Produced by Jim Ludwig
DICK PRESCOTT'S SECOND YEAR AT WEST POINT
or
Finding the Glory of the Soldier's Life
H. Irving Hancock
CONTENTS
CHAPTERS
I. The Class President Lectures on Hazing
II. Plebe Briggs Learns a Few Things
III. Greg Debates Between Girls and Mischief
IV. The O.C. Wants to Know
V. "I Respectfully Decline to Answer, Sir"
VI. Greg Prepares for Flirtation Walk
VII. The Folks from Home
VIII. Cadet Dodge Hears Something
IX. Spoony Femme—Flirtation Walk
X. The Cure for Plebe Animal Spirits
XI. Lieutenant Topham Feels Queer
XII. Under a Fearful Charge
XIII. In Close Arrest
XIV. Friends Who Stand By
XV. On Trial by Court-Martial
XVI. A Verdict and a Hop
XVII. "A Liar and a Coward"
XVIII. The Fight in the Barracks
XIX. Mr. Dennison's Turn is Served
XX. A Discovery at the Riding Drill
XXI. Pitching for the Army Nine
XXII. Greg's Secret and Another's
XXIII. The Committee on Class Honors
XXIV. Conclusion
CHAPTER I
THE CLASS PRESIDENT LECTURES ON HAZING
Leaving the road that wound by the officers' quarters at the north end, turning on to the road that passed the hotel, a hot, somewhat tired and rather dusty column of cadets swung along towards their tents in the distance.
The column was under arms, as though the cadets had been engaged in target practice or out on a reconnaissance.
The young men wore russet shoes, gray trousers and leggings, gray flannel shirts and soft campaign hats.
Their appearance was not that of soldiers on parade, but of the grim toilers and fighters who serve in the field.
Their work that morning had, in fact, been strictly in line with labor, for the young men, under Captain McAneny, had been engaged in the study of field fortifications. To be more exact, the young men had been digging military trenches—-yes—-digging them, for at West Point hard labor is not beneath the cadet's dignity.
Just as they swung off the road past the officers' quarters the young men, marching in route step, fell quickly into step at the command of the cadet officer at the head of the line.
Now they marched along at no greater speed, but with better swing and rhythm. They were, in fact, perfect soldiers—-the best to be found on earth.
Past the hotel they moved, and out along the road that leads by the summer encampment. The brisk command of "halt" rang out. Immediately afterwards the command was dismissed. Carrying their rifles at ease, the young men stepped briskly through different company streets to their tents.
Three of these brought up together at one of the tents.
"Home, Sweet Home," hummed Greg Holmes, as he stepped into his tent.
"Thank goodness for the luxury of a little rest," muttered Dick
Prescott.
"Rest?" repeated Tom Anstey, with a look of amazement. "What time have you, now, for a rest?"
"I can spare the time to stretch and yawn," laughed Dick. "If
I am capable of swift work, after that, I may indulge in two yawns."
"Look out, or you'll get skinned for being late at dinner formation," warned Greg.
There was, in truth, no time for fooling. These cadets, and their comrades, had reached camp just on the dot of time. But now they had precious few minutes in which to cleanse themselves, brush their hair and get into white duck trousers and gray fatigue blouses. The call for dinner formation would sound at the appointed instant and they must be ready.
Sound it did, in short time, but it caught no one napping.
Nearly everyone of the young men in camp had just returned from a forenoon's work, and hot and dusty at that.
But now, as the call sounded, every member of three classes stepped from his tent looking as though he had just stepped from an hour spent in the hands of a valet.
Not one showed the least flaw in personal neatness. Moreover, the tents which these cadets had just quitted were in absolute order and wholly clean. At West Point no excuse whatever is accepted for untidiness of person or quarters.
With military snap and briskness the battalion was formed. Then at brisk command, the battalion turned to the left in column of fours, marching down the hot, sun-blazed road to cadet mess.
Despite the heat and the hard work of the forenoon—-these cadets had been up, as they we every day in summer, since five in the morning—-spirits ran high at the midday meal, and chaffing talk and laughter ran from table to table.
The meal over, the battalion marched back to camp. There were a few minutes yet before the afternoon drills. A few minutes of leisure? Yes, if such an easy act as dressing in uniform appropriate to the coming drill, may be termed leisure.
"Drills are going to be called off, I reckon," murmured Greg, poking his head outside the khaki colored tent after he had put himself in readiness.
"What's up?" demanded Anstey, lacing a legging.
"The sky is about the color of ink over old Crow's Nest," reported
Greg.
Just then there came a vivid flash of lightning, followed, in a few seconds, by a deep, echoing roll of thunder. The summer storms along this part of the Hudson River sometimes come almost out of the clear sky.
"I'm always thankful for even the smallest favors," muttered Anstey, with a yawn.
"We'll have to make up this drill some other day, when it's hotter," Dick observed, but he nevertheless dropped on to a campstool with a grunt of relief.
Yes; each of these three cadets could now have a campstool of his own in quarters, for Prescott, Holmes and Anstey were all yearlings.
And a yearling is "some one" in the cadet corps. For the first few days after his release from the plebe class the yearling is quite likely to feel that he is nearly "the whole thing." By degrees, however, the yearling in summer encampment discovers that there is a first class of much older cadets above him.
There are no second classmen in summer encampment, until just before the time to break camp and return to barracks for the following academic year. Members of the new second class—-men who have successfully passed through the first two years of life at the United States Military Academy—-are allowed two months and a half of summer furlough, during which time they return to their homes.
Readers of the foregoing volume in this series, "Dick Prescott's First Year at West Point", are already familiar with the ordeals, the hard work, the sorrows and the few pleasures, indeed, of plebe life at West Point.
These readers of the former volume recall just how Dick and Greg reached West Point in March of the year before; how they passed their entrance examinations and settled down to fifteen months of plebedom. Such readers recall the fights in which the new men found themselves involved, the hazing, laughable and otherwise, will be recalled. Our former readers will recollect that about the only pleasure that Dick Prescott found in his plebedom lay in his election to the presidency of his class—-position that carries more responsibility than pleasure for the poor plebe leader of his class.
But now all was wholly and happily changed. Dick, Greg and Anstey were yearlings, entitled to real and friendly recognition from the upper classmen.
It is only seldom that yearlings are accused of b.j.-ety (freshness), for about all of that is taken out of the cadet during his plebedom.
But the greatest sign of all to the new yearling is that now, instead of finding himself liable to hazing at any time, he is now the one who administers the hazing.
It is rare that a first or second classman takes the trouble to haze a plebe. A first or second classman may notice that a plebe is a little too b.j. If so, the first or second classman usually drops a hint to a yearling, and the latter usually takes the plebe in hand.
So far, our young friends had been yearlings just three days. They had not, as yet, exercised their new function of hazing any plebes. The first three days in camp had been too full of new and hard duties to permit of their doing so.
As Greg looked out of the tent, the wind suddenly sprang up, driving a gust of big raindrops before it. In another moment there was a steady downpour. Cadet corporals in raincoats darted through the company streets, carrying the cheering word that drills were suspended until change of orders.
"I hope it rains all afternoon, then," gaped Anstey, behind his hand. "It's a rest for mine—-you bunkies (tentmates) permitting."
Anstey stretched himself on his bed and was soon sound asleep.
In summer encampment, taps sound at 10.30, and first call to reveille sounds at five in the morning. Six hours and a half of sleep are none too much for a young man engaged at hard drilling and other work. The cadet, when his duties, permit, may, however, snatch a few minutes of sleep at any time through the day. Cadets in camp quickly get the knack of making a few minutes count for a nap.
"It's going to be a good one," declared Greg, as the rain settled down into a monotonous drumming against the shelter flap over the tent.
"A long one, too," spoke Prescott hopefully. "Greg, I actually believe that the wind is growing cool."
"Don't speak about it," begged Greg. "I'm superstitious."
"Superstitious?"
"Yes; if a rain comes up just after dress parade and guardmount, then it'll keep up the rest of the evening, when we might be enjoying ourselves after a strenuous day of work. But if you get to exulting over the rain that is to get us out of a drill or two, or bragging about a cool breeze getting lost around here in the daytime, then the raindrops cease at once, the wind dies down, and the sun comes out hotter than it has been before in a week!"
Dick took another look outside.
"Then I won't say that this rain is going to last all afternoon, but it is," Dick smiled.
"Now, you've spoiled it all!" cried Greg.
"Say, Holmesy, old spectre!" hailed a laughing voice across the street.
"Hullo!" Greg answered.
"Haven't a cold, have you?"
"No."
"Don't feel that you're marked for pneumonia?"
"What are you driving at Furlong?" Greg called back.
"Come along over, if you can brave the storm!" called yearling
Furlong. "You and the rest."
"Shall we go over, Dick?" asked Greg, turning around.
"Yes; why not? If nothing else, we'll leave Anstey in peace for his big sleep. Duck out. I'll be on your heels."
The flap across the way was thrown open hospitably as Greg entered, followed by Cadet Prescott.
"Where's old Mason and Dixon?" demanded Furlong, alluding to the fact that Anstey was a Virginian.
"He has turned in for a big sleep," Greg informed their hosts.
"Great!" chuckled Furlong. "Let's peep in and throw a bucket of water over him. He'll wake up and think the tent is leaking."
"Don't you dare!" warned Dick, but he said it with a grin that robbed his rebuke of offence. "Old Mace (short for 'Mason and Dixon') has been tired out ever since being on guard the first night in camp. He actually needs the big sleep. I believe this rain is for his benefit."
"Say that again, and put it slowly," protested Furlong, looking bewildered.
Griffin and Dobbs, the other two yearlings who tented with him, laughed in amusement.
"Now, that we've lured the class president in here," continued Cadet Furlong, "we'll call this a class meeting. A quorum isn't necessary. You've got my campstool, Mr. President, so we'll consider you in the chair. May I state the business before the meeting?"
"Proceed, Mr. Furlong," requested Prescott gravely.
"Then, sir, and gentlemen——-" began Furlong.
"The chair calls you to order!" interrupted Dick sternly.
"Will the chair kindly explain the point of order?"
"It is out of order to make any distinction between the chair and 'gentlemen.'"
"I yield to the—-the pride of the chair," agreed Furlong, with a comical bow. "Mr. Chairman and other gentlemen, the question that I wish to put is——-"
Cadet Furlong now paused, glancing solemnly about him before he continued:
"What are we going to do with the plebes?"
Dick dropped his tone of presiding officer as he answered:
"I take it, Miles—-pardon me, Furlong, that your question really means, what are we going to do to the plebes?"
"Same thing," contended the other yearling.
"Why should we do anything to them?" asked Dick gravely.
"Why should we—-say, did you hear the man?" appealed Furlong, looking around him despairingly at the other yearlings. "Why should we do anything to the plebes? And yet, in a trusting moment, we elected old ramrod to be president of the class! Why should we—-o-o-o-o-h!"
Cadet Furlong made a gurgling sound in his throat, as though he were perishing for lack of air.
"Prescott isn't serious," hinted Griffin.
"Yes, I am," contended Dick, half stubbornly. "Griffin, what did you think of yearlings—-last year?"
"What I thought, last year," retorted Cadet Griffin, "doesn't much matter now. Then I was an ignorant, stupid, unregenerate, unsophisticated, useless, worthless and objectionable member of the community. I hadn't advanced far enough to appreciate the very exalted position that a yearling holds by right."
"We now know, quite well," broke in Dobbs, "that it is a yearling's sacred and bounden duty to lick a plebe into shape in the shortest possible order. Though it never has been done, and never can be done inside of a year," he finished with a sigh.
"Do you seek words of wisdom from your class president?" Cadet
Prescott inquired.
"Oh, yes, wise and worthy sir!" begged Furlong.
"Then this is almost the best that I can think of," Dick went on. It will never be possible to stamp out wholly the hazing of plebes at West Point. But we fellows can make a new record, if we will, by frowning on all severe and needless forms of hazing. I had the reputation of getting a lot of hazing last year, didn't I?"
"You surely did, old ramrod," murmured Furlong sympathetically. "At times, then, my heart ached for you, but now, with my increased intelligence, I perceive how much good it all did you."
"I took my hazing pretty well, didn't I?" insisted Dick.
"All that came your way you took like a gentleman," agreed Dobbs.
"At that time," went on Prescott, "I made up my mind that I'd submit, during my plebedom. But I also made up my mind—-and it still my mind—-that I'd go very slow, indeed, in passing the torment on to the plebes who followed me."
Dick spoke so seriously that there was an awkward pause.
"I don't want you to think that I'm going to set up as a yearling saint," Dick added. "I don't mean to say that I may not put a single plebe through any kind of pace. What I do mean is that I shall go very slowly indeed in annoying any plebe. I shan't do it, probably, unless I note a case of such utter b.j.-ety that I feel bound to bring the plebe quickly to his senses."
"You cast a gloom over us," muttered Furlong. "So far we haven't done any hazing. We were thinking of ordering a plebe in here, and starting in on him, so as to get our hands in. We need practice in the fine art."
"Don't let me interfere with your pursuit of happiness," begged
Dick, with mock politeness.
"But, seriously, old ramrod, are you as strong for the plebe as we have just been led to believe? Are you prepared to take the plebe to our heart and comfort him—-instead of training him?"
"Do you believe we ought to take the plebe right into our midst, and condole with him until we get him over his homesickness? Do you feel that we should overlook all the traditional b.j.ety of the plebe, and admit him to full fellowship without any probation or instruction?"
"No," spoke Dick promptly. "I don't believe in patting the plebe on the shoulder and increasing his conceit. When a candidate first comes to West Point, and is admitted as a cadet, he is one of the most conceited simpletons on earth. He has to have that all taken out of him, I admit. He must be taught to respect and defer to upper classmen, just as he will have to do with his superior officers after he goes from here out into the service. The plebe must be kept in his place. I don't believe in making him feel that he's a pet. I do believe in frowning down all b.j.-ety. I don't believe in recognizing a plebe, except officially. But I don't believe in subjecting any really good fellow to a lot of senseless and half cruel hazing that has no purpose except the amusement of the yearlings. Now, I think I've made myself clear. At least, I've said all that I have to say on the subject. For the rest, I'll listen to the ideas of the rest of you."
There was silence, broken at last by Greg, who said:
"I think I agree, in the main, with Prescott."
"Oh, of course," grunted Dobbs, in a tone which might mean that
Greg Holmes was but the "shadow" of Dick Prescott.
Greg looked quickly at Dobbs, but saw nothing in the other's face that justified him in taking open offence.
Somehow, though none of the others said anything to that effect, Cadet Prescott began to feel that he was a bit in the way at a conference of this sort. He didn't rise to leave at once, but he swung around on his campstool near the door.
Without throwing the flap open, Prescott peeped through a slit-like opening. As he did so he saw something that made his eyes flash.
The rain was pouring a little less heavily now. Down the company street came a cadet with a pail of water.
It was Mr. Briggs, a round faced, laughter loving, somewhat roly poly lad of the plebe class.
Just as Mr. Briggs was passing the tent in which Anstey lay making up some needed sleep, a snore came out.
Briggs halted, glancing swiftly up and down the company street.
No upper classman being in sight, Mr. Briggs peeped into the tent.
He saw Anstey, asleep and alone.
Instantly raising the flap just enough, Mr. Briggs took careful aim, then shot half the contents of the pail of water over the chest and face of Yearling Anstey.
Dick Prescott watched unseen by the b.j. plebe. Mr. Briggs fled lightly, but swiftly four tents down the line and disappeared into his own quarters.
From across the way, came a roar of wrath.
Anstey was up, bellowing like a bull. Yet, roused so ruthlessly from a sound sleep, it took him a few seconds to realize that his wetting must be due to human agency.
Then Anstey flew to the tent door, looking out, but the chuckling plebe was already in his own tent, out of sight.
"After what I've just said," announced Dick grimly, "I think I know of a plebe who requires some correction."
"Listen to our preacher!" jeered Furlong.
CHAPTER II
PLEBE BRIGGS LEARNS A FEW THINGS
"Anstey!" called Prescott softly across the company street.
"Oh, was it you idiots?" demanded the Virginian, showing his wrathful looking face.
"No," replied Dick. "Come over as quickly as you can."
It took Anstey a few minutes to dry himself, and to rearray himself, for the Virginian's sense of dignity would not permit him to go visiting in the drenched garments in which he had awakened.
"Which one of you was it?" demanded Anstey, as he finally entered the tent of Furlong and his bunkies.
"No one here," Dick replied. "The other gentlemen don't even know what happened, for I haven't told them."
So Anstey withdrew his look of suspicion from the five cadets. No cadet may ever lie; not even to a comrade in the corps. Any cadet who utters a lie, and is detected in it, is ostracized as being unfit for the company of gentlemen. So, when Dick's prompt denial came, Anstey believed, as he was obliged to do.
"It was a plebe, Mace," continued Dick.
"I'll have all but his life, then!" cried the southerner fiercely.
"I wouldn't even think of it. The offender is only a cub," urged Dick. "If you accept my advice, Mace, you won't even call the poor blubber out. We'll just summon him here, and make the little imp so ashamed of himself that the lesson ought to last him through the rest of his plebedom. I'm cooler than you are at this moment, Mace, but none the less disgusted. Will you let me handle this affair?"
"Yes," agreed Anstey quickly.
As for Furlong, Griffin and Dobbs, it was "just nuts" for them to see their class president, lately so stately on the subject of hazing, now actually proposing to take a plebe sternly in hand. The three bunkies exchanged grins.
"Tell us, Mace," continued Dick, "have you had any occasion to take
Mr. Briggs in hand at any time?
"So it was Mr. Briggs?" demanded Anstey angrily, turning toward the door.
"Wait! Have you taken Mr. Briggs in hand at any time?"
"Yes," admitted Anstey. "When you and Holmesy were out, last evening, I had Mr. Briggs in our tent for grinning at me and failing to say 'sir' when he addressed me."
"You put him through some performances?"
"Nothing so very tiresome," replied Anstey. "I made him brace for five minutes, and then go through the silent manual of arms for five more."
"Humph! That wasn't much!" grunted Furlong.
"I guess that was why Mr. Briggs felt that he had to get square," mused Dick aloud. "But a plebe is not allowed to get square by doing anything b.j."
Again Anstey turned as if to go out, but Dick broke in:
"Don't do it, Mace. Try, for the next half hour, to keep as cool
as an iceberg. Trust the treatment of the impish plebe to us.
Greg, old fellow, will you be the one to go down and tell Mr.
Briggs that his presence in this tent is desired immediately?"
Plebe Briggs was alone in his tent, his bunkies being absent on a visit in another tent. Mr. Briggs was still grinning broadly as he remembered the roar with which Anstey had acknowledged the big splash.
But of a sudden Mr. Briggs's grin faded like the mist, for Greg was at the doorway.
"Mr. Briggs, your presence is desired at once at Mr. Furlong's tent."
"Yes, sir," replied the plebe meekly. He got up with an alacrity that he did not feel, but which was the result of the new soldierly habit. Mr. Briggs threw on his campaign hat and a raincoat, but, by the time he was outside of the tent, Holmes was just disappearing under canvas up the company street.
"I guess I'm in for it," muttered the plebe sheepishly, as he strode up the street. "Confound it, can a yearling see just as well when he's asleep as when he's awake?"
He halted before Furlong's tent, rapping on the pole.
"Mr. Briggs, sir."
"Come in, Mr. Briggs."
The plebe stepped into the tent, drawing himself up and standing at attention.
For some seconds none of the yearlings spoke. In fact, only Dick looked at the fourth classman.
"Mr. Briggs," demanded Prescott at last, "where is your bucket?"
"In my tent, sir."
"You will fill it, and report back here with it at once."
"Very good, sir."
"Now, what on earth is coming?" quaked the plebe, as he possessed himself of his bucket and started for the nearest tap.
In the shortest time possible the young man reported hack at the tent, his bucket as full of water as it would safely carry.
"Set the bucket down, Mr. Briggs, at the rear of the tent."
The plebe obeyed, then stood once more at attention.
"Mr. Briggs," continued the president of the yearling class, "it was you who threw water over Mr. Anstey?"
"I am not obliged to answer that, sir," replied the plebe.
"You're quite within your rights there, mister," Dick admitted.
"But I looked out of this tent just in time to see you do it.
Have you any wish to deny it now?"
"No, sir."
"Mister, you have given us the impression that you are altogether to b.j.-ish to amount to anything in the cadet corps. Your sense of humor is bubbling over, but your judgment is so small that it would roll around inside the eye of a needle. This is a serious condition, and we judge that your health will be sadly affected if the condition is not promptly cured. One the first symptoms to be subdued is that of a swollen head. The head needs reducing in size. Take off your hat, and kneel in front of the bucket."
This Mr. Briggs did, meekly enough, now. There is never any sense in a mere plebe refusing to follow the commands of a yearling. "You will remain in that kneeling posture, mister, unless you are released from it. Now, thrust your head down into the water, as far as you can without interfering with your breathing. Remain in that position. Take your hands off the floor, sir, and do not rest them on the floor again. Continue with your head in soak until you are directed to do otherwise."
Even Anstey had to look grimly satisfied with this punishment. The unhappy plebe certainly did present a most laughable yet woeful appearance. It seemed impossible to keep this position, without occasional steadying by the hands, but it had to be done. If the reader does not consider it a hard feat to kneel thus, with one's head immersed in the water, the reader can easily satisfy his curiosity on the point.
Having thus put the plebe in soak, the yearlings all turned away from him, conversing among themselves on one subject and another.
Yet, had the plebe ventured to raise his head somewhat out of the water, or to seek support from his hands, he would quickly have discovered that he was being effectively if covertly watched.
Minute after minute the plebe remained "in soak." To him it seemed, of course, like hours.
At last, when human endurance of the Briggs brand could last no longer, the plebe gave an expected lurch sideways, falling flat, upsetting the bucket and causing much of the water flow along his own neck and beneath his underclothing.
"Mister, you are not on your knees, as directed," exclaimed Cadet
Prescott.
"I—-I am sorry, sir, but I couldn't help falling over," replied crestfallen Mr. Briggs, standing at attention beside his overturned bucket.
He wriggled slightly, in a way eloquently suggestive of the water that was trickling over his skin under his clothing.
"Did you get wet, mister?" asked Dick.
"Yes, sir."
"Skin wet?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now, that is really too bad, mister," continued Prescott in a tone that hinted at a great deal of sympathy. "You mustn't be permitted to get chilled. Exercise is what you need."
Dick paused.
"Poor, young Mr. Briggs stood mute, blinking back.
"Milesy, may Mr. Briggs have the use of your piece for a few minutes?"
"Why, surely," declared Cadet Furlong in a tone of great cordiality.
"Mr. Briggs, take Mr. Furlong's piece, and go through the silent manual of arms," ordered the president of the yearling class.
Mr. Briggs picked up the rifle that Furlong pointed out to him. Then, trying to look very grave in order to hide the extreme sheepishness that he really felt, Mr. Briggs brought the rifle up to port arms.
"Proceed through the manual, mister," Dick counseled. "And keep going until we decide that you have done it long enough to put you past the danger of pneumonia."
Standing stiffly, the plebe started through the manual of arms. As soon as he had gone once through, with West Point precision in every movement, the plebe started in all over again.
"Now, do this to the stationary marching, mister," added Dick gravely, as though prescribing something for the very immediate benefit of the luckless fourth classman.
With that, Mr. Briggs began to "march," though not stirring from the spot on which he was stationed. Left, right! left, right! left, right! his feet moved, in the cadence of marching. At the same time the victim was obliged to raise his feet.
"Bring the feet up higher and more smartly, mister," directed
Dick.
Passing the rifle through every movement of the manual of arms, lifting his feet as high as he could, and yet obliged to bring them down noiselessly to the floor, Plebe Briggs quickly began to drip with perspiration.
Yet his inquisitors sat by with the judicial gravity of drill sergeants. For ten minutes Mr. Briggs continued this grotesque work. He knew better than to stop; it would not be wise, even, to send any appealing glances at his inquisitors.
"Halt!" called Prescott softly, at last.
Briggs stopped, holding himself at attention after he had allowed the butt of the rifle to touch the floor noiselessly.
"Mister, return Mr. Furlong's piece."
The plebe obeyed, wondering what next was in store for him. Prescott noted that Mr. Briggs's legs were trembling under him.
"That is all, for the present, mister," announced the class sergeant. "But you will hold yourself in readiness, in case we call you out for a soiree this evening."
"Yes, sir," assented the plebe.
"You may go."
Mr. Briggs judged that he had better salute the yearling class president very carefully as he passed out with his bucket. This he did, then hastened down the company street.
This time, when he had vanished behind his own tent flap, Mr. Briggs didn't indulge in any grimaces or chuckles. Instead, he made haste to get off his dripping garments and to get out others, after he had enjoyed a rub down.
"Serves me right!" muttered the plebe. "I had been getting along first rate, with nobody bothering me. Then I had to get that b.j. streak on this afternoon. Now, I suppose I'm a marked plebe!"
CHAPTER III
GREG DEBATES BETWEEN GIRLS AND MISCHIEF
"Considering that you are the noble class president, who had just made us feel so ashamed over our thoughts of hazing," muttered Mr. Furlong, "I must say, Prescott, that I don't look upon you as any tyro at hazing."
"This case was very different," Dick answered quietly. "This plebe, Briggs, was caught in a very rank piece of b.j.-ety. We couldn't let his offence go by. We hazed him for a straight cause, not merely for being a plebe. What I object to is annoying plebes simply because they are green men."
"But what about that soiree you mentioned to the plebe?" demanded
Griffin eagerly.
"I told him only to be ready if called," Prescott made reply. "I had no intention of bringing him over for a soiree this evening, unless the plebe does something else raw in the meantime."
A "soiree" is an institution of the summer encampment. The plebe who is in for a soiree may be either a man who has committed some direct offence against the upper classmen, or a plebe who has been observed to be simply too b.j. in general. Mr. Plebe is directed to present himself at the tent of some upper classman. Several yearlings are here gathered to receive him. He is taken in hand in no gentle way. He is rebuked, scored "roasted." He is made to feel that he is a disgrace to the United States Military Academy, and that he never will be a particle of value in the Service. Mr. Plebe is hauled over the coals in a fashion that few civilians could invent or carry out. Very likely, on top of all the lecturing, the man will be severely hazed. He is also quite likely, especially if he show impatience, to be called out for a fight.
The b.j.-est plebe, after a soiree by capable yearlings, is always afterwards observed to be a very meek plebe.
The rain continued so long that not only were afternoon drills escaped, but dress parade as well. It was not, in fact, much before supper time that the rain stopped and the sun came out briefly. But the brief period of relaxation had been appreciated hugely throughout camp. Three quarters of the cadets under canvas had found time for at least a two hours' sleep.
When the battalion marched back from supper, and was dismissed, the young men turned to for their evening of leisure and pleasure.
Over at Cullum Hall there was to be a hop for the evening.
Not all cadets, however, attend hops at any time.
Not long after supper many of the cadets began to dress carefully.
"Going to the hop, old ramrod?" inquired Mr. Furlong, standing just outside his tent while he fitted a pair of white gloves over his hands.
"Not to-night," returned Dick indifferently.
"Why, do you know, you haven't shown your face at hop yet?" Furlong demanded. "Yet when we were under instruction in the plebe class, you turned out to be one of our best dancers."
"Oh, I'll be in at one of the hops, later on in the summer," responded
Prescott.
"One?" gasped Furlong. "Oh, you wild, giddy thing! You're going to do better, aren't you, Holmesy?" continued Furlong, as Dick's old chum came out, fitting on a pair of white gloves.
"I'm going over and put my head in danger of being punched, I suppose," grinned Greg. "I'm going to have the nerve to 'stag it' tonight."
The man who "stags it"—-that is, does not escort any young woman friend to the hop, must needs dance, if at all, with the girl some other cadet has "dragged." This sometimes causes bad feeling.
"I'm going to drag a 'spoony femme' tonight," declared Furlong, contentedly. "She's no 'L.P.,' at that."
"Dragging a femme" is to escort a young woman to the hop. If she be "spoony," that means that she is pretty. But an "L.P." is a poor dancer.
"Hotel?" inquired Greg.
"Yes," nodded Mr. Furlong, turning to leave. "Miss Wilton. I don't believe you've met her. Unless she dislikes your looks I may present you to her."
"Do," begged Greg. "I'd enjoy going through a few dreamy numbers."
Mr. Furlong, having permission to go to the hotel for Miss Wilton, started off, moving at his best soldier's step. After registering at the hotel office, in the book kept for that purpose, as every cadet is required to do, Mr. Furlong hoped for several minutes of talk with his pretty partner, either in a corner of the parlor, or on the veranda. Only the parlor and the veranda are open to cadets having permission to call at the hotel.
Greg, having no companion to go after, brought out his stool and seated himself beside Dick in front of the tent.
"Why don't you go over to the hop tonight, Dick?" Greg asked.
"Mainly because I don't wish to," replied Prescott, with a smile.
"Granted. But I am rather wondering why you don't wish to."
"I think you can keep a secret, Greg," replied his old Gridley chum, looking quizzically at Holmes. "Greg, I'm too awfully lonesome to trust myself at the hop tonight.
"Eh? Why, old ramrod, the hop ought to be the very place to lose that lonesome feeling."
"Just what I'm afraid of," responded Prescott.
"You—-eh—-huh! You're talking riddles now.
"Greg, a cadet can't marry. Or, if he does, his marriage acts as an automatic resignation, and he's dropped from the cadet corps."
"I know all that," Holmes assented.
"Now, here at West Point, with this nearly male-convent life, a fellow often gets so blamed lonesome that almost any girl looks fine to him, Greg. First thing he knows, a cadet, being a natural gallant, anyway, goes so far in being spoons with some girl that he has to act like a gentleman, then, and declare intentions. A fellow can't show a nice girl a whole lot of spoony attentions, and then back off, letting the girl discover that he has been only fooling all summer. You've heard, Greg, of plenty of cadets who have engaged themselves while here at the Academy."
"Yes," nodded Greg. "There's no regulation against a cadet becoming engaged to a girl. The regulation only forbids him to marry while he's a cadet."
"Now, a fellow like one of us either goes so far, in his lonesomeness, that he's grateful to a bright girl for cheering him and imagines he's in love with her; or else he finds that the girl thought he was in love with her, and she expects him to propose. Greg, I don't want to make any mistakes that way. It's easy for a cadet to capture the average girl's heart; it's his uniform, I suppose, for women always have been weak when uniforms enveloped fellows who otherwise wouldn't attract their notice. Greg, I wonder how many cadets have been lonesome enough to propose to some girl, and afterwards find out it was all a mistake? And how many girls fall in love with the uniform, thinking all the while that it's the fellow in the uniform? How many cadets and girls recover from the delusion only in after years when it's too late. I tell you, Greg, when a fellow gets into this cadet life, I think the practice of going too often to a hop may be dangerous for cadets and girls alike!
"I'll get cold feet if I listen to you long," laughed yearling Holmes grimly. "I wonder if I'd better pull these gloves off and stay where I am?"
"I didn't have any idea of seeking to persuade you," Dick replied. "If you feel proof against the danger, run right over to Cullum and enjoy yourself."
"I was just thinking," mused Greg, "of a promise you and Dave
Darrin made some girls back in Gridley."
"I remember that promise," nodded Dick.
"You and Darrin promised Laura Bentley and Belle Meade that you'd each invite them to hops, you to West Point and Dave to Annapolis, just as soon as either one of you had a right to attend hops."
"I know," nodded Prescott.
Greg was silent. After a few moments Dick ventured:
"Greg, I kept that promise the day we moved into encampment—-the first day that I was a yearling."
"Oh! Are Laura and Belle coming on West Point soon?" Holmes asked eagerly.
"I don't know. I'll be mighty glad when I do know. But undoubtedly Darrin has invited them to Annapolis, too. Now, it may be that, even if the girls can get away to travel a bit, they can't go to West Point and to Annapolis in the same season. So the girls may be trying to make up their minds—-which."
"I hope they come here," murmured Holmes fervently.
"So do I," Prescott replied promptly.
"Dick—-do you—-mind if I ask a question," demanded Greg slowly.
"No," smiled Dick, "for I think I know what it is."
"Are you—-is Laura—-I mean——-"
"You wonder whether Laura and I had any understanding before I left Gridley? That's what you want to know?"
"That is what I was wondering."
"There is no understanding between us—not the least," Prescott replied. "I don't know whether Laura would consent to one, now or later. I don't know myself yet, either, Greg. I want to wait until I have grown some in mind. Laura Bentley is such a magnificent girl that it would be a crime to make any mistake either as to her feelings or mine."
"Do you think good old Dave and Belle Meade had any understanding before Dave left Gridley?"
"Dave went away after we did," Prescott answered. "So I can't be sure. But I don't believe Dave and Belle are pledged in any way."
"Funny game, the whole thing!" sighed Greg, rising. He had drawn off one of his white lisle-thread gloves, but now he was engaged in putting it on again.
"Confidence deserves to be paid in the same coin, Greg," warned his chum. "Did you leave any girl—-back in Gridley—-or elsewhere."
"Dick, old ramrod," replied Cadet Holmes, frankly, as he finished drawing on his glove, "I'm unpledged, and, to the best of my belief, I'm wholly heart free."
"Look out that you keep so for two or three years more, then," laughed Dick, and Holmes, nodding lightly, strode away.
Despite the hop, there were some visitors in camp that evening. Dick was presently invited over to join a group that was entertaining three college boys who had dropped off at West Point for two or three days.
Greg spent an hour or so at the hop. He was introduced to Miss Wilton, a pretty, black-eyed little girl, and danced one number with her. He presently secured another partner. But too many of the cadets were "stagging it" that night. There were not feminine partners enough to go around.
"My cue is to cut out, I guess," mused Greg, finding himself near the entrance to the ballroom.
Once outside, Greg drew off his gloves, thrusting them in under the breast of his gray uniform coat. He wasn't quite decided whether to go back to Cullum later. But at present he wanted to stroll in the dark and to think.
"I reckon I'll take Dick's line of philosophy, and cut girls a good deal," decided Greg. "Yet, at West Point in the summer, it's either girls or mischief. Mischief, if carried too far, gets a fellow bounced out of the Academy, while girls—-I wonder which is safer?"
Still guessing, Cadet Holmes wandered a good way from Cullum Hall, and was not again seen that night on the polished dancing floor.
* * * * * * * *
Anstey had gone visiting some other yearlings. Dick, after leaving the college boys and their hosts, felt that a slow stroll outside of camp would be one of the pleasantest ways of passing the time until taps at 10.30. Even after the rain, the night was close and sultry.
"Don't you sing, Prescott?" called a first classman as Dick passed near the head of the color line. "Some of our glee-club fellows are getting together to try some old home songs."
But Dick shook his head. Though he possessed a fair voice, the singing of sentimental or mournful ditties was not in his line that night. He heard the strumming of guitars and mandolins as he left camp behind.
Dick did not hurry, even to get away from the music. He kept on up the road, and by the hotel, but was careful not to enter the grounds, though three or four yearlings called gayly to him from the hotel veranda. He had no permission for tonight to visit the hotel.
"I'm not going to get into a row with the K.C. for a stupid little violation like that," he muttered.
Presently Dick's stroll took him over in the neighborhood of "Execution Hollow," the depression in the ground below where the reveille gun is stationed.
Suddenly Dick halted, an amused look creeping into his face.
"Now, who'd suspect good old Greg of getting into sheer mischief, all by himself?" the class president asked himself.
For Holmes was bending a bit low, a hundred yards or so away, and stealing toward the fieldpiece that does duty as reveille gun.
"It would be a shame to bet on what Greg's up to—-it would be too easy!" muttered Prescott, standing behind a flowering bush at the road's edge. "Greg is going to load the reveille gun, attach a long line to the firing cord, and rig it across the path here, so that some 'dragger,' coming back from seeing his 'femme' home, will trip over the cord and fire the gun. The dragger can't be blamed for what he didn't do on purpose, and cute little Greg will be safe in his tent. But if Greg should happen to be caught it might mean the bounce from the Academy! And, oh, wow!"
Cadet Prescott's heart seemed to stop beating. Glancing down the road he saw a man standing, there, in the olive drab uniform of the Army officer. Captain Bates, of the tactical department, was quietly watching unsuspecting Cadet Holmes.
CHAPTER IV
THE O.C. WANTS TO KNOW
As has been said, Cadet Prescott felt as though his heart had stopped beating.
In another instant mischievous Cadet Holmes would actually be slipping a shell into the reveille gun, if it were not already loaded, and then attaching a cord, to lay a trap for some other unsuspicious cadet.
Captain Bates, who was quietly looking on, would have Mr. Holmes red handed.
Charges would be preferred. Undoubtedly Greg would soon be journeying homeward, his dream of the Army over.
Dick could not call out and warn Greg.
That would be a breach of discipline that would recoil surely upon Mr. Prescott's head, making him equally guilty with his chum.
Yet, to see Greg walk unsuspectingly into the "tac.'s" hands in this fashion! It was not to be thought of.
For two or three seconds all manner thoughts played through Dick's mind.
But, no matter what happened to him, loyalty would not allow him to stand by a mere mute spectator of Greg's downfall.