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.