded Vance.

“You wait and see,” chuckled Bull. “Wait and see, if you haven’t got
sense enough to guess. By jingo, I’ve got him!”

“Got him! Who?”

“Mallory, you idiot!” roared the other. “Don’t ask so many stupid
questions; hurry up.”

After that the party pressed on in silence. The three were too much
puzzled to say anything more or to do anything but obey. Their
curiosity was destined to be set at rest very soon, however.

They had not walked a hundred yards before they caught sight of some
dark figures walking about in the woods. There was a lantern, too, and
then suddenly came a voice:

“Hello, there! Here’s somebody! Who are you?”

The yearlings shrank back in alarm, that is, all of them except Bull.
Bull pressed forward eagerly, and a moment later found himself
surrounded by a group of men, armed with sticks and all sorts of
weapons. One of them, a tall man with the lantern and a shotgun in his
other hand, walked up to Bull and peered into his face.

“What are you doing――――” he began, but Bull was in too much of a hurry
to let him finish.

“You the sheriff?” he demanded.

“Yes, I am.”

“Hunting for those lunatics, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, come on, then, quick as you can, for I know where they are.”

And then the yearlings realized what Bull Harris meant to do.

“How do you know?” demanded the officer.

“I saw them,” declared Bull. “I was hunting for them, too. They were
dressed just as the paper said. And you’d better hurry.”

Without another word he turned and started ahead through the woods;
the sheriff and his excited posse followed at his heels.

They hurried along rapidly, making for the cave. They went on for a
mile, nobody saying a word, all watching eagerly. The mile stretched
out to nearly two miles, and the sheriff began to get impatient. He
stared at Bull doubtfully, gripping his shotgun. And then suddenly in
the path ahead a wall of rock loomed up, just visible in the faint
light. It was in that rock that the cavern lay.

And backed up against the wall, staring at the party in amazement and
alarm were seven figures, the lunatics.

The sheriff swung his gun up to his shoulder.

“In the name of the law,” he shouted, “I command you to surrender!
Hold up your hands!”




CHAPTER X.

THE JAIL AT HIGHLAND FALLS.


You may imagine the consternation of our friends, the plebes. The
whole thing had come with such horrible suddenness that they were
completely taken aback, and helpless. The sheriff’s gun looked so huge
and menacing that it took all their nerve. Even Texas, hero of a
hundred fights, did not dare to move an arm. Experience had taught
Texas that a hold up was a hold up, a thing that could no more be
resisted than a sudden stroke of lightning. And therefore, though he
had a huge revolver in each hip pocket, he merely flung up his hands
and stared.

It was an awful situation. It took the unfortunate lads some time to
realize it in its full horror. Here they were, cadets, wandering about
during the forbidden hours of night. And here was a sheriff with all
the power of the law at his back, arresting them as lunatics! He would
take them to jail. Keep them there all night! And in the morning would
come reveille, and then――――

“Don’t you fellows make a move there,” commanded the sheriff, sternly.
“I won’t take any nonsense. Get those handcuffs out.”

The wretched plebes were too dumfounded to disobey the order. Indian
had sunk down on the ground with a wail of agony, and the rest were in
about as complete a state of collapse. As if the situation were not
bad enough already, two men stepped forward to handcuff them, and the
prisoners recognized the triumphantly grinning features of Bull Harris
and Gus Murray.

That was too much of an insult; Mark Mallory started back, his face
flashing.

“Don’t you come near me, you wretch!” he cried. I’ll――――”

The sheriff swung his gun around until the muzzle stared full in
Mark’s face.

“Steady!” said he. “Don’t be a fool.”

Mark saw that there was no use making trouble, and he bit his lip and
was silent. He put out his hands meekly and let Bull snap the irons
upon him. Bull hadn’t had such a moment of joy as that in his whole
lifetime before.

The rest of the Seven gave up then and let themselves be secured; only
Texas ventured further protest.

“Look a-yere, Mr. Sheriff,” said he, “I ain’t a lunatic. What’s the
use o’ this hyar fool business? I’m a ca――――”

“Shut up!”

It was Mark who said that, and he said it with such vehement emphasis
that Texas closed his teeth together with the suddenness of a steel
trap.

“You mayn’t be lunatics,” observed the sheriff, stepping forward to
make sure that their hands were securely fastened. “But you certainly
look a good deal like it. Say, Mr. Hamilton!”

The man who answered, the seven prisoners recognized instantly as the
reporter they had fooled. Their hearts sank within them at that.

“Are these the fellows?” demanded the sheriff.

“They’re the ones, all right,” laughed the other. “There’s no
mistaking such faces and clothes as those.”

“That settles it,” said the sheriff. “Forward, march!”

It was two or three miles from where they were to Highland Falls,
their destination. Fortunately they did not go through West Point,
when the plebes were in dread of being recognized. The sheriff did not
want to attract a crowd and so he kept in the woods, skirted the edge
of the buildings and finally came out into the road below the post.

The unfortunate plebes were very near the end of their journey then.
The silent party tramped on rapidly. The buildings of the little town
began to loom up in front. There were few lights burning then, but
some stray passer-by started a shout, “The lunatics!” and almost
instantly windows began to go up and staring faces to appear in the
openings. But just then they came to a low square building back from
the main street, and the sheriff sprang forward, unlocked the door,
and pushed the prisoners in before him. A moment later the heavy door
clanged, and that was all.

The sheriff was considerate enough, now that he had them safe, to
remove the painful handcuffs. This, however, he did not do until he
had searched them carefully, removing the Texan’s arsenal. After that
he shoved them into the solitary cell in the jail, locked and barred
the heavy door, and after warning them to keep quiet and behave
themselves, went out and left them in silence and dismay.

About the same time the young reporter hurried down to the telegraph
station to send in his report; and Bull and his three friends, having
been thanked by the sheriff, set out in high spirits for their
favorite drinking place, where they meant to celebrate their glorious
triumph. As for the sheriff, he warned the jailer to keep the
strictest guard, and then, with a sigh of relief and satisfaction,
went home to bed.

As to the Seven it is still easier to say what they did. With one
accord they sank down on the floor of the musty cell and stared at
each other in complete and absolute consternation and disgust. Nobody
said anything, because nobody knew of anything to say. They were
simply knocked into a cocked hat, as the phrase has it; they were
stumped, helpless and hopeless, and that was all there was to it.

They sat that way for perhaps two solid hours. During that time Indian
had gone to sleep, in which “the farmer” had set him a good example.
The Parson had been heard to give vent to one “by Zeus,” and Dewey a
single disconsolate “b’gee,” which did not even remind him of a story.
And that is the complete inventory of what happened during the
desolate period.

But such states of mind cannot last forever, especially in young
persons. Mark made up his mind that at least it would be worth while
to test the cell they were in, to make sure that the doors and windows
were fast. This was a country jail; country jails are often cheaply
built, and oftener still very old and unreliable.

Mark got up and fell to pacing back and forth. His example aroused the
rest, and pretty soon the place resembled a menagerie cage, with half
a dozen wild animals sniffing at the bars. They shook the door
savagely; it had a solid “feel,” and the only result of the effort was
to bring the cross and sleepy jailer to the cell.

“Keep quiet, there,” he growled, “and go to sleep, will you!”

The prisoners relapsed into silence again, and the man went away,
after which the examination went on. The floors and walls of the cell
were of solid masonry, which was uncompromising. Mark had heard of
prisoners who dug their way out with such objects as spoons. But the
unfortunate plebes had not even a spoon, and besides, that operation
was apt to take longer than the time between then and the morning gun.
It was just two o’clock by Mark’s watch.

The only other place where there seemed the faintest possibility of
hope was the window. That was large, and it allowed the moonlight to
stray into the cell, which was as light as day. But also there were
heavy iron bars, which resisted firmly the most powerful efforts of
Mark’s strength.

And so that hope, also, was futile. The Seven retired into a corner
and discussed the situation in sad whispers. It was evident that they
could not escape. It was equally evident that if they did not they
would cease to be cadets on the morrow. Thus simply put the
proposition was startlingly clear and horrible.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast, they say. Scarcely had they
settled the argument thus, before Texas sprang up with a sudden cry;
an instant later he fell to work unwinding himself from the lasso that
was still about his waist. The sheriff hadn’t thought it necessary to
remove that lasso; he hadn’t the least idea what use a prisoner could
make of it. For that matter, neither had Texas’ companions, unless he
meant to hang himself.

But Texas knew a trick worth two of that; silently and rapidly he
proceeded to uncoil it, and when he had done that, he doubled it once,
twice, three times.

“What on earth are you going to do?” whispered Mark.

“Show you,” chuckled Texas. “Look a-yere!”

He sprang up to the window and slipped the rope about one of the bars.
Then the others saw! One man couldn’t pull out one of those iron
strips; but the whole seven men together? Ah!

Quick as a flash they sprang forward to help him. Texas was very slow
and methodical about it, exasperatingly so, for the jailer might peer
in at any moment. Texas made the heavy rope fast; he tied knots in it
for the plebes to take hold of, like a tug-of-war rope. Then he and
Mark, as the strongest, braced their feet against the wall; the rest
laid hold of the trailing end, and then――one, two, three――pull!――there
came a terrific strain that made the bars of the window creak.

Four times they put all their strength into it. Then Texas, reaching
up, whispered the joyful news that the iron was tearing loose from its
fastenings in the stone. Once more they laid hold of the rope, once
more swung back with all their might――and then suddenly the bar gave
way!

It was as if a knife had cut the rope. The sudden release sent the
unfortunate prisoners stumbling backward, tumbling with a crash into a
heap in the corner.

A moment later they heard a loud shout outside, heard the door creak
on its hinges, as it was flung open. It was the jailer, dashing into
the room, revolver in hand.

“What does this mean!” he shouted. “Hold up your hands!”




CHAPTER XI.

BULL HARRIS GETS INTO TROUBLE.


It was a desperate moment. Things happened with such incredible
swiftness that those who saw them could scarcely tell what came first.

Texas had fallen just behind the door which the man had opened. Texas
leaped up, his eyes blazing with fury. No risk was too great a risk to
take now, for his cadetship was the stake. He was behind the jailer’s
back as he rose up, and with the swiftness and force of a panther he
flung himself upon the man’s back.

There was a moment of struggle. Texas devoted every effort to but one
thing, holding that revolver. A bullet, even if it hit no one, would
give the alarm, prevent the escape. He had seized the man’s hand in
both of his, and he clung to that hand with all the strength that was
in him.

The others sprang to his aid an instant later. Before the jailer could
cry out Mark gripped him by the throat, and a moment later down he
went to the ground, with the whole seven upon him.

The contest was brief after that. They got the revolver away, which
was the chief point. The jailer was speedily choked into submission,
bound and gagged. The seven prisoners rose up triumphant and gazed
about them in eager haste.

But they were not safe yet by any means. They imagined that no alarm
had been given; they had not calculated the effect of the first
startled yell of the jailer, which rang and echoed down the silent
village street. The plebes realized what was happening a moment later,
as they paused and listened. There were sounds of hurrying feet, of
men shouting to each other.

The town was awake.

The prisoners gazed about them anxiously, feverishly. They had yet a
chance, a hope. But it would take them so long to unfasten that rope,
tie it to another bar, and tear it out in the same way. The sheriff
with his dreaded gun would surely be there before that. And they could
not get through the window as it was. What then? The door! Mark
thought of it an instant later. The jailer had left it open!

A moment more and the plebes were in the hall of the jail; Texas had
stopped just long enough to snatch up the jailer’s revolver, and then
rejoined them. There was still the front door, whether locked or not
none of them knew. Mark tried it feverishly, shook it. It was locked.
And as he tried it again, he heard a shout outside, felt some one on
the other side trying it, too. A crowd was gathering! And what were
they to do? The solution of the question flashed over Mark first. The
key! The jailer! He sprang back into the room, rushed to where the man
lay bound, and fell to rummaging in his pockets and about his waist.
The others stood in the hall waiting anxiously, tremblingly. Would he
find it?

The noise outside swelled. There came blows upon the door, shouts to
open. And then suddenly Mark reappeared, his face gleaming with
excitement and joy as he ran, holding in one hand the heavy key.

To thrust that key into the lock, turn it, and open the door was the
work of but an instant. And then, in response to the quick command of
their leader, the Seven formed a wedge, Texas with the revolver in
front. Mark flung back the heavy door and the Seven made a savage dash
through the opening.

There were at least a dozen men gathered in front of the building.
They recoiled before the unexpected apparition that met their gaze.
The fiercely shouting “lunatics” with the wild-eyed cowboy and his
gleaming weapon at their head. An instant more and the party had
dashed through the crowd and went speeding up the street.

Texas was last, glancing behind him and aiming his revolver menacingly
to prevent pursuit.

“Stop thief! Stop thief!” swelled the cry through all the village; but
to the wildly-delighted, hilarious Seven, it was a cry that fast
receded and died out in the distance.

For no one dared to follow, and the “lunatics” escaped once more, were
keeping up a pace that it would have been hard to equal. They counted
themselves safe a very few moments later, when they were hidden from
view in the woods up toward West Point. And then, breathless and
exhausted, they seated, or rather flung, themselves on the ground to
rest.

Prudence did not long permit of their staying where they were,
however. “The escaped criminal knows no resting place.” Already they
were beginning to fancy that they heard shouts in the woods and sounds
of tramping footsteps; poor Indian would pop up his gasping head every
once in a while and look to see if the sheriff wasn’t aiming that gun
at him. It was a terrible labor for Indian to look anywhere from his
present position, because, as Dewey explained, he had to see over his
stomach. All were ready to move in a short while. Indian alone had not
recovered his breath, but he had fear to lend wings to his heels, so
to speak. And thus pretty soon the party was fast making tracks for
camp.

They were very silent. The plebes were all thinking of one subject,
and that subject made them grave and quiet.

Mark touched upon this point when he spoke at last; he seemed to
divine what was in their minds.

“Fellows,” said he, “what do you think of Bull Harris?”

There was no answer to the question; the reason was that nobody could
think of any word or combination of words quite adequate to express
the fullness of his thought.

“Do you know,” Mark continued, after a few minutes’ silence, “do you
know Bull actually surprised me?”

Texas had something to say to that.

“Nothin’ that air ole coyote ever did would surprise me,” said Texas.

“Bull has tried many contemptible tricks,” observed Mark,
thoughtfully, as if speaking to himself. “He has tried some things
that would make the Old Nick himself blush for shame, I think. He has
lied about me to the cadets and to the officers. He has enticed me
into the woods to beat me; he has played upon my kindness to have me
expelled. But he never yet has done anything to equal this.”

The silence of the Seven as they tramped on expressed to Mark a great
deal more assent than any words could have done.

“It was so utterly uncalled for,” Mark went on. “It was so utterly
contemptible. And the brazen effrontery of it was the most amazing
thing of all. One would have thought when he put the sheriff upon our
track he would have kept his own identity secret. But to come right
out before our faces and betray us――his fellow cadets! I declare I
don’t know what to do about it.”

Texas doubled up his fists suggestively. He knew what to do.

“No,” said Mark, noticing the unspoken suggestion. “I do not think it
would do much good to whip him. Bull would not face me in a fair
fight, and somehow I can’t make up my mind to tackle him otherwise,
even if he does deserve it. It don’t do any good to frighten him,
either, or to treat him decently. Every effort seems to deepen his
vindictiveness. I don’t see, fellows, how we are ever to have any
peace while Bull is in West Point.”

That just about expressed the situation, as it appeared to the Seven.
No peace with Bull Harris in West Point!

“B’gee!” exclaimed Dewey, suddenly. “I don’t see any reason why he has
to stay.”

“How do you mean?” asked Mark, slowly.

He knew what Dewey meant, and so did all the others, but none of them
liked to say it.

“Simply,” said Dewey――“as the Parson always remarks when he starts one
of his long chemical formulas――simply, b’gee, that Bull has tried to
get us dismissed from West Point a few dozen times. I don’t know how
often it’s been, but I know it’s been at least seventy times seven
we’ve forgiven him. And now, b’gee, I say we get square, just for
once.”

“I see what you mean,” responded Mark, shaking his head. “It might be
fair for me to get Bull expelled in some way, but I don’t like that.”

“Pshaw!” growled Texas, angrily. “I’d like to know why not. Ef we
don’t, Bull Harris will get us fired dead sho’, doggone his boots!”

“And self-preservation is the first law of nature,” chimed in Dewey,
“as the undertaker remarked when he swallowed his embalming fluid,
b’gee.”

Mark laughed, but he still shook his head; the solemn Parson cleared
his throat.

“Ahem,” said he, “by Zeus! Gentlemen, this is no time for a scientific
dissertation, or exemplification, so to speak. I was remarking――ahem――that
no one would be less inclined to burden you with a lengthy discourse
at this most inopportune moment. I shall, accordingly, confine myself
strictly to a lucid exposition of the concatenation of complex
circumstances involved, avoiding all technicalities――――”

Dewey fainted here and had to be revived by an imaginary bottle of
smelling-salts. He refused emphatically to come to, but vowed he
wanted to stay unconscious till “it was over.” All of which byplay was
lost upon the grave scholar.

What the Parson meant to say was finally ascertained by the rest, who
were now nearly restored to their usual gayety, forgetful of all such
details as sheriffs and shotguns. It appeared that the Parson was
quoting the law of self-defense, that a man whose life is threatened
may kill the man who menaces him. The Parson cited many authorities,
legal, philosophical and theological, to prove the validity of that
assumption. Then he proposed the question whether this case might not
be an “analogue,” as he called it, whether or not Bull Harris, who was
threatening to have Mark dismissed, did not make himself liable to the
same treatment. It was a nice point in casuistry, and the Parson vowed
that in all his investigation of theoretical ethical complications he
had never met, etc., etc.

The rest listened to all this with much solemnity. The Parson was in
one of his most scholarly moods that night, and it was a whole farce
comedy to hear him. But, unfortunately, his discourse put a stop to
the serious discussion concerning Bull Harris; that problem was to
arise again very soon.

During all this, of course, the party had been hurrying up toward the
post, with as much rapidity as they possibly could. They knew that if
once they could manage to reach Fort Clinton and get into their
uniforms, they would be entirely safe. No one, not even a sheriff,
would ever dream that those much-hunted and dreaded lunatics were
Uncle Sam’s pupils.

Still laughing and joking with the classic Bostonian, they had almost
reached the southern buildings of the post, before anything else
happened. For it is necessary to say right here that those plebes were
not destined to reach camp that night, or rather morning, without
further adventure.

It was after one of the longest pauses in the Parson’s discussions of
that “casuistical complication.” The rest were waiting for him to
begin again, when suddenly from the woods to one side a sound of
footsteps was distinctly heard.

The plebes stopped short, as if they had been turned to stone. They
were almost turned with alarm. They heard the step again; it was
several people advancing; and as one man the Seven crouched suddenly
to conceal themselves in the shadow of the bushes――the folly of their
recklessness flashed across them with horrible clearness at that
moment. They had escaped from their danger, almost as if by a miracle.
And then, instead of running with all their might for camp, seeking
safety with all possible swiftness, here they were loitering along as
if there were no such man on earth as a determined sheriff, and
now――――

The noise of the advancing men grew louder every moment. It was
evident that they were to pass almost over the plebes. There were
several of them, tramping heavily, crashing the brush beneath their
feet with a sound that to the trembling listeners seemed the advance
of a herd of elephants.

Then there came a voice.

“Ho, ho! You bet we’ve fixed him!”

“Hooray! I just guess! Say, but I bet those plebes are sick just now.”

“I never saw a sicker looking plebe than that confounded Mallory in my
life. By Heaven, he deserves it all, though. I could kill him.”

The last speaker was Bull Harris.

They had gotten very near, almost on top of the crouching listeners.
Mark clutched his companions and whispered to them: “Not a sound!”

“I can hardly wait for morning to come, to see what happens when that
blamed cad isn’t there at reveille. Say, isn’t it great? Just think of
their being shut up in jail all night, without a chance of getting
out. And they’ll be fired sure as――――Good Lord!”

This last exclamation was a perfect scream of terror from Bull. He had
started back as if he had seen a ghost; his jaw had dropped, his eyes
protruding. The rest were no less pictures of consternation.

With folded arms and a smile upon his lips, standing in their path as
real as life, though shadowy in the faint moonlight, was the plebe
they had left in the jail down at Highland Falls!




CHAPTER XII.

“REVENGE IS SWEET.”


The amount of alarm which that apparition caused to the yearlings it
would be difficult to imagine. The idea of their hated rival escaping
had never once flashed over them, and when they saw him it seemed like
a visit from another world. It was so sudden that they had no time to
think whether that were possible or not.

Except for Bull’s one frightened gasp the four made not one sound.
They stood staring, ready to drop from sheer terror. And as for
Mallory, he, too, was silent and motionless; he felt that a word would
have broken the spell.

There was perhaps half a minute’s wait, and then came another move.
There was a waving in the grass behind Mark, and another shadowy form
arose silently into view. It was the Parson’s solemn features, and the
Parson, too, folded his arms and stared.

After that the rest appeared one by one, and at each Bull Harris
gasped and trembled more. They seemed to him like the ghosts of men he
had murdered. There was Dewey, not smiling for once. There was Indian,
not scared for once. There was Sleepy, wide awake for once. There was
Chauncey, dignified forever. And then last of all was Texas; Texas
broke the spell.

It was not the latter’s features, though, as Dewey facetiously
informed him, he had a face that would break anything from a spell to
a broncho. But it was what Texas held in his hand. It was his usual
style――forty-four caliber――and Texas was aiming it right at Bull’s
head.

“Move one whisker, an’ I’ll fire, you ole coyote.”

That, quite naturally, proved that the plebes were of ordinary flesh
and blood. There was nothing shadowy about the gleam of that revolver,
and Bull started back in still greater alarm.

It was the Banded Seven’s turn, after that.

Mark always declared that it was perfectly safe to let Texas “hold up”
Bull and his gang whenever it was necessary to capture them, for Bull
and his gang never had the courage to blink one eye when Texas was
waving his weapons. There are some advantages in being known as a “bad
man.” It was so in this case; the Seven sprang forward and flung
themselves upon their tormentors and speedily had them flat on the
ground, tied up with the remnants of the cowboy’s most serviceable
lasso.

The question was then what shall we do with them? The plebes retired
to a distance to talk that over. They had a little more than two hours
left, by the watch. During that time they were to devise and execute
some act of retaliation.

The council proceeded to discuss ways and means. Not to delay with
details, suffice it to say that they talked for some ten minutes――and
that then suddenly Mark sprang up and slapped his knee with
excitement.

“By jingo!” he cried. “I’ve got it!”

After that there was excitement. Mark hastily outlined his scheme, the
others chuckling and dancing about in the meantime with sheer delight.
Evidently this was an idea. Bull heard the merry laughter in the
distance, and he realized that it boded ill for him. Bull bit his lip
with vexation and struggled with his bonds. His peace of mind was not
increased in the least by the realization of the fact that everything
that happened to him was richly deserved.

He heard the hasty steps of the plebes as they approached him again.
The plebes set about putting their plans into effect with all possible
celerity, and it was just a very short while before he comprehended
the horrible deed they were going to do. Bull kicked and fought till
he was blue in the face, but it did him not a bit of good, and it
seemed to amuse his captors.

They untied him almost entirely. But he could not run because he was
surrounded, and he dared not fight because Texas kept his revolver
leveled. They removed Bull’s coat and trousers, and in their place put
on the outlandish rig that Mark had worn. Then they tied him up again
and turned their attention to the others.

Indian managed to pull himself out of the almost bursting dress suit
he wore; the suit was put on Baby Edwards, and, so Dewey informed him,
it fit him “like der paper on der vall.” Chauncey, to his infinite
relief, shed his smutty white outing costume at last. And Dewey came
out of drum orderly uniform to furnish the fourth garment. After which
the plebes put on the clothing they had taken from their prisoners,
and everything was well.

Having once realized the design of their enemies and likewise their
own helplessness, the yearlings were completely subdued, even
terrified. It was all very well to send some hated plebes to jail as
lunatics, but to go themselves was horrible. They saw that was the
ultimate purpose of the Banded Seven.

After a brief consultation the latter picked up their helpless captors
and set out in haste for the road, which lay about one hundred yards
to the left. They reached that, and after glancing about cautiously,
hurried out and tied the yearlings tightly to conspicuous trees along
the road. After that they had another whispered discussion, then
turned and vanished in the woods.

As to the rest of the Banded Seven’s actions, suffice it to say that
they hurried up to camp, which they reached in safety. They hid their
clothing, the source of so much trouble, and then stole past the
sentry and entered their tents. They were soon sound asleep and
utterly oblivious to the troubles of their unfortunate rivals.

“If they can have the same luck as we,” said Mark, briefly, “they may
get away, and welcome. If they can’t, they must bear what would have
been our fate. That is about as near to justice as I can come.”

Which summary contained the whole situation.

Meanwhile exciting adventures were happening to Bull. It is presumed
that the reader is interested, though so far as Mark and his friends
are concerned, this story is already finished.

The plebes had certainly not been gone ten minutes before the
excitement began. The horrified and hopeless yearlings got their first
warning when they heard sounds of approaching footsteps and excitedly
discussing voices.

“They came up this way, I tell you. We ought to go up and hunt above
the Point, for the sheriff’ll ’tend to this part.”

“Are you sure that gun’s loaded, Jack? This is no child’s play, for
one of those fellows is armed.”

There were a few more remarks of this kind and then the party came
into view, almost in front of the prisoners. The latter were silent
and motionless, for they hoped vaguely that somehow they might not be
noticed. But, alas! the white flannel was like a torch in moonlight.
The searchers stopped short and stared in amazement.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed one, apparently the leader. “Here they are
now!”

The surprise that the apparition caused can well be imagined. They
counted one, two, three, four――of the very men they were pursuing,
tied hand and foot to trees along the roadside. Here was a mystery
indeed! This was a strange thing for even lunatics to do, and the
crowd of men handled their weapons nervously as they stared.

“I have it!” cried one of them, suddenly. “I know!”

“What is it?” demanded the others.

“The sheriff’s caught and tied ’em here for us.”

That was a likely conjecture, and it took with the puzzled crowd, who
were glad for any theory. In vain Bull and his crowd protested, in the
words of Poe’s poem, “I am not mad!” That was a likely story, coming
from lunatics. And where did they get those clothes? None of the
sheriff’s posse chanced to be there; so there was no one to recognize
Bull as the original giver of the information. And as for his own
protests and cries, they were of course insane ravings, to be listened
to with gaping mouths and some pity.

There was nothing for the captors to do but march the yearlings down
to jail. This they did with no little caution, and considerable
display of firearms. There was not a man of them who did not feel
relieved when the gates clanged once more upon those desperate
creatures.

There is no need of describing the sensations which that same clang
produced upon the creatures. It has all been described in the case of
the Banded Seven; it was just the same here, only aggravated by a
feeling of baffled rage. It was Bull Harris’ death knell, the clang of
that gate.

They were put in the same cell, but they were tied securely, and so
there was no danger of their escaping “again.” Having seen to this,
the party went out, paying not the least heed to Bull’s frenzied
entreaties to send for the sheriff. It was natural that a captured
lunatic should rave and foam at the mouth a little.

Darkness and silence having fallen upon the jail the situation became
clear at last to the wretched captives. They were tied hand and foot
behind prison bars, it lacking then perhaps an hour and a half of
reveille――and dismissal. They had no watch to let them see the time,
which made the situation all the more agonizing. If the sheriff came
in time――though there was not the least reason for supposing he
would――they might get out. If he didn’t――Bull ground his teeth with
rage when he thought of it.

It was perfectly clear to the yearlings how the former occupants of
the cell had gotten out; the broken bar told the story. But the
prisoners scarcely noticed that, so wild were they with excitement and
suspense and dread.

The time sped on. Nobody knew how much of it, and the four kept their
brains busy disputing with each other, some vowing that it was an
hour, some a half. It seemed as if Father Time were taking an interest
in punishing these villains, for he went with agonizing slowness.
Sometimes a minute may seem an age. After all, time is only relative;
every man has his own time, depending upon the swiftness with which
ideas are passing through his mind.

It was thus a very long period, that hour and a half. The four knew
not, as the end came near, whether it were one hour that had passed or
six. And they had almost given up hope and become resigned, when
suddenly there came a step that made their hearts leap up and begin to
pound.

The outer door opened; then the door to their cell. A figure strode
in. It was the sheriff!

A perfect pandemonium resulted. It took the official but a moment to
recognize that these were not the lunatics. From their excited and
frenzied pleadings he managed to make out the story of their
misfortune, their capture by the real lunatics. Also he made out that
they were in a simply agonizing hurry to get out, to go somewhere.

He knew that he had no right to hold them. He stepped forward and cut
them loose, and showed them to the door. An instant later four figures
were dashing up the street toward West Point at a speed that would
have done credit to an antelope. This was a go-as-you-please race,
each man for himself.

They sped on, past the boundary of cadet limits, the officers’ houses,
the mess hall. They were careless of consequences, making no effort to
hide from any one. Time was too precious. A single glance at the
parade ground ahead showed them that the gun had not yet sounded, that
still there was hope. Their pace grew faster still at that.

The academy building and the chapel they left behind them, and bounded
up the road toward the camp. They saw――oh, horrors!――the corporal and
his single private standing in front of the morning gun, about to
fire! And a moment later the four, one after another, dashed wildly
around the camp, past the astonished officer of the day, and plunged
over the embankment of Fort Clinton, where their uniforms lay hid.

Just then――bang! went the gun.

And two minutes later, red and breathless, but still in uniform and
safe, the four signaled the sentry, rushed into camp, and fell in for
roll call with their classmates on the company street. The escape was
narrow; but the miss was as good as a mile.




CHAPTER XIII.

A VISIT TO THE CAVE.


“I don’t think I’ll ever rest quite easy again until I get these
clothes hidden from sight.”

The speaker was Mark. There were quite a number of other plebes with
him, seven of them altogether. They were hurrying through the woods
north of the post; and a stranger passing by would have been very much
surprised indeed to notice that each one of them carried upon his arm
a bundle of fantastically-colored clothing.

The seven plebes would have been just as much alarmed, however, as the
stranger. They were making desperate efforts to keep their curious
burdens hid.

“I’m afraid every moment that somebody’ll step out and surprise us
again,” Mark said. “I know I shall die if they do.”

The reason for this desperate secrecy is not far to seek. They wanted
to get rid of the telltale disguises.

“If we get it safely put away in our cave,” chuckled Mark as he
hurried on, “we may be pretty sure that all danger will be over.”

“I thought I’d die,” remarked one of the others, “when I found that
Bull had left it lying in Fort Clinton where anybody might find it.
You know when we fellows put the clothes on him so’s to get him
arrested for a joke, he must have gotten back to camp pretty late and
just had time to peel before reveille in the morning. Bull Harris
ought to have been more careful than to leave it there.”

“Doggone his boots!” growled Texas. “Them ole yearlin’s never did have
any sense!”

The “den,” toward which the Seven were hurrying, lay about two miles
away in the woods. A small hole in the side of a cliff was its only
known entrance, discovered by the parson while “geologizin’.” That den
was a dark and mysterious place, the source of no end of strange
adventures.

As old readers know, it had originally belonged to a gang of
counterfeiters some fifty years ago. They had been entrapped in a
secret corner of it and accidentally suffocated. Their skeletons had
remained there to horrify the plebes, when first they had the temerity
to enter the place.

A few days later a treasure had been found there. It proved to be
counterfeit in the end, but not until it had given rise to
considerable excitement. Altogether, that den was a delicious place in
which to spend a holiday afternoon. You never could tell what might
happen.

“We haven’t been near it for a week or two,” observed Mark. “I’ve had
so much to do I haven’t even had time to think of it. I wonder if
anything has happened meanwhile.”

“Perhaps the skeletons have come to life,” hinted Dewey, whereat poor
Indian shivered and cried “Oo!”

By this time they had reached their destination. It does not need much
describing. There was a tall surface of rock facing the river, which
was only a short distance away. The entrance to the cave was
completely hidden with a growth of bushes and there was nothing but a
few faint footprints to indicate that anybody ever came near the
place.

Such was the “den” from the outside. The Seven were climbing up and
crawling in head first, so we shall follow them and take a look
inside.

By the light of the candles they had brought with them the Seven gazed
around. The place looked just the same as usual. There was a long dark
vista stretching away in the distance, and gradually receding into
darkness. And there were walls sculptured with deep indentations and
long passages that crept away from the light.

Altogether it was a very weird and awe-inspiring place, and as a
general thing one did not feel like making much noise in it,
especially since there were so many echoes to disturb.

“Everything seems to be just where we left it since the night we hazed
Bull Harris here,” laughed Mark. “Poor Bull was about scared blue that
day.”

“An’ thar’s the shovel the Parson dug his treasure with,” chuckled
Texas. “What air we agoin’ to do now?”

“Bury these clothes for the first thing,” was the answer. “Then I can
breathe freely again.”

This task was soon accomplished, and then Mark sat down in one of the
chairs――for the counterfeiters had furnished their cave.

“I’m thinking,” observed Mark, meditatively, “that we might have a
good deal of fun exploring all the passages and dark places in this
cave. Who knows what we might find?”

“Whoop!” cried Texas, springing up in excitement. “Sho’ enough! We
might find a new entrance!”

“Yes, and we might find some deuced pitfalls, ye know, bah Jove!”
observed Chauncey.

“Or bears, b’gee!” chuckled Dewey.

“Oo! oo!” gasped poor Indian. “Don’t talk that way, please. Bless my
soul, I know I shall drop dead with fright.”

At that same instant something happened so unexpected and so horrible
that it struck them motionless and chill.

A deep low groan, as if of agony, echoed through the lonely cave!

For a moment the Seven glanced at each other in consternation and
dread. They were almost paralyzed by the sound, which had evidently
come from one of the inner recesses of the cavern. Poor Indian had
sunk down on the ground in a heap.

“What’s that?” they cried, and then listened.

But the groan was not repeated. They waited in fear and trembling, but
the rocks gave not another sound, and suddenly Mark sprang to his
feet.

“Fellows,” he cried, “there’s somebody in here! Who’ll follow me?”

The faithful Texas sprang to his side, and the rest followed, though
trembling and quaking in every joint.

Mark was as much terrified as any of them, but he shook it off with a
powerful effort and gazed resolutely about him.

“There’s no use having any nonsense about this!” he exclaimed. “None
of us believes in ghosts, so what’s the use of being scared. There’s
only one thing possible, there’s somebody in here.”

“Who’s afraid?” cried Texas.

“Yes,” echoed Dewey, boldly. “Who’s afraid. I’m not.”

“Who-who-who’s af-f-f-fraid-d?” chattered Indian.

To tell the truth, they were all very much afraid and were not at all
successful in hiding it. The sound had been so weird and horrible. In
such surroundings, it was small wonder that they stood in the center
of the floor and trembled.

Mark racked his brain to think what the strange development could
mean. He hit on a solution at last which for a moment he thought to be
correct.

“By George!” he cried. “Fellows, I believe it was Bull Harris!”

The effect of that remark was instantaneous. All the plebes’ fear went
out of them at the sound, and anger came in. Yes, yes, it must be
Bull! The hated yearling knew of the cave, he and his three cronies
alone. They had dared to come up here to fool them! Quick as a wink
Texas clinched his fists and leaped forward.

“Come on,” he cried. “Wow! ef I git a holt o’ that feller I’ll make
him wish I hadn’t.”

The rest had been no less prompt to follow Texas’ lead. They could
hardly wait to bring the candle before they plunged into the dark
passageway from out of which the sound had seemed to come. The Seven
were just as mad as hops. The very idea of Bull’s daring to enter
their cave, and trying to scare them out of it!

The arm of the cave into which they had gone took them completely out
of sight from the main room. The flickering rays of the candle were
speedily lost to view and the place grew black as night. And at the
same instant, treading lightly across the carpet, stealing along with
the silence and swiftness of an Indian, a crouching figure swept
across the room and vanished in the recesses at the other side.

The plebes would have been frightened indeed had they been there to
see it. For the figure was not that of Bull Harris.

It was an old, old man, with bent and stooping figure and a long
white, flowing beard. There was a gleam of fury in his eyes, and in
his hand he clutched a long, keen knife.

Of him the plebes saw nothing, for they were busily making their way
through the passage. They were finding much in that to interest them.

Their journey was made with all slowness and caution, and with no
little trembling, too. What might be in the black and secret recesses
of this mysterious cave no one dared to guess. Pitfalls must be
watched for at their feet, and wild animals――or yearlings――ahead.

The tunnel narrowed rapidly after a short distance, until the plebes
could hardly walk erect. Peering in still further they could see that
it got smaller and smaller still, so that hands and knees would soon
be the order of the day. The lads hesitated; but a moment later, Mark,
peering ahead, caught sight of something in the dim candlelight that
made him spring quickly forward.

“By jingo!” he cried. “Fellows, they’ve had something to eat in here.”

The Seven stared in amazement――and some little indignation. The
impudence of Bull! Yes, it certainly was true, for there was a still
smoking fire, and scraps of food scattered about.

“Come ahead!” exclaimed Mark, quickly. “I believe we’ve got ’em
trapped in here.”

Mark stooped and hurried away through the narrow passage.

“Say!” growled Texas, “if we do ketch ’em――――!”

And with that dire threat he followed.

The journey came to a sudden end, however, a moment later. The tunnel
broadened again into a sort of hollow dome, a little room. And in
front was a wall of rock.

Mark gazed about him. There was nothing in the place apparently except
a pile of rags in one corner. It was simply a bare cell of rock with
nothing whatever beyond it. The plebes were “stumped,” as the phrase
has it, for they had imagined they had their victims penned up.

“They’ve dodged us somehow,” said Mark. “Let’s go back and hunt
again.”

Just then, however, another discovery was made, this time by the
classic Parson. The Parson had the true scientific spirit of research,
you must know; or what is known in newspaper circles as a “nose for
news.” To put Parson Stanard where there was any possibility of
acquiring new data on the subjects of geological formations and
“stratiological eccentricities” was like putting a bloodhound on a
fresh trail.

During the plebes’ whispered debate, the lanky and solemn scholar had
been wandering around like a lion in a cage, peering at everything,
punching and testing the rocks, even smelling them occasionally. And
suddenly he gave vent to a cry of joy.

“Yea, by Zeus!” he muttered. “By the seven gates of Thebes and the
seven hills of Rome! I knew it!”

“What’s the matter?” cried the others.

“By Zeus!” he cried. “Fellow citizens of Athens, I have discovered
another entrance to the cave!”

The others stared at him in incredulity and amazement.

“Another entrance!” they echoed. “Where?”

By way of answer the learned Parson seized Mark by the shoulder and
forced him over toward what seemed to be the blank wall of rock in
front of them. Stanard pointed and Mark followed the direction of his
finger and understood. A faint chink in the rock where the bright
light of day strayed in told the story with all possible plainness.

“It leads out into the open,” Mark admitted, after a moment’s thought.
“Any one can see that. But how do you know it is an entrance?”

“It is evident to the most superficial observation,” replied the
Parson, “that the walls of the cave are of a different sort from the
rock we have before us. The former is a species of sandstone of
quaternary origin, while the latter is a kind of granite technically
known――――”

“What has that got to do with it?” growled Texas.

“Yes, yes!” roared the rest. “Go on!”

“I am going,” said Stanard. “Ahem! By Zeus! As I was about to remark,
this bowlder, for such it is, is evidently of glacial origin and
therefore――――”

“For heaven’s sake!” cried Mark, laughing in spite of himself. “Do you
mean to say that it’s a loose rock?”

“Precisely,” said the geologist. “That is to say――――”

Then the matter came to an abrupt end. Texas, who had been dancing
about with impatience, caught the meaning of the words “loose,” and
with a bound flung himself against the bowlder.

To his amazement it rolled easily away, leaving just room for a man to
crawl out.

Beyond lay the woods and the sky and the river! It was indeed another
entrance to the cave!




CHAPTER XIV.

SOME FUN WITH THE YEARLINGS.


The reader of course knows that no cadets had been near the cave. But
that the Seven did not know; they thought that “the enemy” had left by
that entrance.

Texas clutched his fists suggestively. Texas had been looking forward
to a fight and some fun, and he was considerably aggravated at having
been thus cheated of his prey. However, there was nothing to do now
but draw in the stone and make the best of their way back to the main
cavern again.

Mark suggested that they go outside and let the learned Parson display
his skill by finding that bowlder again. Then, too, they might fix it
up so that no trespassers could enter in future.

They hurried back through the narrow passageway and were soon on the
very spot where that mysterious groan had scared them so. As to that
groan they never gave another thought, for they imagined that its
originators had fled.

They would have been very much altered in their opinion, however, if
they had only once looked behind them. Scarcely had they left the
passageway before the same wild-eyed, crouching figure stole across in
the shadow and disappeared.

It was that mysterious old man returning to his lonely cell.

With that stranger our story has at present nothing more to do. It is
necessary now that we follow the Banded Seven. For some two or three
minutes later the Seven were destined to find themselves involved in a
most delightful adventure indeed.

It was a very curious coincidence the plebes, as we know, were just
then on the warpath for some yearlings, fully persuaded that some
yearlings had had the temerity to enter their private cave and
actually try to scare its owners away. Well, the coincidence was that
at that very moment a party of yearlings was taking a walk through
those woods.

That was where the fun came in.

Our friend Texas had gotten a chair and climbed up preparatory to
squirming his way through the hole. He peered out just once and then
popped back, fairly gasping with excitement.

“Wow!” he whispered. “They’re there!”

“They!” echoed the rest in amazement. “Who?”

Texas answered, and then turned to stare again. It is needless to say
that the rest wanted to see as well as he, and that chairs and tables
were hastily dragged up. A minute later seven eager heads were peering
out through the bushes at the forest beyond. Sure enough, there were
some yearlings, and over a dozen of them at that.

Now our plebe friends were no fools. If they had been they would never
have had the fun they did. As we know, those yearlings knew nothing
whatever about the existence of the cave. The plebes thought
otherwise, but they speedily discovered their mistake.

In the first place Bull and his gang were the only ones who knew of
the cave, and they were not in the crowd. These yearlings were none of
them friendly to the Seven――all yearlings hated “Mallory’s gang.” But
theirs was not the malignant anger that Bull had chosen. In the second
place they were walking along, laughing and talking, as if nothing
were farther from their minds than the thought that the high cliff
which towered above them contained a dark and mysterious cave.

Mark turned suddenly and stared at his companions.

“Fellows,” he said, “do you know, I don’t believe those chaps know
anything about this place.”

“All the more reason for keeping it secret,” responded Texas; “that
is, ’less you want to go out an’ lick ’em. Hey?”

“Oo-oo!” gasped Indian. “I don’t want to fight.”

This scheme did not “take,” and so Texas subsided.

“I wish we could play some trick on ’em, b’gee!” chuckled Dewey.

Just at that moment one of the cadets chanced to shout out a word or
two to his companions. The next instant he turned and pointed straight
at the plebes.

The latter dodged down in trepidation, for they imagined they had been
seen. Their alarm was unfounded, however, as the bushes in front made
a perfect screen. The cause of the yearlings’ surprise was something
entirely different.

“Oh, say, did you hear that echo?” the seven listeners heard him call.

Our friends’ hearts began to beat once more at that, and they resumed
their watch. An echo was what the yearlings were noticing. It was but
natural, so the Parson whispered, that the cliff should return an echo
at certain distances.

Evidently this one was a very strong echo, for it was delighting the
yearlings considerably. Everybody knows how people amuse themselves
with an echo. The cadets were bawling all sorts of nonsense at the top
of their lungs.

Mark listened to the shouts and joining in the merriment of his
friends. But suddenly he started back with a perfect gasp of delight.

“What’s the matter?” cried the others.

By way of answer Mark turned and whispered:

“Not a sound now!” he cried. “Do you hear me? Gee whiz, what a joke!”

He raised himself upon his elbows and drew a long, deep breath; then
he waited.

One of the yearlings, a big, burly fellow named Rogers, was just at
that moment doing likewise, drawing his breath for a shout. He had
come a little closer to test the effect.

“Hello!” he roared, at the top of his lungs.

And a moment later Mark answered him:

“Hello-o-o!”

Rogers started back and gazed at his companions in amazement.

“Good heavens!” he cried. “Fellows, did you hear that?”

The other had heard it, of course. How could they help hearing it? And
they were simply dumfounded.

“Why, it’s a double echo!” cried one.

“And it sounded even louder than your voice!” added another. “What on
earth do you suppose it can be?”

Rogers didn’t know, but he hazarded a guess.

“It must have been where I was standing,” he said. “This is the place.
I’ll try it again.”

Then he took another deep breath, while the rest waited anxiously.

“Hello!” he roared.

There was not a sound. Mark kept as still as a mouse, though he and
his friends were ready to burst with laughter. The yearlings gazed at
each other in amazement.

“Jove, I missed it that time!” exclaimed Rogers. “I wonder what’s the
matter?”

“Perhaps you aren’t in just the same place,” suggested one sage
logician.

“That’s so,” admitted he. “I think I’ve stepped forward some.”

“No, I think you jumped back,” objected a third.

There was much learned discussion of this point. Finally they tried
both. There wasn’t a sound.

Of course they were puzzled. Who wouldn’t have been? They wandered all
about the clearing, roaring at the top of their lungs: “Hello! hello!
hello! hello!” But Mark only kept still and chuckled, until he saw
that they were about to give it up.

“Why don’t you answer?” shouted one.

“―――― you answer!” replied Mark, in just as loud a voice.

The yearlings sprang as one man to the spot where this lucky
individual had been.

“We’ve got it!” they cried, and a moment later a perfect chorus of
“Helloes!” and “How do ye does?” and “Whoops!” and so on, came to Mark
Mallory’s ears.

They were so many of them that Mark couldn’t attend to them all at
once, and had to call in the rest of the Seven to his aid. You may
readily believe that the yearlings were paid back with interest. Texas
even tacked on a few whoops for good measure.

The reader may imagine the hilarity of the mischievous plebes during
this. The upturned, open-mouthed faces of the unfortunate and
astonished victims were enough to make a sphinx laugh for a century.
At least, that was what the Parson said. The Seven were dancing about
and chuckling with glee. Mark had the greatest difficulty in keeping
them from breaking out into a chorus.

That seemed to be the next joke on tap. Mark whispered his
instructions, nudged the others in the ribs, and waited.

“Hello up there! Hello!” roared Rogers.

And the next instant came a sound louder than a trumpet blast and so
startling that it nearly knocked the big yearling over backwards.

“Hello up there! Hello-o-o!”

It was a confused medley of shouts and yells in one promiscuous
chorus. Assuredly no such echo has ever been heard in the history of
mankind. Irish hills and Swiss mountains would have given up in
despair before such a many-throated arrangement as that.

The yearlings gazed at each other in still greater consternation. They
did not know what to think at that stage of the game.

“Hello!” cried Rogers, boldly trying it once more.

And to his amazement there was not a sound.

“This is the most uncanny thing I ever heard of in my life,” he
whispered to his companions. “It almost makes me think of spirits.
Hello up there!”

This last was yet one more attempt. Its result was, if possible, still
more unexpected. The echo actually stuttered:

“Hello, up th-th-th-there!”

“Good Lord, what next?” gasped one of the yearlings.

“G-g-good Lord, wh-what n-n-next-t!” muttered the cliff.

But that time the matter had gone just a little too far. Human
credulity has its limits; you cannot fool all the people all the time
has crystallized into a proverb. And so just about then some of the
shrewder of the crowd began to get a little bit suspicious and to look
around, either for a hiding place for that mischievous echo-maker or
for a ventriloquist among their own party.

This Mark did not fail to observe. He turned to his companions.

“See here,” he whispered. “Fellows, they’ll soon be on to this.”

“Do you know,” he continued, “there’s no use in our trying to keep
this cave a secret, anyhow. Bull knows of it and he’ll be sure to tell
’em in the end. I say we have some more fun now.”

“Yes!” cried Texas. “I say so, too, whoop! Doggone their boots! Let’s
climb out an’ go for ’em. I’m jest itching for a rousin’ ole scrap!”

Mark smiled at his wild chum’s excitement.

“Let’s keep on with this echo for a while,” said he, “until we work
that out. Then perhaps we’ll show ourselves.”

“Or send them out our cards, b’gee,” chuckled Dewey. “Come ahead.”

During this the yearlings had been holding a consultation. They were
gathered together in a group, whispering about the mystery, and
occasionally staring at the trees around them and at the top of the
cliff far above. It is needless to say that they saw nothing
suspicious. Finally they turned to test the echo some more.

“Hello!” cried Rogers.

“Hello” (a whisper).

“Say, you fellows, whoever you are, I wish you’d come out and quit
your fooling!”

That was from Rogers. And right then came the climax. The echo started
to repeat that sentence.

“Say, you fellows, whoever you are――――”

And there it stopped――stuck! It had forgotten the rest of what it was
to say. The yearlings stared at each other, and finally began to
laugh. An echo that forgot was indeed a strange variety.

Suddenly it spoke again.

“Hello, there! Will you kindly repeat that last remark of yours. I
couldn’t keep it all in my mind.”

And this was followed by a perfect roar of laughter from somewhere; it
seemed fairly to shake the hillside. The yearlings realized how they
had been duped, and you can just guess that they were mad!




CHAPTER XV.

A BATTLE WITH THE ENEMY.


Now, the first thing for the crowd to do was to locate that “echo.” If
they found it, they were mad enough to make trouble for its
originators. The originators did not seem to be the least bit afraid
of that, however, for they kept up a merry chaffing from their hiding
place.

“Hello, down there! You needn’t be looking for us in the trees,
because we aren’t crows. We nest in the rocks. What are you going over
that way for, stupid? Can’t you hear my voice? Ah, now you’re warm!
Keep on hunting. An echo is an awfully hard thing to find. You’re
looking a little too high up now. Go home and get a ladder. Go home
and get a cannon and lay siege to us!”

During all this, which was in a disguised voice, the exasperated
cadets had been staring helplessly about them. They heard the voice,
but, to save their lives, they couldn’t tell where it came from. In
fact, they were on the point of giving up in despair when something
else happened.

There was a plainly visible movement in one of the bushes that grew on
the side of the rock. A moment later a bit of white cardboard sailed
down.

Rogers made a leap for it and picked it up. His companions rushed to
his side.

“What is it?” they demanded, eagerly.

By way of answer the cadet held it out to them to read, his face a
picture of disgust as he did so. For this was what the card said:

     “Mr. Chauncey Van Rensselaer Mount-Bonsall,
                               “―― Fifth Avenue.”

“By Heaven!” shouted Rogers, “it’s that Mallory and his gang again.”

“Right you are!”

“Betcher life, b’gee.”

“Yea, by Zeus!”

“Bah Jove!”

There was no misunderstanding these voices. It was Mallory’s gang for
a fact, hidden in that hole in the rock and making fools of their
“superior officers.”

The effect of that discovery upon the angry cadets may be imagined. It
was as a match to a powder magazine. The yearlings simply went wild.

“Storm the place!” yelled one.

“Drag ’em out!” shouted another.

“Wipe the spots off of ’em!” cried a third.

And then as one man they made a leap for the entrance. There was no
end of fun after that.

The attack had, of course, not been unexpected by the plebes. Mark had
prepared for it carefully and the cadets were destined to get a very
warm welcome indeed. It was a welcome of a most unexpected variety,
too, for during the interim Texas had rushed back into the cave and
come back with an armful of curious white weapons. The reader may
guess what they were.

Billy Rogers had been the first man to reach the foot of the cliff.
The hole from which the card had come was about ten feet from the
ground, but a ledge made it an easy climb. The yearling leaped up and
without a moment’s hesitation flung himself in at the entrance.

His head and shoulders were lost to view for just about one second.
Then they reappeared, as the owner gave a cry of horror and started
back. He tumbled backward to the ground and would have been badly hurt
if his companions had not caught him. His face was as white as a
sheet.

“What’s the matter?” cried they.

“Good heavens!” gasped the terrified Rogers. “It’s a skull!”

“A skull!”

“Yes! I saw it staring at me, all white in the darkness! Ugh!”

Just at this moment there was a movement in the bushes. The yearlings
glanced up, just as a face protruded.

It was Parson Stanard, peering down. The Parson’s cadaverous, bony
features shone out pale and white, and but one idea flashed over the
badly-scared Rogers.

“There it is again!” he yelled. “The skull!”

The roar of laughter that followed defies description. Even the
yearlings joined in. They imagined that their classmate had originally
seen the Parson’s head and taken it for the “skull.”

Of this idea, however, they were speedily disabused. For the Parson
stretched out his long, bony arms, and the next instant the yearlings
found themselves half buried beneath a shower of clattering white
objects――the skeletons of the counterfeiters! When the yearlings
looked up again Parson Stanard was gone.

The cadets were too much amazed and horrified to say anything. They
could only stare――and listen. They heard a loud voice inside, and this
was what the voice said:

“By the bones of my ancestors, was there ever such an outrage? Yea, by
Zeus! By Apollo and the Heliconian Muses! Unhand me, gentlemen, I say!
I will not stand it! I will out and at them! I will scatter them to
the six winds of Æolus! The very idea! My head a skull! What is there
to warrant so outrageous an insinuation? Why, it is enough to make the
ashes of my noble grandfather burst forth into flame. And am I to
stand it? No, by Hercules! I feel the might of a Centaur rising within
me. Like Hector of old, will I sally forth from my citadel and smite
the insulters of my race. Just think of it! My head a skull!”

There was a brief silence after that, succeeded by the sounds of a
struggle.

“Steady, Parson!” said a voice. “You don’t want to go out there. Take
it easy now――――”

“Let me go, I say! let me go! I demand the right of every gentleman to
defend his honor with his life. I do not propose to submit to this
outrage. I swear it by the terrible Styx! This is enough to enrage a
subcarboniferous Plesiosaurus! It is enough to make an ornithorhynchus
rise in wrath! And I have the blood of Boston in my veins. My
ancestors were among the warriors of Bunker Hill and Lexington. My
ancestors smote the tyrant and fought for the right and liberties of
man. Yea, by Zeus! And shall I, with such examples as that before me,
allow my head to be mistaken for a skull? By Melpomene, my very
capillary ducts cry out for vengeance!”

This last bit of information was succeeded by another movement in the
bushes. The Parson’s head and shoulders appeared again. The Parson was
a red skull now. His cheeks were blazing with wrath and his long hair
bristling.

He sought to fling himself upon “the enemy.” This, however, he was
unable to do, for the reason that some one had hold of him by the feet
and wouldn’t let go. In the entrance accordingly he stuck fast, and
from that strange position, “poured out his impetuous wrath in burning
words.” As his friend Homer somewhere describes it:

“Ye scoundrels,” he began, shaking his fists in impotent wrath.
“Scoundrels, I say; for what better term can I use than the one so
often employed by the wise and respected Dr. Johnson, a man before
whose classical attainments my own meager latinity shrinks――but, by
Zeus! I am wandering from my theme! Scoundrels, I say! I would call
you Philistines, but the Philistines would rise up in wrath. I would
call you _vulgus_――but you wouldn’t have sense enough to know what it
meant! And so I say, scoundrels! By the ’far-darting Apollo,’ I demand
satisfaction. Do you hear me? Do you understand me? I will not ’mutely
and ingloriously’ swallow your outrageous insinuations. My blood boils
with wrath. I am not a skull! I do not look like a skull! And, by
Hermes! I challenge any one of you to come forward and prove that I
do. By the heroes of the Trojan cycle, I defy you! I demand――――”

During the first part of this truly extraordinary outburst the
yearlings had been staring in open-mouthed amazement. As it continued,
however, the absurdity of the situation overcame them and they fell to
howling with laughter. The abrupt pause on the Parson’s part was
caused by a new development. Rogers saw an opportunity for vengeance;
he stooped, picked up one of the skulls and let it drive at the
orator’s head.

The two objects met with a hollow crack and Parson Stanard set up a
howl. The rest of the cadets, laughing uproariously, seized whatever
came to their hands. From the shower that resulted our friend, the
Parson, was glad to be dragged ignominiously in by the feet.

And thus ended his famous oration.




CHAPTER XVI.

ABANDONING THE FORT.


Having rescued their gallant Patrick Henry, the Seven defenders of the
cave held a council of war.

“It’s plain as day,” Mark laughed, “that they can never get in here at
us. There’s room for only one man at a time through that opening, and
it’s only another case of Horatius at the bridge.”

“Hang it!” growled Texas. “Ain’t we goin’ to have any fun, then?
Doggone their boots, I say we go out an’ wallop ’em.”

“Yea, by Zeus!” echoed the Parson, who was striding furiously up and
down the cave, thirsting for gore and incidentally rubbing his sore
head. “Yea, by Zeus! For I feel that I could go forth against the
Philistines like Samson of yore, and slay thirty thousand of them――――”

“With the jawbone of a counterfeiter” chuckled Dewey, “b’gee!”

“It is sad to think,” Mark went on, after the laugh was over, “that
those yearlings will get in here finally.”

“How’s that?” roared Texas.

“We can’t be here to guard it all day and all night,” answered Mark.
“They are bound to get in some day.”

He was silent for a moment, lost in thought.

And then suddenly he gave an exclamation of delight.

“By jingo!” he cried, “I have it!”

“What?”

“We’ll let ’em in now.”

“Wow! yes!” roared Texas. “An’ lick ’em when they git in. Whoop!”

“No,” laughed Mark, “that’s not what I mean. Let us go out by the
other entrance.”

“Yes.”

“And don’t let ’em get out again.”

It was truly a fine idea. The more the delighted plebes thought of it
the better they liked it. It would be far more exciting to trap the
enemy than simply to keep them off. Even Parson Stanard was dancing
about with delight. A few moments later the crowd was hurrying at full
speed up the narrow tunnel toward “the back door.”

Whatever mystery that tunnel may have contained the plebes got no
inkling of it. They did not stop to strike a light, but simply dashed
wildly ahead in the darkness. Mark thought once that he felt a figure
brush past him, but he scarcely gave it a thought. The party reached
the rock at the end of the passage, pushed it hastily away, and after
glancing about them, stole out and vanished in the woods.

As we know, the Seven had never used that entrance before, and, at
first, they did not know just where they were. They ascertained,
however, that the spot was on the hillside around to the south of the
cliff. They were completely out of the view of the cadets, but the
voices of the yearlings could be plainly heard.

“We’ve got quite a task,” Mark whispered to his companions. “We’ve got
to manage to creep around where we can watch them and there hide.”

Finally, however, they found a place where they could peer through the
bushes and watch the foe in safety, and there they huddled down and
waited impatiently.

It was quite funny to watch the yearlings. The latter, of course, did
not know that the fort had been deserted. They imagined that its
defenders were silently awaiting another attack. The yearlings were
determined to capture it and were holding a consultation.

The first scheme that they hit on was this: Everybody gathered some
stones in his hand and at a given signal let them drive through the
entrance. The missiles were expected to create havoc among the
watching plebes, a sort of artillery bombardment previous to an
infantry attack. You may imagine how the watching lads laughed at that
trick.

Naturally the shower of stones produced no result, and so there was
another consultation. At the end of it Rogers, somewhat bolder than
the rest, volunteered to risk the climb once more. It was a very
heroic resolve, and it took the hero no little time to get up the
nerve. Finally, however, he stepped forward and sprang up the ascent.

Our friends, the Seven, almost burst with laughter to see him duck and
dodge, as if expecting another shower of bones every moment. When he
reached the entrance his behavior was more ludicrous still.

Can you imagine a soldier peering over the top of a breastwork when he
knows that sharpshooters are near? That was Rogers. He would raise up
his head and then duck down again. Next time he would raise it a
little more, and then duck down further still. At last he managed to
get his eyes up to the level of the entrance and peered in. He saw
nothing suspicious, and so finally he took to exploring with one hand.

This he did in exactly the same way. He would thrust his arm into the
dark hole and then jerk it out again as if it had been bitten by a
snake. Then after a while he would put it in again. Meeting with no
resistance only made him the more cautious, for it convinced him that
the plebes were working a plot of some kind. They were doing that for
a fact, but not in the way Rogers suspected.

He soon got tired of that kind of attack. Reflecting that in all
probability the plebes wouldn’t hurt him much if they did capture him,
he suddenly sprang up and plunged head and shoulders through the hole.
A moment later his feet shot in, too, and he landed with a crash upon
the floor.

The anxiety with which those outside waited and listened may be
imagined. What would happen next they had no idea. Their comrade might
have been seized and gagged in an instant; he might have tumbled into
a barrel of water, or even paint; he might have broken his neck.

“Hello!” shouted the yearlings outside, “who’s in there?”

The answer came a moment later.

“Confound it, not a soul!”

“What’s it like?”

“Black as pitch. I can’t see a thing. Come in here, some of you
fellows, and bring a light.”

Encouraged by their leader’s boldness and the fact that he had not yet
been attacked, several of the yearlings sprang up the cliff. One of
them slid in and a moment later the listening plebes heard an
exclamation of surprise.

“Have you got a light?” they cried.

“Yes.”

“What’s it like?”

“It’s a great big cave. Good Heaven! and it’s all furnished up like a
house!”

“Where are the plebes?”

“Don’t see them anywhere. Come on in, and we’ll hunt for ’em.”

The yearlings couldn’t tumble in fast enough. And pretty soon the
majority of them were inside the cave, and running around with shouts
and exclamations of amazement.

“We’ve got ’em!” cried Mark. “Forward!”

You may imagine how hilarious they were. It was a case, if ever there
was such a case in the world, of “We have met the enemy and they are
ours.”

Inside the victims never once suspected the plight they were in. They
were roaming about the cave, exploring everything and becoming more
and more enraptured. It made Texas mad that they should dare thus to
take liberties with his cave, and he seized a thigh bone of a
counterfeiter in his hand and vowed tragically that he’d smash the
head of the first villain who dared to appear.

This fate the “villain” was apparently by no means anxious to hurry
toward, for the yearlings made no effort to leave the cave. They would
probably have stayed inside for the rest of the afternoon had it not
been for a sudden and truly startling development.

Texas had mounted to do guard duty. That is to say, he had seized his
white club and posted himself at the entrance, ready to whack at the
first sign of a yearling, when all of a sudden he and his friends were
horrified to hear a wild shriek from inside.

“Help! help!”

It was Rogers’ voice and a perfect babel of yells and cries succeeded
it.

“Look out! He’s hidden in there!”

“Fly, fly for your lives!”

“He’s got a knife. Help!”

“Hold him there. Grab that arm. Look out! He’s loose again!”

A moment later a scared white face appeared in the opening. It was one
of the yearlings and he glanced about him in alarm. A moment later he
swung himself out, dropped to the ground, and fled wildly into the
woods.

He had scarcely emerged before another followed, equally as scared.
The cries and shouts ceased as abruptly as they began and the
astounded plebes stood by and watched one by one the almost hysterical
cadets leap out of the black cavern. Without a single exception they
stopped to speak to no one, to look at no one, but dashed away into
the woods as if they had but one thought on earth――to get away from
the spot. Their terror was so great that nobody stopped to help
anybody else; as for the plebes standing nearby, nobody seemed even to
see them.

It was all over in a very few seconds. Mark tried to stop one of them,
but the frightened cadet wrenched free and dashed on.

They were battered and cut, their uniforms in tatters. Rogers was
bleeding from a wound in the arm and almost blind with fright as he
darted away.

After he was gone the place grew as silent as a grave. The amazed
plebes huddled together and stared at the hole, racking their brains
to think of what that most extraordinary occurrence could mean. They
half expected something to emerge, a wild animal, perhaps; but nothing
of the kind took place; the cave was black and still as ever. The
woods grew silent, too, as soon as the frightened yearlings had
disappeared. Nothing more occurred to explain the uncanny adventure.

Mark had been staring at his companions with a puzzled look upon his
face. They might have sat thus and stared at each other for an hour,
such was their consternation, had it not been for the fact that it was
then late in the afternoon and very near the time for dress parade.
Accordingly, they had to set out for camp, which ended the matter for
that day.

“But I’ll tell you this much,” was Mark’s verdict, “there’s a good
deal more mystery about that cave than you and I have the least idea
of.”

And there was, as it came to pass before many days. The mystery of the
cave was destined to form one of the most important incidents of
Mark’s stay at West Point.




CHAPTER XVII.

MORTAR PRACTICE AT WEST POINT.


“A very good shot, Mr. Bryce. A trifle high, though. Correct your
elevation for the next shot.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Number two――ready! Fire!”

The scene was West Point, and the place was the target practice
ground.

Over on the opposite side of the West Point inlet, stood a post with a
barrel upon it. That was the target; the fondest hope of every cadet
heart was that “some day” he might hit that barrel. With a mortar that
is no easy task, but it has been done in West Point’s history.

The cadets were grouped about the guns, under the command of one of
the tactical officers. In response to his order to fire, a cadet
pulled the lanyard and with a flash and a roar the second of the heavy
cannon was discharged. A white cloud of smoke ascended, half hiding
the battery. There was an anxious wait, and then a splash far out on
the water. It was followed by a murmured cheer from the spectators for
the aim was so close that the barrel was half hidden from sight by the
spray.

“A little to the right, Mr. Thompson,” said the imperturbable “tac.”
“Number three――ready!”

Such is “mortar drill” at West Point. It gets to be very exciting at
times, for there is no end of rivalry among the young gunners, and
there are fair partisans to look on――sisters, and some who are not
sisters. Cadets always look forward with pleasure to the hours for
mortar drill. It is a pleasure vouchsafed to first classmen alone.

Gazing wistfully at the scene during half an hour of liberty that
morning were certain members of the plebe class with whom we are
acquainted. “Plebes” or new cadets, are far, far away from such a
delightful function as mortar drill. It takes the three years to get
to that honor, three years of work. The road that leads to it is
blocked with much _débris_; there are fallen logs, and many bad
places, ruts, and mud holes; there are drills and examinations by the
dozens, and the wayside is strewn with the corpses of unfortunate
plebes and yearlings who get “left” during the journey.

Some such train of thought was wandering through the minds of the
aforementioned interested plebes.

Three years does seem a dreadfully long time, with such chances of
failure.

“It is a case of ’Many are called,’” began one of the plebes.

“And the arithmetical ratio,” put in another, “of those who
successfully achieve the ultimate object of their concentrated
endeavors, and of those who are compelled to relinquish their efforts
owing to unprognosticated circumstantialities, is so excessively
diminutive that――――”

Another gun went off there and put a period to the discourse.

It is quite needless to say that the person last quoted was our genial
friend, Parson Stanard. There dwelt no other human being in all West
Point who could have delivered such an address as that. There were
probably no others who would have taken it more as a matter of course
than did the six who were with him then. They were used to the Parson.

The party strolled back toward camp, after drill was over, internal
conditions reminding them that they might soon expect to hear the drum
that summoned them to dinner.

As the plebes entered the camp the members of the guard were being
“turned out” for inspection. Mark recognized one of them and he turned
to his companions.

“There’s our old friend, ’Echo’ Rogers,” said he.

The rest were tickled by that nickname, for they broke into a laugh,
in which even Dewey joined. The cadet himself, a tall, heavily built
yearling, was standing at attention――“eyes to the front――chest out――”
and so on. But he heard the remark and an angry flush swept over his
face.

“Echo doesn’t like his name,” observed Mark, as the party went on down
the company street. “You could tell that, anyhow, from the fact that
he and his crowd haven’t told a soul about their adventures.”

“I wish I knew about that mystery,” put in Dewey. “B’gee, there’s
something the matter up at that cave. The yearlings have kept pretty
mum.”

“We’ll find out to-night,” muttered Texas. “That is, if you fellers
don’t get scared afore that an’ go back on our bargain. Haven’t
forgotten, have you?”

“I haven’t,” laughed Mark, an assurance which the others were just as
prompt to give.

“An’ you ain’t afraid, be you?” Texas added.

“N-n-no!” answered Indian, dubiously. “I――I――――I’m not.”

What had caused the flight from the cave the plebes had not the
slightest idea. They had walked home somewhat frightened and subdued,
and sought out the yearlings, who had fled so wildly back to camp. The
latter had, strangely enough, refused to answer any questions. They
had turned angrily away upon the slightest mention of the matter, and
what was still more strange, they had even gone to the length of
refusing to explain to the authorities how their clothing had been
torn or how Rogers had gotten the severe cut which he bore on his
shoulder.

Naturally, this behavior had puzzled the plebes. It puzzled them
still, and made them think that there was some terrible mystery back
of the matter, some mystery connected with that dark and uncanny
cavern. It was “their” cavern, too, and they didn’t relish the idea of
having any secret danger to make them afraid to go near it.

The upshot of the whole matter, to put it briefly, had been just this:
The wild and woolly Texan had vowed that morning, after having been
tormented by the mystery for two whole days, that down where he came
from men weren’t afraid of anything――man, beast or devil; and that he
was going to go up and find out about “that air bizness,” if it was
the last thing he ever did in his life.

The audacity of the proposal had rather taken the Banded Seven aback.
The idea of daring to enter that cave, after the horrible danger into
which the yearlings had gotten, had never quite occurred to them. But
Texas vowed he was going to do it alone, if he couldn’t get anybody
else; that he would be ashamed to call himself a son of his father,
“the Honorable Scrap Powers, o’ Hurricane County, Texas,” if he
didn’t. And so that settled the matter.

“When are you going?” Mark asked him.

And Texas answered promptly:

“To-night.”

The result of which startling announcement had been that the Seven, as
appeared from the conversation previously mentioned, stood pledged by
a solemn promise to probe that mystery to the bottom that very
evening.

“The thing that puzzles me so much about this matter,” Mark observed
to his friends as they strolled down the street, “is the fact that
Rogers and his crowd are unwilling or afraid to tell anybody about the
cave and what happened. I can’t to save my life conceive why they
should be so quiet.”

That was a strange state of affairs for a fact; the plebes talked it
over nearly all day, without coming to a conclusion. The cave was
within bounds, and the yearlings had a perfect right to go there that
Saturday afternoon. So they need not have feared to tell the
authorities for that reason. Questioned they certainly must have been;
their wounds and torn uniforms must certainly have made the
superintendent inquisitive. But they had stuck tight to their secret
and apparently told not a soul. The matter would have been the talk of
the post if they had.

“It may be they’re ashamed of how we fooled ’em,” was Dewey’s
suggestion.

That did not seem at all probable, but it was the best the Seven came
to, and finally they were compelled to adopt it.

“Perhaps we’ll know to-night,” they said.

The reader must not suppose that the plebes were going to set out upon
this expedition haphazard or recklessly. That was hardly like a man
who had learned his lessons in Texas. Cadet Powers, as we know, had
had, when he came to West Point, no less than seventeen revolvers
stowed away in his trunk. These he had hidden safely, and though they
had been somewhat reduced in number by excessive use he still had
enough to go around. There was one for each, except Indian, who vowed
that he’d die before he’d touch one. Thus armed the plebes fancied
they’d be able to receive warmly anything the cave might hold.

And yet even armed as they were, it was a mighty “scary” business.
They found that when they came to start that night. Wandering through
a forest about midnight is a very dubious sort of an occupation,
anyway. And when you have continually before your mind the image of a
deep black hole in the mountains with all sorts of possible and
impossible horrors lurking about inside――dragons and demons and bears
and snakes, to say nothing of a few stray ghosts and rattling
skeletons――it was no wonder Indian’s knees gave way occasionally.

At West Point the drum sounds tattoo at nine-thirty in the evening.

That means that the battalion lines up for roll call and then breaks
ranks for bed. “Taps” sounds half an hour later, and means “lights
out, all quiet.” After that every one is supposed to be asleep in his
tent, and there is a watchful “tac” who goes around with a lantern to
make sure.

The tac himself goes to bed, however, by eleven at the latest. Then,
the cat being away, the mice sometimes come out for a little fun.

Stealing out of camp was what our plebe friends were doing. They
dressed softly and silently, and then after signaling the sentry, a
member of their own class, swept across his post and vanished in old
Fort Clinton.

Something like half a minute later a very startling incident happened
in camp. At least it would have startled the plebes if they had seen
it. A figure, all dressed, crept swiftly out of one of the tents and
across the street. He stole into another tent and awakened its
inmates.

“Fellows,” he whispered, “they’ve gone.”

“Who?”

“The plebes!”

“Up there, do you mean?”

“Yes, I think so. Come on, hurry up.”

The cadets leaped up as one man and hastily slipped into their
uniforms. A few minutes later they, too, stole out of camp. But it was
in the opposite direction! They were going to Highland Falls!

It is needless to say that the cadets were Rogers and his crowd; it is
likewise needless to say that their action meant trouble of some kind
for our friends, the plebes.

The latter, of course, were altogether unaware of that. Having safely
reached Fort Clinton, they stole across the inclosure and made their
way swiftly around past Trophy Point and the old graveyard, and so out
into the woods beyond. Once there they stopped just long enough to
light two or three lanterns they had and then hurried on their
journey.

It was quite a silent party. The plebes felt rather solemn on the
whole, for there was no one of them who failed to realize that a very
serious adventure might result from their trip. How many of them
wished they hadn’t come may not be said, but it is certain that Indian
whispered “Bless my soul!” at least “a thirty-four to the minute
stroke,” as Dewey phrased it; also that Dewey himself got off no more
than two jokes all the way. In fact, the only person who seemed at all
inclined to talk was our old friend, the Parson.

The Parson was a man who felt with real earnestness that he had a
serious duty to perform during “this life temporal,” that duty was the
dissemination of knowledge, and the Parson never lost a chance to work
in a few instructive remarks――philosophical, moral or scientific――upon
every possible occasion. So when other people were quiet the Parson
saw a chance that he never failed to utilize.

The subjects for that night’s discourse chanced to be geological. The
Parson talked on the question of alluvial deposits, the forces of
denudation and sedimentation, etc. He gave very accurately the various
authoritative hypotheses as to the thickness of strata in the Hudson
River Valley. In fact, there is no telling what knowledge he would not
have imparted by the end of the trip if it had not been for an
unforeseen occurrence which deprived the Seven of the Parson’s company
for the rest of that night.

It appeared that when they had come to about halfway to their
destination the Parson, who could not lose his habits of observation
even in the night time (like the wise old owl he was), suddenly
stopped and with a startled exclamation pointed to the ground at one
side.

The rest looked, but at first they could distinguish nothing. The
Parson approached the spot and then they saw a most interesting sight.
An unfortunate bullfrog, hopping about country during the night had
gotten into trouble. A garter snake had him by the leg and was slowly
swallowing him. (The Parson referred to it as “the process of
deglutition.”)

It was rather an interesting sight, and ordinarily the plebes would
have been glad to watch it; but now they were in a hurry.

“I wish we had time to stop,” said Mark. “Come on.”

And Stanard turned and gazed at him in consternation.

“Come on!” he echoed. “Come on! Do you actually mean to say that the
scientific spirit has burned so low in your breast that you will not
stop to witness a process of such extraordinary interest as this? Why,
sir, a man might not see it once in a lifetime! I would stop an
express train to watch it!”

“I’m sorry,” laughed Mark, “but we’re in more of a hurry than an
express. Come on.”

“By Zeus!” gasped the Parson. “I will not go for one.”

“You may stay if you want to,” said Mark, good-naturedly. “But I’m
going.”

He started away, the rest following.

“Do you mean,” roared the Parson, gazing at them indignantly, “that
there is no one who cares to stay after all the scientific interest I
have striven to awaken in you?”

“I-I-I think I’ll stay,” stammered Indian, who was really scared to
death at the mere thought of the cave. “I-I’m v-very m-m-much
interested.”

But the dodge didn’t “go.” Poor Indian was dragged off, protesting at
the outrage, and the solemn Parson was left alone with his lantern and
his snake.

“I’ll join you later,” he called, and then settled himself into a
meditative pose, _à la_ Hamlet. His friends’ footsteps died away in
the distance and he was left in silence to observe and study that
“process of deglutition.”

We must follow the plebes, in the meanwhile. A few minutes later they
reached the cave, where momentous things were destined to occur.




CHAPTER XVIII.

A MOMENT OF DEADLY PERIL.


You can have no idea what a forbidding task it was――entering that
cavern. The plebes only began to realize it when they got to the
place. Why the very sight of that yawning, black hole made them
shiver! Indian was so overcome that he had to sit down and fan
himself; at the same time he raised his “stroke” to forty-two.

The six gazed up at the entrance, which it will be remembered was an
opening some three feet square up in the side of the cliff.

A picture rose up before them――the picture of the horrified and
terror-stricken yearlings tumbling out through that hole. At the same
time the yells and cries for help seemed to echo yet. The plebes
trembled.

Fortunately the bold Texan was along, which precluded all possibility
of hesitation. It was all very well for tenderfeet to be frightened!
(Texas didn’t know whether that word should be tenderfoots or
tenderfeet; at any rate, it immediately reminded Dewey of the story of
the English footman who introduced into a London drawing-room, “b’gee,
Sir Thomas Foote, and the Misses Feet.”)

That story being over, Texas went on to say that it was expected of
tenderfeet to be afraid, but of a wild cowboy――never! He had come up
there to go into that cave and he was going! He would have gone if he
had seen the devil’s own two horns sticking out at him. Accordingly he
felt his two revolvers to make sure that they were in position to
slide out easily, and then seizing a lantern sprang swiftly up the
ledge to the entrance.

It was not like Texas to hesitate. He plunged in head and shoulders at
once. There he stopped and held out the light to gaze about him. Then
he slid in all the way and the anxious plebes heard him drop lightly
to the ground.

A moment later his cheery voice was heard.

“Come on, you fellows!” he called. “There ain’t nothin’ in hyar.”

Mark had already climbed up to the hole and was crawling in. He
dropped to the ground inside and the others followed rapidly. Poor
Indian was last of all, for Indian put off the agony as long as
possible. Strange to say, Indian’s share of that night’s peril was
destined to be greatest of all; the lion’s share, so to speak, went to
the lamb.

The plebes, having entered, stood huddled together at the end of the
cave, staring about them and at Texas. Texas was a truly startling
sight; he had set the lantern down on the ground and drawn his huge,
glistening revolvers. He had them ready for instant use. He was
peering about him with the stealth and quickness of a mountain
panther. Truly anything short of a ghost that attacked Texas in this
uncanny cavern might have cause to look out for trouble.

The six gazed about them at their den. They saw much to alarm them,
much to remind them of what had occurred.

Chairs were overturned, and scattered about the place. Curtains were
torn from the walls. In fact, there was every sign of a deadly
struggle. Mark pointed in silence to a stain of blood, a deep, red
splotch on the carpet. That was Rogers’ blood, thought the frightened
lads. Also, upon one of the broken chairs was a mark of blood that
seemed to indicate that the chair had been used as a weapon.
Altogether the place had about as uncanny a look as one could imagine.

Texas broke the silence at last; his voice startled every one.

“Well,” said he, “what next?”

And he gripped his revolvers with a determined air.

“We might just as well set out to hunt this cave right through from
beginning to end,” Mark answered, speaking firmly. “That’s what we
came up for, and now let’s do it. Are you ready?”

Mark’s voice was clear and unfaltering, it put some life into his
trembling companions. They answered that they were, and Mark stepped
promptly forward.

“We’ll start here, on the right,” said he, “and we’ll hunt every
single passage to its end. Bring the lanterns there!”

The command was obeyed, and the party hurried down through the cave,
Texas examining the wall as they went. About twenty feet ahead was the
first branching tunnel. Without a word the six turned and entered; the
ex-cowboy with his guns in the lead. They left the cave in darkness
and silence behind them.

The moment they had gone, the moment the light of the lamp was lost to
view, a strange and terrible thing happened. A silent figure swept
across the room!

The figure was one that would have paralyzed even the bold Texan if he
had seen it. A more horrible figure human imagination could not
picture; certainly this pen is not adequate to describe it.

It was a man, and an old man. That much was clear, even in the shadowy
darkness of the cave. He was nearly naked; a rag about his waist was
all he wore. A long, white beard half hid his face and his matted hair
nearly covered the rest. The hair was bloody, and the face was cut and
bruised as well. There was an expression of savage ferocity upon his
face as he stole across the floor. His eyes were gleaming with fury,
and the gleam shone on the blade of a long knife which the creature
grasped in one hand.

Such was the figure. It glided out into the center of the cavern; it
raised its weapon on high with a menacing gesture in the direction of
the unsuspecting lads; and then swiftly and silently crept back and
hid in the deep, dark shadows.

A moment later the nervous explorers came into view; they were soon in
the center of the room again, and the fiery eyes were glaring out at
them.

“Nothing in that place,” said Mark’s voice, cheerily. “Let us try for
the next. Forward!”

And then once more the main part of the cavern was deserted; but the
horrible old man did not reappear. He still lurked in the shadows and
watched and waited for a chance to wield his bloody knife.

The unsuspecting lads grew more and more reassured as they searched
and found nothing. Texas, with his two revolvers, in front, was a
bulwark to give courage even to Indian. They came out of the second
short hollow and hurried on down the room.

There were only two passages of any size branching off from that side.
The rest were simply irregularities in the walls――cracks and niches.
The plebes explored every one of them with the lantern’s light,
however. Finally they found themselves at the far end of the “den.”

Here there was a secret room, which requires to be described in detail
to those who have not read the other stories in this series. That
secret room had proven the death of its builders, the counterfeiters.
There was a heavy wall of masonry, and a heavy iron door with a spring
lock that could be opened from the outside only. The counterfeiters
had evidently gone in there for some purpose and failed to make fast
the door. It had swung to and locked. The skeletons of the victims had
lain in that vault for fifty years before the plebes found them.

The place was felt to be dangerous by the Seven. In fact, they had
made it a sworn rule that never were they all to enter that room at
once. Some one must always stay outside for safety. And they did not
break their rule in this case. Indian remained to guard the door.

The party had felt that it was necessary to search that fatal trap
most carefully. They thought that it would be a hiding place for any
one who inhabited the cave. Accordingly, after some little hesitation
outside, the bold Texas leaped in, lantern and revolver in hand; the
rest followed, and the trembling Joseph stood and held the heavy door.

The moment of peril had come!

Scarcely had the figures disappeared before a lurking shadow crept
stealthily down the cave. The mysterious old man was crouching low,
moving with the swiftness and silence of a tiger upon his prey. His
eyes gleamed; his white teeth shone, and the flashing knife was still
clutched in his hand.

He crept in the shadow of the wall, and there was not a sound to warn
his victims. Poor Indian did not see him, for his back was turned.
Indian was staring, watching his friends and trembling as he did so.
If Indian had only cast one of his frightened glances over his
shoulder he would have seen something to scare him, indeed. For the
wild and savage figure was creeping on.

Nearer and nearer the old man came. Swifter and swifter grew his pace,
for he saw that no one suspected his approach. He reached the end of
the cave and crouched for one moment. He heard a voice:

“Hang it! there ain’t a thing in hyar!”

The old man straightened himself up. He raised his knife on high and
extended it. Stretching out his long, hairy arm, he could almost touch
the back of his victim. One spring would do it all.

One spring!

The old man nerved himself, gathered his muscles for the leap. His
eager hand was trembling. His breath, so hot and fast, stopped for one
moment. His knife flashed in the lamplight.

And at that instant poor Indian turned and saw his deadly peril. His
eyes seemed to glaze with horror. He sprang back from the door with
one shrill scream of fright. And the maniac leaped forward with the
swiftness of a panther.

It was not at Indian he leaped.

It was at the door! He flung all his weight against it. The next
instant the heavy barrier swung to and shut with an iron clang that
echoed down the silent cave.

Trapped!




CHAPTER XIX.

INDIAN’S FIGHT FOR LIFE.


The feeling of horror which overwhelmed the helpless prisoners at that
awful moment exceeds the possibility of description. They heard their
comrade’s scream, and that told them that no accident had caused the
shutting of the door. An enemy had done it! They were lost!

But terrible though their agony was, it was nothing to that of the
unfortunate Indian. For Indian was alone in the cave with the frenzied
maniac!

The timid lad had shrunk back in alarm before the hideous apparition
with the upraised knife. Then he stood staring helplessly, trembling
like a leaf. He was unarmed; flight was impossible.

What should he do?

The old man flung his weight against the door to make sure that it was
really shut. And then he whirled furiously about and faced his one
remaining victim. Revenge and fury gleamed in his eyes as he stared.
And the knotted muscles stood out on his clinched and eager hands.
There was to be a desperate battle in that dark and silent chamber.

Perhaps if the creature had made even one sound to show that he was
human the lad might have suffered less concentrated terror. But the
man was as silent as the tomb he dwelt in. No cat could have crept
more stealthily than he did when he began to advance.

He was in no hurry to do that, no hurry to relieve the frightful
strain upon his trembling victim’s mind. He crouched low and glared
furiously, as if meanwhile calculating his next move. Then silently he
put out one foot and stole forward.

Indian’s eyes were fixed upon him, as if held by some uncanny spell.
As the man advanced Indian shrank back instinctively, his movement
almost keeping time with the maniac, though his knees trembled so that
he nearly fell to the floor.

The man crept forward again, one step; and again one step Indian
shrank back. He was so stupefied with terror, poor lad, that he could
not even think that such a method could not save him. The wall of the
cave was behind him! One step must soon prove his last.

They say that when a man is drowning he lives his life in the seconds
in which he dies. The whole past rushes up before him as if the Book
of Life was held before him. Nothing like that happened in Indian’s
case. He seemed to have but one thought; his fascinated gaze was fixed
upon his steadily-advancing foe.

The old man was a terrible sight to look at. His fierce, exultant look
of triumph made him doubly hideous, if such a thing could be. His
bright eyes flashed and his teeth gleamed, as a savage tiger’s might.
Set in the mass of clotted and tangled bloody hair it made a face that
might well cause the bravest to tremble. And certainly our timid and
helpless Joseph Smith shook with terror.

Indian had another thought to overcome him at that time of terror. Not
only his own safety, but his friends’! All rested with him! He alone
could help them. Loud sounds rang deafeningly in his ears from behind
that iron door. Cries of terror, voices pleading for help, all, all of
them shouting his name. And in front of him, between him and the door,
was the advancing maniac and his ever-gleaming knife.

A wild and desperate thought flashed over the agonized lad. One dash
for the door! He might succeed in turning the fatal knob before the
knife struck. But as Indian looked the fierce old man seemed to
comprehend his purpose. His knotted muscles settled into a firmer and
more tense position, as if he were nerving himself to be ready to
spring at the move. At the same time he crept on still faster, and
poor Indian shrank back in dread.

Indian gazed about the cavern helplessly; his glance roamed over the
floor and the walls, as if searching for something to aid him. But
what could he hope to find? And then, suddenly, as his glance returned
to the maniac, the lad sprang back with a shriek of terror.

The man had leaped forward!

Indian turned wildly as if to flee; he struck against a chair that lay
in his path and then half instinctively he seized it, and as he felt
his foe’s hot breath behind him, faced about and raised the slight
weapon on high.

The old man made a savage spring and closed with his victim. The plebe
brought the chair down with a desperate effort, all the strength that
was in his body. A moment later he uttered a gasp of joy.

He had struck the descending knife. The shattered blade was falling to
the ground!

But Indian’s triumph was for but a moment. With a hiss of rage, the
savage creature leaped forward again. Indian turned once more and fled
at the top of his speed.

An instant later he caught sight of a black tunnel looming up before
him――the passageway that led out――to safety! to friends! With
redoubled speed, the lad plunged in; he ran as never had he run before
in his life. For behind him he heard the quick, pattering footsteps of
his pursuer, and the panting breath.

It was a race for life, and it was short. Indian reached the end,
flung himself against the rock that barred the entrance. And the next
instant he felt a heavy body leap upon his back; felt two griping,
clawlike fingers close upon his gasping throat. And then down he went,
kicking, struggling, gasping, suffocating, then all grew dark before
him.

A minute or two later the maniac crept softly out from the entrance of
that black tunnel. There was yet a fiercer gleam of triumph in his
eyes and he raised his clinched hands above him as if in frenzied joy.

Then he turned and shook them menacingly at the dungeon where the rest
of his prey were lying.

What of them, meanwhile?

Nothing much, except that they were suffering agony that cannot be
described――agony of dread, suspense, uncertainty. Everything was
hidden from them. Who had shut them up? And what of Indian? His
silence surely boded no good. And would they suffocate? Or starve? Or
what on earth would happen next?

They stood and stared at one another in helpless dread; even the bold
Texan was unnerved by his awful situation. They remembered that the
Parson had said a man would suffocate in that vault in half an hour.
Was that to be their fate, then? They waited, counting the seconds in
dread.

But the fates had not, it seemed, meant them for so kindly a death as
that. The air in the room did not grow close, though they waited and
waited, wondering why it was. They realized at last. They had once dug
several small holes in the top wall of masonry to further a practical
joke of theirs. There was also a crack between the iron door and the
bottom of the cave. The combination was all that saved the five
captives from asphyxiation.

And yet that might have been better than what stared them in the face.
They had no implement to pierce the wall. The floor of the cave was
rock. The fiend who had shut them in would surely never let them out!
And what then? Starvation!

Thinking over that horrible prospect a sudden idea flashed over Mark.
It made his heart bound with sudden hope. The Parson!

“He may come in!” gasped Mark. “Heaven help us, we may be saved yet!”

If Mark had only been able to see the savage figure that was dancing
like a caged hyena swiftly and silently up and down the shadowy cave
he might have doubted his last living hope. At any rate, the crisis
was soon to come.

The prisoners were lying on the ground, with staring eyes and ears
intent, listening for the faintest sound. The dreadful pattering steps
they heard plainly and wondered what they meant. A moment later came
another sound.

“Hello! By Zeus, where are you and what are you doing?”

The footsteps ceased abruptly. It was the Parson at the entrance of
the cave!

The shouts and yells that followed his voice must have scared the
learned scholar out of his boots.

“Go back! Help! Help! Run and get somebody! Look out! Fly for your
life! There’s somebody in the cave! Help!”

These and a thousand other warnings the agonized plebes were shrieking
at the top of their lungs. Oh, so much depended on the Parson! If he,
too, were overpowered! If he, too――――

“Hurry back to camp!” roared Mark, at the top of his lungs. “Don’t
lose a moment! Fly!”

“By Zeus!” gasped the astonished Parson. “By the nine immortals, the
inhabitants of ’the many-peaked Olympus!’ By Apollo and Hercules and
the followers of Neptune!”

“Run! Run! Run for your life! Don’t you hear me?”

“But wherefore should I run? By Zeus, this is altogether the most
extraordinary condition of affairs that has ever come under my
cognizance!”

By this time the prisoners were nearly hysterical.

“Run! Run!” they kept shrieking. “Don’t come inside!”

“But, by Zeus!” gasped the Parson, who it must be said was leaning
halfway through the hole in the rock and peering into the darkness,
listening to the medley of muffled voices in consternation. “But, by
Zeus! why should I run? In the name of Pallas and her distaff, I
demand――――”

“There’s somebody in the cave! They’ve shut us in here! We’ll die! Oh,
oh! And you’ll be killed!”

“By Zeus!”

“Run! Run! Get help! Don’t come in! Do you hear?”

By this time the puzzled scholar began to comprehend. His friends, and
he, too, perhaps, were in peril. If he could have seen the horrible
figure that had been stealing upon him with the stealth and swiftness
of a panther he would have realized his danger, indeed.

“By Zeus!” he called. “I begin to perceive. Forsooth, I will
immediately hie myself――――Good heavens!”

The maniac had made the fatal leap!




CHAPTER XX.

THE PARSON’S BATTLE.


The prisoners heard the Parson’s startled cry, and they staggered back
overwhelmed. They were lost!

As for Stanard, he was having a yet more terrible experience. His
exclamation had been caused as he felt two clawlike hands seize him
and fasten to him with the grip of a vise. An instant later he felt
himself jerked into the cave as if he had been a child and flung
violently to the ground.

Now, the Parson had considerable muscle, geologically developed. Also,
as we know, he was capable of getting mad in genuine Boston tea-party
style. He was mad then, and he made a fight with every bit of strength
that was in him. He fought all the harder for realizing that the lives
of his friends were the prize of the battle.

Writhing and twisting, he managed to struggle to his feet; with one
desperate effort he flung off his assailant; and then, realizing that
every second was precious, he turned and bounded away down the cave.

The place was as black as midnight, and the cadet had not the
slightest idea what sort of a man his foe might be, or what sort of
weapons he might have. But he heard the bounding steps behind him as
he rushed toward the door, and fear lent wings to his pace.

The Parson’s mightiest efforts, however, were in vain compared with
the speed of the savage wild man. The Parson felt a hand clutching at
him, catching under his coat, dragging him back, back, and reaching
for his throat. He whirled about and struck out with all his power. A
moment later there was another hand-to-hand struggle.

Powerful though Stanard was, and strain though he did in desperation,
the horrible fact was speedily forced upon him that his sinewy foe was
too much for him. The terrible battle was so quickly over, and its
result so overwhelming, that the cadet nearly swooned as he fell. Two
crushing arms had seized him about the body in a grip that never
weakened, and half a minute later he was flat on his back with two
griping hands fixed on his throat.

Was it all up with the plebes then? They thought so, for they knew
that the deathlike silence boded no good for them. They knew from the
sounds they had heard that their friend had been attacked, and they
lay and waited in agonized dread to learn what had been the issue.
They heard not a sound to tell them, though at least a minute passed.

And then suddenly――――Great heavens! what was that?

“Hold up your hands!”

The voice was a perfect roar that filled the ghostly cavern with
echoing noises. The prisoners sprang up and stared at each other in
amazement, in delirious joy. It was a rescue! But where? And how? Who
could it be? The voice was not the Parson’s; it was not Indian’s!

Outside of the vault there was a dramatic scene at that critical
moment. The actors in it were all of them no less amazed than the
plebes inside.

The maniac had been completing his ghastly work. His knee was on his
victim’s chest, and the victim, blue in the face and gasping, was
growing weaker every instant. And suddenly, just in the nick of time,
the cavern had seemed fairly to blaze with light.

The old man sprang up and gazed about him wildly; his victim staggered
blindly to his feet, clutching helplessly at the air. And then loud
and clear had rung the order:

“Hold up your hands!”

It came from the entrance to the cave, the hole in the side of the
rock. A figure was leaning in! In one hand he clutched a blazing torch
and in the other a revolver that was pointing straight at the maniac.
It was the sheriff from Highland Falls!

The maniac’s answer was swift to come. With one wild, despairing
cry――the first sound he had made that night――he whirled about and made
a dash for the shadows. Quick as a wink the sheriff pulled the trigger
of his weapon; there was a deafening report that seemed to shake the
rocks.

But it was a moment too late, for the old man had vanished in the
passage.

With a cry of rage the sheriff leaped into the cave. At the same
moment the Parson, who had been gazing about him in consternation,
gasping and striving to recover his wits, sprang forward in pursuit.

“He’ll get out!” he shouted. “There’s an entrance out there!”

The sheriff was at his heels as they bounded through the narrow
tunnel. On, on they dashed! Rapid footsteps ahead urged them forward.
The sheriff in his haste leaped past the half-blinded cadet and
plunged on ahead to the end of the passage. There he stopped in
dismay. The entrance was in front of him. The cool breeze from the
mountain was blowing upon him. But the game had escaped, without sound
or trail to follow!

All thought of pursuit was driven from his head an instant later.

For from a dark corner in the passage came a low groan. The sheriff
thought it was his prisoner, wounded; he made a dash for the spot.
Then he started back with a cry of amazement.

Meanwhile the Parson, filled with a vague dread, had dashed down the
tunnel and picked up the torch the sheriff had dropped. He rushed back
and gazed about him. His worst fears were confirmed. It was Indian.

Stanard sprang toward him with a cry of alarm. But already the sheriff
was on his knees beside the unfortunate lad. Indian was a sight to
behold.

Evidently the maniac had taken the first thing that came to hand to
make his captive safe. This was a pile of rags that had lain in the
corner. Indian was wrapped and tied in them almost from his head to
his feet. They were stuffed into his mouth, too, and he was bound so
tight that he could not move a muscle.

The sheriff cut him loose――and the dazed lad staggered to his feet. He
remained thus barely long enough to see where he was. Then a sudden
idea flashed over him and he turned and dashed away toward the main
room of the cave. The sheriff and the Parson followed at his heels.

A sight met the eyes of the two when they reached the scene which
nearly knocked them over. Their comrades were staring in consternation
at a group of half a dozen lads who were facing them. They were
cadets! Yearlings! Rogers and his crowd!

“By the nine immortals!” gasped the astounded Parson. “By the hundred
hands of Gyas and the hundred gates of Thebes! How on earth did you
come here?”

The yearlings, on their part, were likewise amazed, too much amazed to
answer; it was the sheriff who spoke.

“We came up here to arrest you,” he said.

“Arrest us!” gasped the Parson.

“Arrest us!” echoed the others.

“Thank Heaven that you did!” Mark added. “For you saved our lives.”

“Yea, by Zeus!” added the Parson, feeling his throat.

“Bless my soul! yes!” chimed in Indian, spitting a few more rags out
of his mouth.

“Look here!” demanded the sheriff, “who was that crazy man, anyhow?”

“How should we know?” cried the plebes.

“Do you mean,” put in Rogers, in amazement, “that you didn’t set him
on us?”

That cleared up the mystery; Mark saw it all in the twinkling of an
eye.

“I understand now,” he said, turning to his friends. “When this crazy
man attacked them the other day they thought we told him to.”

“Of course!” cried Rogers. “Weren’t you in the cave?”

“I understand,” laughed Mark, not stopping to answer the question.
“And you were so mad that you didn’t tell a soul but watched and
brought the sheriff up here to catch us with him. You never did us a
better service in your life. That wild man would have murdered every
one of us!”

“And my œsophageal and laryngeal apparatus feels as if it had been
through a clothespress,” observed the Parson. “By Zeus, let us go back
to camp; I’m in no mood for hunting lunatics.”

And they started for camp before anybody could stop them.

All had had enough of the wild man and were content to let the sheriff
do the rest of the searching alone.




CHAPTER XXI.

A CAMP IN THE WOODS.


Rat-tat-a-tat! Rat-tat-a-tat!

It was the sound of a drum, echoing through Camp McPherson and
proceeding from a small-sized drum orderly at the head of the company
street; a stern and handsome lieutenant was standing nearby, and the
cadets were pouring out of their tents and forming outside.

It was the forenoon of a bright August day and the white tents were
shining in the sunlight, except for where they were darkened by the
shadows of the waving trees.

The sound of the drum ceased abruptly; a moment later the officer
strode down the line and faced it. Then came the order:

“Attention, company!”

A silent, motionless line of statues the cadets became on the instant.
And then, in obedience to further orders, they wheeled and marched by
fours down the company street.

Those who are familiar with the appearance of the battalion under
ordinary circumstances would have gazed in some perplexity at the
lines that morning. They were very differently arrayed, for some
reason.

In the first place as to the camp they left. Usually when the corps
marched out to the parade ground they left their tents in
spic-and-span order, nothing short of perfection itself. Now the tents
were empty; there was nothing but the bare “wall tent” standing, and
not a thing of any sort whatever inside of it. In fact, the camp was a
“deserted village.”

More strikingly true was this of the “guard tent.” The guard tent had
never before been left alone all summer. No matter where the battalion
marched or what they did, the members of the guard always had stayed
by that tent, and those who were on duty, the sentries, never ceased
to pace their beats. But now the sentries had joined the rest of the
guard and fallen in behind the cadets, marching swiftly out of camp.

That was a very unusual procedure; the appearance of the cadets was
very unusual, too. Their handsome dress uniforms were nowhere to be
seen. They wore their fatigue dress, even the officers; the plebes, or
fourth classmen, had their close-fitting shell jackets and gray
trousers. Each cadet, be he plebe or otherwise, had a heavy knapsack
strapped to his shoulder, and also his share of a “shelter tent.” Thus
equipped and with glistening rifles in hand, they were turning their
backs upon the silent camp.

It seemed as if all the visitors on the post had turned out to see
them march. They crossed Trophy Point and started up the road to the
north, between two lines of cheering spectators, waving handkerchiefs
and calling, “Good-by!” A few minutes later the last line had swung
around the turn and the post was silent and deserted.

Where were they going, you ask?

There is no very great mystery about it; the corps was on its way to
Camp Lookout, in the mountains. That move is one of the events of the
summer season to the cadets, for then they play “real soldier.” They
go into “rough camp,” or bivouac, and altogether have quite an
exciting time indeed.

That morning they had visited the trunk room and stowed away all their
belongings――dress coats and hats, white trousers and so on. And now
they were marching with nothing but knapsack and tent into the woods.
The band was in front, and behind a big mule wagon with camp utensils.
Getting through the mountain forest in that order was quite an
interesting task indeed.

One may readily imagine that the novices who had never taken part in
such an adventure as this before were head over heels with excitement,
figuratively speaking. One might look forward to any amount of fun
during the ten days that were to follow. Our friends, “the Banded
Seven,” were fairly ready to dance for joy.

When the battalion once got fairly into the woods it was found that a
regular order could not be maintained. The band gave up playing then
and a loose order of marching was adopted. That enabled the Seven to
get together in the rear, where they fell to discussing the prospect.

“There’s one good thing,” Mark said, after they had been wondering if
there was any prospect of meeting bears or wildcats by way of
excitement, “we’ll have a great deal more liberty. There won’t be any
delinquency book.”

“Good!” growled Texas. “Who told you so?”

“Everybody,” responded Mark. “We’re going to live in army style, and
they don’t have anything like that in the army.”

Texas chuckled gleefully at the information.

“Make believe I ain’t glad!” said he. “We won’t have that air ole
yearlin’ corporal a-comin’ in to boss us an’ raise a rumpus ’cause
there’s dust on a feller’s lookin’-glass and freckles on his nose.
Doggone them yearlin’s’ boots!”

“And, b’gee,” put in Dewey, the _reconteur_ of the party, “B’gee,
we’ll have army rations――hard-tack and water for ten days.”

“Bless my soul!” gasped the fat and rosy Indian. No more terrible news
on earth could have been given to Indian than that. “Bless my soul!”
he repeated. “What on earth shall I do? Hard-tack and water!”

“It is terrible,” observed Dewey, solemnly. “Why, they gave me better
than that when I was in prison last time.”

Indian gazed at his friend in alarm. The others spoiled the joke,
however, by laughing.

“You’re only fooling,” the fat boy observed, wisely. “I think that’s
mean. Anyhow, I’m sure I shall starve.”

“It won’t be quite as bad as it’s painted,” Mark laughed, by way of
consolation. “They’ll probably give us something better than tack.”

“And if they don’t, b’gee,” put in Dewey, “we can bite our finger
nails.”

The plebes had plenty of time to do their joking that morning, for
there was a long, dreary walk ahead of them. In fact, they marched
steadily for between three and four hours, with but few halts for
rest. One may readily believe that the cadets were glad when it was
over.

The young soldiers got so tired that toward the end they relapsed into
silence of their own accord. Nobody said anything more, except the
learned Parson and the lively Dewey, both of whom saw an excellent
opportunity to talk all they wanted to without interruption. When
Dewey once got started at his jokes a whole express train full of air
brakes couldn’t have stopped him. He explained the matter to his meek
and long-suffering companions by singing the verse from “Alice in
Wonderland:”

  “‘In my youth,’ said his father, ‘I took to the law,
      And argued each case with my wife.
    And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,
      Has lasted the rest of my life.’”

In Dewey’s case, at any rate, it lasted until the welcome order was
given:

“Company, halt!”

Which meant that the battalion was at last upon the scene of their
home for the next ten days, “Camp Lookout,” twelve miles back in the
mountains from West Point.

Poor Indian, who was exhausted and breathless by this time, expected
that he would get a chance to sit down and rest. But Indian was
destined to learn that that is not the army way of doing business; he
was obliged to content himself with a few longing glances at the
inviting scene about him. Then he got to work.

The first order was to stack arms; the second to unsling knapsacks and
deposit them near the guns. After that the corps pitched in to unload
the mule wagon.

Under the direction of the officers, the plebes set to work to lay out
the camp site. The small shelter tents were then pitched. They are
known as “A tents,” from their shape. A person who is curious for a
more exact description of them may care to peruse that of the solemn
Parson, who assured his friends that each was “a regular prism or
parallelopipedon reclining upon one of its rectilinear facets and
having for its base an equilateral triangle, whose vertical angle
subtends an arc of forty-five degrees.”

While the Parson was saying this most of the tents had been spread.
The next duty was to dig a trench around each one and then to cut
boughs upon which to sleep.

By dinner time most of the work was done. The cadets were then on the
verge of starvation.

The army “rations” which were issued proved to contain more than
hard-tack, after all, much to the joy of our friend Indian’s soul.
There was a generous allowance of fresh meat, and three or four
camp-fires already blazing by which to cook it. Everybody pitched in
with avidity, and soon there was a lively scene indeed.

As usual, the Parson, who had, as we know, “taken all knowledge to be
his province,” was right on deck with information upon the art and
science of culinary practice. The Parson gave the history of cookery
from the time Abel roasted his sheep to the twentieth century. Very
soon he wished he had kept quiet, for several mischievous yearlings
promptly suggested that since he knew so much about it would he “be so
kind” as to do their cooking for them? And so the unfortunate Parson
was soon standing with a frying pan in each hand (neither containing
his own dinner) and with a facetious youngster urging him to hold a
third one in his teeth.

Such is a picture of perhaps the most enjoyable day in all the season
of summer camp――the beginning of the bivouac in the mountains. Whether
the practice is maintained at West Point to the present day the writer
is not certain; but in Mark’s day (and his own) it was a regular and
much enjoyed custom.

The site of the camp is between two small lakes, Long Pond and Round
Pond. Drinking water is obtained from one; the other the cadets use to
bathe in. During the ten days of the stay they live in army style and
when not on duty have the freedom of the woods. They learn guard duty,
cook their own rations, and sleep on the ground. Incidentally it may
be mentioned that the plebes who during the whole summer long had been
compelled to march with hands at their sides and palms to the front
whenever they appeared in public were now for the first time allowed
to walk as ordinary mortals and “slap at the mosquitoes that bite
them.” One may imagine that this is a privilege that is profoundly
appreciated.

While we have been talking about them the cadets had gotten to work at
their midday meal. Indian had started long ago, for he was so hungry
that he had scarcely waited for the meat to cook. It was “rarer than a
missionary,” as Dewey observed, a remark so disgusting that the fat
boy vowed he wouldn’t eat another mouthful, a resolution to which he
bravely stuck――having licked the platter clean before he made it.

Dinner was eaten and everything cleaned up. Then the guard detail for
the day was assigned to duty, and after that the cadets scattered to
amuse themselves as they pleased. Our friends, the Seven, went off
straightway to find the swimming place.

For some reason not essential to the story, “B’gee” Dewey lingered
behind at the camp. Some half an hour later he rejoined the party and
they noticed to their surprise that he was out of breath and excited.
His eyes were dancing merrily. Dewey was the delighted bearer of the
information concerning the “banquet.”

“B’gee!” he gasped. “Fellows――the greatest――b’gee!――the greatest――news
of the century! Hooray!”

His friends gazed at him in surprise and curiosity.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Mark.

“Yes, what’s up?” chimed in Texas, his fingers beginning to twitch at
the prospects of “fun.” “Anybody to lick? Any fights? Any――――”

“It’s Bull Harris!” panted Dewey. “B’gee!――it’s the chance of a
lifetime!”

“Whoop!” roared Texas. “Out with it. Doggone his boots, I’m jes’ a
layin’ fo’ another whack at that air ole yearlin’. Whoop!”

If it had been Parson Stanard who had gotten hold of that news which
Dewey was breathlessly trying to tell, he would have kept the crowd
upon the tenderhooks of expectation while he led up to the subject
with sequipedalian perorations and scholarly circumlocutions. But the
true story-teller’s instinct was not in Dewey; he was anxious to be
“out with it.” The secret was too good a one to keep and the only
reason he delayed for even a moment was that he was trying to regain
his vocal powers, a process which was very much impeded by the number
of “b’gees!” he felt duty bound to work in during the time.

“B’gee!” he gasped, “it’s the greatest thing out. Bull’s going to give
a party.”

“A party!”

“Yes――b’gee! It seems somebody’s sent him a box of eatables from home.
He got it on the sly and none of the authorities know anything about
it. Reminds me of a story I once heard, about――――”

“Go on! Go on!”

“Oh, yes, I forgot. Well, it seems he’s invited half a dozen of the
yearlings――his gang, you know――to help him eat ’em, b’gee.”

Indian smacked his lips and looked hungry.

“Whereabouts?” inquired Mark. “And when?”

“They’re going to steal out into the woods to-night,” continued Dewey.
“One of the drum orderlies is going to have the box there for them.”

“How did you learn all this?”

“I heard ’em talking about it. And, b’gee, they’re expecting to have a
high old time. What I want to know is, b’gee, are we going to allow
it. I――――”

“Wow, no!” roared Texas, indignantly. “The idea of their daring it. I
say, we must bust up the hull bizness!”

“Yea, by Zeus!” echoed the Parson.

Mark cleared his throat at this stage of the proceedings and began
solemnly:

“Fellow citizens,” he said, “this matter has gone too far.”

“What matter?”

“The presumption of these yearlings! Such a thing has never been known
in the history of West Point before, and I move, gentlemen, that we do
not tolerate it for a moment. The very idea! Has it not been our
special and exclusive privilege, disputed by no one, to leave camp at
night whenever we want to? And are we to surrender our immortal rights
as plebes to a handful of impudent yearlings? Gentlemen, I say no!
Why, pretty soon they’ll be objecting to our hazing them! Think of
their daring to talk of leaving camp! And without our permission at
that. And of their daring to get up a feast without offering us any!
Why, such outrages are enough, as my friend, the Parson, here has so
often said, to make the very dogs of Rome cry out in rage and mutiny.”

“Yea, by Zeus!” said the Parson.

“Bless my soul!” gasped Indian, who didn’t exactly perceive the humor
of the matter.

Indian couldn’t see but that the yearlings, from time immemorial the
hazers of the plebe, had a perfect right to hold a feast if they
wanted to.

However, he appeared to be the only dissenting member of the party;
the rest were hilarious over Mark’s speech, and the minority report
“cut no ice.”

“Gentlemen,” said Mark, still laughing; and then in imitation of the
Parson, he added: “Fellow citizens of Athens, I move that we swear a
solemn oath upon this sacred spot where so many of our noble
ancestors――er――――”

“Went in swimming,” suggested Dewey.

“Er――yes,” said Mark, “that’ll do, won’t it, Parson? A solemn oath, I
say, that, in Texas’ vulgar parlance, we bust up that banquet
to-night. What do you say? All in favor――――”

“Amendment, b’gee!” chuckled Dewey. “I move, Mr. Chairman, that we say
eat it instead.”

“Bless my soul!” chimed in Indian, suddenly taking an interest in the
proceedings. “Bless my soul, yes! That’s what I say, too. Let’s eat
it!”

“Amendment accepted,” laughed Mark. “All in favor, please say ay!”

And the roar that resulted shook the woods. It boded ill for Bull
Harris and his yearling crowd.




CHAPTER XXII.

A DESPERATE CONSPIRACY.


As Dewey said, this was a rare chance. Bull Harris was going to act as
host and commissary at one of those surreptitious feasts so common
among the cadets. Now for plebes to do such a thing had always been
against “the law,” consequently the yearlings had no right to do it in
this case. You may not see the argument very clearly, but it was plain
as day to the Seven. You see, they had conquered the yearlings and put
the yearlings just where the plebes had always been. _Ergo_――that
feast must be stopped.

The party forgot all about swimming and speedily dissolved itself into
a committee of ways and means to consider the problem. The suggestions
were various and interesting, as usual.

First on deck was the worthy cowboy. Any one could have guessed in a
moment what his advice would be. He wanted to sail right in “an’
wallop ’em.”

“Look a yere, fellows,” he said, “I ain’t had a first-class rousin’
ole scrap fo’ weeks. Now, you know I kain’t stand a thing like that
very long. I’m agoin’ to have to lick somebody or bust. I say we jes’
sail right in an’ drive ’em off.”

“Betcher life, b’gee!” observed Dewey.

“Objection, Mr. Chairman,” said the Parson, gravely. “There’ll be a
good many of them, and――――”

“The mo’ the merrier!” cried Texas. “I want to fight.”

“Bless my soul!” gasped Indian’s little voice. “I don’t say to. We’ll
spoil all the goodies. I say let’s scare ’em off and eat the supper.”

That was the first time the timid fat boy had ever been known to offer
a suggestion in council. But this was a very grave matter for Indian;
the picture of so many “goodies” being trampled upon by the ruthless
combatants was indeed a terrible one. And so Indian ventured a word
for peace, even in opposition to that dreadful Texan.

It happened curiously enough, however, that Indian’s suggestion was
the one adopted, after all. A little sober discussion soon brought out
the fact that Dewey hadn’t the least idea how many yearlings Bull
meant to have, and while on paper several plebes might very easily
drive off a dozen or two yearlings, it was quite another matter when
one came to the actual combat. Therefore, in spite of all the Texan’s
indignant protestations, it was agreed that strategy alone was to win
this battle. Or, in other words――――

“We’ve got to scare ’em off, b’gee!”

But that, too, had its difficulties when you came to carry it out.

The first suggestion was that somebody dress up as a ghost and scare
the yearlings away. It seemed as if Providence had lent its sanction
to this idea, for the Parson was truly “just built” to play the ghost.
In fact, so Dewey said, he was such a fine specimen that it was a
miracle that Beelzebub hadn’t appeared and carried him off to Hades
before this; the only possible supposition was that he was waiting for
the Parson to train down a little for the journey.

All this was irrelevant, and irreverent besides. The ghost idea was
squelched by Mark’s observation that the yearlings would probably get
on to the scheme and go for the ghost; the Parson therefore declined
to serve. Dewey suggested that a few horrible groans from the dark
woods might do the work.

It was argued, however, that they’d hardly run away for that; Indian
vowed that it would take more than a groan to scare him away from a
supper, and the Seven could not but admit that what wouldn’t scare
Indian would surely not do for the yearlings.

Quite a long time was spent in fruitless discussion. It is not
necessary to repeat it all here. Suffice it to say that nobody thought
of anything that seemed just quite right to do for so important an
occasion, and that the unhappy plebes were still discussing the matter
when they strolled back toward camp that afternoon.

It lacked then still half an hour before the drum sounded the call to
quarters, and so there was no use entering the enclosure. The party
sat down on a fallen log nearby, and lazily watched the doings of the
plebes who were on guard and the corporal who was “testing” them.
Meanwhile they still discussed the all-important problem.

It did seem then as if they’d have to fall back on the original Texas
proposition――a desperate charge, a hand-to-hand conflict, and “to the
victor belong the spoils.”

“But it’ll be all spoiled!” wailed Indian.

Yet, what else was there? The Parson had left all his chemicals
behind, and so he could not devise any “pyrotechnic effects” to
frighten them. As to bribing the drum orderly, that was impossible,
because the yearlings would “make it hot for him,” if he turned
traitor. And that was about all that had so far been suggested.

While they were discussing it one of the tactical officers came out of
his tent and strode past the sentry. He came toward the plebes, and
they stopped talking, arose and saluted him as he passed. A moment or
two later he had gone into the woods and they sat down again.

That may seem to be a very trivial incident; the reader is probably
wondering why on earth it is mentioned here at all. Great happenings,
however, depend very often on the most trivial circumstances.

It was Erasmus who observed that if Cleopatra’s nose had been just a
little shorter the whole history of the globe would have been changed.
You may dispute that if you choose, but at any rate, it is most
certain that a very desperate and daring scheme was destined to grow
out of this incident――the passing of the blue-uniformed lieutenant.

The Seven were silent for a few moments after having resumed their
comfortable attitudes. Then Texas spoke.

“Do you know, Mark,” said he, “somehow or other when I look at that
’tac’ I always think of you.”

“Why’s that?” laughed Mark.

“You look so much like him,” was the answer.

“I shall be glad,” Mark responded, “if I can always make as soldierly
an appearance as Lieutenant Allen does.”

“Well, you look just like him,” said Texas. “Your figures are alike
and your faces, too, a little.”

After that there was another silence. But it was the silence before
the storm; such a silence as you might suppose would occur when a man
was about to drop a match in a keg of powder. And then suddenly Mark
leaped up with a cry of surprise, of delight, of――what shall I say to
describe it?

“By jingo!” he cried, “I’ve got it!”

The rest――stupid idiots!――stared at him in amazement. “Got it!” echoed
Texas. “Got what?”

Mark was too busy dancing about with delight to answer. But suddenly
he stopped and stared at his friends.

“Do you mean,” he demanded. “Do you fellows mean that you actually
haven’t guessed it? What!”

The crowd only stared at him in all the more perplexity then.

“I haven’t, for one,” said Texas.

Mark gazed at him quizzically.

“I must say you’re very dull,” he said. “I expected better things from
my old chum. See here, I’ll explain it for you.”

Mark sat down again, after executing another delighted fandango. Then
he sat and eyed his companions.

“I’ll help you to guess what I mean,” said he, smiling. “’Listen, my
children, and you shall hear.’ Pay attention, and no peeking on your
neighbor’s slates.”

“Go on!” growled Texas, who was somewhat piqued at not having seen the
mysterious joke. “Go on an’ quit yo’ foolin’.”

“All right,” laughed Mark, “You said I looked like Allen, didn’t you?”

“Yes; what about it?”

“I’d look a good deal more like him if I had his uniform on, wouldn’t
I?”

“Yes; but――――”

“And more yet if it was at night?”

“Of course. But what――――”

“Oh, pshaw!” cried Mark. “How much longer must I wait? Do you want me
to tell you the whole thing? Look here! Suppose you were off in the
woods, eating a supper, beyond limits at night, and should meet with a
blue-uniformed officer who looked like the dreaded Lieutenant
Allen――would you run?”

The six “idiots” saw it then!

With one whoop of joy that fairly shook the camp they had leaped to
their feet and made a spring for Mark; after that you would have
called them idiots no longer, but ordinary maniacs. For they were
dancing about, laughing, hurrahing, slapping each other on the back,
rolling on the ground for joy. They had the plot at last! They were
going to masquerade as officers and fool those yearlings! There never
were seven such hysterical plebes since the founding of Rome, when
“plebes” first began to exist.

They were incoherent and breathless for at least ten minutes after
Mark’s revelation. At last, however, Texas managed to gasp:

“Where are you going to get a blue uniform――like Allen’s?”

And Mark, equally out of breath, managed to answer:

“I’ll take his!”

“His! For Heaven’s sake, how?”

“Run off with it! He never uses it at night!”

And then there were more hysterics.




CHAPTER XXIII.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S FEAST.


“Eleven o’clock and all’s we-ell!”

It was the call of the sentry ringing through the silent woods and
still more silent camp.

The sentries that night were marching under very different
circumstances from the usual ones. No broad paths and moonlit,
tree-shaded avenues; no gas lamps and spacious tents; but, instead of
these, a small clearing, with the smallest of small shelter tents lit
only by smoldering camp-fires, and beyond these a dark wood with
sentry beats that ran uphill and down, over fallen logs and brush.
Guard duty in the woods was a far less pleasant business than at Camp
McPherson.

It was easier, too, for a person to pass one of the sentries here, for
the latter could not see from one end of his beat to the other, small
though it was; “the orders of the night” had accordingly called for
extra watchfulness.

However, as we know, cadets have ways of getting the better of
official orders. A certain merry crowd of yearlings who were just then
stealing silently about the grounds were not the least alarmed for
fear the sentry might challenge them; they had it all arranged
beforehand and they vanished silently into the woods without their
comrade on duty even “seeing” them. The reader scarcely needs to be
told that it was Bull and his friends.

There were fully a dozen in that party. A very few moments later
another party, seven in number, were creeping about the camp just as
the yearlings had. They did one thing, however, which the yearlings
did not do. That one thing we must notice before we follow them into
the woods.

Two of them crept down the main “street” of the camp to one tent, a
rather large tent at its head. The two were trembling quite a little
as they went. Why shouldn’t they tremble?

“I guess this is the most daring thing we ever did,” one of them
whispered. “If we should be found out there’d be a war for fair. ’Sh!
I wonder if he’s asleep.”

It seemed that he was――for as the two paused and listened at the door
of the tent they could distinctly hear a loud breathing. Considering
the rank of the personage it would scarcely seem right to call it a
“snore.”

However that may be, let us go on with the story. It is not the
writer’s intention to have anybody shivering in suspense at this
critical moment, dreading lest the hero’s wild prank should arouse the
sleeping ogre.

Suffice it to say that after a brief space of time devoted to
whispering and hesitating, one of the two figures knelt down and
gently, very gently, slid one arm in under the canvas. Then gently,
still more gently, he drew it out again. No disciple of the genuine
Fagin himself could have done the act more silently, or gotten up and
stolen away more swiftly than did those conspirators two.

Half a minute later the Seven were flying past the sentry beat and
into the woods beyond. The sentry did not “see” this party either;
he’d have jumped with surprise if he had. For while six of the party
wore the regular plebe gray one of them was clad in a uniform that was
blue!

We must leave them now to the guidance of the merry “B’gee!” and
hasten on ahead to the scene of that long-delayed “Bull Harris’
banquet.” The conversation of the plebes would not interest us anyway,
for all they did was to chuckle in wild delight over the “success” of
their plot; if those lads could only have foreseen the result of their
foolhardy act it is safe to say that they would have been considerably
less hilarious and considerably more alarmed.

The yearlings were no less merry. By this time they had reached their
destination, which was only a very short ways off from the camp――just
far enough for safety. Here they found the drum orderly awaiting them.
That youngster was seated on a box, mounting guard; the contents of
the box we are sure the reader will agree were enough to justify the
cadets in all their happiness.

The first thing to do was to light a camp-fire; everybody pitched in
to help gather wood under the direction of the officious Bull, who, as
host, naturally felt duty bound to boss everything. Pretty soon there
was a merry blaze that lit up the little open space in the woods and
the jolly party of lads who were gathered within it. The latter had by
this time seated themselves about on the ground, chatting and joking,
while they watched the all-important operation of opening that box.

In order to appreciate what follows it may be well for us to take a
glance at the faces of that crowd and see how many we can recognize.

It is safe to hazard a guess in the first place that a crowd whom Bull
selected to aid him in his festivities would not include very many of
the better element of the class. Bull was not very popular among such,
as anybody might guess by a glance at his decidedly coarse features;
his particular cronies, who had aided him in all his efforts to
torment Mark, were a very unpleasant crowd of persons indeed.

They were all there to-night. There was the brutal Gus Murray, the
sallow and sarcastic Vance, the amiable Baby Edwards, and Rogers, the
big chap whom Mark had made a fool of a few days previously. In fact,
there was scarcely one member of that crowd of twelve who had not some
grudge against our plebe friends. And so it is not to be wondered that
the conversation turned upon them before very long.

By this time the cover had been pried off of that box, and Bull
proceeded to spread out its contents, amid general interest and
excitement. The crowd moved up closer instinctively and conversation
was unanimously suspended.

Bull’s parents, or whoever had arranged the contents of that highly
interesting package, had evidently “known their business.” They had
wasted no room on ham sandwiches and such nuisances, which nobody
wanted, but had filled the case to the brim with every kind of pie and
cake that a hungry cadet could wish for. The _pièce de résistance_, a
huge fruit cake, which came out last, would most certainly have called
for three cheers if it had not been for the proximity of the camp. As
it was, there was a murmur of pleasure; and then Bull gave the signal.

“Pitch in,” said he, “and help yourselves.”

Nobody waited to be asked twice. Every one in the crowd soon had a
handful of something, and the conversation, which had been hushed in
mock suspense, broke forth merrily again. The momentous banquet had
started at last; people who have been to picnics and similar affairs
may imagine how the cadets were enjoying it.

“Where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise.” It was perhaps just
as well that the cadets were ignorant in this case――ignorant of
certain malignant villains who were wandering about the vicinity,
bent, like Sir Hudibras, on interrupting all the fun they saw.

For the seven wicked plebes were flitting about in the woods by this
time, only waiting for a favorable opportunity to spring their _coup
d’état_.

They didn’t mean to wait very long. Any one could see that after the
yearlings were once let loose at the provisions it was the matter of
only five or ten minutes before there would be nothing at all in
sight. But something happened just then which made Mark very loath to
interrupt the proceedings.

That something has already been hinted at before; it was simply that
the conversation had turned upon Mark and his friends. And it did seem
to be too good a chance to waste, to hide in the woods and listen to a
dozen of your enemies discuss you.

The subject was brought up by way of our old acquaintance, Rogers.
Rogers had had a dispute with Mallory a day or two ago which he had
never yet told his classmates about; they urged him to, then, but he
only shook his head. That, however, turned the talk to the Banded
Seven. Parson Stanard had the pleasure of hearing himself referred to
as a crane, a goggle-eyed pile of bones, etc. Baby Edwards cheerfully
remarked that he thought Texas was a bluff from start to finish, and
that he――Baby――could lick him in a minute. It took all six of the
plebes to choke Texas and prevent his giving a yell of indignation at
that insult.

Cheerful though these remarks were, nobody was touched up in quite
such style as Mark, the chief offender. The whole twelve vied with
each other in thinking up epithets to apply to him; in this Bull
Harris, the host, set the lead.

“I’ll tell you what, fellows,” he said, after Gus Murray, amid great
applause, had announced his intention of thrashing Mark in a few days.
“I tell you, we’ve got to subdue that fellow some way. He’s succeeded
in spoiling our fun all this summer. He’s ruined every bit of hazing!
And if we don’t get rid of him somehow he’ll keep up his tricks
through the winter. There’s nothing we attempt that he don’t spoil.
It’s a wonder that he hasn’t found out about this affair to-night and
tried to drive us off――――”

“I wish he would!” put in Merry Vance. “By Heaven! he’d regret it!”

“You bet he would!” roared the crowd. “There are enough of us here to
handle him,” Bull went on. “That’s the reason he don’t dare try it,
for he’s nothing but a blamed coward. He wouldn’t dare show his
face――――”

It was just here that Bull Harris stopped. Do you ask why?

Perhaps you remember the story of Belshazzar’s feast and the
proverbial handwriting on the wall. There is a very famous painting of
that scene, which it will do no harm to describe. It represents the
banquet hall of the king; there is a magnificent room and a table
loaded with every conceivable delicacy. A rollicking, feasting crowd
is grouped about it, with the king in state at the head. And on the
wall behind them is the dreadful hand and its warning of destruction.

The king is like a man who has seen a ghost. His trembling finger is
pointing, and his eyes are glazed with terror. And that is the best
description that can be said of the boastful yearling, Bull Harris, at
that moment.

The laughter had ceased in one instant, as if every man in the crowd
had been struck dead. They were all of them staring, panting with
horror no less than Bull’s. Standing in the shadow of the trees was a
figure that seemed fairly to have paralyzed them.

In the darkness they could not see his face, but his uniform and
figure they knew. It was Lieutenant Allen! And in his hand he held a
notebook, upon which he was calmly jotting down the names of the
cadets he saw!

It was all over a moment or two later. The horrified lads realized
their ruin, and one idea flashed over every one of them. Perhaps he
hasn’t recognized me yet! And then as one man they leaped to their
feet and made a dash for the darkness of the trees. Their feast they
left half finished behind them.

And a minute later six chuckling plebes came forth and joined “Allen”
in capturing the spoils.




CHAPTER XXIV.

A TERRIBLE REVENGE.


You could not imagine seven more altogether delighted lads if you
tried for a month. Once they had made sure that the enemy was gone for
certain they swiftly went wild. Their plot had worked so perfectly!
And so suddenly and completely! They danced about and hugged each
other and yelled for joy――all of them but the frugal Indian, who was
busily stowing away his double share of the provisions.

“We’re perfectly safe,” laughed Mark. “For the yearlings won’t dare
return.”

That proved to be a correct guess. Bull and his crowd were so
horror-struck and subdued by that terrible ending of their fun that
they stole back to camp like so many whipped curs.

And meanwhile just make believe those wicked plebes didn’t go for the
victuals. There was enough left for twice as many, even if they had
all been like Indian. Even the Parson, who usually didn’t believe in
“irrational gourmandizing,” forgot his dignity so far as to take a
pumpkin pie in one hand and a piece of fruit cake in the other and try
to eat them both at once, which he found almost as difficult as the
impossible feat of drinking two glasses of water together.

For the next five minutes everybody devoted himself strictly to the
duty of eating, excepting when some one of them would find it
necessary to sink back on the ground and explode in laughter. In that
condition we must leave them and return to camp, where interesting
things were happening, things which were destined to reproduce on that
ill-fated picnic ground another exact reproduction of “Belshazzar’s
Feast.”

Bull Harris and his companions stole into camp about as disgusted and
frightened a lot of yearlings as ever were anywhere. They hurried past
the sentry without even stopping to signal him. For what did they care
now? They were expelled, all of them! They stood by the camp-fire for
a few moments disconsolately, whispering together. And then they
scattered to their tents and proceeded to pass the long, weary night
as best they could.

Each of the tents in “Camp Lookout” held two occupants. Bull and Gus
Murray tented together, and they went in, sat down and then stared at
each other lugubriously. Neither of them said anything for some time,
for neither had anything to say.

“How do you suppose Allen found it out?” whispered Bull, at last.

“I don’t know,” growled the other. “He saw us go out, I guess. Or,
perhaps somebody told him; Mallory for instance.”

“It would be just like him,” returned Bull, though he knew that Murray
didn’t mean that remark seriously. “Confound it, Gus, do you know what
makes me dread to get fired for this is that idea of having that
confounded plebe gloat over it! Plague take the luck! I could――――”

Bull stopped just then; there was a startling interruption. Merry
Vance’s sallow face peered into the tent, and Merry was panting with
excitement.

“What’s the matter?” cried Bull.

“Allen――Allen, man!”

“What about him?”

“He’s in his tent!”

“What!”

“Yes! I heard him. I went and looked in! He was asleep! It wasn’t
Allen that we saw!”

“For Heaven’s sake!” gasped Bull. “What do you mean?”

“I tell you that it wasn’t Allen! What are you gaping at me that way
for? Allen hasn’t been out of his tent. The sentry told me so!”

Bull and Gus Murray were thunderstruck. If the world had been coming
to an end just then they couldn’t have been more confounded.

“Not out of his tent!” they gasped. “Then, in Heaven’s name! who did
we see?”

“I don’t know; but it wasn’t Allen.”

“But he had his uniform, man! And none of the other tacs have come up
from the Point yet! He’s the only one here; it must have been Allen!”

Vance was just as much puzzled as his friends. But suddenly a ray of
light struck him.

He leaped up with a furious imprecation.

“What is it?” cried Bull.

But Vance was gone. He had dashed away in the darkness, through the
camp. A second later he bounded up back, and wild with rage.

“It’s Mallory!” he exclaimed.

“Mallory!”

“Yes. He’s not in his tent! He’s stolen Allen’s clothes and fooled
us!”

And as Bull leaped to his feet, his face was livid with passion. He
shook his fist at the sky.

“By Heaven!” he cried, “he’ll pay for this if I have to kill him. Call
the fellows! Quick! quick!”

       *     *     *     *     *     *     *

We must go back to the scene of the feast. The incidents narrated
above had taken but a very few minutes indeed, and the feast was still
under way. In fact, the Parson had scarcely finished his pumpkin pie
and Indian had eaten but three of them. So you may guess that the
banquet had barely gotten started.

Mark got up to propose a toast. They had no wine, but fruit cake was
just as good for toast, so Dewey said. Mark was as unsteady on his
legs as if he had been drinking; it was all from too much laughing,
however.

“Fellow citizens!” he began. “Fellow citizens of Athens, we have
assembled upon this most auspicious occasion to consummate one of the
most glorious deeds ever signed by a notary public. Fellow
citizens――――”

“Hooray!” roared Texas.

“Not so loud,” laughed Mark, “or you’ll have the camp awake. And if
that should happen while I’ve got Allen’s uniform, there’d be a
terrible――――”

And then Mark stopped just as Bull Harris had done! He started back in
just as much horror, too. His companions leaped to their feet in
consternation. It was the second handwriting on the wall!

The cause of the alarm came in the form of a noise. It came from Camp
Lookout.

“Help help!”

And a moment later a perfect roar that shook the woods, seeming to
come from a hundred throats, broke on the ears of the horrified Seven.

It was the yearlings’ revenge!

Mark sprang forward with a cry.

“They’ve alarmed the camp!” he shouted. “The camp! We’ll be
discovered! We’re lost! Good Heaven!”

It was a terrible moment. The lads gazed at each other in dismay. They
were paralyzed. There would be an inspection in camp! And they would
be missed! And Allen’s uniform!

A second later Mark whirled about and dashed into the woods.

“Come on!” he cried. “Come on! We may not be too late!”

It was a faint hope, but they tried it. Over the ground they flew like
mad, stumbling, plunging. Shouts and yells still came from the camp to
urge them to yet greater haste. And then suddenly they burst out of
the woods and Camp Lookout lay before them.

There was visible then a scene so utterly extraordinary and
incomprehensible that it taxes the pen to describe it. Surely never at
a military encampment had such a sight been beheld before. Terrified
though those seven plebes were they could scarcely keep from roaring
as they saw it.

The yells――which, of course, had come from Bull and his crowd――had
created the wildest imaginable confusion. Cadets had leaped up and
rushed out of their tents. And Lieutenant Allen had sprung to his feet
and began groping about in the darkness for his clothing. Naturally he
had not found it, and hence the extraordinary scene.

His cries of rage――for when he realized that some one had had the
audacity to steal his clothing and then awaken the camp, you may guess
how he raved――had brought cadets and officers to his tent a-flying, in
their underclothes. And there they stood huddled together in
amazement, while the furious officer, torn between a desire to rush
out and murder some one and a sense of dignity which forbade him to
appear before his cadets as he was, raged in his tent like the
wrathful Achilles and howled for vengeance.

Meanwhile what were the plebes doing? Can you guess? The sentries had
all deserted their posts and rushed to see what was the matter with
the “tac.” Those seven mischievous plebes dashed into camp with the
speed of a whirlwind, plunged into their tents and flung off their
clothes.

And now there remained only the telltale uniform, the uniform which
had caused delay and saved them so far.

Mark’s tent lay right behind the officers, and suddenly when no one
was looking a gun was poked out. On the end of the gun a bayonet! On
the end of the bayonet a uniform! And it was quietly tossed over
against the back of the tent.

A moment later some one saw it.

“It’s poking under the canvas of your tent!” was the cry.

And Allen, red with rage and chagrin, yanked up the cloth and pulled
in his mislaid clothing.

A minute later the long roll sounded. The cadet adjutant called off
the names and faced and saluted as the unfortunate tac appeared.

“All present, sir,” said he.

The Banded Seven were safe once more, but it had been a close shave.




CHAPTER XXV.

IN CAMP LOOKOUT.


“By jingo! it certainly was the closest shave that I ever had! I hope
I’ll never get another such scare.”

The speaker was Mark.

It was early in the morning, and the plebes were gathered about Mark’s
tent, awaiting the signal for inspection. There were the members of
the famous Banded Seven.

That crowd, so it appeared, was not the only crowd that was gathered
in the streets of Camp Lookout that morning, for the purpose of
discussing things. In fact, a stranger passing through the place might
have thought it a sewing school, a town pump or an afternoon tea.
These places are quoted as the ones where gossiping is most likely to
occur. It seemed as if every cadet in the camp knew no better
occupation in life than talking――evidently something had happened to
create excitement among the lads.

“We ought to thank our stars we got out of the scrape as we did,” one
of them added. “Do you suppose any of the cadets have an idea that we
had anything to do with the affair?”

“I don’t,” said Mark. “That is, of course, excepting Bull Harris, and
his friends among the third classmen. I overheard one of the first
class talking of it a while ago.”

“What did he say?” asked one, eagerly.

“He said,” answered Mark, “that he didn’t know what to make of the
matter. All he knew was that a frightful lot of yelling had awakened
the camp during the night, and that when Lieutenant Allen, the
tactical officer in command, jumped up to find out what was wrong he
discovered that some one had stolen his uniform. Of course he couldn’t
come out without it, and he raged and stormed about for nearly five
minutes inside. Then he discovered his clothes lying outside of his
tent. When he came out and ordered a roll call he found everybody in
and nothing wrong.”

“And what does he suppose was the cause of his uniform being mislaid?”

“He doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t know whether it was a prank
of some kind or carelessness on his part. Isn’t that a rich joke?”

“Betcher life, b’gee!”

The reader does not need to be told that that observation came from
Dewey.

“I wonder what Allen would say,” chuckled that youngster, “if he only
had any idea of the real way the accident happened. If he knew that a
certain plebe by the name of Mallory had swiped his uniform,
b’gee!――――”

“S’h! not so loud!”

“Sure enough,” remarked Dewey. “I forgot that. Reminds me of a story I
once heard, b’gee――told me by my great uncle on my father’s starboard
side. What’s that? You don’t want to hear it? Well, who was going to
tell it? I never said I was, did I? I was just going to say when you
interrupted me last that I wonder what Allen would think if he knew
that Mallory had borrowed his uniform and had gone off in the woods to
play lieutenant and scare Bull Harris and a party of yearlings away
from a feast they were eating. Hey?”

“He would in all probability be aggravated to a considerable degree,”
observed Parson Stanard. “He would doubtless be in the condition of
mind which was so accurately, scientifically, and at the same time
poetically, described by the immortal Homer in the four hundred and
sixty-third line of the eleventh book of the imperishable Iliad,
beginning――――”

“And ending,” observed Dewey, whereat the indignant Parson stopped his
discourse and went back into his shell like a sulky oyster.

“Allen would be mad fo’ a fact,” remarked Texas. “But, hang it! I
don’t think he’d be half as mad at that as ef he knowed how that air
noise came to be made; ef he learned that there were some yearlin’s in
his company so mean as to raise a rumpus when they knew we were out o’
camp an’ would be missed an’ expelled. I reckon that air’s ’bout as
ornery a trick as I ever heerd ’bout. Hey?”

“It’s hardly as bad as that, Texas,” laughed Mark, generously. “You
see, Bull and the crowd were pretty mad that we plebes had dared to
fool them and spoil their feast. And Bull always has hated me, you
know.”

“I guess I do know it!” growled Texas, angrily. “I’m a goin’ to punch
his ole head fo’ him pretty soon ef he don’t stop them coyote tricks
o’ his. We’d a’ been fired sho’ last night ef you hadn’t had Allen’s
clothes so’s he couldn’t leave his tent to inspect. Bull Harris’ll try
that air thick once too often, doggone his boots!”

Mark laughed gently, and then sat down in front of the tent.

“Fellows,” he said, after a moment’s thought, “I’ve got something to
say to you. Texas’ last remark made me think of it. This is a matter
of business for the Banded Seven to decide on.”

The Seven looked important at that. Indian opened the round little
saucers which did him for a frightened pair of eyes and leaned forward
to listen. Master Chauncey Van Rensselaer Mount-Bonsall bowed with
dignity; and Methusalem Zebediah Chilvers, farmer and populist from
Kansas, who had been lounging as usual at the back of the tent, opened
one eye and waited.

Having thus obtained attention, Mark began:

“Texas observed,” he said, “that Bull would try that trick of raising
a row while we were out of camp at night once too often. Now that’s a
fact; he may. And you know as well as I do that to be caught outside
of the sentry lines at night would mean court-martial and dismissal
for every one of us. I’m beginning to think that it’s hardly worth the
risk. You know how Bull hates us; our cutting up as we did last night
is lots of fun, but it only gives him a weapon to hurt us with.
It――――”

“Say, look a yere,” cried Texas at this stage of the game. “Do you
mean to say that you’re drivin’ at advisin’ us to stay in camp every
night?”

“Yes,” said Mark, “I am.”

“Well, I jes’ tell you I ain’t,” growled Texas. “No, sah, I ain’t!
Why, what fun would there be? Life wouldn’t be worth livin’! I won’t
do it!”

“You might lick Bull Harris instead,” laughed Mark. “That would be
exciting.”

Texas admitted that that was a mitigating circumstance.

“You see,” Mark continued, “we’re safe if we stop now. Allen hasn’t
the least idea that we’ve been cutting up, and none of Bull’s gang
dare tell him, because, you see, they were out of camp, too. And I
think we’ve gone far enough for a while. I don’t want any more such
scares as I had last night.”

“Me neither,” wailed Indian. “Bless my soul!”

And the Parson added:

“Yea, by Zeus!”

It is now necessary for the sake of the story that the Banded Seven be
left where they were, discussing that problem. The reader must be
introduced to another personage.

Lieutenant Allen, tactical officer in command of Company A in the West
Point Battalion, was just then standing in his tent, buckling on his
sword preparatory to the morning inspection. Lieutenant Allen was very
thoughtful that morning; he had been very thoughtful during the night
also. But he had recovered his dignity and equanimity since the
adventure, outwardly at any rate.

The lieutenant had gone to the back of his tent for a moment; then he
stepped to the entrance――and suddenly stopped. An envelope was lying
at his feet.

He gazed at it in surprise and then stooped and picked it up. There
was an address upon it which he read:

“Lieutenant Allen.”

That was a strange way to get mail.

“The “tac” went to the tent door and glanced about him. But he saw no
one and so he went back into his tent and tore open the letter. He
read it. And as he read it his face seemed fairly to turn blue,
whether with anger or amazement, or excitement, no one can say. He
dropped his hands and gazed about him as if to make sure where he was.
Then he raised the letter and stared at it again.

     “TO LIEUTENANT ALLEN: The lieutenant may be interested in
     knowing who it was that stole his uniform last night. It was
     Cadet Mallory! And if the lieutenant doubts this he has only
     to watch and he will see Cadet Mallory go out of camp
     to-night also. A word to the wise is sufficient!”

And as Allen finished the reading of that note he crushed it in his
hand.

“By Jove!” he muttered. “It was a dirty brute who wrote that. I’ll
catch him as well as Mallory!”

And then he strode out of his tent to begin the morning inspection.




CHAPTER XXVI.

A TRAP FOR MALLORY.


“It’s settled now, is it?”

The speaker was Mark again. He was standing in just the same position
as when we left him for the brief glance at Lieutenant Allen. And he
was addressing the same six plebes as previously, their weighty
discussion being now about over.

“We’ve agreed,” he said, “as I understand it, to stop cutting up
monkey shines for a while. We’re going to stay in camp and devote our
nights to sleeping.”

“Except,” put in Texas, by way of reminder.

“Of course,” assented Mark. “Except, as we said, something
extraordinary should happen. There’s no use making any resolves that
we won’t keep. If we should find, for instance, that Bull and his
crowd were giving another party――――”

“Wow!” cried Texas, excited at the very mention of such a possibility.

“Why, of course, we should have to stop it,” laughed Mark. “But that
is something not liable to happen. I don’t see any reason why we
shouldn’t stay in camp and amuse ourselves in legitimate ways for a
while.”

“Such as walloping Bull,” suggested Dewey, whereat the ex-cowboy
smacked his lips.

“Bull is a goin’ to git walloped pretty soon,” observed the latter,
“ef he don’t stop his tomfoolery.”

“Bull has no idea of doing that,” said Mark. “His enmity is of too
long standing for that. And there goes the drum, by the way.”

Bull Harris had tried one trick more, a trick the most contemptible of
them all. The reader has of course been discerning enough to guess the
authorship of that anonymous note. If he has not he has only to read a
short way further and see the new method by which Bull proposed to
achieve his villainous desire.

About the same hour that the plebes were discussing their new
resolution certain other cadets, four in number, were also holding a
council. They were yearlings, all of them well known to us.

They were very much excited over something just then.

“Did he get it?” Vance was eagerly inquiring.

“He did,” said Bull. “And he read it, too”.

“Did you see him?”

“Yes. I watched him from the tent across the way.”

“And was he mad at all?”

“Mad! I guess. By George! he was red as a lobster!”

“Do you suppose he’ll do anything about it now?”

Bull sneered as he responded.

“Do you suppose I was such a fool as to fix it that way? Not much!
He’s going to wait to get his proof to-night――that is, if he’s got any
sense at all.”

“What kind of proof will he get?”

“You’re worse than a catechism, Vance,” chuckled Bull.

“He, he!” chimed in Baby. “A catechism! Pretty good! See that, Merry?
A catechism asks questions, you know――――”

“Oh, shut up!” snapped Vance. “You ought to be minding your own
business! See here, Bull, I want to know how you’re going to manage
this. What’s the use of being so secret about it? How’s Allen going to
catch Mallory to-night?”

“He’s going to find him out of camp,” answered Bull.

“But how do you know Mallory’ll go?”

“I’ll fix that!” laughed Bull. “I’ll tell you about it. But here comes
Allen now. Wait till after inspection.”

The four precious scamps scattered to their respective tents at that
and there was a brief cessation of the plotting while every one
attended to business. Pretty soon, however, the wheels began to turn
again and the little drama to hurry on.

It was after the ceremony of guard mounting and inspection had both
gone by. The plebes who were so unfortunate as to be assigned to the
duty of policing lined up for work. The rest of the corps was at
liberty to roam the woods as they pleased after that until dinner
time. And then it was that things began to happen again.

Our friends, as it chanced, were curious and eager to see what
happened to the remainder of the feast left behind them so hurriedly
last night. It had occurred to them that it might not be a bad idea to
clear away the _débris_, in case Allen should chance to stroll over
that way.

Accordingly they set out through the woods, all of them together. They
did not reach their destination, however. They heard a voice behind
them calling:

“Mr. Mallory! Oh, Mr. Mallory!”

To their amazement, when they faced about they found none other than
our worthy friend Vance following them. It must be something unusual
to make their deadly enemy call after them in that way, and so they
waited in puzzled surprise.

Evidently Vance had not come to propose a treaty of peace, for there
was the usual sneer upon his curling lip, and his sallow face was as
ugly as usual in consequence. He strode up with a kind of careless
insolence and without saying another word placed himself squarely in
front of Mark and stared in his face.

“What is it?” inquired the latter quietly.

Vance answered nothing just long enough to make a rude silence; then
he was satisfied to begin.

“Mr. Mallory,” said he, “I’ve something to say to you. I want to get
it done in a hurry, too, because my reputation would be injured if I
were seen talking to plebes.”

Vance was finely sarcastic as he said that.

Mark responded nothing, but some one behind him ventured a retort.

“Betcher life, b’gee!” observed that young person. “Some one might
think you were learning a little decency.”

Vance started to answer to that, but Mark checked him.

“If you’ve got anything to say,” he commanded, sternly, “say it!”

And for some reason Merry thought it best to obey.

“I’ve come from Mr. Harris,” he began. “Mr. Harris wishes me to say
that he is sick and tired of your nonsense――――”

“I don’t doubt it,” smiled Mark, and Dewey came in with a “Bully,
b’gee!”

“Mr. Harris says,” continued Vance, angrily, “that he proposes to put
a stop to your insolence at once. Do you understand that? He has asked
me to be his second, and he intends to give you the worst thrashing
you ever got in your life――――”

“Whoop!”

“By Zeus!”

“Bless my soul!”

The exclamations which resulted from Vance’s unexpected announcement
fairly shook the woods. In an instant the yearling found himself
surrounded by an eager, delighted crowd of lads, rubbing their hands
gleefully and all talking at once with excitement. Truly this was a
delicious turn of affairs! Bull driven to fight! And coward though he
was! Gee whiz!

“Won’t I do instead o’ Mark?” cried Texas, who was already dancing
about and twitching his fingers furiously.

“When is Bull anxious to have this fight take place?” Mark inquired as
soon as he was able to get the rest quiet enough for Vance to hear
him.

“To-night,” answered Vance.

“But why put it off till to-night?”

“Mr. Harris has his own reasons,” was the yearling’s stately reply.

“I reckon he has!” growled Texas. “He wants to git us out o’ camp so’s
he can raise another yell an’ git us caught. Do you think I’m such an
idiot as that, you white-faced ole coyote you?”

“Take it easy, Texas,” laughed Mark. “This is my quarrel. But how
about that objection, Mr. Vance? I don’t want to walk into any trap,
you know, and I know that Bull Harris is afraid of me.”

“If you are coward enough to refuse his challenge,” snarled Vance,
“say so and don’t try to make up excuses! Mr. Harris is not afraid of
you, and if he cannot give you the thrashing you deserve for your
contemptible tricks, by jingo! I don’t mind saying that I will. Do you
understand that, confound you? And not only you, Mallory, but that
crazy idiot of a Texan, too――――”

“Wow! Whoop! You――――”

Five members of the Banded Seven sat on Texas just then. And Vance
went on with his address to Mark.

The reader will, of course, perceive that the yearling was playing a
part――and playing it well. The angrier he got Mark the more apt his
plot would be to succeed. He knew that Mark was too honorable to
strike him now, whatever his insults.

“That bluff about suspecting us is pretty hollow,” he continued. “You
don’t need to go away from the camp. If you weren’t too much of blamed
coward and stuff you’d not offer the excuse. You can meet us just
beyond the sentry line and go with us. And if there’s any yelling done
we’ll be caught as well as you. Do you see? If you’re afraid of a
crowd’s pitching in let that fool of a Texas bring his guns. You bring
some, too. We aren’t afraid of the whole seven of you!”

“Very bold indeed,” laughed Mark, for once. “What time shall we meet?”

“Eleven o’clock.”

“And where shall we go?”

“Anywhere you say. Make it the scene of our banquet.”

“Our banquet, you mean,” observed Mark, slyly. “We ate it.
However――――”

“Will you come? Or are you going to play the coward as usual?”

“I’ll come,” said Mark, simply. “And meanwhile you go on about your
business.”

This last sharp command rather took Vance by surprise; it was so in
contrast with Mark’s previous calm and cool manner. It showed him that
he was really mad, after all. And Vance, as he turned and strode away,
was all aglow with triumph.

“We’ve got him!” he chuckled. “It’s all over now.”




CHAPTER XXVII.

A STRANGE DISCOVERY.


The Banded Seven walked on through the woods in silence after their
disagreeable enemy had left. They were all of them thinking over the
strange turn of affairs.

It was Mark who broke the silence at last.

“I wonder what can have happened,” he said, “to cause Bull to turn
about so suddenly?”

“I don’t think he has!” growled Texas.

“But he seems to have gotten up courage all of a sudden. I never
thought he’d dare fight us.”

“I don’t believe he is,” was the ex-cowboy’s answer. Texas was less
disposed than Mark to take a charitable view of his enemy. “I jes’
tell you it’s nothin’ but a bluff; an’ there’s mystery behind it, too.
That air ole coward ain’t a goin’ to take a lickin’ from you.”

“I don’t see how he can do otherwise,” mused Mark, slowly. “He can’t
get us caught if we keep in sight of camp. And he can’t trap us where
you’ve got your guns, can he?”

“Wow!” gasped Texas, in horror. “Bet you’ boots he kain’t!”

“Well, then, what can he do?” demanded the other.

“I dunno,” was the answer, very dubiously. “But I’ll bet it’s
somethin’, an’ somethin’ mean, too! Anyhow, I want to suggest
somethin’. Let’s us fellers swear――the seven of us right hyar――that no
matter what he does do an’ no matter what he does try――he gits that
air lickin’ an’ gits it in a hurry. Hey?”

“Betcher life, b’gee!” cried Dewey.

“An’ ef Mark gets hurt one o’ the rest of us gives it,” added Texas,
excitedly.

Which sentiment the Parson echoed with his usual solemn “Yea, by
Zeus!” That idea just caught the seven plebes in the right spot.

They shook hands on it then and there, and swore a solemn compact. The
form of it was this:

     “Whereas, Bull Harris is a villain.

     “Resolved, That if he don’t fight Mark to-night――which he
     won’t――we give him a licking to-morrow. And that
     incidentally――b’gee――we also wallop Merry Vance and the
     other two!”

That interesting resolution having been unanimously adopted by a
majority of fourteen――for everybody was eager to vote twice――the Seven
agreed to drop the unpleasant topic from their minds and proceed to
the business for which they had come up, the clearing away of the
remnants of their “banquet.” Accordingly they hurried on through the
woods.

Even if they had not dropped the subject voluntarily they must
speedily have forgotten it. For something very exciting was destined
to occur in a few minutes. It requires a brief digression from our
story to mention.

The scene of last night’s feast was only about two hundred yards from
the camp, and so the lads had not very far to go. Reaching it, they
pushed the bushes aside and hurried out into the clearing. A moment
later, with one accord, they halted and gave vent to a cry of
surprise.

The reason was very evident. When they had left that spot in their
terrible haste the night before they had left the ground plentifully
bestrewn with victuals. And now there was not a trace of anything to
be seen, not even so much as a crumb of pie crust!

The Seven were so taken aback that for a moment they could not even
guess at any explanation.

“Can some one from camp have been up here?” inquired Mark at last,
“and eaten everything up?”

“But they wouldn’t have eaten everything!” objected Texas. “There were
all sorts of scraps and crumbs and――――”

“Bless my soul! yes,” interrupted Indian. “Because I had almost
finished a pumpkin pie when I had to drop it and run. It was awfully
good pie, too.”

“Perhaps it was some kind of animal,” observed Mark, smiling at
Indian’s melancholy observation. “Perhaps it was squirrels and birds
and so on.”

“Or perhaps a mountain panther,” suggested Texas.

Indian turned pale at that horrible idea and muttered:

“Bless my soul! Are there any panthers around here?” he added.

“Lots of ’em,” answered Texas, with a wink. Then he turned to Stanard:
“How ’bout that, Parson?” he inquired.

The Parson cleared his throat with a grave and thoughtful “Ahem!”

“I must confess,” he said, “that my information as to the zoölogical
distribution in this particular locality is considerably limited. The
_habitat_ of the animal, however, includes many regions of similar
latitude and physical characteristics. But the _felis pardus_――――”

“The what?”

“I mean the panther,” stammered the lecturer.

“Ahem! Er――what was I saying? Oh, yes! The _felis pardus_ is a
digitigrade mammal and also carnivorous. Consequently I should hardly
support the hypothesis that he would disturb the various vegetable
products which we left behind us――――”

“Do you mean,” queried Dewey, solemnly, “that panthers don’t eat
pumpkin pie?”

“Exactly,” said the Parson. “That was just what I was trying to say.”

“B’gee!” chuckled Dewey, “no one would ever have guessed it. But as
you say, panthers eat meat. If one had been wandering about last
night, therefore, it is probable that he’d have taken Indian instead
of his pie.”

“Bless my soul!” gasped Indian. “Please don’t talk like that.”

“As to the further characteristics of the quadruped,” said the Parson,
continuing his lecture, “I may say by way of an introduction to the
subject that scientific research has disclosed――――”

“Whoop!”

There is no telling when the Parson would have stopped talking if it
had not been for that sudden exclamation, which made the six jump in
surprise. It is needless to say that it came from Texas; during the
conversation Texas had started on a private investigation, rambling
around the clearing, like a bloodhound on a trail. The result had been
his cry.

His companions, even the Parson, made a dash for the spot, demanding
eagerly to know what was the matter. By way of answer Powers pointed
to the ground. It was small wonder that he had exclaimed aloud; in the
soft earth there was a deep footprint. It was of a human foot, and it
was bare!

Robinson Crusoe was not one whit more amazed at his discovery than
were the seven cadets over this exactly similar one. They stood and
gazed at it in silent astonishment; and then suddenly the meaning of
it flashed over them all and they glanced about them in terror.

“By George!” cried Mark, “it’s that wild man!”

“He must have been starving,” said Mark, lowering his voice
instinctively. “By George! this isn’t a very pleasant state of
affairs!”

“Oo-oo! Let’s run!” gasped Indian. “Bless my soul!”

None of them ran, but it would be only fair to say that all of them
wanted to. And it was noticeable that nobody offered any objection to
returning home very soon. After all, why should they stay? all traces
of their feast were gone.

“I’ll feel a little more comfortable in camp,” observed Mark, “where
my musket and bayonet aren’t so far away. Come on.”

“I reckon,” chuckled Texas, triumphantly, “you won’t be so ’fraid o’
letting me carry my guns after this. Hey?”

“I shan’t mind to-night, anyway,” was the answer. “We’ll probably have
more than one enemy to watch out for. But we’ll fool ’em all, I hope.
How about it, Texas?”

The question Texas answered by offering to bet his boots on it.

“Jes’ you wait till night gits hyar,” he said, “then we’ll see.”

Which they did, for a fact.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

CAUGHT IN THE TRAP.


“’Sh!”

“Everything’s quiet.”

“Are you sure the guns are loaded?”

“Yes! Don’t you know me better’n that? Stick that one under your
jacket and keep it ready, too.”

The two speakers were crouching in the moonlight behind one of the
tents of Camp Lookout. The reader scarcely needs to be told that they
were Mark and Texas on hand, true to their promise.

The place was as silent as a graveyard. There was nothing moving but
the flickering camp-fire which cast weird shadows on the tents. The
two plebes were motionless, listening.

“Eleven o’clock and all’s we-ell!”

It was the sentry’s call.

“We’re on time,” whispered Mark. “Do you see any signs of Bull?”

“I ain’t seen anything movin’ yet,” was the Texan’s answer. “I ain’t
expectin’ to see much, either.”

“Perhaps he’s waiting for us out in the woods,” suggested Mark.

“Likely, I must say!” growled the other.

“What’ll we do now?”

“Let’s cross the sentry line and wait at the edge of the woods,” said
Mark. “If there’s any noise we can skip in from there.”

“Come ahead,” answered Texas.

The two stole silently down the company street to the end, and there
halted. They waited until the sentry was at the other end of his beat.

“He can’t see us now,” whispered Mark. “There are too many trees.
Quick!”

The two sprang forward, and silently dashed across the line and
vanished in the woods. There they stopped and crouched to wait.

“We’re here, anyhow,” said Mark. “And now we’ll see what happens.”

“An’ keep yo’ eyes open, too,” muttered the other.

The bushes concealed the two, but they could see the camp plainly.
Every move of the enemy would be open to them, except, of course, in
case the latter were already in the woods, which didn’t seem likely.

The plebes waited anxiously; they saw nothing. The camp was motionless
and silent, while fully ten minutes sped away.

“Tole you ’twas only a bluff!” growled the Texan.

“Anyhow, the delay makes it less likely they’ll try the trick of
yelling to arouse the camp,” observed Mark, thoughtfully. “They’d have
tried it long ago, if they meant to. This delay’ll make us
suspicious.”

“It does that with me!” chuckled the other. “Doggone that air Bull
Harris!”

“Perhaps they’re up there by the place where the feast was,” said
Mark. “But I’ll admit that doesn’t seem likely. I guess it was a
bluff, after all, though still I can’t see what Bull hoped to make by
it.”

“’Sh! What’s that?”

The startled exclamation came from Texas; Mark bent forward eagerly,
half rising to peer ahead.

“It’s one of them!” he gasped.

The tents hid the person from their eyes, and they could not make out
who it was. But it was somebody! The figure of a man stealing silently
down the company street!

Mark began to tremble with eagerness. He clinched his fists; so he was
to have a chance at Bull, after all! That person could be no one but
Bull.

The two got no nearer view of him, as it happened. For he was bound in
the opposite direction; he approached the sentry line far over by the
other side of the camp, and a moment later stole across and vanished
in the woods.

Mark and Texas turned and stared at each other; both of them were
agape with astonishment.

“Whoop!” gasped the latter. “He did come, after all! Whoop!”

“Yes,” said Mark. “It must be he. It’s more than I expected. Let’s
wait here for him.”

They crouched down in the bushes once more. Bull would probably come
around the camp to hunt for them, for he must have seen them go out.

They waited, but they waited in vain; Bull did not put in an
appearance.

“Perhaps he’s gone up there to the place to wait,” suggested Mark.
“Perhaps he thinks we’re up there.”

There was another lengthy pause then. It was not very much longer
before Texas, the hot-blooded, hot-headed Texan, began to get
impatient.

“Plague take it!” he growled. “’Praps he is up there. I say, let’s go
and see!”

Texas’ recklessness soon prevailed over Mark’s caution. He vowed he’d
go alone if Mark wouldn’t go. A brief consultation was held then, and
the two decided that that was the best plan, anyway. One ought to stay
there and wait, to watch the camp; and so Texas, revolver in hand,
would go up to the scene of the feast and see what was “up.”

That just suited the ex-cowboy. He was off like a shot. Mark smiled to
himself, and then settled down again, his heart still beating with
excitement. There was something so mysterious about all this that he
still half suspected foul play.

It is necessary for us to follow Texas; Texas was having a high old
time back in that mountain forest.

A few years’ training on the plains had made quite an Indian of Texas;
he knew pretty well how to take care of himself, especially since he
had his two favorite shooting-irons in his hands. And he was not the
least bit afraid as he stole along in the darkness.

Two contingencies presented themselves to his mind, two dangers to
guard against. There might be a surprise from the yearlings or one
from the “maniac.” He didn’t mean to be caught by either of them, and
he was a picture of vigilance as he went peering behind and before,
and creeping with all possible stealthiness.

But Texas reached his destination without the slightest interruption.
He pushed his way through the bushes and stepped out into the little
clearing, gazing swiftly about him. He saw not a soul.

The place was silent and deserted. The moon strayed down through the
trees and shone on the Texan’s silent figure, but it shone on no other
living thing.

“They ain’t hyar!” muttered Texas. “That air’s sho! An’ yet where are
they? This business is gittin’ mysterious like.”

It was for a fact. The more Texas thought over it the more he became
filled with a vague sort of alarm, which he didn’t like. Those
yearlings had put up this plot for some purpose. That no one could
doubt. Perhaps they were carrying it out now, and with Mark all alone
among them.

“That fellow Mallory ain’t used to guns,” mused Powers. “He needs me
to take care of him. I reckon I’ll go back!”

A very sensible resolution that, Texas! By all means, hurry up! About
to carry it into effect, he wheeled and started to leave the clearing.
A second later he staggered back with an inarticulate gasp of horror.

The Texan’s face was a study at that particular moment. His hair
seemed fairly to rise beneath his cap. His jaw dropped, and his knees
began to fail him.

Surely never had an ex-cowboy been more unnerved before.

Those of us who know Texas know that he was no coward. One might say
with certainty that neither madman nor yearling――no, nor even
ghost――could have produced such an effect upon him. And that indeed
was the fact; this apparition was one against which a thousand
revolvers could do nothing. And Texas was ruined!

Stern and solemn, his dignified figure towering in the moonlight,
there had marched out of the woods no less a person than Lieutenant
Allen, the “tac” of Company A!

A feather might have bowled over our gallant plebe; a regiment of tin
soldiers put him to flight. He was simply paralyzed. And he stood and
stared at the officer in open-mouthed consternation.

Lieutenant Allen was mad all the way through; any one could have seen
that. He was glaring at his helpless prisoner.

“Mr. Powers!” he thundered, “what does this mean?”

Poor Texas didn’t know; and so he didn’t try to say. He merely gasped.

“This is a nice state of affairs, indeed, sir!” the officer continued.
“Beyond cadet limits, sir! Roaming the woods at night! And with
revolvers in your hand, too. What are you doing with those weapons,
sir?”

Texas was still silent in consternation.

“Put them on the ground this instant!” commanded Allen.

“Now, then, sir,” the angry officer went on, “I suppose you understand
that you have rendered yourself liable to court-martial? And Mr.
Mallory, also!”

The plebe winced at that last; poor fellow, he had been consoling
himself with the hope that Mark, at least, was safe.

“I know it, sir!” he moaned.

“I thought you had more sense, both of you. I have learned that it is
your practice to behave this way continually, and I propose to see
that you are punished. Your cadet days are numbered from this moment,
Mr. Powers.”

Big tears gathered in the Texan’s eyes, but he choked back the rising
sob and stared all the harder at his superior. Just then he remembered
that he had forgotten to salute, and so he saluted, being too dazed to
think of anything else to do. He was gone! And Mark, too! Their
offense had only one penalty, a swift one――dismissal.

“Mr. Powers,” said the lieutenant, sternly, “you will march back to
camp and return to your tent, Mr. Mallory with you――at once! Do you
hear?”

And Texas saluted once more, faced about and strode off into the deep,
black woods feeling as if his heart would break.

As for Allen, once alone, he turned and fell to pacing back and forth
in the little clearing, musing to himself. Angry though that worthy
officer had been at first, he could not hide the fact from himself
that he hated to ruin Mallory.

“He should have known better sense!” he muttered. “And such a fine
lad! Plague take it!――but I’ve got my duty to do, and the commandant
must attend to the rest. Discipline would be ruined if I let a thing
like this pass.”

With this thought in his mind the tactical officer faced about and
started toward camp. He took but two steps, however. Then he stopped!

It was not because he wanted to, either. It was because somebody
stopped him, and that somebody nearly stopped his heart from beating,
as well. The officer felt two sinewy arms flung about his body,
pinioning them as if in a vise. In all his life Allen had never felt
such a paralyzing clutch as that.

But one idea flashed over him. Texas had attacked him! Enraged at
having been detected, the wild cowboy had been driven to
desperation――perhaps even to murder!

Allen struggled with all his might. He did not wish to cry out, to
alarm the camp. He wished to bring that wild lad to his senses, to
subdue his ferocious temper. The officer felt his hot breath beating
on his neck, and heard him pant as he hugged him in his clutch of
iron.

With one mighty effort, an effort that took every bit of strength that
was in him, the officer managed to writhe his body about so as to face
his assailant. As he did so he gave vent to a hoarse cry of horror. It
was not Texas!

And the next instant Allen felt the arms about him relax, felt a
clawlike hand clutch him by the throat and drive his head back, fling
him to the ground and grasp his windpipe with a force that made him
gasp, made him writhe, made him turn blue in the face. Then everything
grew dark before him.




CHAPTER XXIX.

THE END OF IT ALL.


Mark Mallory lay hiding in the bushes at the edge of the camp. There
was little for Mark to do except to wait, to wait with all possible
patience. It did not seem likely that anything would happen until
Texas returned.

The camp was perfectly silent and motionless; that figure which left
it was the last to appear. The moonlight shone on the white tents with
a ghostly pallor, which the dancing camp-fires served to increase. But
there was no sign of Bull or his friends――either behind or before.
Mark kept watch in both directions.

He waited perhaps five minutes thus. Then he began to think that it
was time for Texas to return. He allowed him opportunity to reach the
clearing and hurry back; there was no reason for his delaying. And
consequently when he did not come it was a very short while indeed
before his friend became suspicious. Something must have kept Powers;
and if something were keeping him who could it be but Bull?

A good deal hinged upon Mark’s next action, as it happened. But he had
not the least idea of that――of the danger he was to run into. The
problem as it presented itself to him was that Texas didn’t return
promptly, as he had said he would; and for that there must be some
reason. That reason Mark must find.

“It won’t do any harm to take a run back there and see,” he mused.
“Bull and that gang may have overpowered Texas in spite of his guns.”

There was no sign of trouble in camp. With this idea in his mind, the
plebe arose hastily and without a moment’s hesitation, started back
into the woods. He, too, was becoming suspicious and he clutched his
revolver tightly.

If the reader has ever found himself in a forest at midnight he knows
that it is no fun. And it makes no difference how courageous one may
be, either. Mark was no coward, but he was human, and he felt quite
creepy as he pushed his way ahead through the black forest shadows. He
pictured to himself all sorts of unpleasant possibilities, the least
of which was a conflict with those yearlings.

There was but little time, however, for such unpleasant anticipations,
for the distance to the clearing was short. Mark reached the edge of
it without interruption of any kind and promptly pushed his way
through the surrounding thicket. A moment later he was standing upon
the spot he sought.

He saw no one; the place was as deserted and silent as it had been
when Texas was there. But for the shadows of the trees that waved to
and fro on the ground, and for the gentle night breeze that rustled
through the branches, the place was as silent as death.

Mark stood motionless where he was; he held his weapon in his hand
ready for the slightest danger, but as he gazed about him and saw no
sign of any foe, his vigilance relaxed and he bowed his head in
thought.

“Where on earth can Texas have gone?” he muttered, half aloud. “This
is the strangest――――”

He never finished the sentence. A sound had interrupted him, a sound
which made his flesh creep. It was a low groan.

Mark started back in consternation. It had come from the edge of the
clearing, that voice! And whose could it be but the Texan’s? Texas had
been captured by the yearlings!

Mark never hesitated an instant. He made a leap for the spot, cocking
his revolver as he did so. He bent down to push his way through the
bushes, to rescue his gallant comrade.

The next instant, with a thud that shook the woods and almost tumbled
the plebe upon his face, a heavy body landed upon his back and flung
its arms about him.

But one idea occurred to Mark at that moment. It was Bull or one of
the yearlings! His first impulse was to point his pistol over his
shoulder and fire. He checked it as he recovered his self-possession;
he did not want to shoot anybody, and he did not want to alarm the
camp. He would fight this hand-to-hand battle, even though he was at a
disadvantage.

Mark’s assailant evidently knew that he was armed, for the plebe felt
a hand reaching out toward the weapon. With a violent effort he
managed to turn to get a view of his assailant. When he succeeded he
gave a gasp of horror, just as the unfortunate lieutenant had done.
For he found out then who his assailant was.

Quick as a flash Mark aimed his revolver straight in the other’s face.
He pulled the trigger, but he was too late.

His assailant’s finger had been slipped in between the trigger and the
guard, and the weapon was useless! The next instant the man gave a
violent wrench that nearly broke Mark’s wrist and that sent his
revolver flying through the air.

Then came the battle. Mark Mallory found himself face to face with a
horrible creature; he was struggling in the deadly grip of “the maniac
of the den!”

It was a fight to the death. The creature had the strength of a tiger;
Mark could see his muscles bulging beneath his naked skin, and he felt
a grip of steel tightening about him. He saw, too, a ferocious face
glaring into his, warning him to expect no mercy. The man’s hot and
eager breath beat against the lad’s brow, and his eyes fairly flashed
with fury.

He was an old man, with a great, long beard and hideous, matted hair.
He was almost naked and apparently he was dumb. The silence with which
he made his grim struggle was the most appalling part of it all.

The two swayed back and forth in the clearing, straining every ounce
of muscle that was in them. The maniac was strong, but he had a foeman
worthy of him. The grip in which he had the lad served to bind his
hands to his side, but when the other came to bear him to the ground
it was quite another matter. That meant a wrestling match, and a long
and weary one, too.

It seemed an age to Mark in his terrible plight. He could not free
himself, writhe and twist as he would; and he knew not what trick his
savage opponent might try next. And so, back and forth he staggered,
bending and swaying.

The climax came with the swiftness of a lightning flash. The maniac,
furious at the delay, tried the same trick he had tried upon Allen. He
released his grip, sprang like a wildcat upon his victim, fastened his
grasping, clawlike fingers in his throat, and shut them together like
a steel trap.

But there was something that the fiendish creature had not calculated
on, if indeed he had calculated at all. That thing was the quickness
that months of West Point discipline had given to Mark, to say nothing
of numberless battles with the yearlings. The lad realized his deadly
peril.

He clinched his fist and swung his mighty arm with a blow like a
sledge-hammer stroke.

He caught his assailant full upon the chin, and the latter’s head shot
back with a snap. He recovered himself a moment later and sprang in
again. But he had lost his chance.

Mark was ready for him then, nor did he mean to be caught in a trap
again. He was as quick to leap away as his assailant to leap at him.
After that it was a boxing match, at which none was more skillful than
Mark. Bounding, dodging here and there, his foe never once succeeded
in fastening upon him, while Mark landed blow after blow with all his
might.

The plebe was watching warily for a chance to end the battle. He knew
that he had it all his way then. The maniac halted, breathless; the
other took his cue. A moment later the savage creature was lying prone
upon the ground, writhing helplessly from the effects of the crushing
swing that had landed full upon his forehead.

Mark would have stopped to bind him safely in some way, but at that
instant he heard the groan repeated. Texas! And instantly Mark dashed
toward the spot again, wild with dread for his friend.

The figure was lying upon the ground in the bushes. The plebe snatched
him up, bore him out into the moonlight. The next moment he staggered
back almost blinded with horror at what he saw. It was Allen!

The lieutenant was gasping feebly; he fixed his bloodshot eyes upon
Mark. Then sat up convulsively and gazed about him in terror.

“The man!” he gasped. “The man!”

Mark was too dumfounded to answer in words, but he pointed across the
clearing at the figure.

“Catch him!” panted the officer. “Don’t let him get――away!”

At this moment they saw the maniac raise himself upon his elbow. Quick
as a wink Mark sprang up and made a dive for his revolver. He found it
lying on the ground, and whirled about. But he was too late. The man
was gone.

“Anyhow, he won’t come back,” was the plebe’s reflection. “And I don’t
care if he does. Great heavens! I’m gone! Allen’s seen me.”

Mark’s first impulse was to turn and make a dash for camp, in hope
that the dazed lieutenant had not recognized him. But he felt that the
officer needed help; so he turned and marched resolutely toward him.

“He――he nearly had me killed,” the latter gasped, as Mark helped him
to a sitting posture. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know,” was the other’s truthful answer.

“You have saved my life,” the officer whispered, hoarsely. “It was a
terrible experience. I saw you fighting.”

There was a silence after that.

“Help me back to camp,” said Allen, at last. “And take this for a
warning. Don’t leave it at night again.”

“I’ll not have another chance,” groaned Mark. “This’ll mean
court-martial for me.”

A moment later he almost tumbled backward with amazement and delight.

“Nonsense,” said Allen. “I do not mean to report you. I couldn’t.”

When Mark got back to his tent he found Texas almost in tears.

“It’s all up with me,” said the tall plebe. “I’ll pack up to-morrow.”

“Don’t be so sure of it,” said Mark. Then he told his own tale. “I’ll
see Allen in the morning.” And he did.

To cut a long story short, Texas escaped――through Mark’s efforts. But
the escape was so narrow that the tall youth was mighty sober for a
long while after.

“We must square up with Bull, b’gee!” said Dewey.

“Yea, by Zeus!” came from the Parson.

“Of course, bah Jove!” lisped Chauncey.

And Sleepy nodded affirmatively.

And now let us sound taps and say, as do the guards:

“All’s well!”




THE END.




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BOOKS FOR BOYS.

  Boys’ Own Library.

  Adventures of a Telegraph Boy       Horatio Alger, Jr.
  Adventures of a Young Athlete       Matthew White, Jr.
  Arthur Helmuth                      Edward S. Ellis.
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  Boats, Bats and Bicycles            Ernest A. Young.
  Bob Porter at Lakeview Academy      Walter Morris.
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  Boy Boomers                         Gilbert Patten.
  Boy Cattle King                     Gilbert Patten.
  Boy from the West                   Gilbert Patten.
  Boys in the Forecastle              George H. Coomer.
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  Cadet’s Honor, A.                   Lieut. Fred’k. Garrison, U. S. A.
  Cadet Kit Carey                     Lieut. Lounsberry.
  Camp in the Snow, The               William Murray Graydon.
  Campaigning with Braddock           William Murray Graydon.
  Canoe and Camp-Fire                 St. George Rathborne.
  Captain Carey                       Lieut. Lounsberry.
  Centreboard Jim                     Henry Harrison Lewis.
  Chased Through Norway               James Otis.
  Check Number 2134                   Edward S. Ellis.
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  Commodore Junk                      George Manville Fenn.
  Cryptogram                          William Murray Graydon.
  Cruise of the Training Ship         Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N.
  Dean Dunham                         Horatio Alger, Jr.
  Dingo Boys                          George Manville Fenn.
  Don Kirk’s Mine                     Gilbert Patten.
  Ensign Merrill                      Henry Harrison Lewis.
  Eric Dane                           Matthew White, Jr.
  Erie Train Boy                      Horatio Alger, Jr.
  Five Hundred Dollar Check           Horatio Alger, Jr.
  For Home and Honor                  Victor St. Clair.
  Frank Merriwell’s Bravery           Burt L. Standish.
  Frank Merriwell Down South          Burt L. Standish.
  Frank Merriwell’s Schooldays        Burt L. Standish.
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  Frank Merriwell’s Foes              Burt L. Standish.
  Frank Merriwell’s Trip West         Burt L. Standish.
  From Canal Boy to President         Horatio Alger, Jr.
  From Farm Boy to Senator            Horatio Alger, Jr.
  From Lake to Wilderness             William Murray Graydon.
  From Switch to Lever                Victor St. Clair.
  From Tent to White House            Edward S. Ellis.
  From Port to Port                   Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N.
  Gay Dashleigh’s Academy Days        Arthur Sewell.
  Giant Islanders                     Brooks McCormick.
  Gilbert, the Trapper                C. B. Ashley.
  Gold of Flat Top Mountain           Frank H. Converse.
  Golden Magnet                       George Manville Fenn.
  Golden Rock                         Edward S. Ellis.
  Grand Chaco                         George Manville Fenn.
  Gulf Cruisers, The                  St. George Rathborne.
  Guy Hammersley                      Matthew White, Jr.
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  Heir to a Million                   Frank H. Converse.
  How He Won                          Brooks McCormick.
  In Barracks and Wigwam              William Murray Graydon.
  Inland Waterways                    James Otis.
  In Search of an Unknown Race        Frank H. Converse.
  In Fort and Prison                  William Murray Graydon.
  In Southern Seas                    Frank H. Converse.
  In the Sunk Lands                   Walter F. Burns.
  Jack Wheeler                        Capt. David Southwick.
  Jud and Joe                         Gilbert Patten.
  Jungles and Traitors                William Murray Graydon.
  King of the Island                  Henry Harrison Lewis.
  Kit Carey’s Protégé                 Lieut. Lounsberry.
  Land of Mystery                     Edward S. Ellis.
  Last Chance Mine                    Lieut. James K. Orton.
  Lieut. Carey’s Luck                 Lieut Lounsberry.
  Little Snap, the Postboy            Victor St. Clair.
  Mark Dale’s Stage Venture           Arthur M. Winfield.
  Mark Stanton                        Horatio Alger, Jr.
  Midshipman Merrill                  Henry Harrison Lewis.
  My Mysterious Fortune               Matthew White, Jr.
  Mystery of a Diamond                Frank H. Converse.
  Nature’s Young Noblemen             Brooks McCormick.
  Ned Newton                          Horatio Alger, Jr.
  Neka, the Boy Conjuror              Captain Ralph Bonehill.
  New York Boy                        Horatio Alger, Jr.
  Off for West Point                  Lieut. Fred’k. Garrison, U. S. A.
  Old Man of the Mountain             George H. Coomer.
  On the Trail of Geronimo            Edward S. Ellis.
  On Guard                            Lieut. Fred’k. Garrison, U. S. A.
  Paddling Under Palmettos            St. George Rathborne.
  Perils of the Jungle                Edward S. Ellis.
  Phil, the Showman                   Stanley Norris.
  Pirate Island                       Harry Collingwood.
  Randy, the Pilot                    Lieut. Lounsberry.
  Rajah’s Fortress                    William Murray Graydon.
  Reuben Green’s Adventures at Yale   James Otis.
  Rival Battalions                    Brooks McCormick.
  Rival Canoe Boys                    St. George Rathborne.
  Secret Chart, The                   Lieut. James. K. Orton.
  Shifting Winds                      St. George Rathborne.
  Smuggler’s Cave, The                Annie Ashmore.
  Spectre Gold                        Headon Hill.
  Strange Cruise, A                   Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N.
  Sword and Pen                       Henry Harrison Lewis.
  That Treasure                       Frank H. Converse.
  Tiger Prince                        William Dalton.
  Tom Brace                           Horatio Alger, Jr.
  Tom Tracy                           Horatio Alger, Jr.
  Tom Havens with the White Squadron  Lieut. James K. Orton.
  Tour of a Private Car               Matthew White, Jr.
  Tom Truxton’s Ocean Trip            Lieut. Lounsberry.
  Tom Truxton’s School Days           Lieut. Lounsberry.
  Tour of the Zero Club               Capt. Ralph Bonehill.
  Treasure of the Golden Crater, The  Lieut. Lounsberry.
  Unprovoked Mutiny                   James Otis.
  Valley of Mystery, The              Henry Harrison Lewis.
  Voyage to the Gold Coast            Frank H. Converse.
  Walter Griffith                     Horatio Alger, Jr.
  War Tiger                           William Dalton.
  West Point Treasure, A              Lieut. Fred’k. Garrison, U. S. A.
  West Point Rivals, The              Lieut. Fred’k. Garrison, U. S. A.
  Weathercock                         George Manville Fenn.
  Wheeling for Fortune                James Otis.
  White Elephant                      William Dalton.
  White King of Africa                William Murray Graydon.
  White Mustang                       Edward S. Ellis.
  With Boer and Britisher             William Murray Graydon.
  Won at West Point                   Lieut. Lounsberry.
  Yankee Boys in Japan                Henry Harrison Lewis.
  Young Acrobat                       Horatio Alger, Jr.
  Young Actor, The                    Gayle Winterton.
  Young Bank Clerk, The               Arthur M. Winfield.
  Young Editor                        Matthew White, Jr.
  Young Showman’s Rivals, The         Stanley Norris.
  Young Showman’s Pluck, The          Stanley Norris.
  Young Showman’s Triumph, The        Stanley Norris.
  Young Bridge Tender, The            Arthur M. Winfield.
  Zig Zag, the Boy Conjuror           Victor St. Clair.
  Zip, the Acrobat                    Victor St. Clair.




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Rob Ranger’s Mining Venture;

Or, Determined to Win.

A STORY OF A BOY’S VIM AND GRIT.

By LIEUT. LIONEL LOUNSBERRY.


A capital story of what can be accomplished by a boy of ability and
courage. Rob Ranger goes West to assist his uncle in the management of
a mine. But he has great difficulty in finding his uncle, who has
mysteriously disappeared. He sets out to locate him. In this effort
Rob meets with all sorts of exciting adventures, and is more than once
in great danger at the hands of lawless men. He comes near to failure
at times, but finally wins out by means of his cleverness and
indomitable pluck. In the end he rescues his uncle from a band of
outlaws and saves a large treasure, which those outlaws were trying to
obtain. Rob’s horse, Silent Sam, and his dog, Trumps, play an
important part in the story, and cannot fail to win admiration and
affection. Rob himself is a hero whose example of courage, honesty and
manliness can be followed with profit. There is not a dull page from
beginning to end of the book, and no better story for bright, healthy
boys could well be imagined.

Handsomely illustrated. Bound in cloth, stamped in colors and gold.
Price, per volume,                                              $1.25




For sale by all booksellers, or sent, postpaid, on receipt of price
by the publishers. Street & Smith, 238 William St., New York City.




Transcriber’s Note:

Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Inconsistent hyphenation and dialect in the text were not
changed. One misspelled word was corrected. Extraneous punctuation
marks were removed, missing marks were added, and incomplete marks
were finished. Repeated headers and footers in the advertisements at
the end of the book were deleted.