THE WEST POINT RIVALS
CHAPTER I.
ACCEPTING A CHALLENGE.
“Say, boys, listen to this!”
The speaker was a tall, gaunt cadet, dressed in the uniform of a West Point plebe. He was resting in a tent in summer encampment, and close at hand were two other plebes.
“What is it, Texas?” asked one of the other cadets.
“Goin’ to be a circus down to Highland Falls.”
“Well, what of it? We can’t go,” came from a cadet known as Parson Stanard, a tall, thin fellow hailing from Boston.
“Yes, but listen,” went on the first speaker. “This ’ere bill says as how they got a Texas bronco that nobody kin ride. Now, I ain’t a going to stand that, nohow. I’ll ride the bronco or bust myself a-tryin’.”
And Texas, otherwise known as Jeremiah Powers, from Hurricane County, Texas, leaped to his feet in his excitement.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Do? I’m a-goin’ to go down to town after dinner, and ride that bronco—or——”
“But it’s out of bounds, I tell you.”
“I’ll git a disguise, that’s wot I’ll do. I ain’t a-goin’ to spend a holiday afternoon sittin’ roun’ this camp while there’s a circus goin’ on. You fellers kin ef you want to. I ain’t seen a circus only once, an’ that was the same day I went to church. I rode fifty-six miles ’cross country to take in the both of ’em.”
After imparting that interesting bit of information, Texas seated himself on the platform of the tent once more and fell to reading assiduously the vivid programme of Smithers’ Circus, with its menagerie, dime museum and theatre combined, to say nothing of Circassian ladies, tattooed South Sea Islanders, fat ladies and living skeletons. The whole thing impressed Texas mightily, and when he finished he turned to the other two in the tent.
“I’ll bet you,” he growled, “ef Mark Mallory war here he’d go with me. I dunno how I’d live in this hyar place ef Mark Mallory warn’t in it. He’s got more life than any dozen o’ you fellers. The Banded Seven, that air society we plebes got up to stop the hazin’, wouldn’t ever do anything ef ’twarn’t fo’ him bein’ leader.”
“When will Mark be out of hospital?” inquired one of the others.
“I dunno,” said Texas, “but I reckon it’ll be pretty soon now. The burns air most all healed ’cept his hands, an’ durnation, they won’t keep him in fo’ that.”
“He always war lucky,” Texas continued, after a moment’s pause. “Jes’ think! He won’t have to do anything now but set roun’ an’ watch us plebes drill all day. An’ see how he’s fooled them ole cadets, too. He said he wouldn’t let ’em haze him and he’s licked every feller they sent to fight him. Then when they tried to make him fight Fischer, the one decent chap in the class an’ Mark’s friend, he said he wouldn’t. An’ after standin’ all their abuse all day he pitched in an’ rescued that girl from the fire when they warn’t a man of ’em dared it. They had to ’pologize after that.”
“He was quite a hero, wasn’t he, Texas?”
It was Mark Mallory’s voice!
Texas wheeled with an exclamation of delight, and the others rushed out of the tent and made a leap at the cadet who had thus laughingly spoken. He was a tall, handsome lad, with a frank, merry face. He had just entered camp and reached the tent as Texas concluded his discourse.
“Ef it ain’t Mark Mallory!” roared the latter, dancing about him in an ecstasy of delight. “Whoop! Say, ole man, I’m durnation glad to see ye. Gee whiz!”
These excited exclamations had brought the rest of the “Banded Seven,” Mark’s secret society, out of their tents in a hurry. There were Parson Stanard, and Sleepy, “the farmer,” and “B’gee” Dewey, the prize story teller, besides, Chauncey, “the dude,” who thought it undignified to hurry, brought up the rear, with “Indian,” the fat boy of Indianapolis. And the whole six got around Mark and fairly danced for joy at having their leader with them again.
“And, b’gee, he’s all well, too,” chuckled Dewey; “all but his hands.”
The “hands” of which this was said were for all the world like boxer’s gloves, they were so wrapped with bandages. That was the only thing that kept the six from having a fight to get hold of them and shake. It was fully ten minutes before they had managed to get enough of their congratulations expressed to satisfy themselves, and even then Mallory had to threaten to get mad if they didn’t stop telling him what a hero he was.
“I’ll run away to Texas,” he vowed, laughing.
“Where there are broncos you can ride,” put in Dewey, with a sly wink at the object of this allusion.
“Wow!” cried Texas. “That’s so! I mos’ forgot ’bout that air bronco since Mark come. Whoop!”
“What bronco?” inquired Mark, curious to know what new excitement his wild friend had found.
Texas told him, and as a clincher held the paper up before his eyes.
“Thar ’tis,” said he. “You kin read it an’ see Smasher— I’ll smash him, doggone his boots—”
“Do Texas horses wear boots?” inquired Dewey, anxiously. “B’gee, we never go better than plain shoes up our way.”
“Look a-yere, Mark,” demanded Texas, scorning to notice Dewey’s interruption. “I was jes’ a-sayin’ ef you were hyer you’d go with me to that air circus an’ bust up the old fake place. Naow will you?”
“Of course I will,” responded Mark. “So will the rest, too, I guess. I’ve been penned up in that old hospital for an age, and I’m just dying for a lark.”
“But where’ll we get disguises?” inquired the matter-of-fact Parson.
“I guess one of the drum orderlies can buy us some,” laughed the other. “We ought to have some ’cits’ clothing handy, anyway, so that we can be ready for some fun any time.”
“And we can keep it in that cave we found!” chirruped Indian, happily. “Bless my soul, that’ll be fine! I’ll go! I think it’ll be lots of fun to go to a circus in disguise.”
“Circuses are deucedly vulgah affairs,” commented the aristocratic Chauncey, with a sniff.
But even that young gentleman condescended to go when he found that all the rest were swept away by the prospect of seeing Texas ride “Smasher.” And as for Texas, he doubled up his fists and gritted his teeth and vowed he was going “to smash that ole show or git smashed doin’ it!”
Texas was destined to have all the fun he wanted that afternoon.