"Er—yes," said Williams. "I believe it is." The fact of the matter was that he saw that Mark was in a position to force a fight if he chose, and the yearling was by no means reluctant, anyhow.

"I thank you for your courtesy," he continued, bowing Stanard out of the tent. "Tell Mr. Mallory that I shall send my second to see him this evening. Good-day."

And Stanard bowed and strode away with joy in his very stride.

"We have met the enemy," was his report to Mark. "We have met the enemy, and there's going to be a fight!"

CHAPTER XIII.
PREPARATIONS FOR THE BATTLE.

And the plebes feared it would be that way, too, and yet there were a few at the tables discussing the matter in whispers, venturesome enough to say that perhaps maybe their classmate might win and to wonder what on earth would happen to him if he did.

"It'll mean a revelation if he does!" they cried. "Perhaps it'll even stop hazing."

The mood of the irate little corporal, who had vowed not an hour before that Mallory should not have another chance, may well be imagined.

"I tell you, 'tis a shame!" he vowed to Williams. "A shame! I don't see why in thunder you didn't hold out."

"It's not my fault, Jasper," responded the other, smiling good naturedly. "If you'll think a while, you'll see he was in a position to force a fight at any time he chose. If I refused to 'allow him to threaten to hit me,' as he put it, he could have threatened anyway, and then if that didn't do any good, he'd have actually to hit me, and there you would have been. It's a great deal better this way."

"Yes!" growled Jasper. "That sounds all very well. But look where it puts me, by George! You'll have to get somebody else to arrange it. I won't. I went as a committee and told him he'd not get another chance, and I tell you now I'll not go take it back for anybody, and with that B. J. plebe especially."

"Perhaps he won't be so very B. J. after the fight," responded the other, smiling. "I don't know, of course, but I shall do my best."

"If you don't," said the other, looking serious, "by jingo! we'll be in a thundering fix. There's nobody in the class can beat you, and that plebe'll have a walkover."

This last sentiment of Jasper's was the sentiment of the whole yearling class, and the class was in a state of uncertainty in consequence. Texas was known to have whipped four cadets in one morning, and all of them good men, too; then there was a rumor out that Mark and Texas had had a quarrel and that the latter had gone to the hospital some five minutes later. The two facts put together were enough to make the most confident do some thinking.

It is difficult for one who has never been to West Point to appreciate what this state of affairs meant—because it is hard for him to appreciate the relation which exists between the plebe and the rest of the corps. From the moment of the former's arrival as an alarmed and trembling candidate, it is the especial business of every cadet to teach him that he is the most utterly, entirely and absolutely insignificant individual upon the face of the universe. He is shouted at and ordered, bullied, badgered, tormented, pulled and hauled, drilled and laughed at until he is reduced to the state of mind of a rabbit. If he is "B. J." about it, he is bullied the more; if he shows fight, he has all he wants, and is made meeker still. The result of it all is that he learns to do just as anybody else commands him, and

All of which is fun for the yearling.

Now, here was Mark Mallory—to say nothing of Texas—who had come up to the Point with an absurd notion of his own dignity, who had outwitted the yearlings at every turn, been sent to Coventry—and didn't care a hang, and now was on the point of trying to "lick" the finest all-around athlete in the whole third class. It was enough to make the corps tremble—the yearlings, at any rate. The first class usually feels too dignified to meddle with such things.

Billy Williams' ambassador put in an appearance on the following Sunday morning, and, to Mark's disgust, he proved to be none other than his old enemy, Bull Harris—sent, by the way, not because Williams so chose, but because Bull himself had asked to be sent.

"Mr. Williams," said he, "says he'll give you another chance to run away."

Mark bowed politely, determined that Harris should get as little chance for insult as possible.

"He'll fight you to-morrow—Fort Clinton, at four, and if you don't come, by thunder! he'll find out why."

Mark's face grew white, but he only bowed again, and swallowed it. And just then came an unexpected interruption.

"Mr. Mallory, as the challenged party, has the right to name the time."

The voice was loud and clear, and seemed to have authority; Harris turned and confronted Cadet First Captain Fischer, in all his glory of chevrons and sword. Now, the first captain is lord of West Point—and Harris didn't dare to say a word, though he was boiling within.

"And, moreover," continued the imposing young officer, angrily, "you should remember that you came, Mr. Harris, as a gentleman and not as a combatant. Mr. Mallory, what is your wish?"

"The time suits me," said Mark, quietly. "Good-day, Mr. Harris."

And Harris left in a very unpleasant mood indeed; he had meant to have no end of amusement at the expense of Mark's feelings.

"You've a hard row to hoe," said the cadet officer to Mark, "and a hard man to beat. And you were foolish to get into it, but, all the same, I'll see that you have fair play."

"And that," exclaimed Texas to Mark, as he watched the tall, erect figure of the cadet vanish through the sally port. "That is the first decent word I've heard from a cadet since I've been here. Bully for Fischer!"

"It's probable," said Mark, "that he knows Harris as well as we. And now, old fellow," he added, "we've got nothing to do but pass time, and wait—and wait for to-morrow morning!"

Mark slept soundly that night in spite of the excitement. It was Texas who was restless, for Texas had promised to act as alarm clock, and, realizing that not to be on time again would be a calamity indeed, he was up half a dozen times to gaze out of the window toward the eastern sky, watching for the first signs of morning.

While it was yet so dark that he could scarcely see the clock, he routed Mark out of bed.

"Git up thar," he whispered, "git up an' git ready."

Mark "got," and the two dressed hurriedly and crept down the stairs, past the sentry—the sentry was a cadet, and kindly "looked the other way"—and then went out through the sally port to the parade ground. The plain was shrouded in mist and darkness, and the stars still shone, though there was a faint light in the east. The two stole past the camp—where also the sentries were blind—scaled the ramparts, and stood in the center of "old Fort Clinton."

The spot was deserted and silent, but scarcely had the two been there a moment before a head peered over the wall nearest to the camp.

"They're here," whispered a cadet, and sprang over. A dozen others followed him, and in a very few minutes more there were at least thirty of them, excited and eager, waiting for "Billy" to put in an appearance. It was not long before Billy came, and behind him his faithful chum, Jasper, with a bucket of water, and sponges and towels enough for a dozen. About the same time Stanard's long shanks appeared over the breastworks, and Indian tumbled over a moment later. Things were about ready then.

"Let's lose no time," said Jasper, always impatient. "Captain Fischer will act as referee and timekeeper, if it's agreeable."

No one could have suited Mark more, and he said so. Likewise, he stated, through his second, Mr. Powers, that he preferred to fight by rounds, which evidently pleased Mr. Williams. Mr. Williams was by this time stripped to the waist, his suspenders tied about him. And it was evidently as Fischer had said. There was no finer man in his class, and he was trained to perfection. His skin was white and glistening, his shoulders broad and massive, and the muscles on his arms stood out with every motion. His legs were probably as muscular, too, thought Mark, for Williams held the record for the mile. The yearlings' hearts beat higher as they gazed at their champion's determined face.

Mark was a little slower in stepping up; when he did so the watching crowd sized him up carefully, and then there was doubt.

"Oh, gee, but this is going to be a fight!" was the verdict of every one of them.

"Marquis of Queensberry rules," said Fischer, in a low tone. "Both know them?"

Mark nodded.

"Shake hands!"

Mark put out his, by way of answer, and Williams gripped it right heartily.

"Ready?"

And then the simple word "Go."

Let us gaze about a moment at the scene. The ring is surrounded by earthworks, now grass-grown and trodden down, unkept since the Revolutionary days, when West Point was a Gibraltar. Old cannon, caissons and wagon wheels are scattered about inside, together with ramparts and wire chevaux-de-friezes which the cadets are practiced in constructing. In the southwest corner is a small, clear, smooth-trodden space, where the two brawny, white-skinned warriors stand. The cadets are forming a ring about them, for every one is too excited to sit down and keep quiet. The "outlooks," posted for safety, are neglecting their duty recklessly for the same reason, and looking in altogether. Every eye is on the two.

Over in Mark's corner sits Texas, gripping his hands in excitement, wriggling nervously and muttering to himself. Stanard is beside him with "Dana's Geology" as a cushion. The Parson is a picture of calm and scholarly dignity, in direct contrast with our friend Texas, who is on the verge of one of his wild "fits." "Indian" is the fourth and only other plebe present, and Indian is horrified, as usual, and mutters "Bless my soul" at intervals.

On the opposite side of the circle of cadets are Jasper and another second, both breathlessly watching every move. Nearby stands Cadet Captain Fischer, calm and cool, critically watching the play.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE AFFAIR AT THE FORT.

This last exclamation was caused by the real beginning of the battle. Williams saw an unguarded face, and quick as thought his heavy arm shot out; the crowd gasped, and Mark saw it. A sudden motion of his head to one side was enough to send the blow past him harmlessly, and a moment later the yearling's forward plunge was checked by an echoing crack upon his ribs. Then for the rest of the round the excited cadets were treated to an exhibition of sparring such as they had never seen in their lives. Feinting, dodging and parrying, the springing pair seemed everywhere at once, and their fists in a thousand places. The crowd was thrilled; even the imperturbable Fischer was moved to exclamation, and Texas in half a minute had seen more skill than his whole experience had shown him in his life.

"Look a thar! Look a thar! He's got him—no—gad! Whoop!"

Texas did as much dancing as the fighters themselves, and more talking than the whole crowd. Captain Fischer had to stop watching him long enough to tell him that the camp, with its sleeping "tacs," was only a few yards away. And then, as Powers subsided, the cadet glanced at his watch, called "Time!" and the two fighters went to their corners, panting.

"What did ye stop for?" inquired Texas, while the Parson set diligently to work at bathing several red spots on his friend's body. "What kind o' fightin' is this yere? Ain't give up, have you? Say, Mark, now go in nex' time an' do him. What's the use o' layin' off?"

"A very superior exhibition of—lend me that court-plaster, please—pugilistic ability," commented the Parson, bustling about like an old hen.

And then a moment later the referee gave the word and they were at it again.

This round there was no delay; both went at it savagely, though warily and skillfully as ever. Blow after blow was planted that seemed fairly to shake the air, driven by all the power that human muscle could give.

"Won't last long at this rate," said the referee, sagely shaking his head. "Give 'em another round—gee!"

Fischer's "gee" was echoed by the yearlings with what would have, but for the nearness of the camp, been a yell of triumph and joy. Williams had seen a chance, and had been a second too quick for Mark; he had landed a crushing blow upon the latter's head, one which made him stagger. Quick to see his chance, the yearling had sprung in, driving his half-dazed opponent backward, landing blow after blow. Texas gasped in horror. The yearlings danced—and then——

"Time!" said the imperturbable Fischer.

Texas sprang forward and led his bewildered friend to a seat; Texas was about ready to cry.

"Old man!" he muttered, "don't let him beat you. Oh! It'll be the death of me. I'll go jump into the river!"

"Steady! Steady!" said the Parson; "we'll be all right in a moment."

Mark said nothing, but as his reeling brain cleared he gritted his teeth.

"Time," said the referee.

And Williams sprang forward to finish the work, encouraged by the enthusiastic approval of his half-wild classmates. He aimed another blow with all his might; Mark dodged; the other tried again, and again the plebe leaped to one side; this repeated again and again was the story of the next minute, and the yearlings clinched their hands in disappointment and rage.

"He's flunking!" cried one of them—Bull Harris—"He's afraid!"

"He's fighting just as he ought," retorted Captain Fischer, "and doing it prettily, too. Good!"

And then once more the crowd settled into an anxious silence to watch.

The story of that minute was the story of ten. Mark had seen that in brute force his adversary was his equal, and that skill, coolness and endurance were to win. He made up his mind on his course, and pursued it, regardless of the jeers of the yearlings and their advice to Billy to "go in and finish him off." Billy went, but he could not reach Mark, and occasionally his ardor would be checked by an unexpected blow which made his classmates groan.

"It's a test of endurance now," observed Fischer, "and Billy ought to win. But the plebe holds well—bully shot, by Jove! Mallory's evidently kept in training. Time!"

That was for the seventh round.

"He's getting madder now," whispered Mark to Stanard, as he sat down to rest. "He wants to finish. If those fellows keep at him much more he'll sail in for a finish—and then, well, I'm pretty fresh yet."

Goaded on by his impatient classmates, Williams did "sail in," the very next round. Mark led him a dance, from corner to corner, dodging, ducking and twisting, the yearling, thinking the victory his, pressing closer and closer and aiming blow after blow.

"Watch out, Billy, watch out," muttered the vigilant Fischer to himself, as he caught the gleam in Mark's eye.

Just then Williams paused, actually exhausted; Mark saw his chest heaving, and, a still surer sign, his lip trembling.

"Now, then!" whispered the Parson at his back, and Mark sprang forward.

The yearling dodged, Mark followed rapidly. There was a moment of vicious striking, and then the cadets gasped to see Williams give way. It was only an inch, but it told the story—Williams was tired. Fischer gazed at his watch and saw that there was yet half a minute, and at the same moment he heard a resounding thump. Mark had planted a heavy blow upon his opponent's chest, he followed almost instantly with another, and the yearlings groaned.

Williams rallied, and made a desperate fight for his life, but at the close of that round he was what a professional reporter would have termed "groggy." He came up weakly at the call.

"Don't be afraid of hitting him," the Parson had said, afraid that Mark's kind-heartedness would incline him to mercy. "There's too much at stake. Win, and win in a hurry"—the Parson forgot to be classical when he was excited.

Obedient to command, Mark set out, though it was evident to him that he had the fight. While Texas muttered and pranced about for joy, Mark dealt his opponent another blow which made him stagger; he caught himself upon one knee, and Mark stepped back and waited for him to rise. And then suddenly a pair of strong arms were flung about the plebe's waist and he felt himself shoved hurriedly along; at the same moment a voice shouted in his ear:

"Run, plebe, run for your life!"

Mark glanced about him in dimly-conscious amazement. He saw that the ring had melted into a number of cadets, skurrying away in every direction at the top of their speed. He heard the words, "a tac! a tac!" and knew the fight had been discovered by an army officer.

A figure dashed up behind Mark and caught him by the arm. It was Fischer.

"Run for your life! Get in barracks!" he cried.

And with that he vanished, and Mark, obeying, rushed across the cavalry plain and was soon lying breathless and exhausted in his room, where the wildly-jubilant Texas joined him a moment later, just as reveille was sounded.

"Victory! Victory!" he shouted. "Wow!"

And by breakfast time that morning every cadet in the corps was discussing the fight. And Mark was the hero of the whole plebe class.

CHAPTER XV.
TWO PLEBES IN HOSPITAL.

"My success seems to cause you considerable pleasure," he said.

"Yes, b'gee!" exclaimed Dewey, "it does! And to every true and loyal plebe in the academy. You've brought honor to the name of plebe by licking the biggest yearling in the place, b'gee, and that means the end of hazing."

"I'm not so sure of that," said Mark.

"I am," returned the other. "But say, tell me something about the fight. I wanted to come, only I was shut up in hospital. Did Williams put up a good one?"

"Splendid," said Mark.

"He ought to. They say he's champion of his class, and an all-round athlete. But you look as if you could fight some yourself."

"He almost had me beaten once," said Mark. "I thought I was a goner."

"Say, but you're a spunky chap!" remarked Dewey, eying Mark with an admiring expression. "I don't think there's ever been a plebe dared to do half what you've done. The whole class is talking about you."

"Is that so?" inquired Mark, laughing. "I didn't mean to do anything reckless."

"What's the difference," laughed the other, "when you can lick 'em all, b'gee? I wish I could do it," he added, rather more solemnly. "Then, perhaps, maybe I wouldn't be the physical wreck that I am."

"You been fighting, too?" inquired Mark, laughing.

"Betcher life, b'gee!" responded the other, emphatically. "Only I wasn't as clever at it as you."

"Tell me about it," said Mark, with interest.

"It happened last Saturday afternoon, and I've been in hospital ever since, b'gee. Some of the cadets caught me taking a walk up somewhere near what they call 'Crow's Nest.' And so they set out to have some fun. Told me to climb a tree, in the first place. I looked at the tree, and, b'gee, there wasn't a limb for thirty feet, and the limbs there were rotten. There was one of 'em, a big, burly fellow with short hair and a scar on his cheek——"

"Bull Harris!" cried Mark.

"Yes," said Dewey, "that's what they called him—'Bull.'"

"Did you fight with him?"

"Betcher life, b'gee! He tried to make me climb that tree, and, b'gee, says I, 'I won't, b'gee!' Then I lammed him one in the eye——"

"Bully!" cried Mark, and then he added, "b'gee!" by way of company. "Did he beat you?"

"Betcher life," cried the other. "That is, the six of 'em did."

"You don't mean to say the crowd attacked you?"

"That's what I said."

"Well, sir!" exclaimed Mark, "the more I hear of that Bull Harris the bigger coward I find him. It's comforting to know that all the cadets aren't that way."

"Very comforting!" responded the other, feeling of the bandage on his swollen jaw. "Very comforting! Reminds me of a story I heard once, b'gee, of a man who got a thousand dollars' comfort from a railroad for having his head cut off."

Mark laughed for a moment, and then he fell to tapping the step thoughtfully with his heel. He was thinking over a plan.

"I don't suppose you've much love for the yearlings," he remarked, at last.

"Bet cher life not," laughed the other. "I've about as much as a mother-in-law for a professional joke writer, b'gee! Reminds me of a story I once heard—but go on; I want to hear what you had to say. Tell my story later."

"Well, three friends of mine have formed a sort of an informal alliance for self-defence——"

"Bully, b'gee!" cried Dewey, excitedly.

"And I thought maybe you'd like to——"

"Join? Bet cher life, b'gee! Why didn't you say so before? Whoop!"

And thus it happened that Member Number Five of the West Point "alliance" was discovered.

"I don't think this famous alliance is going to have much to do at the start," said Mark, as soon as Master Dewey had recovered from his excitement, "for I rather fancy the yearlings will leave us alone for a time."

"Bet cher life, b'gee!" assented the other. "If they don't look out they won't have time to be sorry."

"B'gee!" added Mark, smiling.

"Do I say that much?" inquired the other, with a laugh. "I suppose I must, because the fellows have nicknamed me 'B'gee.' I declare I'm not conscious of saying it. Do I?"

"Bet cher life, b'gee," responded Mark, whereupon his new acquaintance broke into one of his merry laughs.

"Let's go around to barracks," said Mark, finally—it was then just after breakfast time. "I expect they'll want me to report for drill. I thought I'd get off for the morning on the strength of my 'contusions,' as they call them. But the old surgeon was too sly for me. He patched me up in a jiffy."

"What was the matter with you?" inquired Dewey, dropping his smile.

"One eye's about half shut, as you see," responded Mark, "and then I had quite a little cut on the side of my head where Williams hit me once. Otherwise I am all right—only just a little rocky."

"As the sea captain remarked of the harbor, b'gee," added the other. "But tell me, how's Williams?"

"Pretty well done up, as the laundryman remarked, to borrow your style of illustration," Mark responded, laughing. "They had to carry poor Williams down here. He's in there now being fixed up. And say, you should have seen how queerly the surgeon looked at us two. He knew right away what was up, of course, but he never said a word—just entered us 'sick—contusions.' Is that what you were?"

"Bet cher life, b'gee!" responded the other. "But he tried to get me to tell what was up. He rather suspected hazing, I think. I didn't say anything, though."

"It would have served some of those chaps just right if you had," vowed Mark. "You know you could have every one of them expelled."

The two had reached the area of barracks by this time, and hurried over to reach their rooms before inspection.

"And don't you mention what I've told you about this great alliance to a soul," Mark enjoined. "We'd have the whole academy about our ears in a day."

Dewey assented.

"What's the name of it?" he inquired.

"Haven't got any name for it yet," said Mark, "or any leader either, in fact. We're waiting to get a few more members, enough for a little excitement. Then we'll organize, elect a leader, swear allegiance, and you can bet there'll be fun—b'gee!"

"Come up to my room," he added, after a moment's pause, "as soon as you get fixed up for inspection, and I'll introduce you to the other fellows."

With which parting word he turned and bounded up the stairs to his own room.

CHAPTER XVI.
THE PARSON'S INDIGNATION.

"He's a pretty game youngster," Mark continued, "for when Bull Harris and that gang of his tried to haze him, he sailed in and tried to do the crowd."

"Oh!" cried Texas, excitedly. "Wow! I wish I'd 'a' been there. Say, Mark, d'ye know I've been a missin' no end o' fun that a'way. Parson had a fight, an' I didn't see it; you had one daown to Cranston's, an' I missed that; an' yere's another!"

Texas looked disgusted and Mark burst out laughing.

"'Tain't any fun," growled the former. "But go on, tell me 'bout this chap. What does he look like?"

"He's not as tall as we," replied Mark, "but he's very good-looking and jolly. And when he says "B'gee" and laughs, you can't help laughing with him. Hello, there's inspection!"

This last remark was prompted by a sharp rap upon the door. The two sprang up and stood at attention. "Heels together, eyes to the front, chest out"—they knew the whole formula by this time. And Cadet Corporal Jasper strode in, found fault with a few things and then went on to carry death and devastation into the next place.

A few minutes later the Parson strolled in.

"Yea, by Zeus," began he, without waiting for the formality of a salutation. "Yea, by Apollo, the far-darting, this is indeed an outrage worthy of the great Achilles to avenge. And I do swear by the bones of my ancestors, by the hounds of Diana, forsooth even by Jupiter lapis and the Gemini, that never while I inspire the atmosphere of existence will I submit myself to so outrageous an imposition——"

"Wow!" cried Texas. "What's up?"

"Sit down and tell us about it," added Mark.

"It is written in the most immortal document," continued the Parson, without noticing the interruption, "that ever emanated from the mind of man, the Declaration of Independence (signed, by the way, by an ancestor of my stepmother), that among the inalienable privileges of man, co-ordinate with life and liberty itself, is the pursuit of happiness. And in the name of the Seven Gates of Thebes and the Seven Hills of the Eternal City, I demand to know what happiness a man can have if all his happiness is taken from him!"

"B'gee! Reminds me of a story I heard about a boy who wanted to see the cow jump over the moon on a night when there wasn't any moon, b'gee."

Mark and Texas looked up in surprise and the Parson faced about in obvious displeasure at the interruption.

"In the name of all the Olympian divinities and the inhabitants of Charon and the Styx," he cried, angrily, "I demand to know——"

"Come in," said Mark, laughing. "Excuse me for interrupting, Parson, but this is Mr. Alan Dewey, b'gee, member Number Five of our band of desperate buccaneers, if you please. Mr. Dewey, allow me to introduce you to the gentleman who 'reminded' you of that last story, Mr. Peter Stanard, of Boston, Massachusetts, the cradle of liberty, the nurse of freedom, and the center and metropolis of the geological universe."

The Parson bowed gravely.

"While I am, together with all true Bostonians, proud of the reputation which my city has merited, yet I am——"

"Also to Mr. Jeremiah Powers," continued Mark, cutting the Parson off in his peroration.

"Son o' the Honorable Scrap Powers, o' Hurricane County, Texas," added Texas, himself.

Young Dewey shook hands all around, and then sat down on the bed, looking at Mark with a puzzled expression on his face, as much as to say, "what on earth have I struck—b'gee?" Mark saw his expression and undertook to inform him, making haste to start before the Parson could begin again on the relative merits of Boston and the rest of the civilized universe.

"Powers and Stanard," said he, "are the members of our organization, together with Indian, the fat boy."

"I see," said Dewey, at the same time thinking what a novel organization it must be. "There's Indian now."

Indian's round, scared face peered in through the open doorway just then. He was introduced to Number Five, whereupon Number Five remarked 'Very pleased to meet you, b'gee.' And Indian echoed 'Bless my soul!' and crept into the room and sat down in an inconspicuous corner.

There was a moment's pause and then the Parson commenced:

"If I remember correctly, we were occupied when last interrupted, by—ahem! a rather facetious observation upon the subject of our solitary lunar satellite and quadruped of the genus Bos—occupied I say in considering the position which the metropolis of Boston has obtained——"

"Drop Boston!" laughed Mark. "We weren't on Boston anyhow. Boston came in afterward—as Boston always does, in fact."

"Which reminds me, b'gee," put in the newcomer, "of a story I once heard of——"

"Drop the story, too!" exclaimed Mark. "I want to know what the Parson was so indignant about."

"Yes, yes!" put in Texas. "That's what I say, too. And be quick about it. We've only ten minutes 'fore drill, an' if there's anybody got to be licked, why, we got to hustle."

"Well," said Stanard, drawing a long breath. "Well! Since it is the obvious and, in fact, natural desire of the company assembled, so expressed by them, that I should immediately proceed to a summary and concise statement of the matter in hand, pausing for no extensive introductions or formal perorations, but endeavoring assiduously to impart to my promulgations a certain clarified conciseness which in matters of this peculiar nature is so eminently advantageous——"

The Parson was interrupted at this place by a subdued "B'gee!" from Dewey, followed by a more emphatic "Wow!" and a scarcely audible "Bless my soul!"

"What's the matter?" he inquired, stopping short and looking puzzled.

"Nothing," replied Mark. "I didn't say anything."

"Oh!" said the Parson. "Excuse me. Where was I? Oh, yes, I was just saying I would be brief. Gentlemen—ahem!—when I entered this room I was in a condition of violent anger. As I stated, an outrage had been offered me such as neither Parmenides, nor Socrates, nor even Zeno, stoic of stoics, could have borne. And I have resolved to seek once more, as a prodigal son, the land of my birth, where science is fostered instead of being repressed as in this hotbed of prejudice and ignorance. I——"

"What's up?" cried the four.

"I am coming to that," said the Parson, gravely, stretching out his long shanks, drawing up his trousers, and displaying his sea-green socks. "This same morning—and my friend Indian will substantiate my statement, for he was there—a low, ignorant cadet corporal did enter into my room, for inspection, by Zeus, and after generally displaying his ill-manners, he turned to me and conveyed the extraordinary information that, according to rules, forsooth, I must be deprived of the dearest object of my affections, solace of my weary hours, my friend in time of need, my companion in sickness, which through all the trials of adversity has stuck to me closer than a brother, my only joy, my——"

"What?" cried the four, by this time wrought up to the highest pitch of indignation and excitement.

"My one refuge from the cares of life," continued the solemn Parson, "the one mitigating circumstance in this life of tribulation, the only——"

"What? What? What?"

"What? Of all things what, but this? What but my life, my pride, my hope—my beloved volume of 'Dana's Geology,' friend of my——"

And the roar of laughter which came then made the sentry out on the street jump in alarm. The laughing lasted until the cry came:

"New cadets turn out!" which meant drill; and it lasted after that, too, so that Cadet Spencer, drillmaster, "on duty over plebes," spent the next hour or two in wondering what on earth his charges kept snickering at. Poor Texas was the subject of a ten-minute discourse upon "impertinence and presumption," because he was guilty of the heinous offense of bursting out laughing in the midst of one of the irate little drillmaster's tirades.

CHAPTER XVII.
INDIAN IN TROUBLE.

Most people, those who have not been to West Point, are under the delusion that they know how to walk already. It usually takes the luckless plebe a week to get that idea hammered out of his head, and another week besides to learn the correct method. The young instructor, presenting, by the way, a ludicrous contrast in his shining uniform of gray and white and gold, with his three or four nervous and variously costumed pupils, takes the bayonet of his gun for a drill stick and marches "his" squad over into a secluded corner of the area and thus begins the above-mentioned instructions:

"At the word forward, throw the weight of the body upon the right leg, the left knee straight. At the word march, move the left leg smartly without jerk, carry the left foot forward thirty inches from the right, the sole near the ground, the toe a little depressed, knee straight and slightly turned out. At the same time throw the weight of the body forward (eyes to the front) and plant the foot without shock, weight of the body resting upon it; next, in like manner, advance the right foot and plant it as above. Continue to advance without crossing the legs or striking one against the other, keeping the face direct to the front. Now, forward, common time, march. Depress the toe so that it strikes the ground at the same time as the heel (palms of the hands squarely to the front. Head up)"—and so on.

That is the way the marching exercise goes, exclusive, of course, of all interruptions, comments and witticisms on the instructor's part. The plebe begins to get used to it after the first week or so, when the stiffness rubs off, and then a certain amount of rivalry begins to spring up among various squads, and everybody settles down to the business of learning. The squads are consolidated later on, and gradually the class is merged into one company. Such as they are, these drills, together with inspections, meals and "rests" (with hazing), occupy almost the entire time of the two weeks in barracks.

And now for our five "rebels."

That particular Monday morning the plebes had an hour's rest before dinner, in which to do as they pleased (or as the yearlings pleased). And during this hour it was that one of "the five," the always luckless and unhappy one, got into trouble. The one was Indian, or the Mormon. Indian, it seemed, was always thought of whenever there was any deviling to be done. The other plebes did as they were told, and furnished amusement on demand, but they always realized that it was all in fun. Indian, however, was an innocent, gullible youth, who took everything solemnly, and was in terror of his unhappy life every moment of the day. And he was especially unfortunate this time because he fell into the hands of "Bull" Harris and his gang.

It is not the intention of the writer to give the impression that all cadets at West Point were or are like "Bull" Harris, or that hazing of his peculiar variety is an everyday affair. But it would be hard to find one hundred men without a cowardly, cruel nature among them. "Bull" Harris and his crowd represented the lower element of the yearling class, and made hazing their business and diversion. They were the especial dread of the plebes in consequence. Bull had tried his tricks upon Mark to his discomfort, and ever since that had left Mark strictly alone, and confined his efforts to less vigorous victims, among which were Dewey, and now Indian.

Indian had selected a rather grewsome occupation, anyhow, at the particular moment when he was caught. It was just in keeping with the peculiarly dejected frame of mind he was in (after squad drill). He was wandering through the graveyard, which is situated in a lonely portion of the post, way off in the northwestern corner. Some heroes, West Point's bravest, lie buried there, and Indian was dejectedly wondering if those same heroes would ever have stuck through plebe days in barracks if they had had a drill master like that "red-headed coyote," Chick Spencer. He had about concluded they would not have, when he heard some muffled laughter and the sound of running feet. A moment later the terrified plebe found himself completely surrounded by a dozen merry yearlings, out for a lark. Prominent among them were Bull and his toadying little friend, Baby Edwards.

It is correct West Point etiquette for a plebe, when "captured" to go meekly wherever desired. Indian went, and the party disappeared quickly in the woods on one side, the captive being hidden completely in the circle of cadets.

There was one person who had seen him, however, and that one person was the Parson, who had been about to enter the gate to join his friend. And the Parson, when he saw it, turned quickly on his heel and strode away back to barracks as fast as his long legs could carry him without loss of scholarly dignity.

"Yes, by Zeus," he muttered to himself. "Yea, by Zeus, the enemy is fierce upon our trail. And swiftly, forsooth, will I hie me to my companions and inform them of this insufferable indignity."

All unconscious of the learned gentleman's discovery, the yearlings meanwhile were hurrying away into a secluded portion of the woods; for they knew that their time was short, and that they would have to make haste. The terrified victim was pushed over logs and through brambles until he was almost exhausted, the captors meanwhile dropping dire hints as to his fate.

"An Indian he is!" muttered Bull Harris. "An Indian!" (The plebe was as red as one then.) "He shall die an Indian's death!"

"That's what he shall!" echoed the crowd. "An Indian! An Indian! We'll burn him at the stake!"

"He, he! the only good Indian's a dead Indian, he, he!" chimed in Baby, chuckling at his own witticism. "He, he!"

All this poor Joseph did not fail to notice, and as was his habit, he believed every word of it. Nor did his mind regain any of its composure as the procession continued its solemn marching through the lonely woods, to the tune of the yearlings' cheerful remarks. The latter were chuckling merrily to themselves, but when they were in hearing of their victim their tone was deep and awful, and their looks dark and savage. Poor Indian's fat, round eyes stared wider and rounder every minute; his equally round, red face grew redder, and his gasping exclamations more frequent and violent.

"Bless my soul!" he cried, "what extraordinary proceedings!"

"Ha! ha!" muttered the yearlings. "See, he trembles! Behold how the victim pales!"

A short distance farther in the woods the party came upon a small clearing.

"Just the spot!" cried Bull. "See the tree in the center. That is the stake, and to that we will tie him, while the smoke ascends to the clouds of heaven."

"Just the spot!" echoed Baby, chuckling gleefully.

"It is quiet," continued Bull, in a low, sepulchral tone. "Yes, and his cries of agony will be heard by none. Advance, wretched victim, and prepare to die the death which your savage ancestors did inflict upon our fathers. Advance!"

"Advance!" growled the crowd.

"Bless my soul!" cried the Indian.

He was no more capable of advancing than he was of flying. His knees were shaking in violent terror. Great beads of perspiration rolled from the dimples in his fat little cheeks. Limp and helpless, he would have sunk to the ground, but for the support of his captors.

"Advance!" cried Bull, again, stamping on the ground in mock impatience and rage. "Bodyguard, bring forth the wretch!"

In response to this order several of the cadets dragged the unhappy plebe to the tree and held him fast against it. Bull Harris produced from under his coat a coil of rope, and Indian felt it being wrapped about his body.

Up to this point he had been silent from sheer terror; but the feeling of the rough rope served to bring before him with startling reality the awfulness of the fate that was in store for him. He opened his mouth and forthwith gave vent to a cry so weird and unearthly that the yearlings burst out into a shout of laughter. It was no articulate cry, simply a wild howl. It rang and echoed through the woods, like the hoot of an owl at night, or the strange, half-human cry of a frightened dog. And it died into a gasp that Bull Harris described as "the sigh of a homesick bullfrog."

Indian's musical efforts continued as the horrible rope was wound about his body. Each wail was louder and more unearthly, more mirth-provoking to the unpitying cadets, until at last, when Bull Harris finished and stepped back to survey his work, the frightened plebe could be likened to nothing less than a steam calliope.

The yearlings were so much amused by his powers that they resolved forthwith that the show must not stop. And so, without giving the performer chance to breathe even, they set to work diligently collecting sticks and leaves.

"Heap 'em up! Heap 'em up!" cried Bull. "Heap 'em up! And soon shall the fire blaze merrily."

Naturally, since Indian's shrieks and howls continued unabated in quantity or variety through all this, the yearlings were in no hurry to finish, but took care to prolong the agony, sport as they called it, as long as possible. So, while the red-faced, perspiring victim panted, grunted, howled, and wriggled, they piled the wood about him with exasperating slowness, rearranging, inspecting, and discussing the probable effect of each and every stick of wood they laid on.

It was done, at last, however, and the result was a great pile of fagots surrounding and half covering the unfortunate lad. They were fagots selected as being the driest that could be found in the dry and sun-parched clearing. There was a moment or two later on when Bull wished they had not been quite so dry, after all.

The crowd stood and admired their work for a few moments longer, while Indian's weird wails rose higher than ever. Then Bull stepped forward.

"Art thou prepared to die?" he inquired in his most sepulchral tone.

Indian responded with a crescendo in C minor.

"He answereth not!" muttered the other. "Let him scorn our questions who dares. What, ho! Bring forth the torch! We shall roast him brown."

"And when he is brown," roared another, "then he will cease to be Smith!"

"Yes," cried Bull, "for he will be dead. His bones shall bleach on the plains. On his flesh we will make a meal!"

"An Indian meal!" added Baby, chuckling merrily over his own joke.

"Several meals," continued Bull, solemnly. "There is enough of him for a whole table d'hote. How about that? Aren't you?"

"Wow! Wo-oo-oo-oooo!" wailed Indian.

"He mocks us!" cried the spokesman. "He scorns to answer. Very well! We shall see. Is the torch lit?"

The torch, an ordinary sulphur match, was not lit. But Bull produced one from the same place as the rope and held it poised. He waited a moment while the yearlings discussed the next action.

"I say we let him loose," said one. "He's scared enough."

"Nonsense!" laughed Bull, "I'm not going to stop yet. I'm going to set him afire."

"Set him afire!" echoed the crowd, in a whisper.

"'Sh! Yes," responded the other. "Not really, you know, but just enough to scare him. We'll set fire to the wood and then when it's begun to smoke some we'll put it out."

"That's risky," objected somebody. "I say we——"

"Nonsense!" interrupted the leader. "If you don't want to, run home. I am."

And so once more he turned toward the wretched captive, who still kept up his shrieks.

"Ha, ha!" he muttered, "thy time has come. Say thy last prayer."

With which words he stepped quickly forward, struck the match upon his heel, and after holding it for a moment knelt down before the pile of leaves and wood.

"Wow! Wow!" roared Indian. "Stop! Stop! Help! Wo-oo-oo!"

Another of those steam calliope wails.

"He shrieks for mercy!" muttered Bull. "He shrieks in vain. There!"

The last exclamation came as he touched the match to the leaves, stood up and worked off to join his companions.

"Form a ring," he said, "and dance about him as he dies."

The terror of Indian can scarcely be imagined; he was almost on the verge of fainting as the hot choking smoke curled up and around his face. His yells grew louder and increased to a perfect shriek of agony.

"Don't you think we'd better stop it now?" inquired one of the yearlings, more timid than the rest.

"Rats!" laughed Bull. "It's hardly started. I'll manage it."

Bull's "management" proved rather untrustworthy; for Bull had forgotten to take into account the dryness of the twigs, and also another factor. The air had been still as he struck the match, but just at that moment a slight breeze swept along the ground, blowing the leaves before it. It struck the little fire and it seized one tiny flame and bore it up through the pile and about the legs of the imprisoned plebe.

The next instant the yearlings were thrown into the wildest imaginable confusion by a cry from one of them.

"Look out! Look out! His trousers are afire!"

CHAPTER XVIII.
TO THE RESCUE.

Infuriated? Yes, wildly infuriated! A change had come over Indian such as no one who knew him had ever seen before. The fire had not really hurt him; it had only ruined his clothing and scorched his legs enough to make him wild with rage. He had tugged at his bonds savagely; when he was cut free he had torn loose from the friendly stranger who had knelt to extinguish the fire, and made a savage rush at the badly scared cadets.

Indian's face was convulsed with passion. His arms were swinging wildly like a windmill's sails in a hurricane, while from his mouth rushed a volley of exclamations that would have frightened Captain Kidd and his pirate band.

It made no difference what he hit; the fat boy was too blind with rage to see. He must hit something! If a tree had lain in his path he would have started in on that. As luck would have it, however, the thing that was nearest to him was a yearling—Baby Edwards.

Baby could have been no more frightened if he had seen an express train charging on him. He turned instantly and fled—where else would he flee but to his idol Bull? He hid behind that worthy; Bull put up his hands to defend himself; and the next instant Indian's flying arms reached the spot.

One savage blow on the nose sent Bull tumbling backward—over Baby. Indian, of course, could not stop and so did a somersault over the two.

There was a pretty mêlée after that. Baby was the first to emerge, covered with dirt and bruises. Indian got up second; he gazed about him, his rage still burning; he gave one snort, shook his head clear of the soil as an angry bull might; and then made another savage rush at Baby. Baby this time had no friend to hide behind; Harris was lying on the ground, face down, as a man might do to protect himself in a cyclone. And so Baby had no resource but flight; he took to his heels, the enraged plebe a few feet behind; and in half a minute more the pair were lost to sight and sound, far distant in the woods, Indian still pursuing.

It might be pleasant to follow them, for Indian in his rage was a sight to divert the gods. But there was plenty more happening at the scene of the fire, things that ought not be missed.

In the first place, who were the two new arrivals? It was evident that they were plebes—their faces were familiar to the cadets. But beyond that no one knew anything about them. They had freed their helpless classmate and saved him from serious injury, as has been told. They had done one thing more that has not been mentioned yet. One of them, the smaller, just after Indian had broken loose, had reached over and dealt the nearest yearling he could reach a ringing blow upon the cheek.

"Take that!" said he. "Bah Jove, you're a cur."

There was another mêlée after that.

Of course the setting fire to Indian had been a pure accident; but the two strangers did not know it. They saw in the whole thing a piece of diabolical cruelty. The yearling the wrath chanced to fall upon was Gus Murray—and his anger is left to the imagination. He sprang at the throat of the reckless plebe; and the rest of the crowd rushed to his aid, pausing just for an instant to size up the pair.

They did not seem "to be any great shucks." The taller was a big slouchy-looking chap in clothes that evidently bespoke the farmer, and possessing a drawl which quite as clearly indicated the situation of the farm—the prairies. Having cut Indian loose he was lounging lazily against the tree and regarding his more excitable companion with a good-natured grin.

The companion was even less awe-inspiring, for one had to look at him but an instant to see that he was one of the creatures whom all well-regulated boys despise—a dude. He wore a high collar, ridiculously high; he was slender and delicate looking, with the correct Fifth Avenue stoop to his shoulders and an attitude to his arms which showed that he had left his cane behind only on compulsion when he "struck the Point." And any doubts the yearlings may have had on this question were settled as the yearlings stared, for the object turned to the other and spoke.

"Aw say, Sleepy," said he, "come help me chastise these fellows, don't ye know."

As a fact there was but little choice in the matter, it was fight or die with the two, for at the same instant Gus Murray, wild with rage, had leaped forward and made a savage lunge at the dude.

What happened then Murray never quite knew. All he made out was that when he hit at the dude the dude suddenly ceased to be there. The yearling glanced around in surprise and discovered that his victim had slid coolly under his elbow and was standing over on the other side of the clearing—smiling.

The rest of the crowd, not in the least daunted by Murray's miss, rushed in to the attack; and a moment later a wild scrimmage was in progress, a scrimmage which defied the eye to comprehend and the pen to describe. The former never moved from the tree, but with his back flat against it and his great clumsy arms swinging like sledge hammers he stood and bid defiance to his share of the crowd.

The dude's tactics were just the opposite. He was light and slender, and should have been easy prey. That was what Bull Harris thought as he hastily arose from the spot where Indian had butted him and joined his eager comrades in the hunt. The hunt; a hunt it was, and no mistake. While the farmer stayed in one place, the dude seemed everywhere at once. Dodging, ducking, running, he seemed just to escape every blow that was aimed at him. He seemed even to turn somersaults, to the amazed yearlings, who had been looking for a dude and not an acrobat.

The dude did not dodge all the time, though; occasionally he would stop to cool the ardor of some especially excited cadet with a sudden punch where it wasn't looked for. Once also he stuck out his foot and allowed Bull Harris to get his legs caught in it, with a result that Bull's nose once more plowed the clearing.

The writer wishes it were his privilege to chronicle the fact that the two put the eight to flight; or that Indian, having put the Baby "to sleep," returned to perform yet greater prodigies of valor. It would be a pleasure to tell of all that, but on the other hand truth is a stubborn thing. Things do not always happen as they should in spite of the providence that is supposed to make them.

The farmer, after a five-minute gallant stand, was finally knocked down—from behind—and once down he was being fast pummeled into nothingness. The dude—his collar, much to his alarm, having wilted—was in the last stage of exhaustion. In fact, Bull had succeeded in landing a blow, the first of the afternoon for him. The dude was about to give up and perish, when assistance arrived. For these gallant heroes were not fated to conquer alone.

The first warning of the arrival of reinforcements was not the traditional trumpet call, nor the roll of a drum, nor even the tramp of soldiers, but a muttered "Wow!" This was followed by Texas himself, bursting through the bushes like a battering ram. Mark was at his side, and behind them came the Parson. Dewey, being rather crippled, brought up the rear.

The four lost no time in questions; they saw two plebes in distress, and they had met Indian on the warpath and learned the cause of the trouble. They knew it was their business to help and they "sailed right in" to do it.

Mark placed himself by the side of the panting "dude." Texas and the Parson made a V formation and speedily got the farmer to his feet and in fighting array once more. And after that the odds of the battle were more even.

It was a very brief battle, in fact. A mere skirmish after that. Mark's prowess was dreaded, and that of Texas but little less. After Texas had chased two yearlings into the woods, and Mark had stretched out Bull—that was Bull's third time that afternoon—the ardor of the eight began to wane. It was not very long then before the attack stopped by mutual consent, and the combatants took to staring at each other instead.

The rage of Bull as he picked himself up and examined his damages must be imagined.

"You confounded plebes shall pay for this," he roared, "as sure as I'm alive."

"Now?" inquired Mark, smiling, rubbing his hands, and looking ready to resume hostilities.

"It's a case of blamed swelled head, that's what it is," growled the other, sullenly.

"Which," added the Parson's solemn voice, "might be somewhat more classically expressed by the sesquipedalian Hellenic vocable—ahem!—Megalacephalomania."

With which interesting bit of information—presented gratis—the Parson carefully laid his beloved "Dana" on the ground and sat down on it for safety.

"Why can't you plebes mind your business, anyhow?" snarled Gus Murray.

"That's what I say, too!" cried Bull.

"Curious coincidence!" laughed Dewey. "Reminds me of a story I once heard, b'gee—I guess it's most too long a story to tell through. Remind me of it, Mark, and I'll tell it to you some day. One of the most remarkable tales I ever heard, that! Told me by a fellow that used to run a sausage factory. It was right next door to a "Home for Homeless Cats," though, b'gee, I couldn't ever see how the cats were homeless if they had a home there. They didn't stay very long, though. That was the funniest part of it. They used to sit on the fence near the sausage factory, b'gee——"

Dewey could have prattled on that way till doomsday with unfailing good humor. It made the yearlings mad and that was all he cared about. But by this time Bull had perceived that he was being guyed, and he turned away with an angry exclamation.

"You fellows may stay if you choose;" he said, "I'm going back to camp. And those plebes shall pay for this!"

"Cash on demand!" laughed Mark, as the discomfited crowd turned and slunk off.