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.