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:
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.