The rest of that day, and far into the night, ignoring the warning of tattoo and taps, the cadets discussed the sham battle. It had been a glorious affair, and they fought it all over again in their tents, the defeated ones explaining that if "this" had happened, "that" wouldn't have taken place.
"But for all that, you can't deny but that Dick saved the day for Dutton," argued Paul.
"He certainly did," was the general reply.
The battle practically ended the military instruction at camp. The next day was devoted to resting and light drills. Several lads had received severe sprains or bruises, due to their haste or enthusiasm, and one horse had a cut leg caused by the accident to the bridge.
There was some disposition to criticize Dutton for not seeing that the structure was secure before sending his artillery over, but Major Webster declared that as no serious accident had resulted no fault could be found. As for the young major it was bitter for him to have to admit, as he grudgingly did, that he would have failed but for Dick Hamilton.
Another day spent in camp, when all discipline was relaxed, and the cadets were allowed to do about as they pleased, brought the outing to a close. Then all sorts of tricks were played, and more than one crowd of freshmen found their tent coming down unexpectedly about their heads that night, as the mischief makers loosened the pegs.
Bright and early the next morning the tents were struck, the baggage was loaded into the wagons, and the "hike" to the academy was begun. The cadets fell into line, and with swinging step, to the tune of "The Girl I Left Behind Me," paraded off the camping ground.
It was rather hard to settle down again to the grind of lessons, but Colonel Masterly and his colleague knew how to handle boys, and in between study and recitation periods were drills and cavalry and infantry exercises so that gradually the routine was resumed again, and every one felt better for the outing.
One day, as Dick and Paul came in from the campus, they saw a notice on the bulletin board. It was to the effect that candidates for the 'Varsity baseball team would report in the gymnasium that night.
"That's the stuff!" cried Dick enthusiastically.
"Are you going to play?" asked Paul.
"Sure. Why not?"
"Well, you didn't get much show at football last year."
"Can't help it. I may this time."
"Dutton is just as much against you as ever."
"I know it, but I may get a chance just the same. I'm going to begin training, and I'll keep at it until the last game."
Dick was as good as his word. He rather hoped he might make the regular nine, but he learned that Dutton and his set were against him, and the best he could do was to be named as a substitute shortstop.
The season opened rather badly for Kentfield, for they lost the first game, and that against a small college team. It was because Captain Rutledge was so confident that he did not play his men with any vim, and several bad fumbles cost them the game.
They won the first of the championship contests with Mooretown academy, and lost the second, making it a tie, and so the third game, which would be played at Kentfield that spring, would be an important and the deciding one.
Dick got an opportunity to play on the regular team once during the last few innings, but as the game, which was with a small college, was won by the cadets before he went into it, his performance did not receive much credit.
"If I only get a chance to play against Mooretown," he said to Paul, "I'll be satisfied. Anyhow, I'm one of the subs."
It was the day of the great and deciding game with Mooretown. Dick was struggling into his trousers and blouse in his room, when Toots brought him word that there was a visitor for him in the reception room.
"Who is it, Toots?" he asked. "I haven't much time. Most of the fellows are already on the diamond."
"He says his name is Honeybee, as near as I can make out."
"Honeybee," repeated Dick, much puzzled. "Oh, it must be Larabee. It's my Uncle Ezra!"
Then a look of annoyance came over his face.
"If I go down to see him he'll keep me from the game," he thought. "I haven't any time to spare. He'll lecture me about the waste of time in playing baseball, or the danger of it, or something like that. Or he may want me to show him around the academy. No, he's not likely to do that, for fear he'd wear out his shoes. I wonder what in the world he can want, anyhow? But if I see him now I'll never get a chance to play. I'll not see him."
"Toots," he said, "tell my uncle that I have an important engagement, and ask him to wait until I come back."
"All right, Mr. Hamilton," replied the janitor. "Shall I tell him what it is? Maybe he'd like to see the game," and Toots softly whistled "Just Before the Battle, Mother."
"No! No! Don't tell him!" exclaimed Dick. "He thinks baseball is wicked. Just say—say anything you like except that. I'll come back as soon as the game's over—if I'm alive. He won't mind waiting. It will give him a chance to think."
Which perhaps was not exactly polite on Dick's part. He hurried off, leaving Uncle Ezra in the reception room, wondering what important business his nephew had that kept him so long. And, by not seeing his Uncle Ezra, Dick missed hearing a bit of news that was destined to make a great change in his affairs. But he heard it later, as you will see.
While our hero was on his way to the field, hoping that he would get a chance to play, Uncle Ezra sat in the reception room. He was not very impatient at the delay. As Dick had said, it gave him a chance to think.
Presently the door opened, and Russell Glen looked in the apartment. He was in search of Dutton, having been told the young major was there. Not seeing his friend, he was about to withdraw, with an apology for having disturbed Mr. Larabee.
"Are you one of the students here?" asked Dick's uncle, who was getting rather tired waiting.
"Yes. I'm in my second year."
"Ah, then you must know my nephew, Richard Hamilton?"
"Oh, yes, I know Dick."
"Richard is his proper name," corrected Mr. Larabee stiffly.
Glen nodded, and was about to go out.
"If you see him, I wish you would tell him to hurry," went on Mr. Larabee. "I have been waiting for some time for him, but he sent word that he had an important engagement, and would see me later."
Glen guessed what the "engagement" was, so he merely nodded.
"I want to see him very particularly," continued the aged man, "as I have some important news for him. It may make a great difference in his life. In fact, I'm sure it will."
Glen opened his eyes at this, and decided not to go just yet.
"Has some one left him some more millions?" he asked in a joking tone.
"Far from it," said Mr. Larabee in solemn accents.
"Eh?" asked Glen, wondering what was coming.
"I always said it was foolish for my sister to leave Richard so much money," went on Mr. Larabee severely, "and I told Mortimer Hamilton that he was risking his money to go to Europe. Now, what I said would happen has happened."
"Is Mr. Hamilton in trouble?" asked Glen, not a little rejoiced to find that difficulties were in store for Dick.
"Well, I'd call it trouble to lose nearly all my fortune. But it serves Mortimer right, and Richard also."
"Has Mr. Hamilton lost his money?" inquired Glen, coming closer to Mr. Larabee.
"Practically so."
"And Dick?"
"A large part of his is gone also. It was invested with Mr. Hamilton's. I received word of it yesterday, and I hurried to come here and tell him. A New York bank, in which Mr. Hamilton was largely interested, and in which were most of Dick's funds, as well his father's, has failed."
"Then Mr. Hamilton isn't a millionaire any longer?"
"I fear not."
"And Dick?" asked Glen eagerly.
"He has very little left."
"Whew!" whistled the cadet. This would be news indeed to the students. He must hasten and tell them.
"That's what I came to see my nephew about," went on Mr. Larabee. "I want him to come away from this expensive school, and live with me until his father returns. Oh, the money that young man has wasted! It is awful! Terrible!" and Uncle Ezra seemed about to faint with the horror of it.
"Shall I find Dick for you?" asked Glen.
"I wish you would, young man. I want to tell him this news, and take him back with me. I have a return ticket on the railroad, and if I stay over night it will be no good. Besides I am afraid my hired man will use kerosene oil in starting the fire if I am not home by morning, and he might burn down the house. One can not be too careful of money. Mortimer and my nephew are a terrible example. Find him for me, if you will, please."
"I will," promised Glen, hurrying away. "My word!" he exclaimed as he ran out on the campus. "Hamilton's money all gone! Then he's no better than the rest of us now. He'll come down a peg or two."
Considering that Dick had never tried to hang himself on a "peg," this seemed a useless as well as cruel remark.
"I wish I had borrowed a hundred from him yesterday, instead of fifty," mused Glen, as he hurried on toward the baseball field. As he neared it he heard shouts and cheers.
"The game's started," he exclaimed, as he broke into a run.
Dick Hamilton hurried across to the players' bench, tightening his belt as he ran.
"If I only get a chance to play," he kept thinking. "I don't care what happens after that, nor what Uncle Ezra may want."
The game soon started, and it began to look bad for Kentfield, for the outfielders made several costly errors, and at the ending of the sixth inning the score was eight to three, in favor of Mooretown.
"Looks rather bad," said Captain Rutledge to the coach.
"Nonsense," replied Hale. "You can win yet. Take a brace, that's all."
Kentfield had elected to be last at the bat, and, in the beginning of the seventh inning, when Mooretown was up, Perkins, the regular short stop, split his hand in stopping a "hot" ball. The other players gathered about him.
"I guess it's all up with us now," remarked Dutton, from his seat in the grandstand. "We haven't got anyone who can play like Perkins. Hamilton is green. Our goose is cooked."
"Say, I've got some news about Hamilton," spoke Russell Glen, worming his way to Dutton's side, during the lull in the contest following the injury of Perkins.
"I don't care. I want to see how this game is coming out."
Perkins walked to the bench, blood dripping from his hand.
"Hamilton!" cried Captain Rutledge, and Dick sprang from the bench, pulling off his sweater. His chance had come.
"Hamilton's going to play," said Dutton. "Oh, what a score they'll roll up against us! They'll knock all their balls at him, and he'll miss them. What were you saying about Hamilton?" he went on, turning to Glen. "This is tough luck, though!"
"Hamilton has lost all his money!" cried Glen, and his tone seemed to show that he relished the news.
"No!"
"Fact. His uncle told me," and Glen related the story he had received from Mr. Larabee.
Dutton was greatly surprised, and so were several other cadets who overheard what Glen had said. But there was little time to speculate on it, as the game was under way again.
Whether it was Dick's presence at shortstop, or because the other players on his team braced up, was not evident. At any rate, Mooretown was held down to a goose egg in that inning, and when it came the turn of Kentfield to show what the nine could do in the ending of the seventh inning, there were three runs to the credit of the cadets, Dick having made one.
"The score is six to eight!" murmured Glen to Dutton. "Hamilton isn't doing so bad."
"No, but he would if he knew all his money was gone, I guess."
"Maybe we ought to tell him," suggested the sporty student.
"I wish I could," murmured Dutton.
The game went on fiercely. It was nip and tuck all the while now, for Kentfield's chances had improved wonderfully, and they were fighting hard to win.
In the eighth inning neither side scored. There was an anxious look on the faces of all the players as the ninth opened. Mooretown could afford to smile, however, as she was still two runs ahead. At first it looked as if she would pile up several more tallies on this score, for the Kentfield pitcher gave two men their bases on balls, and the next man got to first on an easy fly.
A heavy hitter was up next, and at the first crack he sent a "hot liner" straight at Dick. Our hero did not flinch, though the impact was terrific. He caught the ball squarely, and the batter was out. Then, by a neat double play, Dick and the third baseman put out another man who was trying to steal home.
The next batter struck out, retiring Mooretown without a run, but still leaving them two ahead.
"Now, fellows, we must show them what we're made of!" cried the captain. "We want three runs this inning!"
Captain Rutledge did his share by getting one, and another was brought in by a narrow margin, tying the score.
"One to win!" cried the coach.
"Hamilton up!" announced the score keeper.
"And two out!" added Dutton to Glen. "He can never do it. We're dumped already."
Dick took his place at the plate. It was a trying ordeal for a substitute player, and the eyes of all the spectators were upon him. The result of the game, in a great measure, depended on him. If he did not get the winning run, it meant that the game would go another inning, and the chances of Kentfield would not be improved. For their pitcher's arm was going "back on him," and Mooretown's man was still good for much twirling.
Amid a silence that was almost painful, Dick waited for the first ball. It came, but he did not move his bat.
"One strike!" called the umpire, and there was something like a groan among the Kentfield players.
The next was a ball, and the following one looked as if it was going fairly over the plate. But Dick did not attempt to hit it.
It was like a death knell.
"He's cutting it pretty fine," murmured the captain nervously.
"Hamilton's all right," said Coach Hale confidently.
A moment later there came a resounding crack, as Dick's bat met the ball fairly. The horsehide went up in a graceful curve, and then sailed far out toward right field.
"Go on! Go on! Go on!" yelled Captain Rutledge, but his voice was lost in the roar that greeted Dick's hit. The young millionaire was leaping toward first base, while the right fielder was sprinting after the ball.
"A home run! A home run!" begged the coach, and it looked as if Dick would do it.
He got to third, and started for home. The fielder had the ball by this time, and relayed it to second. The man there threw it to third just as Dick left. Possibly it was an error of judgment, but Dick kept on. He could distinguish no coaching instructions now above the yells, though Hale was calling to him to remain on the bag. But Dick kept on.
Then, by some curious chance, the third baseman, instead of sending the ball home, held it in his hand, and raced after Dick. It was a contest of legs now. The baseman ignored the demands of the catcher to throw the ball, and leaped after Dick, who ran as he had never run before. He saw a vision of the game won, and, though his breath was coming in labored gasps, he did not stop. There was a mist before his eyes. His legs were tottering.
"Jove! But he can run!" whispered Dutton. "I never saw anything like it!"
"You bet!" agreed Glen fervidly.
On and on ran Dick. One quick glance over his shoulder showed him the baseman at his heels. He expected every moment to see the catcher get the ball, and put him out. But the horsehide did not come, and, the next instant, when Dick felt as if he could not go another inch, or draw another breath, he dropped, and slid home in a cloud of dust.
"Safe!" cried the umpire, and, as he spoke, the baseman, realizing the proper play, threw the ball. But it was too late. Dick had brought in the winning run.
"Wow! Wow! Wow! Hamilton! Hamilton! Hamilton! Whoop!" yelled the frenzied players. Above their shouts could be heard the shrill cries of many girls.
From the stands burst forth mighty cheers. A crowd of the cadet players surrounded Dick and would have carried him on their shoulders had he allowed them. They patted him on the back, and even punched him in their uncontrollable joy.
"Hamilton, you're entitled to the thanks of the entire school!" cried Coach Hale, rushing up, and wringing Dick's hand.
"We never could have won but for you!" admitted the captain. "Wow! but it was a fierce game!" and he sat down on the grass to recover his wind, after his lusty cheers.
They escorted Dick back to the dressing room in a sort of triumphal procession, scores of cadets pouring from the stands to join it. Never did a hero takes his honors more modestly. It was enough for Dick that he had helped win the victory, and he saw coming to him now what he had waited nearly a year for—fellowship.
Through the throng came Dutton and Glen.
"I say, Hamilton," called Glen, "your uncle's waiting for you."
"I know it," answered Dick. "But I couldn't talk to him until after the game."
"He's got news for you—bad news," went on Glen, with the relish some persons seem to take in telling of calamities.
"What is it?" inquired Dick, alarmed by the cadet's words and manner.
"Your father's fortune is wiped out, and so's yours! The New York bank has failed!"
For an instant Dick stared at the speaker. Then a changed look came over his face. He stepped forward, his suit covered with dirt, his face bleeding from a scratch, and still panting from his great run.
"My fortune lost?" he said. "I don't care a hang! We've won the game!"
There was a moment of silence so surprised were the cadets at the manner in which Dick took the news. Then Glen cried out:
"My word, but you're plucky! Three cheers for Hamilton—who used to be a millionaire—but isn't any longer," he added, and Dick's ears rang with the joyous shouts.
"Well, Nephew Richard, I've been waiting some time for you," said Uncle Ezra Larabee a little later, when Dick, having gotten out of his suit and donned his cadet uniform, went into the reception room. "I've been here for some time, and very likely I've lost my train, but I couldn't go back without seeing you."
"I'm sorry I kept you so long, Uncle Ezra," replied Dick, "but you see I was in a baseball game, and I couldn't leave until we won. It was very important to win."
"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed the old man. "Baseball is a dangerous and wicked game. It leads to all sorts of trouble. When I was a boy we played such sensible games as tag and blind-man's buff. Baseball! The idea!"
"The cadets of Kentfield would look pretty playing tag," thought Dick, but he did not say anything.
"I have some bad news for you, Nephew Richard," went on Uncle Ezra. "I suppose you wonder what it is."
"I know."
"Yes, Glen told me."
"Oh, he must be the young man whom I was talking to. Well, I regret very much to be the bearer of such ill tidings," went on Mr. Larabee, "but, if you are hoping that it is not true, you are much mistaken. I received word from New York yesterday that the bank in which was most of your father's wealth, as well as your own, which your mother, my sister, so foolishly left you——"
"Sir!" cried Dick, for he could not bear to hear his mother spoken of in that way.
"Well, I think it foolish to leave a youth so much money," said Mr. Larabee, "and now my judgment is confirmed. You are no longer a millionaire."
"I don't know as I care much," said Dick coolly. "My money didn't do as much as I expected it would."
"Foolish, perverse youth," murmured his uncle. "But you must make a change in your plans. You can no longer stay at this expensive school. You had better pack up your things and come home with me to Dankville. I will look after you until your father comes home from Europe. Doubtless I may be able to get you a position in a woolen mill in which I am interested. If you hurry we can take the late train, and I will be able to use the excursion ticket I bought."
Dick considered matters a moment. Then he said:
"I don't think I'll go with you, Uncle Ezra."
"Not go with me? Why, what will you do?"
"Stay here and finish out the spring term. I'm just beginning to enjoy himself. There are only a few weeks left."
"But how can you? You have very little, if any, money."
"My tuition and board are paid up to the end of this term," said Dick calmly. "I have considerable money on deposit in the Kentfield bank, that I drew out from my funds at Hamilton Corners, when I came here. That will last me for some time. I think I prefer staying here to going back to—to Dankville."
"Well, of all the foolish, idiotic, senseless, rash proceedings I ever heard of!" exclaimed Uncle Ezra. "The idea! You will stay here and use up what little money is saved from the wreck of your fortune! Why, maybe you could get a rebate on what has been paid for board and tuition."
"I shouldn't think of asking for it," said Dick. "No, I think I'll stick it out here."
There was a movement at the door, and something came into the room, something that slid up to Dick, and began wiggling at his feet.
"Quiet, Grit, old boy," he said.
"Is that your bulldog?" asked Uncle Ezra.
"Yes; he was too lonesome at home without me, so I sent for him. He stays in the stable."
"Another foolish and useless expense," murmured the old man. "Oh, what is the world coming to!"
Dick didn't know, so he didn't answer.
"Think well," went on Mr. Larabee. "You had better come home with me. I can get you work in the woolen mill."
"I'll stay here," replied Dick firmly.
"Then I wash my hands of you!" exclaimed the aged man. "Never appeal to me for help! I am done with you! Of all the foolish, thoughtless, rash youths I ever met, you are the worst; and your father——"
What Mr. Larabee would have said about Mr. Hamilton he never finished, for Grit, hearing the voice of a man he considered his enemy, made a rush from under the table where he was lying, and growled as though he was going to sample Uncle Ezra's legs.
"Take that brute away!" exclaimed Dick's crabbed relative, but before the order could be executed Mr. Larabee turned and fled from the room, Grit pursuing him as far as the hall.
"I guess we've seen the last of him for a while," mused Dick. "Eh, Grit, old boy?"
The bulldog nearly shook off his stump of a tail.
"Well, I guess I had better write to dad, and find out how bad things really are," he went on. "Still, there's no use worrying. I got along all right before I knew I was a millionaire, and I guess I can now when I'm not."
Someone looked in the reception room. It was Glen.
"I say, Hamilton," he remarked, "the boys are looking all over for you. They want you to lead a procession. We're going to have a grand celebration, burn the uniforms, and break training to celebrate the victory. Hurry up!"
"This is worth losing one's money for," thought Dick, as he took his place at the head of the procession of merry, shouting, laughing cadets. "I'm getting to be popular, I guess."
Indeed, whether it was his victory on the diamond or the loss of his money, it would be hard to say, but, at any rate, more cadets made friends with Dick that night than had done so in his whole previous time at Kentfield.
But though Dick had won the hearts of the baseball nine and their friends, he was still far from being one of the really popular lads in the school. Dutton and his cronies held aloof from him, and many followed their example.
But, unexpectedly, there came a great change in Dick's life, and Dutton was partly responsible for it. Dick and some of his companions were at broadsword exercise on horseback one day, while, on the farther side of the cavalry plain, there was a class drilling in artillery, under the direction of Dutton. Dick was fencing with Lyndon Butler, when suddenly Dutton's steed, frightened by the discharge of a cannon near it, reared, throwing the young major off.
Dutton's foot caught in the stirrup, and he was dragged along, unable to release himself, while six artillery horses, drawing a heavy gun, dashed down the field and seemed about to collide with the youthful major's animal.
Dick saw a chance to save his enemy, and turned his horse quickly, to make a dash. So rapid was his movement that Butler's sword gave him a gash in the face, Dick forgetting, in the excitement of the moment, to guard himself. With the blood streaming from a cut on his cheek Dick urged his horse at a gallop until he had caught Dutton's runaway mount. He did it only just in time, for, as he pulled the beast, still dragging the young major, to one side, the artillery steeds dashed over the spot. Dutton would have been killed but for Dick's prompt act.
Major Webster rode up quickly, and was glad to find that neither Dick nor Dutton was seriously hurt.
"Who caught my horse?" asked Dutton, as he struggled to his feet. "The last I remember was seeing him running toward the artillery animals, and I made up my mind there'd be quite a smash when they met."
"They didn't meet, thanks to Dick Hamilton," said the elderly major. "He stopped your horse just in time."
"And got a nasty cut into the bargain," added another cadet.
Dick was beginning to feel a trifle dizzy. He turned aside. Dutton took a step forward, in spite of his strained ankle.
"Hamilton," he said, and there was a husky note in his voice.
Dick turned back.
"Hamilton—I—er—I—I—will you shake hands?" asked Dutton suddenly, and he seemed much affected.
Dick grasped the outstretched hand, and the two, one of whom had been an unrelenting enemy of the other, looked into each other's eyes.
"Hamilton," went on Dutton, still holding Dick's hand, "I don't know how to thank you. Will you—will you forgive me?"
"Oh—there's nothing to forgive," said Dick.
"Yes, there is," said Dutton huskily. "I've treated you—I've been a cad, that's what I have! I didn't like you at first—I thought you were proud of your millions. I didn't like the idea of you being here—I was jealous, I guess. I wanted to make you quit. It was I who tied your dog to the saluting gun, and tried to throw the blame on you. I've done other mean things. I—I——"
"Forget it!" said Dick so heartily that the other cadets laughed, and thus broke what was becoming quite a strain.
Major Webster, when he heard the beginning of Dutton's confession, walked away. He was a wise old soldier, and he knew that the lads could best settle those things among themselves.
"And you don't bear me any grudge?" asked Dutton, after a pause.
"Not a bit. But you'd better get back to the hospital and have your ankle looked after," for Dutton was limping.
"Oh, that isn't anything. It might just as well have been my head. But, say, you got a nasty dig."
"Only a scratch," replied Dick with a happy laugh. He would have welcomed another one if it could have insured him such an outcome as had followed this.
"I guess we'd better take you both to the hospital," said Butler, who had ridden up, fearful lest he had seriously injured Dick.
And thither the two wounded cadets were taken, though their stay there was brief.
It was a week after the sensational rescue of Dutton that a meeting of the exclusive society of the Sacred Pig was held in the cosy little club-house which had been built by contributions and donations of the cadets themselves or their fathers. Dutton arose and proposed Dick for membership, the election being unanimous.
The next day being Saturday, was an occasion for the cadets enjoying considerable freedom. It was after the evening parade, when Dick and some of his new chums had received permission to go to town to a theatrical performance, that Major Webster sent for our hero.
"I'll not keep you a moment, Hamilton," he said, "as I know your friends are waiting for you. But you remember that battered marksman's medal that Toots had, and which you requested me to investigate for you?"
"Yes; have you any information about it?"
"I have. I sent it to a friend of mine, an officer at Fort Laramie, Wyoming, and he has just returned it. With it he sends some surprising news."
"What is it?"
"That medal was issued to Corporal William Handlee, a number of years ago."
"Corporal Handlee—the missing soldier—Captain Handlee's son?"
"The very same."
"Why, how—where did Toots get it, I wonder? Is it possible that he——"
"We must ask him. I will question him to-night, and let you know the result. Hark, there he comes now."
Someone was coming down the corridor, whistling the lively strains of "Yankee Doodle."
"That's Toots," said Dick with a smile. "I wonder how he came to have Handlee's medal. Can he possibly be——"
But at that instant there came a series of excited shouts from outside.
"Fire! Fire! Fire!"
Dick and the major rushed to the window.
"Fire! Fire!" shouted Toots, as he ran back along the corridor.
Dick saw a black pall of smoke, through which shot red tongues of flame.
"It's the society house of the Sacred Pig," he cried.
And it was from the windows of the meeting place of the cadets' society that the flames were shooting.
As Dick, followed by the major, rushed from the barracks to go to the fire, the housekeeper thrust an envelope into the young millionaire's hand.
"It is a telegram that just came for you," she explained.
Dick shoved it into his pocket without opening it. Then he joined the throng of excited and alarmed students that had gathered about the burning society headquarters.
A small fire department was maintained at the academy, but as the buildings of the school were all fireproof, the brigade was not a very large one, and was only equipped with chemical apparatus.
"We must telephone for the town fire department," cried Dutton.
"They won't get here in time to do much," said Major Webster. "Better save what you can inside, boys."
They saw that what he said was true. There was a stiff wind blowing, fanning the flames to furnace heat. The blaze had started on the upper floor, and had already eaten its way through the roof. No one knew what had caused the fire, as there was no one in the place when it started, and it had burned for some time before breaking out.
Fortunately, the structure was well away from any of the academy buildings, and there was little danger to them.
"Let's save what we can!" cried Dick, and the boys began running in, carrying out such of the trophies as they could find on the lower floor. But it soon became too hot for them, and Major Webster, fearing someone would get hurt, ordered the work of salvage to cease.
"Too bad!" observed Russell Glen, as he and others watched the handsome brick and stone building crumbling into ruins. "And we counted on having such sport there next term."
"Well, it's insured, isn't it?" asked Dick. "We can collect the money, and build a better one."
"Insured!" suddenly cried Dutton. "There, I meant to attend to that, but it slipped my mind!"
"What did?" asked Allen Rutledge.
"The insurance. It expired the day before yesterday."
"And do you mean to say you forgot to get it renewed?"
"I forgot all about it."
"And haven't we a cent of insurance on it?" asked Paul Drew.
"Not a penny. It's all my fault. I meant to get new policies, but I put it off and now——"
"Now it's too late," said Rutledge. "You're a fine treasurer, you are."
Amazement and chagrin made Dutton incapable of replying. The cadets looked on sorrowfully, as they saw their society house being destroyed, knowing that it would be no easy matter to get the money for a new one.
Suddenly there was an explosion from within, and a shower of stones from one of the walls flew into the air.
"Look out!" cried Dick.
He and the others leaped back in time, but Toots, who was in the front rank of spectators, having helped to carry out many valued relics, did not seem to hear. A moment later a fragment of stone struck him on the head, and he fell down.
"Toots is hurt!" cried Dick, running up to the odd janitor, whom all the cadets liked because of his pleasant ways.
"Carry him to the hospital, boys," said the major. "I'll have the surgeon attend to him. Maybe he isn't hurt much."
But from the blood on the head of poor Toots, it would seem that the wound was not a small one.
Sorrowfully Dick and his chums carried the unconscious man. There was little use remaining at the fire now, for it was almost out, having consumed everything save the walls.
"He isn't badly hurt," announced the surgeon cheerfully, when he had examined Toots. "Only a cut on the head. He'll be all right in a few days."
Suddenly the injured man, who had been placed on a couch in the hospital, sat up. He felt of the bandage on his head. Then he looked around wildly.
"Did we beat the red imps off?" he asked. "Why is it I don't hear the firing? Have they retreated? Am I badly hurt? Let me get at 'em again! I'm a good shot! I can pick 'em off!"
He started from his couch, but the surgeon gently pressed him back.
"What's the matter, Toots?" he asked. "Where do you think you are?"
"Toots? Who's Toots? I'm Corporal Bill Handlee, and I must get back to my post. I'm a sharpshooter, and the Indians are attacking us."
The surgeon looked at the injured man in amazement. He thought Toots was delirious. But to Dick the thrilling words meant much. He pressed forward. In his hand he held the battered marksman's medal which Major Webster had returned to him.
"Is this yours, Corporal Handlee?" he asked.
"Yes; where did you get it?" asked Toots. "But why don't some of you speak? Have we beaten off the red imps?"
"Yes," said Dick gently, understanding the whole story now. "They were beaten back some years ago, Toots. Oh, I've found you at last! Won't your father be glad!"
"My father?" and Toots, or, as we must call him now, Corporal Handlee, looked dazed. "My father knows where I am."
"He doesn't, but he soon will," said Dick joyfully, and by degrees, he told the story of how he had agreed to help Captain Handlee locate his missing son, and how, by a strange trick of fate, he had been found.
And that Toots was this missing son there was no doubt. His memory, a blank for many years, because of a bullet wound on the head, received in a fight with the Indians out west, had been restored to him. The surgeon explained it by saying that the blow from the stone, which exploded from the heat, had undone the injury caused by the bullet, by relieving the pressure of a certain bone on the brain. Such cases are rare, but not altogether unknown, he added, and persons who had forgotten for many years who they were suddenly recalled the past.
Of course Toots, or, Corporal Handlee, as we must now call him, could not tell where he had been all the years that he was missing. The last he remembered was taking part in an Indian fight, and being wounded. When he recovered consciousness from the blow of the hot stone, he thought he was still at Fort Lamarie. He had forgotten all the intervening time, including several years spent at Kentfield.
It was surmised that he must have wandered away after the Indian fight, recovered, though with his memory gone, taken another name, and then drifted about, until he secured a place at the military academy. That, the officers recalled, was five years ago.
The corporal had not recognized his own photograph, though something in his hazy memory made him think he knew the man the picture represented. His own medal as a marksman he had supposed belong to another.
"I must send Captain Handlee a telegram at once," said Dick, when the excitement had calmed down. "It will be great news for him."
Leaving Corporal Handlee in charge of the surgeon, the old soldier being quite weak, and hardly able to understand all that had happened, Dick started for the telegraph office, which was not far from the school. He sent the message to the old captain, and, in getting out his money to pay for it, he put his hand in the pocket into which he had thrust the telegram the housekeeper had given him.
"Guess I'd better read it," he murmured. "The fire and finding Corporal Handlee made me forget all about it."
It was from his father, and was very short, but the news it contained made Dick throw his cap up into the air, and yell out in pure delight.
"Wow!" he cried. "Wow! Wow! Wow!"
The operator came running from his little office.
"Got bad news?" he asked.
"Bad?" repeated Dick "No, it's the best in the world! My dad's coming home!"
"Seems to me you're making quite a fuss about it."
"So would you if you knew what else he said," spoke Dick, as he rushed from the building.
He found most of his chums grouped around the ruins of the society house. They were talking about the fire.
"It's all my fault," Dutton was saying. "I guess I'll resign as treasurer."
"I guess we won't have any society, if we can't have a meeting place," observed Hale, sorrowfully.
"Say, Dutton, have you a fountain pen?" asked Dick, as he came up beside his former enemy.
"I guess so. What do you want it for?"
"I'll show you."
Dick sat down on a pile of debris. From his pocket he took a thin, red book, and commenced writing in it by the light of the embers of the ruined society house. Presently he tore out a slip of paper and handed it to Dutton.
"What—what's this?" stammered the treasurer of the Sacred Pig. "Why—why—Hamilton!"
"What is it?" demanded a score of voices, as the cadets crowded up.
"It's a check—a check," stammered Dutton, as he saw the figures which Dick had written in, and noted that they occupied four places. "It's a check!"
"To rebuild the society house of the Sacred Pig," said our hero simply.
"But I—I thought you lost all your money, Hamilton," said Dutton.
"I thought so, too," replied Dick. "So did Uncle Ezra, but I cabled to dad, and it's all a mistake. He took all our funds from the bank that failed before he went abroad. We didn't lose a cent."
"Then you're a millionaire yet, aren't you?" asked Dutton.
"I'm—I'm afraid so," answered Dick.
There was silence for a moment, and then the cadets seemed to understand what Dick had done. They looked at the piece of paper fluttering in Dutton's hand. It meant that they could have a new and better headquarters for their society.
"Three cheers for Dick Hamilton!" called several, and Dick's ears rang to the sweetest music he had ever heard.
They all wanted to shake hands with him at once, and they made so much noise that Colonel Masterly sent one of the teachers out to see if the fire had started afresh.
"It's only the cadets cheering Mr. Hamilton, sir," replied the instructor, when he returned.
"Hum! He's getting to be quite popular," said the colonel, with a smile, for he understood about Dick's handicap.
And there was abundant evidence of his popularity a little later on, for they insisted on carrying Dick on their shoulders to the saluting cannon, where all important events were celebrated, and there they did a sort of war dance about him. Dick would have been glad to escape, but they would not let him.
"We don't want your money, honey, we want you!" they sang. And Dick knew that they spoke the truth. He had fulfilled another condition of his mother's will, and become popular in spite of his wealth, though for a time he feared this would never happen. He had thought of a plan to pretend that he had suddenly grown poor, but Uncle Ezra's mistake made this unnecessary.
"I don't know whether it's more fun to be rich or poor," thought Dick, as he went to bed that night. But he had other adventures, in which his great wealth played a part, and those of you who care to follow Dick Hamilton's fortunes further may read of them in the next volume of this series, to be called: "Dick Hamilton's Steam Yacht; or, A Young Millionaire and the Kidnappers."
"Well, how are you feeling this morning, Toots—I mean Corporal?" asked Dick, about a week later, when the janitor was able to leave the hospital.
"Fine. I'd never know I'd been sick. That was a lucky thing to get hit with a stone, so I could know who I really was. But I'm anxious to get home and see my father, since you say he's not well."
"Oh, he's not seriously ill," said Dick. "I had a letter from Henry Darby about him. He's so pleased that you have been located, that a sight of you is about all the medicine he needs."
"I can go home to him in a few days, Colonel Masterly says."
"You want to give us an exhibition of shooting before you go," suggested Dick.
"I'm afraid I'm all out of practice," objected the former corporal.
But he was not, as he very quickly proved, when he and some chums of Dick went to the rifle range. There the soldier made bullseye after bullseye with an ease that made the cadets fairly gasp, and he did all sorts of fancy shooting, including driving a tack in a board from even a greater distance than even Captain Handlee had boasted that his son could do it.
"I guess it must have been that my eyes were affected by that Indian bullet," said the corporal. "They got all right again when the stone from the fire hit me."
Later, the surgeon admitted that this was probably true.
A short time after this Corporal Bill Handlee joined his aged father in Hamilton Corners, and the two enjoyed many happy years together, thanks to Mr. Hamilton's generosity, and what Dick had done to solve the mystery.
"Well, Grit, old boy," said our hero one day near the close of the term, as he was strolling over the campus, followed by his ugly pet, and with Paul Drew, William the Silent and some other cadets at his side, "well, Grit, I think you and I will go home soon. Dad will be home next week, and say, maybe we won't have some good times; eh, Grit?"
The bulldog nearly turned a summersault to show how glad, he was. A few days later Dick and his dog were at Hamilton Corners, ready for the summer vacation.