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!”