Title: The Rod and Gun Club
Author: Castlemon, Harry
Language: English
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[Illustration: THE BATTLE WITH THE STRIKERS.]



                          _ROD AND GUN SERIES._

                                   THE
                            ROD AND GUN CLUB.

                           BY HARRY CASTLEMON,
          AUTHOR OF “THE GUNBOAT SERIES,” “BOY TRAPPER SERIES,”
                       “ROUGHING IT SERIES,” ETC.

                        THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.,
                              PHILADELPHIA,
                            CHICAGO, TORONTO.



FAMOUS CASTLEMON BOOKS.


    =GUNBOAT SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 6 vols. 12mo.

        FRANK THE YOUNG NATURALIST.
        FRANK IN THE WOODS.
        FRANK ON THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
        FRANK ON A GUNBOAT.
        FRANK BEFORE VICKSBURG.
        FRANK ON THE PRAIRIE.

    =ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo.
    Cloth.

        FRANK AMONG THE RANCHEROS.
        FRANK IN THE MOUNTAINS.
        FRANK AT DON CARLOS’ RANCH.

    =SPORTSMAN’S CLUB SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo.
    Cloth.

        THE SPORTSMAN’S CLUB IN THE SADDLE.
        THE SPORTSMAN’S CLUB AFLOAT.
        THE SPORTSMAN’S CLUB AMONG THE TRAPPERS.

    =FRANK NELSON SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

        SNOWED UP.
        FRANK IN THE FORECASTLE.
        THE BOY TRADERS.

    =BOY TRAPPER SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

        THE BURIED TREASURE.
        THE BOY TRAPPER.
        THE MAIL-CARRIER.

    =ROUGHING IT SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

        GEORGE IN CAMP.
        GEORGE AT THE WHEEL.
        GEORGE AT THE FORT.

    =ROD AND GUN SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

        DON GORDON’S SHOOTING BOX.
        THE YOUNG WILD FOWLERS.
        ROD AND GUN CLUB.

    =GO-AHEAD SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

        TOM NEWCOMBE.
        GO-AHEAD.
        NO MOSS.

    =FOREST AND STREAM SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo.
    Cloth.

        JOE WAYRING.
        SNAGGED AND SUNK.
        STEEL HORSE.

    =WAR SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 5 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

        TRUE TO HIS COLORS.
        RODNEY THE OVERSEER.
        MARCY THE REFUGEE.
        RODNEY THE PARTISAN.
        MARCY THE BLOCKADE-RUNNER.

_Other Volumes in Preparation._

COPYRIGHT, 1883, BY PORTER & COATES.



CONTENTS


                                         PAGE

                 CHAPTER I.

    SOME DISGUSTED BOYS                     5

                CHAPTER II.

    BIRDS OF A FEATHER                     25

                CHAPTER III.

    LESTER BRIGHAM’S IDEA                  45

                CHAPTER IV.

    FLIGHT AND PURSUIT                     66

                 CHAPTER V.

    DON’S ENCOUNTER WITH THE TRAMP         87

                CHAPTER VI.

    ABOUT VARIOUS THINGS                  108

                CHAPTER VII.

    A TEST OF COURAGE                     130

               CHAPTER VIII.

    THE FIGHT AS REPORTED                 152

                CHAPTER IX.

    IN THE HANDS OF THE MOB               172

                 CHAPTER X.

    WELCOME HOME                          194

                CHAPTER XI.

    HOPKINS’ EXPERIENCE                   217

                CHAPTER XII.

    PLANS AND ARRANGEMENTS                239

               CHAPTER XIII.

    THE DESERTERS AFLOAT                  261

                CHAPTER XIV.

    DON OBTAINS A CLUE                    284

                CHAPTER XV.

    ANOTHER TEST AND THE RESULT           307

                CHAPTER XVI.

    THE ROD AND GUN CLUB                  324

               CHAPTER XVII.

    CASTING THE FLY                       344

               CHAPTER XVIII.

    CONCLUSION                            360



THE ROD AND GUN CLUB.



CHAPTER I.

SOME DISGUSTED BOYS.


“Well, young man, I will tell you, for your satisfaction, that I have got
you provided, for, for four long years to come.”

The speaker was Mr. Brigham. As he uttered these words he placed his hat
and gloves on the table, and looked down at his son Lester, who had just
entered the library in obedience to the summons he had received, and
who sat on the edge of the sofa, twirling his cap in his hands. The boy
looked frightened, while the expression on his father’s face told very
plainly that he was angry about something.

“I have had quite enough of your nonsense,” continued Mr. Brigham, in
very decided tones. “Since we came to Mississippi you have done nothing
but roam about the woods and fields with your gun on your shoulder, and
get yourself into trouble. You made yourself so very disagreeable that
none of the decent boys in the settlement would have anything to do with
you, and consequently you had to take up with such fellows as Bob Owens
and Dan Evans. After setting fire to Don Gordon’s shooting-box, and being
caught in the act of stealing David Evans’s quails, you had to go and mix
yourself up in that mail robbery. Why, Lester, have you any idea where
you will bring up if you do not at once begin to mend your ways?”

“Why, father, I had nothing to do with that,” exclaimed Lester, trying
to look surprised and innocent; “nothing whatever. You know, as well as
I do, that I was at home when those men who lived in that house-boat
waylaid and robbed the mail-carrier.”

“I am aware that you took no active part in the work,” said his father.
“If you had, you would now be confined in the calaboose. But you told Dan
Evans about those checks for five thousand dollars that my agent sends me
every month.”

“I didn’t,” interrupted Lester.

“Everything goes to prove that you did,” answered Mr. Brigham. “If you
didn’t, how does it come that Dan knew all about those checks? He made
a full confession to Don Gordon. The story is all over the country, and
the people about here are very angry at you. Suppose that Dan had shot
Don Gordon, as he tried to do? What do you suppose would become of you? I
really believe you would have been mobbed before this time. I wonder if
you have any idea of the excitement you have raised in the settlement?”

No; Lester had not the faintest conception of it, for the simple reason
that he had held no conversation with anybody, save the members of his
own family, since the afternoon on which Dan Evans was overpowered and
robbed of his mail-bag. When the full particulars of the affair came to
his ears, he was as frightened as a boy could be, and live. He knew that
he was in a measure responsible for the robbery, that it would never
have been committed if he had held his tongue regarding his father’s
money, and the fear that he had rendered himself liable to punishment
at the hands of the law, nearly drove him frantic. His terror was
greatly increased by his father’s last words. There had not been so much
excitement in the settlement since the war—not even when it became
known that Clarence Gordon and Godfrey Evans had dug up a portion of the
general’s potato patch, in the hope of unearthing eighty thousand dollars
in gold and silver that were supposed to be buried there. Don Gordon had
more friends than any other boy in the settlement, unless it was Bert,
and the planters were enraged at the attempt that had been made upon his
life. If Dan Evans’s bullet had found a lodgment in his body instead of
going harmlessly through the roof, Dan and Lester Brigham, as well as the
three flatboatmen who stole the mail, might have had a hard time of it.

Lester’s first care was to hide himself in the house, as he had done
after he and Bob Owens burned Don’s old shooting-box. He earnestly hoped
that the men would escape with their plunder; but when he learned that a
strong party, led by General Gordon, had pursued them in Davis’s sailboat
and captured them, he was ready to give up in despair. Judge Packard
would have to look into the matter now through his judicial spectacles,
and Lester did not want to be summoned to appear as a witness. Neither
did Dan, who, disregarding the advice Don Gordon had given him, took
to the woods and hid there, just as he did after he picked his father’s
pocket of the hundred and sixty dollars that David had made by trapping
quails.

When Mr. Brigham saw that Lester took to staying in the house, and
that he had suddenly lost all interest in hunting and shooting, his
suspicions were aroused. He always kept his ears open when he went to the
landing, and by putting together the disjointed scraps of conversation
he overheard while he was waiting for his mail, he finally accumulated a
mass of evidence against his son Lester that fairly staggered him.

“I couldn’t believe this of you until I went to Gordon and asked him what
he knew about it,” continued Mr. Brigham. “Then the whole story came out.
Lester, you will have to go away from here.”

“That’s just what I want to do,” exclaimed the boy, in joyous tones. “I
never did like this place. It is awful lonely and dull, and there is
no one for me to associate with. If I could only go off somewhere on a
visit——”

“As I told you, at the start, I have got things fixed for you for
four years to come,” said Mr. Brigham. “You ought to have something to
do—something that will occupy your mind so completely that you will have
no time to be discontented or to think of anything wrong. I have decided
to send you to school; and I am sorry I didn’t do it long ago.”

When Lester heard this he threw his cap spitefully down upon the floor,
planted his elbow viciously upon the arm of the lounge, and looked very
sullen indeed. School-rooms and school-books were his pet aversions.

“I don’t want you to do that,” said he, angrily. “I would much rather
stay here.”

“Do you want to grow up in ignorance?” demanded his father.

If Lester had given an honest response to this question it would have
been: “No, I don’t want to grow up in ignorance, but I do want to live at
my ease. I desire to go to some place where I can find plenty to amuse
me, and where I shall have no labor to perform, either mental or manual.”
But he did not quite like to say that, and so he said nothing.

“You don’t know a single thing that a boy of your age ought to know,”
continued Mr. Brigham. “I have just had a long conversation with Gordon
and his two boys.”

Lester looked up with a startled expression on his face. “You haven’t
determined to send me to Bridgeport, have you?” he exclaimed.

“I have,” was the decided answer.

“To the military academy?” asked Lester, in louder and more incredulous
tones.

“That’s the very place. The systematic drill and training you will there
receive, will be of the greatest benefit to you, if you are only willing
to profit by them. That school has made men of Don and Bert Gordon
already.”

“I should say so,” sneered Lester, suddenly recalling some items of
information that had come to him in a round-about way. “Don has been in a
constant row with the teachers ever since he has been there.”

“That is not true. He got himself into trouble when he first entered
the school, and lost his shoulder-straps by it; but he has toned down
wonderfully under the influence of those three boys he brought home with
him, and he is bound to make his mark before his four years’ course is
completed.”

“But, father, do you know that the teachers are awful hard on the
boys—that if a student looks out of the wrong corner of his eye, or
breaks the smallest one of the thousand and more rules that he is
expected to keep constantly in mind, he is punished for it?” asked
Lester, who was almost ready to cry with vexation. It was bad enough, he
told himself, to be sent away to any school against his will; but it was
worse for his father to select a military academy, and then to hold that
embodiment of mischief and rebellion, Don Gordon, up to him as an object
worthy of emulation. Lester had no desire to learn the tactics, and he
dreaded the discipline to which he knew he would be subjected.

“I heard all about it during my talk with Don and Bert,” replied his
father. “A strong hand and plenty of work are just what you need.”

“But do you know that Bert is first sergeant of the company to which I
shall probably be assigned, and that one of its corporals is a New York
boot-black? Do you want me to obey the orders of a street Arab?”

“He could not have attained to the position he holds unless he had proved
himself worthy of it. The majority of the students, however, are the
sons of wealthy men, and they are the ones I want you to choose for your
associates. Make friends with them and bring some of them home with you,
as Don and Bert did, or go home with them, if they ask you. My word for
it, you will see plenty of sport there, if you will only do your duty
faithfully. Gordon’s boys are impatient to go back; and yet there was a
time when Don disliked school as heartily as you do.”

“When shall we start for Bridgeport?”

“A week from next Wednesday. New students are received up to the 13th of
the month; so we must make our application two days before the school
begins.”

“Of course we’ll not go up on the same boat with the Gordons?”

“Why not? Having been there before, they can save us a great deal of
trouble by telling us just where to go and what to do.”

“But I don’t like the idea of traveling in their company. They will snub
me every chance they get.”

“You need not borrow any trouble on that score. They have good reasons
for disliking you, but if you conduct yourself properly, you will
have nothing to fear from them. Now, Lester, promise me that, if you
are admitted to that school, you will wake up and try to accomplish
something. I will do everything I can to aid and encourage you, and I
will begin by putting it in your power to hold your own with the richest
student there.”

Lester perfectly understood his father’s last words, and he was
considerably mollified by them. If there were anything that could
reconcile him to becoming a member of the military academy, it was the
knowledge of the fact that a liberal supply of spending money was to be
placed at his disposal. Lester’s highest ambition was to be looked up to
as a leader among his companions. He had failed to accomplish his object
so far as the boys about Rochdale were concerned, but he was pretty sure
that he would not fail at Bridgeport. He didn’t, either. His money, which
Mr. Brigham might better have kept in his own pocket, brought him to the
notice of some uneasy fellows at the academy, who joined him in a daring
enterprise, the like of which had never been heard of before. It gave
the village people something to talk about, and furnished the law-abiding
students with any amount of fun and excitement. In fact the whole school
term was crowded so full of thrilling incidents, so many things happened
to take their minds off their books, that when the examination was held,
some of the best scholars narrowly escaped being dropped from their
classes.

“I will do anything I can for you,” repeated Mr. Brigham, seating himself
in the nearest chair and taking a newspaper from the table. “If you will
go through the four years’ course with flying colors, and come out at the
head of your class, I shall be highly gratified, and I assure you that
you will lose nothing by it.”

Mr. Brigham fastened his eyes upon his paper, and Lester, taking this
as a hint that he had nothing more to say just then, picked up his cap
and went out. He made his way directly to his own room, and taking his
squirrel rifle down from the antlers that supported it—purchased antlers
they were, and not trophies of the boy’s own skill—he buckled a cartridge
belt about his waist and left the house. He wanted to go off in the woods
by himself and think the matter over; but it is hard to tell why he took
his rifle with him, for he had no intention of hunting, and he could not
have killed anything if he had. Perhaps it was because he had fallen into
the habit of carrying a weapon on his shoulder wherever he went, just as
Godfrey and Dan did.

“It is some comfort to know that the governor is not disposed to put
me on short allowance,” thought he, as he sat down on a log and rested
his rifle across his knees, “and perhaps I can manage to stand it for a
while. If I can’t, and father won’t let me come home, I’ll skip out, as
Bob Owens did; only I’ll not go into the army. But it can’t be all work
and no play up there. There must be some jolly fellows among the students
who are in for having a good time now and then, and they are the ones I
shall run with. I am sorry Bert is an officer, for he will tyrannize over
me in every possible way. I feel disgusted whenever I think of that.”

Lester Brigham was not the only boy in the world who felt disgusted that
day. There were three others that we know of. One of them lived away off
in Maryland, and the others lived in Rochdale. The last were Don and Bert
Gordon.

When their father came into the room in which they were sitting and
told them that Mr. Brigham was waiting to see them in the parlor, they
followed him lost in wonder, which gave place to a very different feeling
when they learned that this visitor had come there to make some inquiries
regarding the Bridgeport military academy, with a view of sending his
son there. Bert gave truthful replies to all his questions, and so did
Don, for the matter of that; but he did not neglect to enlarge upon the
severity of the discipline, or to call Mr. Brigham’s attention to the
fact that no boy need go to that school expecting to keep pace with his
classes, unless he was willing to study hard. Believing that Lester would
make trouble one way or another, Don did not want him there, and he hoped
to convince Mr. Brigham that the academy at Bridgeport would not at all
suit Lester; but he did not succeed. The visitor seemed to believe that
military drill was just what his refractory son needed, asked the boys
when they were going to start, thanked them for the information they had
given him, and took his leave.

“Well, now, I am disgusted,” exclaimed Don; while Bert went over to the
window and drummed upon it with his fingers.

“I don’t see how you are going to help yourselves, boys,” said the
general. “Lester Brigham has as much right to go to that school as you
have.”

“I know that,” replied Don. “But I don’t want him there, all the same.”

“Neither do I,” said Bert. “He will be in my company, and if I make him
toe the mark, he will say that I do it because I want to be revenged on
him for burning Don’s shooting-box and getting Dave Evans into trouble.”

“Do your duty as a soldier, and let Lester say what he pleases,” said the
general.

“Oh! he’ll have to,” exclaimed Don. “If he doesn’t, he will be reported.
Bert’s got to walk a chalk line now, and if he makes a false step, off
come his diamond and _chevrons_. It’s some consolation to know that we
can’t introduce him to Egan and the rest. They would snub us in a minute
if we did, and serve us right, too. A plebe must be content to wait until
the upper-class boys get ready to speak to him.”

“Having passed four years of my life in that academy I am not ignorant
of that fact,” said the general, after a little pause, during which he
recalled to mind how he had once had his face washed in a snow-drift by
a couple of second-class boys whom he had presumed to address on terms
of familiarity. “But I hope you will do all you can for Lester. Remember
how lonely you felt when you first went there, and found yourselves
surrounded by those who were utter strangers to you.”

“Oh, we will,” said Bert, while Don scowled savagely but said nothing.
“If he will show us that he has come there with the determination to do
the best he can, we’ll stand by him; won’t we, Don?”

Of course the latter said they would, but he gave the promise simply
because his father desired it, and not because he had any friendly
feeling for Lester Brigham.

The other disgusted boy was Egan, who, on this particular day, was pacing
up and down the back veranda of his father’s house, shaking his fist at
the surf that was rolling in upon the beach, and acting altogether like
one whose reflections were by no means agreeable. What it was that had
happened to annoy him, we will let him tell in his own way.

Christmas, with its festivities, was now a memory. New Year’s day
came and went, and Don and Bert, each in his own way, began making
preparations for their return to Bridgeport. The latter, who was
determined that the close of another school year should find him with at
least one bar on his shoulder, devoted his morning hours to his books,
while Don, to quote his own language, proceeded to put himself through a
regular course of training. There was a long siege of hard study before
him, but one would have thought, by the way he went to work, that he was
preparing himself for a physical rather than an intellectual contest. He
rode hard, hunted perseveringly, kept up his regular exercise with Indian
clubs and dumb-bells, and looked, as he said he felt, as if he were good
for any amount of work.

Knowing how valuable a little advice would have been to them when they
first joined the academy, Don and Bert rode over to see Lester, intending
to give him some idea of the nature of the examination he would have to
pass before he would be received as a student, and to drop a few hints
that would enable him to keep out of trouble; but they never repeated the
experiment. Lester was surly and not at all sociable; and he was so very
independent, and seemed to have so much confidence in his ability to make
his way without help from anybody, that his visitors took their leave
without saying half as much to him as they had intended.

“I know what they are up to,” said Lester, who stood at the window
watching Don and Bert as they rode away. “They have reasons for wishing
to get on the right side of me. Somebody has probably told them that I am
to have plenty of money to spend, and they intend that I shall spend some
of it for their own benefit. I am going in for a shoulder-strap—I am not
one to be satisfied with a sergeant’s warrant—and the first thing I shall
do, after I get it, will be to take those stripes off Bert Gordon’s arms.
He and his boot-black can’t order _me_ around.”

This soliloquy will show that Lester had changed his mind in regard to
the school at Bridgeport. He wanted to go there now. His father, who
knew nothing about the academy beyond what Don and Bert had told him,
and who judged it by the fashionable boarding-schools at which he had
obtained the little knowledge he possessed, had neglected no opportunity
to impress upon Lester’s mind the fact that a rich man’s son would not
be allowed to remain long in the ranks, and that there was nothing to
prevent him from winning and wearing an officer’s sword, if he would only
use a little tact in pushing himself forward. After listening to such
counsel as this, it was not at all likely that anything that Don and Bert
could say would have any influence with him.

“He thinks he is going to have a walk over,” said Don, as he stroked his
pony’s glossy mane.

“It looks that way, but there’s where he is mistaken,” replied Bert.
“Lester will be walking an extra before he has been at the academy a
week.”

“Well, we’ll not volunteer any more advice, no matter what happens to
him,” said Don. “We’ll let him go as he pleases and see how he will come
out.”

The day set for their departure came at last, and Don and Bert,
accompanied by Mr. Brigham and Lester, set out for Bridgeport, which they
reached without any mishap. They rode in the same hack from the depot to
the academy, and when they alighted at the door, they were surrounded
by a crowd of boys who had already reported for duty, and who made it
a point to rush out of the building to extend a noisy welcome to every
newcomer. School was not yet in session, and the first-class boys were
not above speaking to a plebe.

Among those who were first to greet Don and Bert as they stepped out of
the hack, were Egan, Hopkins and Curtis. As these young gentlemen had
already completed the regular academic course, perhaps the reader would
like to know what it was that brought them back. They came to take what
was called the “finishing course,” and to put themselves under technical
instruction. After that (it took two years to go through it) Hopkins
was to enter a lawyer’s office in Baltimore; Egan intended to become
assistant engineer to a relative who was building railroads somewhere in
South America; while Curtis was looking towards West Point.

The boys who composed these advanced classes were privileged characters.
They dressed in citizens’ clothes, performed no military duty, boarded in
the village, and came and went whenever they pleased. When the students
went into camp, they were at liberty to go with them, or they could
stay at the academy and study. If they chose the camp, they could ask to
be appointed aids or orderlies at headquarters, or they could put on a
uniform, shoulder a musket, and fall into the ranks. They held no office,
and the boy who was lieutenant-colonel last year, was nothing better than
a private now.

Don and Bert greeted their friends cordially, and as soon as the latter
could free himself from their clutches, he beckoned to Mr. Brigham and
Lester, who followed him through the hall and into the superintendent’s
room.



CHAPTER II.

BIRDS OF A FEATHER.


“Which one of these trunks do you belong to, Gordon?” inquired a young
second-lieutenant, whose duty it was to see that the students were
assigned to rooms as fast as they arrived.

“The one with the canvas cover is mine,” replied Don.

“Any preference among the boys?” asked the lieutenant. “You can’t have
Bert for a room-mate this term, you know. The second sergeant of his
company will be chummed on him.”

Don replied that he didn’t care who he had for a companion, so long as
he was a well-behaved boy; whereupon the lieutenant beckoned to a negro
porter whom he called “Rosebud,” and directed him to take Don’s trunk up
to No. 45, third floor.

“By the way, I suppose that that fellow who has just gone into the
superintendent’s room with Bert is a crony of yours?” continued the young
officer.

“He is from Mississippi,” said Don. He did not wish to publish the fact
that Lester Brigham was no friend of his, for that would prejudice the
students against him at once. Lester was likely to have a hard time of it
at the best, and Don did not want to say or do anything that would make
it harder for him.

“All right,” said the officer. “I will take pains to see that he is
chummed on some good fellow.”

“You needn’t put yourself to any trouble for him on my account,” said Don
in a low tone, at the same time turning his back upon a sprucely-dressed
but rather brazen-faced boy, who persisted in crowding up close to him
and Egan, as if he meant to hear every word that passed between them. “He
is nothing to me, and I wish he was back where he came from. He’ll wish
so too, before he has been here many days. I said everything I could to
induce his father to keep him at home, but he——”

“Let’s take a walk as far as the gate,” said Egan, seizing Don by the arm
and nodding to Hopkins and Curtis. “You stay here, Enoch,” he added,
turning to the sprucely-dressed boy.

“What’s the reason I can’t go too?” demanded the latter.

“Because we don’t want you,” replied Egan, bluntly. “I told you before
we left home, that you needn’t expect to hang on to my coat-tails. Make
friends with the members of your own company, for they are the only
associates you will have after school begins.”

“But they are all strangers to me, and you won’t introduce me,” said
Enoch.

“Then pitch in and get acquainted, as I did when I first came here. You
may be sure I’ll not introduce you,” said Egan, in a low voice, as he
and his three friends walked toward the gate. “An introduction is an
indorsement, and I don’t indorse any such fellows as you are.”

“What’s the matter with him?” asked Don, who had never seen Egan so
annoyed and provoked as he was at that moment.

“Everything,” replied the ex-sergeant. “He’s the meanest boy I ever met—I
except nobody—and if he doesn’t prove to be a second Clarence Duncan, I
shall miss my guess.”

“The boy who came here with me will make a good mate for him,” said Don.

“This fellow’s father has only recently moved into our neighborhood,”
continued Egan. “He went into ecstasies over my uniform the first time
he saw it, and wanted to know where I got it, and how much it cost, and
all that sort of thing. Of course I praised the school and everybody and
everything connected with it; but I wish now that I had kept still. The
next time that I met him he told me that when I returned to Bridgeport he
was going with me. I was in hopes he wouldn’t stick, but he did.”

“Mr. Brigham crowded Lester upon Bert and me in about the same way,” said
Don.

“Was that Lester Brigham?” exclaimed Curtis—“the boy who burned your old
shooting-box and kicked up that rumpus while we were at Rochdale? We
often heard you speak of him, but you know we never saw him.”

“He’s the very one,” replied Don.

“Then he will make a good mate for Enoch Williams,” said Egan. “Why, Don,
this fellow has been caught in the act of looting ducks on the bay.”

Egan’s tone and manner seemed to indicate that he looked upon this as one
of the worst offenses that could be committed, and both he and Hopkins
were surprised because Don did not grow angry over it.

“What’s looting ducks?” asked the latter.

“It is a system of hunting pursued by the pot-hunters of Chesapeake bay,
who shoot for the market and not for sport. A huge blunderbuss, which
will hold a handful of powder and a pound or more of shot, and which is
kept concealed during the day-time, is put into the bow of a skiff at
night, and carried into the very midst of a flock of sleeping ducks; and
sometimes the men who manage it, secure as many as sixty or seventy birds
at one discharge. The law expressly prohibits it, and denounces penalties
against those who are caught at it.”

“Then why wasn’t Enoch punished?”

“Because everybody is afraid to complain of him or of any one else
who violates the law. It isn’t safe to say anything against these
duck-shooters, and those who do it are sure to suffer. Their yachts will
be bored full of holes, their oyster-beds dragged at night or filled with
sharp things for the dredges to catch on, their lobster-pots pulled up
and destroyed or carried off, their retrievers shot or stolen—oh, it
wouldn’t take long to raise an excitement down there that would be fully
equal to that which was occasioned in Rochdale by that mail robbery.”

If the reader will bear these words in mind, he will see that subsequent
events proved the truthfulness of them. The professional duck-shooters
who played such havoc with the wild fowl in Chesapeake bay, were
determined and vindictive men, and it was very easy to get into trouble
with them, especially when there were such fellows as Enoch Williams and
Lester Brigham to help it along.

The four friends spent half an hour in walking about the grounds, talking
over the various exciting and amusing incidents that had happened while
they were living in _Don Gordon’s Shooting-Box_, and then Don went to his
dormitory to put on his uniform, preparatory to reporting his arrival to
the superintendent. Every train that steamed into the station brought a
crowd of students with it, and the evening of the 14th of January found
them all snug in their quarters, and ready for the serious business of
the term, which was to begin with the booming of the morning gun. All
play was over now. There had been guard-mount that morning, sentries
were posted on the grounds and in the buildings, and the new students
began to see how it seemed to feel the tight reins of military discipline
drawn about them. Of course there were a good many who did not like it
at all. Events proved that there was a greater number of malcontents
in the school this term than there had ever been before. Bold fellows
some of them were, too—boys who had always been allowed to do as they
pleased at home, and who proceeded to get up a rebellion before they had
donned their uniforms. One of them, it is hardly necessary to say, was
Lester Brigham. On the morning when the ceremony of guard-mounting was
gone through with for the first time, he stood off by himself, muffled
up head and ears, and watching the proceeding. Presently his attention
was attracted by the actions of a boy who came rapidly along the path,
shaking his gloved fists in the air and talking to himself. He did not
see Lester until he was close upon him, and then he stopped and looked
ashamed.

“What’s the trouble?” asked Lester, who was in no very good humor himself.

“Matter enough,” replied the boy. “I wish I had never seen or heard of
this school.”

“Here too,” said Lester. “Are you a new scholar? Then we belong to the
same class and company.”

“I wouldn’t belong to any class or company if I could help it,” snapped
the boy. “My father didn’t want me to come here, but I insisted, like the
dunce I was, and now I’ve got to stay.”

“So have I; but I didn’t come of my own free will. My father made me.”

“Get into any row at home?” asked the boy.

“Well—yes,” replied Lester, hesitatingly.

“I don’t see that it is anything to be ashamed of. You look like a city
boy; did the cops get after you?”

“No; I had no trouble with the police, but I thought for a while that I
was going to have. I live in the canebrakes of Mississippi, and my name
is Lester Brigham. I used to live in the city, and I wish I had never
left it.”

“My name is Enoch Williams, and I am from Maryland,” said the other. “I
don’t live in a cane-brake, but I live on the sea-shore, and right in
the midst of a lot of Yahoos who don’t know enough to keep them over
night. Egan is one of them and Hopkins is another.”

“Why, those are two of the boys that Don Gordon brought home with him
last fall,” exclaimed Lester. “Do you know them?”

“I know Egan very well. His father’s plantation is next to ours. If he
had been anything of a gentleman, I might have been personally acquainted
with Hopkins by this time; but, although we traveled in company all the
way from Maryland, he never introduced me. Do you know them?”

“I used to see them occasionally last fall, but I have never spoken to
either of them,” answered Lester. “By the way, the first sergeant of our
company is a near neighbor of mine.”

“Do you mean Bert Gordon? Well, he’s a little snipe. He throws on more
airs than a country dancing-master. I have been insulted ever since I
have been here,” said Enoch, hotly. “The boys from my own State, who
ought to have brought me to the notice of the teachers and of some good
fellows among the students, have turned their backs upon me, and told me
in so many words, that they don’t want my company.”

“Don and Bert Gordon have treated me in nearly the same way,” observed
Lester.

“But, for all that, I have made some acquaintances among the boys in
the third class, who gave me a few hints that I intend to act upon,”
continued Enoch. “They say the rules are very strict, and that it is of
no earthly use for me to try to keep out of trouble. There are a favored
few who are allowed to do as they please; but the rest of us must walk
turkey, or spend our Saturday afternoons in doing extra duty. Now I say
that isn’t fair—is it, Jones?” added Enoch, appealing to a third-class
boy who just then came up.

Jones had been at the academy just a year, and of course he was a member
of Don Gordon’s class and company. He was one of those who, by the aid
of Don’s “Yankee Invention,” had succeeded in making their way into the
fire-escape, and out of the building. They failed to get by the guard,
as we know, and Jones was court-martialed as well as the rest. His back
and arms ached whenever he thought of the long hours he had spent in
walking extras to pay for that one night’s fun; and he had made the
mental resolution that before he left the academy he would do something
that would make those who remained bear him in remembrance. He was lazy,
vicious and idle, and quite willing to back up Enoch’s statement.

“Of course it isn’t fair,” said he, after Enoch had introduced him to
Lester Brigham. “You needn’t expect to be treated fairly as long as you
remain here, unless you are willing to curry favor with the teachers, and
so win a warrant or a commission; but that is something no decent boy
will do. I can prove it to you. Take the case of Don Gordon: he’s a good
fellow, in some respects——”

“There’s where I differ with you,” interrupted Lester. “I have known him
for a long time, and I have yet to see anything good about him.”

“I don’t care if you have. I say he’s a good fellow,” said Jones,
earnestly. “There isn’t a better boy in school to run with than Don
Gordon would be, if he would only get rid of the notion that it is manly
to tell the truth at all times and under all circumstances, no matter
who suffers by it. He’s as full of plans as an egg is of meat; he is
afraid of nothing, and there wasn’t a boy in our set who dared join him
in carrying out some schemes he proposed. Why, he wanted to capture the
butcher’s big bull-dog, take him up to the top of the building, and then
kick him down stairs after tying a tin-can to his tail! He would have
done it, too, if any of the set had offered to help him; but I tell you,
I wouldn’t have taken a hand in it for all the money there is in America.”

“He must be a good one,” said Enoch, admiringly.

“Oh, he is. We had many a pleasant evening at Cony Ryan’s last winter
that we would not have had if Don had not come to our aid; but when the
critical moment arrived, he failed us.”

“You might have expected it,” sneered Lester, who could not bear to hear
these words of praise bestowed upon the boy he so cordially hated.

“Well, I didn’t expect it. Don was one of the floor-guards that night,
and he allowed a lot of us to pass him and go out of the building. When
the superintendent hauled him up for it the next day, he acknowledged his
guilt, but he would not give our names, although he knew he stood a good
chance of being sent down for his refusal. I shall always honor him for
that.”

“I wish he had been expelled,” said Lester, bitterly. “Then I should not
have been sent to this school.”

“Well, when the examination came off,” continued Jones, “Don was so far
ahead of his class that none of them could touch him with a ten-foot
pole; and yet he is a private to-day, while that brother of his, who
won the good-will of the teachers by toadying to them, wears a first
sergeant’s _chevrons_. Of course such partiality as that is not fair for
the rest of us.”

“There isn’t a single redeeming feature about this school, is there?”
said Enoch, after a pause. “A fellow can’t enjoy himself in any way.”

“Oh yes, he can—if he is smart and a trifle reckless. He can go to Cony
Ryan’s and eat pancakes. I suppose Egan told you of the high old times we
had here last winter running the guard, didn’t he?”

“He never mentioned it,” replied Enoch.

“Well, didn’t he describe the fight we had with the Indians last camp?”

“Indians!” repeated Enoch, incredulously, while Lester’s eyes opened with
amazement.

“Yes; sure-enough Indians they were too, and not make-believes. We
thought, by the way they yelled at us, that they meant business. Why,
they raised such a rumpus about the camp that some of our lady guests
came very near fainting, they were so frightened. Didn’t Egan tell you
how he and Don deserted, swam the creek, went to the show disguised as
country boys, and finally fell into the hands of those same Indians who
had surrounded the camp and were getting ready to attack us?”

No, Egan hadn’t said a word about any of these things to Enoch, and
neither had Don or Bert spoken of them to Lester; although they might
have done so if the latter had showed them a little more courtesy when
they called upon him at his house. Some of the matters referred to were
pleasant episodes in the lives of the Bridgeport students, and the reason
why Egan had not spoken of them was because he did not want Enoch to
think there was anything agreeable about the institution. He didn’t want
him there, because he did not believe that Enoch would be any credit to
the school; and so he did with him just as Don and Bert did with Lester:
he enlarged upon the rigor of the discipline, the stern impartiality of
the instructors, the promptness with which they called a delinquent to
account, and spoke feelingly of their long and difficult lessons; but he
never said “recreation” once, nor did he so much as hint that there were
certain hours in the day that the students could call their own.

“Tell us about that fight,” said Enoch.

“Yes, do,” chimed in Lester. “If there is any way to see fun here, let us
know what it is.”

Jones was just the boy to go to with an appeal of this sort. He was
thoroughly posted, and if there were any one in the academy who was
always ready to set the rules and regulations at defiance, especially
if he saw the shadow of a chance for escaping punishment, Jones was
the fellow. He gave a glowing description of the battle at the camp;
told how the boys ran the guard, and where they went and what they did
after they got out; related some thrilling stories of adventure of which
the law-breakers were the heroes; and by the time the dinner-call was
sounded, he had worked his two auditors up to such a pitch of excitement
that they were ready to attempt almost anything.

“You have given me some ideas,” said Enoch, as they hurried toward their
dormitories in obedience to the call, “and who knows but they may grow
to something? I’ve got to stay here—I had a plain understanding with my
father on that point—and I am going to think up something that will yield
us some sport.”

“That’s the way I like to hear a fellow talk,” said Jones, approvingly;
“and I will tell you this for your encouragement: we care nothing for
the risk we shall run in carrying out your scheme, whatever it may be,
but before we undertake it, you must be able to satisfy us that we can
carry it out successfully. Do that, and I will bring twenty boys to back
you up, if you need so many. We are always glad to have fellows like you
come among us, for our tricks grow stale after a while, and we learn new
ones of you. Don Gordon can think up something in less time than anybody
I ever saw; but it would be useless to look to him for help. Egan and
the other good little boys have taken him in hand, and they’ll make an
officer of him this year; you wait and see if they don’t.”

“Jones gave me some ideas, too,” thought Lester, as he marched into the
dining-hall with his company, and took his seat at the table; “but I
must say I despise the way he lauded that Don Gordon. Don seems to make
friends wherever he goes, and they are among the best, too; while I have
to be satisfied with such companions as I can get. I am going to set my
wits at work and see if I can’t study up something that will throw that
bull-dog business far into the shade.”

Unfortunately for Lester this was easy of accomplishment. He was not
obliged to do any very hard thinking on the subject, for a plan was
suggested to him that very afternoon. There was but one objection to it:
he would have to wait four or five months before it could be carried out.

Lester’s room-mate was a boy who spelled his name Huggins, but pronounced
it as though it were written Hewguns. He had showed but little
disposition to talk about himself and his affairs, and all Lester could
learn concerning him was that he was from Massachusetts, and that he
lived somewhere on the sea-coast. He and Lester met in their dormitory
after dinner, and while the latter proceeded to put on his hat and
overcoat, Huggins threw himself into a chair, buried his hands in his
pockets and gazed steadily at the floor.

“What’s the matter?” inquired Lester. “You act as if something had gone
wrong with you.”

“Things never go right with me,” was the surly response. “There isn’t a
boy in the world who has so much trouble as I do.”

“I have often thought that of myself,” Lester remarked. “Come out and
take a walk. Perhaps the fresh air will do you good.”

“I don’t want any fresh air,” growled Huggins. “I want to think. I have
been trying all the morning to hit upon something that would enable me to
get to windward of my father, and I guess I have got it at last.”

“What do you mean by getting to windward of him?” asked Lester.

“Why, getting the advantage of him. If two vessels were racing, the one
that was to windward would have the odds of the other, especially if the
breeze was not steady, because she would always catch it first. I guess
you don’t know much about the water, do you?”

“I don’t know much about boats,” replied Lester; “but when it comes to
hunting, fishing or riding, I am there. I have yet to see the fellow who
can beat me.”

“I am fond of fishing,” said Huggins. “I was out on the banks last
season. We made a very fine catch, and had a tidy row with the
Newfoundland fishermen before we could get our bait.”

“What sort of fish did you take?”

“Codfish, of course.”

“Do you angle for them from the banks?”

“I said _on_ the banks—that is, in shoal water.”

“Oh,” said Lester. “I don’t know anything about that kind of fishing. Did
you ever play a fifteen pound brook-trout on an eight-ounce fly-rod?”

“No; nor nobody else.”

“I have done it many a time,” said Lester. “I tell you it takes a man who
understands his business to land a fish like that with light tackle. A
greenhorn would have broken his pole or snapped his line the very first
jerk he made.”

“You may tell that to the marines, but you needn’t expect me to believe
it,” said Huggins, quietly. “In the first place, a fly-fisher doesn’t
fasten his hook by giving a jerk. He does it by a simple turn of the
wrist. In the second place, the _Salmo fontinalis_ doesn’t grow to the
weight of fifteen pounds.”

Lester was fairly staggered. He had set out with the intention of giving
his room-mate a graphic account of some of his imaginary exploits and
adventures (those of our readers who are well acquainted with him will
remember that he kept a large supply of them on hand), but he saw that it
was time to stop. There was no use in trying to deceive a boy who could
fire Latin at him in that way.

“The largest brook-trout that was ever caught was taken in the Rangeley
lakes, and weighed a trifle over ten pounds,” continued Huggins. “And
lastly, the members of the order _Salmonidæ_ don’t live in the muddy,
stagnant bayous you have down South. They want clear cold water.”

“Why do you want to get to windward of your father?” inquired Lester, who
thought it best to change the subject.

“To pay him for sending me to this school,” replied Huggins.

“And you think you know how to do it?”

“I do.”

Lester became interested. He took off his hat and overcoat and sat down
on the edge of his bed.



CHAPTER III.

LESTER BRIGHAM’S IDEA.


“If one might judge by the way you talk and act, you didn’t want to come
to this school,” said Lester.

“No, I didn’t,” answered Huggins. “I don’t want to go to any school. The
height of my ambition is to become a sailor. I was born in sight of the
ocean, and have snuffed its breezes and been tossed about by its waves
ever since I can remember. I live near Gloucester, and my father is
largely interested in the cod-fishery. He began life as a fisherman, but
he owns a good sized fleet now.”

“Didn’t he want you to go to sea?” asked Lester.

“No. He allowed me to go to the banks now and then, but when I told him
that I wanted to make a regular business of it, he wouldn’t listen to me.
After I got tired of trying to reason with him, I made preparations to
run away from home; but he caught me at it, and bundled me off here.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m not going to stay. I’ve been to school before, but I was never
snubbed as I have been since I came to Bridgeport. The idea that a boy of
my age should be obliged to say ‘sir’ to every little up-start who wears
a shoulder-strap! I’ll not do it.”

“You’d better. If you don’t you will be in trouble continually.”

“Let the trouble come. I’ll get out of its way.”

“How will you do it?”

Huggins shut one eye, looked at Lester with the other, and laid his
finger by the side of his nose.

“Oh, you needn’t be afraid to trust me,” said Lester, who easily
understood this pantomime. “Those who are best acquainted with me will
tell you that I am true blue. I know just how you feel. I don’t like this
school any better than you do; I was sent here in spite of all I could
say to prevent it. I have been snubbed by the boys in the upper classes
because I spoke to them before they spoke to me, and when I see a chance
to leave without being caught, I shall improve it.”

“I guess I can rely upon you to keep my secret,” said Huggins, but it is
hard to tell how he reached this conclusion. One single glance at that
peaked, freckled face, whose every feature bore evidence to the sneaking
character and disposition of its owner, ought to have satisfied him that
his room-mate was not a boy who could be confided in.

“You may depend upon me every time,” said Lester, earnestly. “I’ll bring
twenty good fellows to help you.”

“Oh, I can’t take so many boys with me,” said Huggins, looking up in
surprise. “I couldn’t find berths for them.”

“Are you going off on a boat?”

“Of course I am. Some dark night, when all the rest of the fellows are
asleep, I am going to slip out of here, take my foot in my hand and draw
a bee-line for Oxford; and when I get there, I am going to ship aboard
the first sea-going vessel I can find.”

“As a sailor?” exclaimed Lester.

“Certainly. I shall have to go before the mast; but I’ll not stay there,
for I can hand, reef and steer as well as the next man, I don’t care
where he comes from, and I understand navigation, too.”

Lester was sadly disappointed. He hoped and believed that his room-mate
was about to propose something in which he could join him.

“I am sorry I can’t go with you,” said he; “but I don’t want to follow
the sea.”

“Of course you don’t, for you belong ashore. I belong on the water, and
there’s where I am going. Oxford is two hundred miles from Bridgeport,
and that is a long distance to walk through snow that is two feet deep.”

“You can go on the cars,” suggested Lester.

“No, I can’t; unless I steal a ride. My father is determined to keep
me here, and consequently he does not allow me a cent of money,” said
Huggins; and he proved it by turning all his pockets inside out to show
that they were empty.

“He is mean, isn’t he?” said Lester, indignantly. He was about to add
that his father had given him a very liberal supply of bills before he
set out on his return to Rochdale, but he did not say it, for fear that
his friend Huggins might want to borrow a dollar or two.

“But he will find that I am not going to let the want of money stand
in my way,” added Huggins. “I saw several nice little yachts in their
winter quarters when I was at the wharf the other day, and if it were
summer we’d get a party of fellows together, run off in one of them, and
go somewhere and have some fun. When the time came to separate, each one
could go where he pleased. The rest of you could hold a straight course
for home, if you felt like it, and I would go to sea.”

“That’s the very idea,” exclaimed Lester. “I wonder why some of the boys
didn’t think of it long ago. When you get ready to go, count me in.”

“I shall not be here to take part in it,” replied Huggins. “I hope to be
on deep water before many days more have passed over my head.”

“I am sorry to hear you say so, for you would be just the fellow to lead
an expedition like that. But there’s one thing you have forgotten: if you
intend to slip away from the academy, you will need help.”

“I don’t see why I should. I shall not stir until every one is asleep.”

“Then you’ll not go out at all. There are sentries posted around the
grounds at this moment, and as soon as it grows dark, guards will take
charge of every floor in this building. It is easy enough to get by the
sentries—I know, for some of the boys told me so—but how are you going to
pass these floor-guards when they are watching your room?”

“Whew!” whistled Huggins. “They hold a fellow tight, don’t they?”

“They certainly do; and it is not a very pleasant state of affairs for
one who has been allowed to go and come whenever he felt like it. Your
best plan would be to ask for a pass. That will take you by the guards,
and when you get off the grounds, you needn’t come back.”

“But suppose I can’t get a pass?”

“Then the only thing you can do is to wait until some of your friends are
on duty. They will pass you and keep still about it afterward.”

“I haven’t a single friend in the school.”

“You can make some by simply showing the boys that your heart is in the
right place. I must go now to meet an engagement; but I will see you
later, and if you like, I will introduce you to a few acquaintances I
have made since my arrival, every one of whom you can trust.”

As Lester said this, he put on his hat and overcoat and left the room.
Huggins had given him an idea, and he wanted to get away by himself and
think about it. He did not have time to spend a great deal of study upon
it, for as he was about to pass out at the front door, he met Jones,
who was just the boy he wanted to see. He was in the company of several
members of his class, but a wink and a slight nod of the head quickly
brought him to Lester’s side.

“Say, Jones,” whispered the latter, “I understand that there are a good
many yachts owned in this village, and that they are in their winter
quarters now. When warm weather comes, what would you say to capturing
one of them, and going off somewhere on a picnic?”

“Lester, you’re a good one,” exclaimed Jones, admiringly.

“Do you think it could be done?”

“I am sure of it,” replied Jones, who grew enthusiastic at once. “It’s
the very idea, and I know the boys will be in for it hot and heavy.
It takes the new fellows to get up new schemes. I can see only two
objections to it.”

“What are they?” inquired Lester.

“The first is, that we can’t carry it out under four or five months.
Couldn’t you think up something that we could go at immediately?”

“I am afraid not,” answered Lester. “Where could we go and what could we
do if we were to desert now? We could not sleep out of doors with the
thermometer below zero, for we would freeze to death. We must have warm
weather for our excursion.”

“That’s so,” said Jones, reflectively. “I suppose we shall have to wait,
but I don’t like to, and neither would you if you knew what we’ve got
to go through with before the ice is all out of the river. The other
objection is, that we have no one among us who can manage the yacht after
we capture it.”

“What’s the reason we haven’t?”

“Can you do it?”

“I might. I have taken my own yacht in a pleasure cruise around the great
lakes from Oswego to Duluth,” replied Lester, with unblushing mendacity.
“It was while I was in Michigan that I killed some of those bears.”

“I didn’t know you had ever killed any,” said Jones, opening his eyes in
amazement.

“Oh, yes, I have. They are also abundant in Mississippi, and one day I
kept one of them from chewing up Don Gordon.”

“You don’t say so. You and Kenyon ought to be chums; there he is,” said
Jones, directing Lester’s attention to a tall, lank young fellow who
looked a great deal more like a backwoodsman than he did like a soldier.
“He is from Michigan. His father is a lumberman, and Sam had never been
out of the woods until a year ago, when he was sent to this school to
have a little polish put on him. But he is one of the good little boys.
He says he came here to learn and has no time to fool away. Shall I
introduce you?”

“By no means,” said Lester, hastily. He did not think it would be
quite safe. If his friend Jones made him known to Kenyon as a renowned
bear-hunter, the latter might go at him in much the same style that
Huggins did, and then there would be another exposure. He could not
afford to be caught in many more lies if he hoped to make himself a
leader among his companions. “Since Kenyon is one of the good boys, I
have no desire to become acquainted with him,” he added. “And, while I
think of it, Jones, don’t repeat what I said to you.”

“About the bears? I won’t.”

“Because, if you do, the fellows will say I am trying to make myself out
to be somebody, and that wouldn’t be pleasant. After I have been here
awhile they will be able to form their own opinion of me.”

“They will do that just as soon as I tell them about this plan of yours,”
said Jones. “They’ll say you are the boy they have been waiting for. But
you will take command of the yacht, after we get her, will you not?”

“Yes; I’ll do that.”

“It is nothing more than fair that you should have the post of honor, for
you proposed it. I will talk the matter up among the fellows before I am
an hour older.”

“Just one word more,” said Lester, as Jones was about to move off.
“My room-mate is going to desert and go to sea. If I will make you
acquainted with him, will you point out to him the boys who will help
him?”

“I’ll be glad to do it,” said Jones, readily. “But tell him to keep his
own counsel until I can have a talk with him. If he should happen to drop
a hint of what he intends to do in the presence of some boys whose names
I could mention, they would carry it straight to the superintendent, and
then Huggins would find himself in a box.”

“If he runs away, will they try to catch him?” asked Lester.

“To be sure they will. Squads of men will be sent out in every direction,
and some of them will catch him too, unless he’s pretty smart. Tell him
particularly to look out for Captain Mack. He’s the worst one in the lot.
He can follow a trail with all the certainty of a hound, and no deserter
except Don Gordon ever succeeded in giving him the slip. Now you take a
walk about the grounds, and I will see what my friends think about this
yacht business. I will see you again in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

So saying Jones walked off to join his companions, while Lester
strolled slowly toward the gate. The latter was highly gratified by
the promptness with which his idea (Huggins’s idea, rather) had been
indorsed, but he wished he had not said so much about his ability to
manage the yacht. He knew as much about sailing as he did about shooting
and fishing, that is, nothing at all. He had never seen a pleasure-boat
larger than Don Gordon’s. If anybody had put a sail into a skiff and told
him it was a yacht, Lester would not have known the difference.

“It isn’t at all likely that my plan will amount to anything,” said
Lester, to himself. “I suggested it just because I wanted the fellows
to know that there are those in the world who are fully as brave as Don
Gordon is supposed to be. But if Jones and his crowd should take me at my
word, wouldn’t I be in a fix? What in the name of wonder would I do?”

It was evident that Lester was sadly mistaken in the boys with whom he
had to deal, and he received another convincing proof of it before half
an hour had passed. By the time he had taken a dozen turns up and down
the long path, he saw Jones and Enoch Williams hurrying to meet him. The
expression on their faces told him that they had what they considered to
be good news to communicate.

“It’s all right, Brigham,” said Jones, in a gleeful voice. “The boys are
in for it, as I told you they would be, and desired us to say to you that
you could not have hit upon anything that would suit them better. I have
been counting noses, and have so far found fifteen good fellows upon whom
you can call for help any time you want it. They all agreed with me when
I suggested that you ought to have the management of the whole affair.”

“Where did you learn yachting, Brigham?” asked Enoch.

“On the lakes,” replied Lester.

“Then you must be posted. I have heard that they have some hard storms up
there occasionally.”

“You may safely say that. It is almost always rough off Saginaw bay,”
answered Lester; and that was true, but he did not know it by experience.
He had heard somebody say so.

“I am something of a yachtsman myself,” continued Enoch. “I brought my
little schooner from Great South Bay, Long Island, around into Chesapeake
bay. Of course my father laid the course for me, and kept his weather
eye open to see that I didn’t make any mistakes; but I gave the orders
myself, and handled the vessel.”

Lester, who had been on the point of entertaining his two friends by
telling of some thrilling adventures that had befallen him during his
imaginary cruise from Oswego to Duluth, opened his eyes and closed his
lips when he heard this. He saw that his chances for making a hero of
himself were growing smaller every hour. He was afraid to talk about
fishing in the presence of his room-mate; he dared not speak of bears
while he was in the hearing of Sam Kenyon; and it would not be at all
safe for him to enlarge upon his knowledge of seamanship, for here was
a boy at his elbow who had sailed his own yacht on deep water. He was
doomed to remain in the background, and to be of no more consequence at
the academy than any other plebe. He could see that very plainly.

“There’s a splendid little boat down there near the wharf,” continued
Enoch, who was as deeply in love with the water and everything connected
with it as Huggins was, although he had no desire to go before the
mast. “I bribed her keeper to let me take a look at her the other day,
and I tell you her appointments are perfect. I should say that her
cabin and forecastle would accommodate about twenty boys. But this is
cutter-rigged, and I don’t know anything about vessels of that sort; do
you?”

“I’ve seen lots of them,” answered Lester.

“I suppose you have; but did you ever handle one?”

Lester replied that his own boat was a cutter; and when he said it, he
had as clear an idea of what he was talking about as he had of the Greek
language.

“Then we are all right,” said Enoch. “They look top-heavy to me, and I
shouldn’t care to trust myself out in one during a gale, unless there was
a sailor-man in charge of her. But if we get her and find that she is
too much for us, we can send the yard down and make a sloop of her. It
wouldn’t pay to have her capsize with us.”

Lester shuddered at the mere mention of such a thing; and while Enoch
continued to talk in this way, filling his sentences full of nautical
terms, that were familiar enough to him and quite unintelligible to
Lester, the latter set his wits at work to conjure up some excuse for
backing out when the critical time came. He was not at all fond of the
water, he was afraid to run the risk of capture and punishment, and he
sincerely hoped that something would happen to prevent the proposed
excursion.

“Of course we can’t decide upon the details until the time for action
arrives,” said Jones, at length. “But you have given us something to
think of and to look forward to, and we are indebted to you for that.
Now, let’s call upon your room-mate and see what we can do to help him.”

Lester led the way to his dormitory, and as he opened the door rather
suddenly, he and his companion surprised Huggins in the act of making
up a small bundle of clothing. He was startled by this abrupt entrance,
and he must have been frightened as well, for his face was as white as a
sheet.

“It’s all right, Huggins,” said Lester, who at once proceeded with the
ceremony of introduction. “You needn’t be afraid of these fellows.”

“Of course not,” assented Jones. “We know that you intend to take French
leave, but it is all right, and if there is any way in which we can help
you, we hope you will not hesitate to say so.”

Huggins did not seem to be fully reassured by these words. The pallor
did not leave his face, and the visitors noticed that he trembled as he
seated himself on the edge of his bed.

“I am obliged to you, but I don’t think I shall need any assistance. This
will see me through the lines, will it not?” said Huggins, pulling from
his pocket a piece of paper on which was written an order for all guards
and patrols to pass private Albert Huggins until half-past nine o’clock.
The printed heading showed that it was genuine.

“Yes, that’s all you need to take you by the guards,” said Jones. “And
when half-past nine comes, you will be a long way from here, I suppose.”

“I shall be as far off as my feet can carry me by that time,” replied
Huggins. “But don’t tell any one which way I have gone, will you?”

“If you were better acquainted with us you would know that your caution
is entirely unnecessary,” said Jones. “But you are not going to walk two
hundred miles, are you? Why don’t you go by rail?”

“How can I when I have no money?”

“Are you strapped?” exclaimed Enoch. “I can spare you a dollar.”

“I’ll give you another,” said Jones, looking at Lester.

“I’ll—I’ll give another,” said the latter; but he uttered the words with
the greatest reluctance. He was always ready to spend money, but he
wanted to know, before he parted with it, that it was going to bring him
some pleasure in return. As he spoke he made a step toward his trunk, but
Huggins earnestly, almost vehemently, motioned him back.

“No, no, boys,” said he, “I’ll not take a cent from any of you. I am used
to roughing it, and I shall get through all right. All I ask of you is to
keep away so as not to direct attention to me. How soon will my absence
be discovered?”

“That depends upon the floor-guard,” answered Jones. “If he is one of
those sneaking fellows who is forever sticking his nose into business
that does not concern him, he will report your absence to the officer of
the guard when he makes his rounds at half-past nine. If the floor-guard
keeps his mouth shut, no one will know you are gone until the morning
roll is called. In any event no effort will be made to find you until
to-morrow.”

“And then I may expect to be pursued, I suppose?”

“You may; and if you are not caught, it will be a wonder. Every effort
will be made to capture you, for don’t you see that if you were permitted
to escape, other boys would be encouraged to take French leave in the
same way? Now, listen to me, and I will give you some advice that may be
of use to you.”

If his advice, which was given with the most friendly intentions, had
been favorably received, Jones would have said a good deal more than he
did; but he very soon became aware that his words of warning were falling
on deaf ears. Huggins was not listening to him. He was unaccountably
nervous and excited, and Jones, believing that he would be better pleased
by their absence than he was with their company, gave the signal for
leaving by picking up his cap. He lingered long enough to shake hands
with Huggins and wish him good luck in outwitting his pursuers and
finding a vessel, and then he went out, followed by Enoch and Lester.

“How strangely he acted!” said the latter.

“Didn’t he?” exclaimed Enoch. “He seemed frightened at our offer to give
him a few dollars to help him along. What was there wrong in that? If
I had been in his place I would not have refused. Now he can take his
choice between begging his food and going hungry.”

“I don’t envy him his long, cold walk,” observed Jones. “And where is he
going to find a bed when night comes? The people in this country don’t
like tramps any too well, and the first time he stops at a farm-house he
may be interviewed by a bull-dog.”

Lester did not find an opportunity to talk with his room-mate again that
day. They marched down to supper together, and as soon as the ranks were
broken, Huggins made all haste to put on his hat and overcoat, secure his
bundle and quit the room. He would hardly wait to say good-by to Lester,
and didn’t want the latter to go with him as far as the gate.

“He’s well out of his troubles, and mine are just about to begin,”
thought Lester, as he stood on the front steps and saw Huggins disappear
in the darkness. “I would run away myself if I were not afraid of the
consequences. It wouldn’t be safe to try father’s patience too severely,
for there is no telling what he would do to me.”

Lester strolled about until the bugle sounded “to quarters,” and then he
went up to his room, where he passed a very lonely evening. No one dared
to come near him, and if he had attempted to leave his room, he would
have been ordered back by the floor-guard. He knew he ought to study, but
still he would not do it. It would be time enough, he thought, to take up
his books, when he could see no way to get out of it.

Lester went to bed long before taps, and slept soundly until he was
aroused by the report of the morning gun, and the noise of the fifes and
drums in the drill-room. Having been told that he would have just six
minutes in which to dress, he got into his clothes without loss of time,
and fell into the ranks just as the last strains of the morning call died
away.



CHAPTER IV.

FLIGHT AND PURSUIT.


“Fourth company. All present or accounted for with the exception of
Private Albert Huggins,” said Bert Gordon, as he faced about and raised
his hand to his cap.

“Where is Private Huggins?” demanded Captain Clayton.

“I don’t know, sir. He had a pass last night, and he seems to have abused
it. At any rate he is not in the ranks to answer to his name.”

Captain Clayton reported to the adjutant, who in turn reported to the
officer of the day, and then the ranks were broken, and the young
soldiers hurried to their dormitories to wash their hands and faces, comb
their hair, and get ready for morning inspection. While Bert and his
room-mate were thus engaged, an orderly opened the door long enough to
say that Sergeant Gordon was wanted in the superintendent’s office.

“Hallo!” exclaimed Sergeant Elmer—that was the name and rank of Bert’s
room-mate—“you are going out after Huggins, most likely. If you have the
making up of the detail don’t forget me.”

Bert said he wouldn’t, and hastened out to obey the summons. As he was
passing along the hall he was suddenly confronted by Lester Brigham, who
jerked open the door of his room and shouted “Police! Police!” at the top
of his voice.

“What’s the matter with you?” exclaimed Bert, wondering if Lester had
taken leave of his senses.

“I’ve been robbed!” cried Lester, striding up and down the floor, in
spite of all Bert could do to quiet him. “That villain Huggins broke open
my trunk and took a clean hundred dollars in money out of it.”

Lester’s wild cries had alarmed everybody on that floor, and the hall was
rapidly filling with students who ran out of their rooms to see what was
the matter.

“Go back, boys,” commanded Bert. “You have not a moment to waste. If your
rooms are not ready for inspection you will be reported and punished for
it. Go back, every one of you.”

He emphasized this order by pulling out his note-book and holding his
pencil in readiness to write down the name of every student who did not
yield prompt obedience. The boys scattered in every direction, and when
the hall was cleared, Bert seized Lester by the arm and pulled him into
his room.

“No yelling now,” said he sternly.

“Must I stand by and let somebody rob me without saying a word?”
vociferated Lester.

“By no means; but you can act like a sane boy and report the matter in
a quiet way, can’t you? Now explain, and be quick about it, for the
superintendent wants to see me.”

“Why, Huggins has run away—he intended to do it when he got that pass
last night—and he has taken every dollar I had in the world to help
himself along. Just look here,” said Lester, picking up the hasp of
his trunk which had been broken in two in the middle. “Huggins did
that yesterday, and I never knew it until a few minutes ago. I went
to my trunk to get out a clean collar, and then I found that the hasp
was broken, and that my clothes were tumbled about in the greatest
confusion. I looked for my money the first thing, but it was gone.”

“Don’t you know that it is against the rules for a student to have more
than five dollars in his possession at one time?” asked Bert. “If you
had lived up to the law and given your money into the superintendent’s
keeping, you would not have lost it.”

“What do I care for the law?” snarled Lester.

“You ought to care for it. If you didn’t intend to obey it, you had no
business to sign the muster-roll.”

“Well, who’s going to get my hundred dollars back for me? That’s what I
want to know,” cried Lester, who showed signs of going off into another
flurry.

“I don’t know that any one can get it back for you,” said Bert quietly.
“It is possible that you may never see it again.”

“Then I’ll see some more just like it, you may depend upon that,” said
Lester, walking nervously up and down the floor and shaking his fists in
the air. “I was robbed in the superintendent’s house, and he is bound to
make my loss good.”

“There’s where you are mistaken. You took your own risk by disobeying the
rules——”

“The money was mine and the superintendent had no more right to touch it
than you had,” interrupted Lester. “My father gave it to me with his own
hands, because he wanted I should have a fund by me that I could draw on
without asking anybody’s permission.”

“Well, you see what you made by it, don’t you? How do you know that
Huggins has run away?”

“He told me he was going to. I offered to give him a dollar to help him
along, and so did Jones and Williams.”

“You ought not to have done that.”

“I don’t care; I did it, and this is the way he repaid me. I’ll bet he
had my money in his pocket when he refused my offer. I thought he acted
queer, and so did the other boys.”

“Do you know which way he intended to go?”

“He said he was going to draw a bee-line for Oxford, and ship on the
first vessel he could find that would take him to sea. Are you going
after him?” inquired Lester, as Bert turned toward the door. “Look here:
if you will follow him up and get my money back for me, I’ll—I’ll lend
you five dollars of it, if you want it.”

Lester was about to say that he would _give_ Bert that amount, but he
caught his breath in time, and saved five dollars by it. He knew very
well that Bert would never be obliged to ask him for money.

The sergeant hurried down to the superintendent’s office, where he found
the officer of the day, who had just been making his report.

“I understand that Private Huggins abused my confidence, and that
he stayed out all night on the pass I gave him yesterday,” said the
superintendent, after returning Bert’s salute. “Perhaps you had better
take a corporal with you, and look around and see if you can find any
traces of him.”

Bert was delighted. Here was an opportunity for him to win a reputation.

“Shall I go to Oxford, sir?” said he.

“To Oxford?” repeated the superintendent, while the officer of the day
looked surprised.

“Yes, sir. There’s where he has gone.”

“How do you know?”

“His room-mate told me so. He has run away intending to go to sea.”

“Well, well! It is more serious than I thought,” said the superintendent,
while an expression of annoyance and vexation settled on his face. “He
must be brought back. Was he going to walk all that distance or steal a
ride on the cars? He has no money, and his father took pains to tell me
that none would be allowed him.”

“He has plenty of it, sir,” replied Bert. “He broke into Private
Brigham’s trunk and took a hundred dollars from it.”

The superintendent could hardly believe that he had heard aright.

“That is the most disgraceful thing that ever happened in this school,”
said he, as soon as he could speak. “I didn’t suppose there was a boy
here who could be guilty of an act of that kind. Sergeant,” he added,
looking at his watch, “you have just fifteen minutes in which to reach
the depot and ascertain whether or not Huggins took the eight o’clock
train for Oxford last night. Learn all you can, and go with the squad
which I shall at once send in pursuit of him.”

“Very good, sir,” replied Bert.

“Can I go?” asked Sergeant Elmer, as Bert ran into his room and snatched
his overcoat and cap from their hooks.

“I hope so, but I am afraid not. The superintendent will make up the
detail himself or appoint some shoulder-strap to do it, and it isn’t
likely that he will take two sergeants from the same company. You will
have to act in my place while I am gone.”

“Well, good-by and good luck to you,” said the disappointed Elmer.

Bert hastened down the stairs and out of the building, and at the gate
he found the officer of the day who had come there to pass him by the
sentry. As soon as he had closed the gate behind him, he broke into a
run, and in a few minutes more he was walking back and forth in front
of the ticket-office, conversing with a quiet looking man who was to be
found there whenever a train passed the depot. He was a detective.

“Good morning, Mr. Shepard,” said Bert. “Were you on duty when No. 6 went
down last night?”

No. 6 was the first southward bound train that passed through Bridgeport
after Huggins left the academy grounds.

“I was,” answered the detective. “Was that fellow I came pretty near
running in last night on general principles one of your boys?”

“I can’t tell until you describe him,” said Bert.

“There was nothing wrong about his appearance, but I didn’t like the
way he acted,” observed the detective. “He looked as though he had been
up to something. He didn’t buy a ticket, and he took pains to board the
train from the opposite side. He wore a dark-blue overcoat, Arctic shoes,
seal-skin cap, gloves and muffler, and had something on his upper lip
that looked like a streak of free-soil, but which, perhaps, on closer
examination might have proved to be a mustache.”

“That’s the fellow,” said Bert. “Did he go toward Oxford?”

“He did. Do you want him? What has he been doing?”

“I do want him, for he is a deserter,” replied Bert. He said nothing
about the crime of which Huggins was guilty. The superintendent had not
told him to keep silent in regard to it, but he knew he was expected to
do it all the same.

“Then I am glad I didn’t run him in,” said Mr. Shepard. “You boys always
see plenty of fun when you are out after deserters. But you can’t take
that big fellow alone. He’ll pick you up and chuck you head first into a
snow-drift.”

“There are one or two fellows in that squad whom he can’t chuck into a
snow-drift,” said Bert, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder toward
the door.

The detective looked, and saw a party of students coming into the depot
at double time. They were led by Captain (formerly Corporal) Mack, who,
having been permitted to choose his own men, had detailed Curtis, Egan,
Hopkins, and Don Gordon to form his squad. A long way behind them came
the old German professor, Mr. Odenheimer, who was very red in the face
and puffing and blowing like a porpoise. The fleet-footed boys had
led him a lively race, and they meant to do it, too. They didn’t want
him along, for his presence was calculated to rob them of much of the
pleasure they would otherwise have enjoyed. He was jolly and good-natured
when off duty, but still pompous and rather overbearing, and if Huggins
were captured and Lester Brigham’s money returned to him, the honor of
the achievement would fall to him, and not to Captain Mack and his men.

“Young sheltemans,” panted the professor, stopping in front of the squad
which Captain Mack had halted and brought to a front preparatory to
breaking ranks,“I use to could go double quick so good like de pest of
you ven I vas in mine good Brussia fighting mit unser Fritz; but I peen
not a good boy for running not now any more. Vere is Sergeant Gordon?”

“Here, sir,” replied Bert, stepping up and saluting.

“Vell, vere ish dat young rascals—vat you call him—Hukkins?”

“He has gone to Oxford, sir,” said Bert, who then went on to repeat the
substance of his conversation with the detective. Now and then his eyes
wandered toward the boys in the ranks, who came so near making him laugh
in the professor’s face that he was obliged to turn his back toward them.
They were indulging in all sorts of pranks calculated to show their
utter disapproval of the whole proceeding. Don was humped up like old
Jordan, the negro he had so often personated; Hopkins was mimicking the
professor; Egan, who had assumed a very wise expression of countenance,
was checking off Bert’s remarks on his fingers; Curtis was watching for
a chance to snatch an apple from the stand behind him; while Captain Mack
held himself in readiness to drop a piece of ice down his back the very
moment he attempted it. These boys all liked the professor in spite of
his pomposity and his constant allusions to his military record, but they
would have been much better satisfied if he had remained at the academy.
If they had taken time to consider the matter, they would have seen very
clearly that the superintendent had acted for the best, and that he would
not have showed any degree of prudence if he had left them to pursue and
capture the deserter alone and unaided. There was no play about this, and
besides Huggins was something worse than a deserter.

Just then the whistle of an approaching train was heard; whereupon
Captain Mack was ordered to break ranks and procure tickets for himself
and his party, Bert included. This done they boarded the cars, and in a
few minutes more were speeding away toward Oxford.

“I don’t at all like this way of doing business,” observed Captain Mack,
who occupied a seat with Bert. “I am not personally acquainted with
Huggins, but if there is any faith to be put in his appearance, he is
nobody’s fool. He’ll not go to Oxford after stealing that money. If he
went this way, he will stop off at some little station, buy another suit
of clothes and keep dark until he thinks the matter has had time to blow
over.”

“Perhaps you had better say as much to the professor,” suggested Bert.

“Not I!” replied Captain Mack, with a laugh and a knowing shake of his
head. “I have no desire to give him a chance to turn his battery of
broken English loose on me. He has done it too many times already. While
I am very anxious that Huggins should be caught and the money recovered,
I can see as much fun in riding about the country as I can in drilling;
and if the professor wants to spend a week or two on a wild-goose chase,
it is nothing to me. I put in some good solid time with my books last
vacation, and I am three months ahead of my class.”

The captain was right when he said that Huggins did not look like
anybody’s fool, and he wasn’t, either. When he first made up his mind
to desert the academy, he laid his plans just as he told them to Lester
Brigham; but one morning an incident occurred that caused him to make
a slight change in them. He saw Lester go to his trunk and take a
five-dollar bill from a well-filled pocket-book which he kept hidden
under his clothing. The sight of it suggested an idea to Huggins—one
that frightened him at first, but after he had pondered upon it for a
while and dreamed about it a few times, it became familiar to him, and he
ceased to look upon it as a crime.

“It is easier to ride than it is to walk,” he often said to himself.
“Lester doesn’t need the money, and I do, for I don’t know what I shall
have to go through with before I can find a vessel. Oxford is a small
place, and I may have to stay there a week or two before I can secure a
berth, and how could I live all that time without money? I am not going
to steal it—I shall borrow it, for, of course, my father will refund
every cent of it. I know he will not like to do it, but he ought to have
let me go to sea when I asked him.”

After reasoning with himself in this way a few times, Huggins finally
mustered up courage enough to make himself the possessor of the coveted
pocket-book. Unfortunately, opportunities were not wanting. Lester was
hardly ever in his room during the day-time, and it was an easy matter
for Huggins to lock the door and break open the trunk with the aid of a
spike he had picked up in the carpenter-shop. Then he bundled up some of
his clothes, intending to ask for a pass and leave the academy at once.
He got the pass, as we know, but found, to his great surprise and alarm,
that he could not use it until after supper. It was no wonder that he
showed nervousness and anxiety when Jones and the rest offered to lend
him money to help him along. If he had not succeeded in satisfying them
that he would not accept assistance from them, and Lester had gone to
his trunk after the dollar, there would have been trouble directly. He
escaped this danger, however, and as soon as he could use his pass, he
made all haste to get out of Bridgeport.

“But I’ll not go to Oxford yet,” said he, when he found himself safe on
board the cars. “The fellows said they wouldn’t tell where I intended to
go, but when they made that promise they didn’t know that I had borrowed
Brigham’s money.”

Just then the conductor tapped him on the shoulder and held out his hand
for the boy’s ticket.

“What is the fare to the next station?” asked the latter.

“One twenty-five,” was the answer.

Huggins produced the money, and then buttoned his overcoat, settled
back into an easy position on his seat, and tried to make up his mind
what he should do next. Before he had come to any decision on this
point, the whistle blew again, and the train came to a stop; whereupon
Huggins picked up his bundle, which he had carried under his coat when
he deserted the academy, and left the car. The few men he saw upon the
platform were running about as if they were very busy—all except one,
who strolled around with his hands in his pockets. Huggins drew back
out of the glare of the lamps that were shining from the windows of the
depot, to wait for an opportunity to speak to him. He had got off at a
tank-station, but he did not find it out until it was too late to go
farther.

Having taken on a fresh supply of coal and water the engine moved off,
dragging its long train of sleeping-cars behind it, the station agent
went into his office, closing the door behind him, and Huggins and the
unemployed stranger were left alone on the platform.

“Good evening to you, pard,” said the latter, walking up to the boy’s
place of concealment.

“How are you?” replied Huggins, who did not like the familiar tone in
which he had been addressed. “Can you tell me which way to go to find a
hotel?”

“Hotel!” repeated the stranger. “There’s none around here.”

Huggins started and looked about him. Then he saw that he had got off in
the woods, and that there were only one or two small buildings within the
range of his vision.

“Is there no house in the neighborhood at which I can obtain a night’s
lodging?” asked Huggins, growing alarmed.

“I don’t suppose there is,” was the encouraging reply.

“Where does the station-agent sleep?”

“In his office.”

“How far is your house from here?”

“Well, I can’t say just how many miles it is.”

“What is your business?” asked Huggins, growing suspicious of the
stranger.

“I haven’t any just now. I am a minister’s son, traveling for my health.
I’ll tell you what we might do, pard: if you are a good talker you might
coax the agent to let us spend the night in the waiting-room. There’s a
good fire there——”

Huggins waited to hear no more. The man was a professional tramp, there
was no doubt about that, and the idea of passing the night in the same
room with him was not to be entertained for a moment. He started for the
office to have a talk with the agent, the tramp keeping close at his
heels.

“I made a mistake in getting off here,” said Huggins to the agent, “and I
would be greatly obliged if you will direct me to some house where I can
put up until morning.”

“I should be glad to do it,” was the answer, “but there is no one right
around the depot who can accommodate you. There is a boarding-house for
the mill-hands about a mile from here, but I couldn’t direct you to it so
that you could find it. The road runs through the woods, and you might
miss it and get lost.”

“Why, what in the world am I to do?” asked Huggins, who, having never
been thrown upon his own resources before, was as helpless as a child
would have been in the same situation. “Must I stay out doors all night?”

“Not necessarily. Where did you come from?”

“I came from Bridgeport and paid a dollar and twenty-five cents to go
from there to the next station.”

“Well, the next station is Carbondale, which is three miles from here.
There is where you ought to have stopped.”

“Could I hire a horse and cutter to take me there?”

“I don’t think you could.”

“I am able and willing to pay liberally for it.”

“Oh, you would have to go out to the mills to find a horse and a man to
drive it for you, and you might as well walk to Carbondale at once as to
do that.”

“When is the next train due?”

“The next train won’t help you any, for it is the lightning express,
and she doesn’t stop here. You can’t go on the next one either, for she
is the fast freight, and doesn’t carry passengers. You’ll have to wait
for the accommodation which goes through here at six fourteen in the
morning.”

“Then I suppose I shall have to pass the night in your waiting-room,”
said Huggins, who was fairly at his wits’ end.

“Well, I suppose you won’t,” said the agent in emphatic tones. “I shall
have to ask you to go out now, for I am going to lock up.”

“Don’t you leave a room open for the accommodation of passengers?”
exclaimed Huggins, wondering what would become of him if the agent
turned him out in the snow to pass the night as best he could, while the
thermometer was only a degree or two above zero. If it had been summer
he could have bunked under a tree; but as it was—the runaway shuddered
when he thought of the long, cold hours that must be passed in some way
before he would see the sun rise again. Here the tramp, who stood holding
his hands over the stove, put in a word to help Huggins; but he only
made a bad matter worse. The heart of the station agent was not likely
to be moved to pity by any such advocate as he was. He carried a very
hard-looking face, he was rough and unkempt, and his whole appearance was
against him. Besides, he did not speak in a way calculated to carry his
point.

“I don’t see what harm it will do for us to sit by your fire,” said he,
in angry tones.

“I don’t care whether you see any harm in it or not,” said the agent,
taking a bunch of keys from his pocket. “I know what my orders are, and I
intend to obey them. Come now, move; both of you.”

“I wish you would tell me what to do,” said Huggins, as he turned toward
the door. “I am not in this man’s company, and neither am I interceding
for him. I am speaking for myself alone.”

“I can’t help that. If I let you in I must let him in too; but my orders
are to turn everybody out when I lock up. The best thing you can do is to
strike out for Carbondale at your best pace. The night is clear, and you
can’t miss the way if you follow the railroad. There are no bridges or
trestle-works for you to cross, and no cattle-guards to fall into. If you
make haste, you can get there before the hotels shut up. Go on, now!”

The agent arose from his chair as he said this, and Huggins and the tramp
opened the door and went out into the cold.



CHAPTER V.

DON’S ENCOUNTER WITH THE TRAMP.


“You’re not in my company, ain’t you? You didn’t speak for me but for
yourself, did you? You think you’re too fine a gentleman to be seen
loafing about with such a fellow as I am, don’t you?” growled the tramp,
when he and Huggins were alone on the platform. “I’ve the best notion in
the world to make you pay for them words, and I will, too, if I find you
hanging about here after the agent has gone to bed.”

There was no doubt that the man was in earnest when he said this. The
light from the agent’s window shone full upon his face and the runaway
could see that there was an evil look in it.

“If you had stood by me I would have given you a good place to sleep, for
I know where there is a nice warm hay-mow with plenty of blankets and
buffalo robes to put over you,” continued the tramp. “I slept there last
night, and I’m going there now, after I see you start for Carbondale. Go
on, be off with you!”

“I’m not going there,” replied Huggins, who was so badly frightened by
the man’s vehemence that he was afraid to show any of the indignation
he felt at being ordered about in this unceremonious way. “I shall stay
right here on this platform until daylight.”

“No, you won’t. I’m not going to have you staying around here watching
for a chance to follow me to my warm bed. You went back on me, and now
you can look out for yourself.”

“I have no intention of following you,” said Huggins.

“I’ll believe that when I see you dig out for Carbondale. Go on, I say,
or I’ll help you!”

The man took his hands out of his pockets, and Huggins believing that
he was about to put his threat into execution, jumped off the platform,
and started up the railroad track at a rapid pace, the tramp standing in
the full glare of the light from the agent’s window, and keeping a close
watch over his movements.

“That was a pretty good idea,” said he to himself, as he saw the boy’s
figure growing dim in the distance. “He said he was able and willing to
pay liberal for somebody to take him to Carbondale, and that proves that
he’s got money. I’ll just look into that matter when he gets a little
farther away. I’ll take that fine cap, muffler, and them gloves of his’n,
too. They’ll keep me warm while I have ’em, and I can trade ’em off or
sell ’em before the police can get wind of me.”

So saying the man stepped down from the platform and moved leisurely up
the track in the direction in which Huggins had disappeared, shuffling
along in a supremely lazy and disjointed way, that no one ever saw
imitated by anybody except a professional tramp.

“The insolent fellow!” thought Huggins, looking back now and then to make
sure that the man was still standing on the platform. “What right had he
to tell me to go on to Carbondale if I wanted to stay at the depot until
morning? He must think I am hard up for a night’s rest if he imagines
that I would be willing to sleep in a hay-mow. I’ll have a good bed while
I am about it, for now that I am on the road to Carbondale, I shall keep
moving until I get there. How lonely and still it is out here, and how
gloomy the woods look! I wish I had somebody to talk to.”

When the darkness had shut the station-house, the tank, the upright,
motionless figure of the tramp and every thing else except the light in
the agent’s window out from his view, Huggins broke into a run, and flew
along the track at the top of his speed. He kept up the pace as long as
he could stand it, and then settled down into a rapid trot which carried
him easily over one of the three miles he had to cover before he could
find a roof to shelter him and a bed to sleep in.

“I think I am all right now,” soliloquized the runaway, slackening his
pace to a walk and unbuttoning his heavy muffler, which felt too warm
about his neck. “I tell you I am glad to see the last of that tramp, for
I didn’t at all like the looks of him. I believe he’d just as soon——”

The runaway’s heart seemed to stop beating. He faced quickly about, and
there was the tramp whom he hoped he had seen for the last time, close
behind him. He had easily kept pace with the boy, stepping so exactly
in time with him that the sound of his feet upon the frosty snow had
not betrayed his presence. He held some object in his hand which he
flourished over his head, and Huggins, believing it to be a pistol, stood
trembling in his tracks and waited for him to come up. The object was
not a pistol, but it was a murderous looking knife, which made the boy
shudder all over as he looked at it.

“I’ve concluded to make you pay for going back on me so fair and square
while you were talking to the agent,” were the tramp’s next words. “Put
your hands above your head while I go through your pockets and see what
you’ve got in ’em.”

“Do you want my money?” asked Huggins, who could hardly make himself
understood, so frightened was he. “If you do I will give it to you, but
don’t hurt me.”

He carried his money in two places. The greater portion of it was in
Lester Brigham’s pocket-book; and in one of his vest pockets he had the
small amount of change the conductor gave him when he paid his fare. As
it was all in small bills and made a roll of respectable size, he hoped
he could satisfy the robber by handing it over, but he was doomed to be
disappointed. When he made a move as if he were about to unbutton his
overcoat, the man raised his knife threateningly.

“None o’ that!” said he, in savage tones. “You can’t draw a barker on me
while I am within reach of you, and it will be worse for you if you try
it. Put your hands above your head, and be quick about it.”

Huggins was afraid to refuse or to utter a word of remonstrance. He
raised his hands in the air, and the robber, after dropping the knife
into his coat-pocket, so that it could be readily seized if circumstances
should seem to require it, proceeded to “go through” him in the most
business-like way. He turned all the boy’s pockets inside out, and when
he had completed his investigations, Huggins’s money was all gone and he
stood shivering in the tramp’s hat and thread-bare coat, while the tramp
himself looked like another person. He had appropriated the runaway’s
cap, coats, muffler and gloves, and would have taken his boots and
Arctics too, if they had been big enough for him.

“Now, then,” said he, as he buttoned the muffler about his neck and drew
on the gloves, “I believe I am done with you, and you can dig out.”

“But where can I go?” cried Huggins. “I have no money to pay for a
night’s lodging, and I am almost a thousand miles from home.”

“You are better off than I am, for I have no home at all,” answered the
tramp. “It won’t hurt you to sleep out of doors; I’ve done it many a
time. Now skip, for I have wasted words enough with you. Not that way,”
he added, as Huggins reluctantly turned his face toward Carbondale. “Go
back to the station. Step lively now, for if you don’t, I shall be after
you.”

The boy dared not wait for the command to be repeated, believing, as
he did, that it would be emphasized by a prod with the knife which the
robber still held in his hand. Scarcely realizing what he was doing he
hurried along the track toward the station, and when he ventured to look
behind him, the tramp was nowhere in sight.

“Now what am I going to do?” said Huggins to himself; and it was a
question he pondered all the way to the station, and which he could not
answer even when daylight came. The station-agent was just locking up as
he stepped upon the platform, and he resolved to make another effort to
obtain a seat by one of his fires.

“Won’t you please let me sit in the waiting-room until morning?” said the
boy, in a pleading voice.

“No, _no_!” was the angry response. “Clear out! You are the third one
who has asked me that question to-night. I don’t keep a hotel. If I did,
I’d have a sign out.”

“That man who followed me into your office a little while ago, has robbed
me,” gasped Huggins, choking back a sob.

“Well, I should say he had!” exclaimed the agent, after he had taken
a sharp look at Huggins. “I thought I knew your voice, but I didn’t
recognize you in those clothes. If I had had the chance I should have
told you to shake him as soon as possible. He has been hanging around
here all day, and I was afraid he would be up to something before he
left. Why didn’t you call for help?”

“He was armed and savage and I was afraid to say a word,” replied the
runaway. “Besides it would have done no good, for I was a long distance
up the track when he overtook me.”

“Did he take all your money?”

“Every red cent. He didn’t even leave me my pocket-knife or note-book.”

“Your case is a hard one, that’s a fact, and I will do what I can for
you,” said the agent. “You may sit in this room to-night. That fellow
will probably go to Oxford, and if I can get the operator there to
respond to my call, I’ll tell him to put the police on the look-out.
To-morrow I will send an alarm all along the line.”

“I am much obliged to you,” said Huggins, gratefully. “I may some day be
able to repay you for your kindness.”

“That’s all right. Good night.”

The agent went out, and the runaway drew one of the chairs up in front of
the stove and sat down in it. He was provided for for the night, but what
should he do when morning came? Should he stay there at the tank-station
and look for work, or would it be better for him to start for Oxford on
foot, begging his meals as he went like any other tramp? That was what
he intended to do when he first made up his mind to desert the academy,
and he could not see that there was any other course open to him now.
While he was thinking about it, he fell asleep. He did not know when
the lightning express and the fast freight went through, but he heard
the whistle of the morning train, and hurried to the door to see the
accommodation approaching. He saw something else, too—something that put
life and energy into him, and sent him around the corner of the building
out of sight.

“They are after me already,” said he, as he hurried along a road that led
from the station into the woods. “I saw their uniform caps sticking out
of the window.”

If he had waited a few minutes longer he would have seen Captain Mack and
Sergeant Gordon step upon the platform and run toward the agent’s office.

“Did you say he was a tall young fellow with a little mustache, and
that he wore a dark-blue overcoat, Arctic shoes and seal-skin furs?
He’s the very chap. Come with me. He was fast asleep in a chair in the
waiting-room not more than half an hour ago. There is his chair,” said
the agent, as he opened the door, “but he has skipped out, as sure as the
world.”

“Have you any idea where he is?” asked the young captain.

“I think he must have gone to Carbondale,” replied the agent. “But see
here, boys: you needn’t waste any time in looking for a fellow in a blue
overcoat and seal-skin furs, for the police will take care of him. You
want to keep your eyes open for a chap in a patched and torn broad-cloth
coat and a slouch hat without any brim to it. You see——”

Here the agent went on to tell how Huggins had been robbed and compelled
to exchange clothes with the tramp. The boys listened attentively, and
when the agent finished his story, they hastened back to the train to
report to the professor. Captain Mack did the talking, and wound up with
the request that he might be permitted to take a couple of men and go up
the wagon-road toward Carbondale to see if Huggins had gone that way.
To his great surprise as well as delight the request was granted, the
professor adding that he and the rest of the squad would keep on with the
train until he thought they had got ahead of the runaway, and then they
would get off and come back on foot.

“If you seen any dings of Hukkins or de veller vot robbed him, you will
gatch all two of dem and rebort to me py delegraph,” said the professor,
in concluding his instructions. “I shall pe somveres along de road, and
as lightning can dravel so much fasder dan shteam, you can easy gatch
me.”

“Very good, sir. I wish I could take you with me, Bert,” he added, in a
whisper, “for I am bound to carry off the honors of this scout; but you
will have to stay and act as lackey to the professor. Gordon, you and
Egan come with me.”

The boys obeyed with alacrity, smiling and kissing their hands to Hopkins
and Curtis, who frowned fiercely and shook their fists at them in return.
They stood upon the platform until the train moved off, and then Captain
Mack said:

“Business before pleasure, boys. I move that we go somewhere and get a
good, old-fashioned country breakfast. I speak for a big bowl of bread
and milk.”

The others were only too glad to fall in with this proposition. Having
left the academy almost as soon as they got up, they began to feel the
cravings of hunger, and their appetites were sharpened by the mere
mention of bread and milk. They held a short consultation with the
station-agent, and then started leisurely down the wagon road in the
direction of Carbondale, stopping at every house along the route with the
intention of asking for a bowl of bread and milk, but always, for some
reason or other, coming away without doing it. They were not inclined
to be fastidious. When it came to the pinch they could eat pancakes or
bacon that were seasoned with nothing but ashes and cinders with as much
zest as anybody; but they had become so accustomed to the strict and
rigidly enforced rules regarding personal cleanliness, that any violation
of these rules shocked them. To quote from Don Gordon, who generally
expressed his sentiments in the plainest possible language, they had no
use for children whose faces and hands were covered with molasses, nor
could they see anything to admire in an unkempt woman who went about her
cooking with a well-blackened clay-pipe in her mouth.

“There’s the place we are looking for,” said Egan, directing his
companions’ attention to a neat little farm-house a short distance in
advance of them. “If we can’t find a breakfast there, we’ll not find it
this side of——”

At that instant the front door of the house was suddenly opened, and a
lady appeared upon the threshold. She looked anxiously up and down the
road, and, seeing the students approaching, beckoned to them with frantic
eagerness, at the same time calling out, “Help! help!” at the top of her
voice.

“Come on, boys,” cried Captain Mack. “Her house is on fire.”

The officer and his men broke into a run, discarding their heavy
overcoats as they went, but before they had made many steps they
discovered that it was something besides fire that had occasioned the
lady’s alarm. All on a sudden a back door was jerked violently open, and
a man bounded down the steps and ran across a field toward the railroad
track.

“He’s been doing something in there,” shouted Captain Mack. “Take after
him, boys.”

“That’s one of the fellows we want,” observed Egan. “He’s got Huggins’s
overcoat on.”

“So he has,” said the captain. “Never mind the lady, for she is safe now.
Catch the tramp, and we’ll find out what he had been doing to frighten
her.”

Don Gordon, who had already taken the lead of his companions, cleared the
high farm gate as easily as though he had been furnished with wings, and
ran up the carriage-way. He lingered at a wood-rack he found in front of
the barn long enough to jerk one of the stakes out of it, and having
thus provided himself with a weapon, he continued the pursuit.

The tramp, who had about fifty yards the start, proved himself to be no
mean runner. His wind was good, his muscles had been hardened by many
a long pedestrian tour about the country, and Don afterward admitted
that for a long time it looked as if the man were going to beat him; but
when the latter got what school-boys are wont to call his “second wind,”
he gained rapidly. Another hundred yards run brought him almost within
striking distance of the fugitive, and while he was trying to make up his
mind whether he ought to halt him or knock him down without ceremony to
pay him for frightening the lady, the tramp suddenly stopped and faced
about. Then Don saw that he carried a knife in his hand.

“Keep away from me,” said he, in savage tones, “or I’ll——”

“You’ll what?” demanded Don, leaning on his club and casting a quick
glance over his shoulder to see how far his companions were behind.

“Do you see this?” said the tramp, shaking the knife threateningly.

“Yes, I see it,” answered Don, coolly. “You had better throw it away. You
might hurt yourself with it.”

The tramp was astonished. Here was a boy who could not be as easily
frightened as Huggins was, and he began to stand in awe of him. He was
old enough to know that a cool, deliberate antagonist is much more to
be feared than one who allows himself to go into a paroxysm of rage and
excitement.

“Drop that knife,” commanded Don, who had suddenly made up his mind that
the tramp ought to be disarmed before his companions came up; and as he
spoke, he raised his club over his head.

A year’s hard drill, added to faithful attention to the instructions
he had received from Professor Odenheimer, had made Don Gordon very
proficient in the broadsword exercise, but he had never had an
opportunity to test the value of the accomplishment until this particular
morning. Seeing that the man had no intention of dropping the knife he
proceeded to disarm him, and he did it in a way that was as surprising
to him as it was to the tramp. Bringing his club to the first position,
he made a feint with it as if he were going to give a No. 1 cut. If the
weapon had not been arrested in its progress through the air, and the
tramp had stood motionless, he would have received a sounding whack on
his left cheek; but seeing the club coming he ducked his head at the very
instant that Don changed from the first to the third cut, thus receiving
squarely between the eyes the full force of a terrific blow that was
intended for his right forearm. He fell as if he had been shot. The knife
fell from his grasp, and before he could recover it, Captain Mack had run
up and secured possession of it.

Without saying a word Egan proceeded to explore the tramp’s pockets, and
the first thing he brought to light was Lester Brigham’s money. It was
all there, too, for the tramp had had no opportunity to spend any of it.
He had reasons of his own for desiring to go to Oxford, but he did not
intend to start immediately. He slept in a barn that night, and intended,
as soon as he had begged a breakfast, to strike back into the country and
make his way to Oxford by a round-about course, avoiding the railroad
and all the villages along the route. He hoped in this way to elude the
police who, he knew, would be on the watch for him. When he reached the
farm-house from which he had taken his hurried flight, and found that
the male members of the family were absent, he began to act as though
he had a right there. He demanded a warm breakfast and a seat at the
table; and when the lady of the house objected and tried to oppose his
entrance into the kitchen, he frightened her nearly out of her senses by
producing his knife and threatening to do something terrible with it if
his demands were not complied with on the instant. Some of these things
Captain Mack and his men learned from the tramp himself, and the rest of
the story they heard from the lady, into whose presence they conducted
their prisoner without loss of time. The latter came very near meeting
with a warm reception. The farmer and his two stalwart sons had just come
in from the wood-lot where they had spent the morning in chopping, and
it was all the old gentleman, aided by his wife and Captain Mack and his
men, could do to keep the boys from punching the tramp’s head.

“What are you going to do with him?” demanded the farmer, when quiet
had been restored and Captain Mack had told what the tramp had done to
Huggins the night before.

“I am going to take him back to the station and telegraph to Professor
Odenheimer for orders,” answered the captain. “Those are my instructions.”

“Haven’t had any breakfast, I reckon, have you? I thought not. Well, I
haven’t either. Come in and sit down. It’s all ready.”

“Thank you,” said Mack. “A bowl of milk would be——”

“Oh, we’ve got something better than that.”

“You haven’t anything that would suit me better,” said Mack, with
refreshing candor. “I am a city boy.”

“Oh, ah! Well, you shall have all the milk you can drink.”

When Captain Mack and his men had satisfied their appetites and listened
to the grateful words of the farmer, who thanked them for their prompt
response to his wife’s appeals for assistance, they put on their
overcoats, which one of the boys had brought in from the road during
their absence, and set out for the station with their prisoner. The
latter’s face began to show the effect of Don’s blow, but the tramp did
not seem to mind it. He ate the cold bread and meat which the farmer’s
wife gave him just as he was about to leave the house with his captors,
and even joined in their conversation.

When the students reached the depot they were met by the agent, who
laughed all over when he saw the tramp, and drew Captain Mack off on one
side.

“You got him, didn’t you?” said he. “Some of you must have given him a
good pounding, judging by his countenance. Now, if you are at all sharp,
you can capture the other.”

“Who? Huggins?”

“Yes. He went out to the mill and got a job there at hauling wood. He was
in here not ten minutes ago, and I had a long talk with him. He saw some
of you looking out of the window when the accommodation came in, and that
was the reason he took himself off in such a hurry. I told him that you
had gone on toward Oxford. He’ll be back here with another load in less
than an hour, and then you can catch him.”

“I am much obliged to you,” said Captain Mack. “Now will you see if you
can ascertain where the professor and the rest of the boys are?”

The agent said he would; but his efforts to find them met with no
success. The operators of whom he made inquiries had all seen them, but
couldn’t tell where they were.

“They haven’t left the train yet,” said he. “The accommodation will be at
Munson in a quarter of an hour, and then I will try again.”

Of course the captain could not make his report until he knew where the
professor was, so he and his men went into the waiting-room, accompanied
by the tramp, and sat down there—all except Don Gordon, who was ordered
to hold himself in readiness to capture the deserter when he came back
with the next load of wood.



CHAPTER VI.

ABOUT VARIOUS THINGS.


Don’s first care was to ascertain which way Huggins would come from when
he returned from the mill with his wood, and his second to keep behind
the depot out of sight. He paced up and down the platform in front of the
door of the waiting-room, so that he could be at hand to lend assistance
in case the tramp showed a disposition to make trouble for Mack and Egan,
but that worthy had no more fight in him. He was a coward and afraid of
Don, and he wisely concluded that the best thing he could do was to keep
quiet.

At the end of twenty minutes the station-agent came in. He had heard
from the professor and the rest of the squad, who had left the train at
Munson. At Captain Mack’s request he sent off the following despatch:

“Have captured the tramp who robbed Huggins, and expect to have Huggins
himself inside of an hour.”

In due time the answer came back:

“Remain at the station until I come.”

“And when he comes, which will be about four o’clock this afternoon, we
shall have to go back to our books and duties,” said the young officer,
stretching his arms and yawning. “I haven’t seen a bit of fun during this
scout, have you, Egan? I hope the next fellow who makes up his mind to
desert the academy, will lead us a good long chase and give us some work
to do.”

The captain had his wish. The next time he was sent in pursuit of a
runaway, he did not come back in one day nor two; and even at the end
of a week he had not completed his work. We shall tell all about it
presently.

The minutes wore away, and presently Don Gordon, who stood where he could
command a view of the road for a long distance, saw a load of wood coming
out of the timber. There was somebody walking beside it and driving
the horses, but Don would not have known it was Huggins had not the
station-agent, who was also on the watch, at that moment opened his door
and called out:

“There he is.”

“Much obliged,” replied Don, who straightway pulled off his overcoat and
dropped it upon the platform. He knew nothing whatever of Huggins. The
latter might be a good runner or a good fighter, and if he concluded to
make a race of it or to resist arrest, Don intended to be ready for him.

Huggins approached the depot with fear and trembling. He stopped very
frequently to reconnoiter the building and its surroundings, and when he
drew up to the wood-pile, he threw the blankets over his steaming horses,
and jumped upon the platform. He wanted to make sure that the coast was
clear before he began throwing off his load. Don could not see him now,
but the sound of his footsteps told him that the deserter was approaching
his place of concealment. When he came around the corner of the building,
Don stepped into view and greeted him with the greatest cordiality.

“Your name is Huggins, I believe,” said he; and without giving the
runaway time to recover from his surprise and bewilderment, Don took him
by the arm and led him toward the door of the waiting-room. “I am glad
to see you,” he continued, “and you will be glad to know that the tramp
who robbed you last night has surrendered Lester Brigham’s money, and
that your clothes—— Hallo! What’s the matter?”

Huggins had been brought to his senses by Don’s words. He saw that he
had run right into a trap that had been prepared for him, and he made a
desperate attempt to escape. Throwing all his strength, which was by no
means insignificant, into the effort, he tried to wrench his arm loose
from Don’s grasp, and to trip him up at the same time; but the vicious
kick he aimed at Don’s leg expended its force in the empty air, and
Huggins turned part way around and sat down on the platform very suddenly.

“What are you doing down there?” said Don, taking the runaway by the
collar and lifting him to his feet. “Come into the waiting-room if you
want to sit down. I was about to say, when you interrupted me, that
you can get your clothes back now. Mack’s got the money, and all your
property. Here we are. Walk right in and make yourself at home.”

Captain Mack and Egan, who had kept a watchful eye on Don and his
captive, but who dared not go out to assist him for fear that the
tramp would improve the opportunity to escape, opened the door of the
waiting-room, and Huggins walked in without saying a word. In obedience
to Captain Mack’s command an exchange of hats and coats was made between
the new prisoner and the man who had robbed him, and after that another
despatch was sent to Professor Odenheimer. The answer that came back was
the same as the first.

The fun, as well as the work, was all over now, and the students had
nothing to do but walk about the room and wait as patiently as they
could for the train that was to take them back to Bridgeport. It came at
last, and in due time the tramp was handed over to the authorities to be
tried for highway robbery, while Huggins was marched to his room to be
kept there under guard until his father came to take him away. He was
expelled from the school in general orders. Lester Brigham was punished
for keeping so large an amount of money by him in violation of the
regulations, and Don Gordon was looked upon as a hero. This hurt Lester
more than anything else. He had come there with the fixed determination
to supplant Don and Bert in the estimation of both teachers and
students—to build himself up by pulling them down—and he was not a little
disappointed as well as enraged, when he discovered that it was not in
his power to work them any injury. He wrote a doleful letter to his
father, complaining of the indignities that were constantly heaped upon
him, and begging to be allowed to go home; but for once in his life Mr.
Brigham was firm, and Lester was given to understand that he must make up
his mind to stay at Bridgeport until the four years’ course was completed.

“I’ll show him whether I will or not,” said Lester, who was almost beside
himself with fury. “He’ll _have_ to let me go home. If Jones and the rest
will stand by me, I will kick up a row here that will be talked of as
long as the academy stands. I’ll show the fellows that Don Gordon isn’t
the only boy in the world who has any pluck.”

In process of time Mr. Huggins came to the academy to look into the
charges that had been made against his son, and when he went away, the
deserter went with him. It was a long time before the boys knew what had
become of him, for he left not a single friend at the academy, and there
was no one who corresponded with him.

Things went smoothly after that. Of course there was some grand running,
and a good deal of extra sentry and police duty to be performed by the
idle and disobedient ones; but there were no flagrant violations of
the rules—no more thefts or desertions. The malcontents were plucky
enough to do almost anything, but they lacked a leader. There were no
Don Gordons or Tom Fishers or Clarence Duncans among them. They had
expected great things of Lester Brigham, but when they became better
acquainted with him, they found that he was a boy of no spirit whatever.
He talked loudly and spent his money freely, and his liberality brought
him plenty of followers who were quick to discover all the weak points
in his character. His insufferable vanity and self-conceit, his hatred
of Don Gordon, his fondness for telling of the imaginary exploits he had
performed both afloat and ashore—all these were seized upon by a certain
class of boys who flattered him to his face, ate unlimited quantities of
pancakes and pies at his expense and laughed at him behind his back. But
the idea he had suggested to them—that of stealing a yacht and going off
somewhere and having a picnic—was not forgotten. They talked about it at
every opportunity; numerous plans for their amusement were proposed and
discussed, and they had even selected the yacht in which they intended to
make their cruise. Lester was, of course, the nominal leader, but Jones
and Enoch Williams did all the work and laid all the plans.

The winter months passed quietly away, spring with its trout-fishing and
pickerel-spearing came and went, and summer was upon them almost before
they knew it. Now the students went to work in earnest, for the season
of the annual camp and the examination that followed it, was close at
hand. Even the lazy boys began to show some signs of life now, for they
had heard much of the pleasures that were to be enjoyed during their
month under canvas, and they were as anxious as the others to make a good
showing in the presence of the strangers and friends who would be sure to
visit them.

Lester Brigham would have looked forward to the camping frolic with
the greatest eagerness and impatience if he had only had a corporal’s
_chevrons_ to wear; but he hadn’t, and if we might judge by his standing
in his class, he was not likely to wear them, either.

“I’ll have to stand guard and be bossed around by that little whiffet
of a Bert Gordon, who will throw on more airs than he deserves,” Lester
often said to himself. “But I’ll not go to camp, if I can help it. If I
do, I’ll not stay there long, for I will do something that will send me
back to the academy under arrest.”

This was a part of Jones’s programme. The boys who were to steal the
yacht and go to sea in her—there were twenty-eight of them in all—were
to fall so far behind their classes that they would be ordered to remain
at the academy to make up for lost time. If they did not succeed in
accomplishing their object and were sent to camp against their will, they
were to commit some offence that would cause them to be marched back
under arrest. The boys growled lustily when this programme was marked out
for them, and some of them flatly refused to follow it.

“As this is my first year at the academy I have never been in camp, and I
should like to see what they do there,” said one. “Suppose those Mount
Pleasant Indians should come in again? I shouldn’t like to miss that.”

“I don’t see any sense in waiting so long,” said another. “Why can’t we
go now?”

“Where’s the yacht?” asked Jones, in reply. “There isn’t one in the
harbor. They have all gone off on a cruise. The first thing is to make
sure that we can get a boat. As soon as that matter is settled, I will
tell you what to do next. If you will hold yourselves in readiness to
move when I say the word, I will guarantee that we will see more fun than
those who stay in camp.”

“What will they do with us after they capture us?”

“They will court-martial and expel the last one of us. That’s a foregone
conclusion. If there are any among us who desire to stay in this school,
they had better back down at once, so that we may know who they are. But
we’ll lead them a lively race before we are caught; you may depend upon
that.”

Whenever Jones talked in this way there were a few of his adherents—and
they were the ones who had exhibited the most enthusiasm when Lester’s
plan was first proposed—who felt their courage oozing out at the end of
their fingers. It was easy enough to talk about capturing and running off
with a private yacht, but as the time for action drew nearer they began
to show signs of wavering. Unfortunately, however, an incident happened
during the latter part of June, which did more to unite them, and to
bring their runaway scheme to a head, than almost anything else could
have done.

Among those who kept a watchful eye over the interests of the academy,
and who took the greatest pride in its success, were the rank and file
of the 61st regiment of infantry, National Guards, which was located at
Hamilton, a thriving little city about fifty miles north of Bridgeport.
This regiment was composed almost entirely of veterans, and a few of
them were the fathers, uncles and older brothers of some of the boys who
were now wearing the academy uniform. Their colonel and some of their
field and line officers were graduated there, and in the ranks were
many bearded fellows who, in the days gone by, had run the guards to
eat pancakes at Cony Ryan’s, and who had paid for their fun by spending
the next Saturday afternoon in walking extras with muskets on their
shoulders and packed knapsacks on their backs.

The regiment had once spent a week in camp with the academy boys, and
this year was the twenty-fifth anniversary of its organization. The
members intended to celebrate it by giving the citizens of Hamilton the
finest parade they had witnessed for many a day. Regiments from Rhode
Island, New York and Ohio had given favorable replies to the invitations
that had been sent to them, others from Virginia and North Carolina,
which had seen service under General Lee at Richmond, had promised to be
present, the firemen and civic societies were to join in the parade, and
the academy boys were expected to be there in full force. The line was to
be formed after dinner had been served in a big tent, and the festivities
were to conclude with a grand ball in the evening.

When the superintendent read the invitation before the school and asked
the students what they thought about it, they arose as one boy and raised
such a tumult of “Union cheers” and “rebel yells” (remember there were
a good many Southern boys among them), that the superintendent, after
trying in vain to make his signal bell heard, raised his hand to enforce
silence.

“Young gentlemen, you know that such a demonstration as this is a
direct violation of our rules and regulations,” said he, when the boys
had resumed their seats; but still he did not seem to be very much
annoyed. He judged that they were unanimously in favor of accepting the
invitation, and the adjutant would be instructed to reply accordingly.
He hoped that every member of the academy would be able to join in the
parade, _but_ there were two things that must be distinctly understood:
The first was, that they could not remain to take part in the festivities
of the evening—they must start for home at six o’clock. The boys, he
said, had all they could do to prepare themselves for the examination,
and pleasure must not be allowed to interfere with business. If they
deserved it they would have plenty of recreation when they went into
camp. Just then a boy in the back part of the room raised his hand. The
superintendent nodded to him, and the boy arose and said:

“Could we not march to and from the city, camping out on the way, instead
of going by rail?”

The flutter of excitement which this proposition caused in every part of
the school-room indicated that the students were all in favor of it; but
it seems that the superintendent wasn’t. There would be no objection, he
said, if the parade were to come off immediately; but the 24th of July
was the day that had been set for the celebration; it would take three
days to march there, as many more to return, and seven days of study
taken from the end of the term would certainly show in the examination.
They were too valuable to be wasted. One day was all he could allow them.

The second thing he wished them to understand was this: The parade would
be an event of some consequence. It would afford them as much pleasure as
the fight with the Mount Pleasant Indians. They would be surrounded by
well-drilled men who would watch all their movements with critical eyes,
and note and comment upon their slightest errors or indiscretions. He had
no fears for the majority of the students, for he knew beforehand that
they would act like soldiers while they were in the ranks, and like young
gentlemen when they were out of them; but there were some among them,
he was sorry to say, whose presence would reflect no honor upon their
companies—boys who could not keep their eyes directed to the front while
they were marching, or hold their heads still on dress-parade, and whose
conduct, when they were on the streets and out of sight of their teachers
and officers, would not be calculated to win the respect of the citizens
of Hamilton. He did not want those boys to accompany them, but still he
would give them the same chance he gave the others.

They had nearly five weeks of hard study and drill before them, during
which time it was possible for any studious and attentive boy to run his
standing up to a hundred. Those who did that, might be sure of a holiday
and a general good time on the 24th of July; but those who allowed
themselves to fall below seventy-five, would be required to remain at the
academy. He left the matter in their own hands.

“I say, Don,” whispered Egan, as the students marched out of the
school-room, “if this thing had happened last year, you and I would have
gone to the hop, wouldn’t we?”

“I believe we would,” answered Don.

“Well, what do you say to——”

“I’ll not do it,” was the emphatic response. “If any of the other fellows
have a mind to desert and stay to the roll, they may do it and take the
consequences; but I won’t. I haven’t received a single reprimand this
term, not even from that old martinet Odenheimer, and what’s more, I
don’t intend to put myself in the way of getting one.”

“Good for you, Gordon,” said Egan, approvingly. “Stick to it, and the day
that sees you a first-class cadet, will see you lieutenant-colonel of the
academy battalion. You hear me?”

“I hope it will,” replied Don. “It certainly will not see me a private;
you may depend upon that.”

That night Lester Brigham and his friend Jones met in the gymnasium.
Their followers came up, one after the other, and in a few minutes there
was quite a crowd of boys gathered about them. Some of them spoke with
great enthusiasm regarding the proposed excursion to Hamilton, while
others were sullen, and had but little to say. Among the latter was
Lester Brigham, who, having wasted his time and fallen behind his class
in everything, saw very plainly that his chances for participating in
the celebration were slim indeed. He grew angry whenever he thought that
he would have to remain a prisoner at the academy while the other boys in
his company were seeing no end of fun, and when he got that way, he was
ready for almost anything. He saw how his enforced sojourn at Bridgeport
could be turned to account; but the next thing was to make the rest of
the fellows see it.

“Things couldn’t have been planned to suit us better, could they?” said
Lester, as the boys crowded about him.

“They might have been planned to suit _me_ better—a good deal better,”
growled one, in reply. “I wish that invitation had been sent a month ago.
Then I should have gone to work in earnest, and perhaps I would stand
some chance of going to Hamilton with my company.”

“Why, do you want to go?” exclaimed Lester.

“Of course I do, and I will, too, if there is anything to be gained by
faithful effort. If you catch me in any mischief before the result of the
next five weeks’ study is announced, you may shoot me.”

“And me; and me,” chorused several of the boys.

“Look here, Brigham,” said Jones. “That celebration will be the grandest
thing you ever saw, outside of a big city, and we mustn’t miss it.”

“I was going to suggest that it would be a good time to start off on our
cruise,” said Lester. “The boys who will be left here to stand guard will
be fellows after our own hearts, and we can easily induce them to pass us
or to join in with us.”

“That’s my idea,” said another.

“Well, it isn’t mine,” said Jones, in very decided tones.

“Don’t you know what the understanding was?” began Lester.

“I know all about it,” replied Jones. “I ought to, for I proposed it. The
bargain was, that we were to be left out of camp, if we could, so that we
could desert the academy when it was not strongly guarded. Failing that,
we were to leave the camp in a body, capture our boat and go to sea in
her. Wasn’t that the agreement, boys?”

The students all said it was.

“I am ready to live up to that agreement,” continued Jones; “but I
wouldn’t miss that parade for any money. I am going to the ball in the
evening, too.”

“You can’t,” said Lester. “The superintendent said you would come home on
the six o’clock train.”

“Some will and some won’t,” said a boy who had not spoken before. “It
will be an easy matter for those of us who want to stay, to slip away and
hide until the rest of the boys are gone. If I go to Hamilton I shall go
to the dance.”

“And I’ll stay here,” said Lester, who was disappointed as well as
enraged. “But when you return, you will not find me. I am going off on a
cruise if I have to steal a skiff and go alone.”

“You needn’t go alone,” said one of the boys. “I will go with you.”

“Wait until August and we will all go with you,” said Jones.

“I can’t and I shan’t. I have waited long enough already. I have seen
quite enough of this school.”

These were the sentiments of a good many of the students, who gradually
drew over to Lester’s side, and when the latter had run his eye over
them, he found that there were an even dozen who were willing to stand by
him.

“Whose side are you on, Enoch?” inquired Lester.

He waited with considerable anxiety for the reply, for he knew that a
good deal depended upon Enoch Williams. He was to be first officer of
the yacht, when they got her (the real commander, in fact, for Lester,
who was to be the captain, didn’t know the starboard rail from the main
truck) and if Lester could induce him to come over to his side, the rest
of the boys would probably come with him.

“I go with the majority,” answered Enoch. “The most of the fellows have
declared against your plan, and if they are going to the celebration, I
am going too.”

“By dividing in this way, you act as if you desire to read us out of
your good books,” said Jones. “If that is the case, all right. If you
will keep still about us and our plans, we will not blow on you. If you
succeed in reaching the bay, and in eluding the tugs that are sent after
you, we may join you some time during the second week in August, if you
will tell us where you are going.”

“They are a pack of cowards,” observed Lester, as Jones and Williams
walked away, followed by their friends. “You fellows did well to side
with me. They had no intention of helping us capture that yacht, and this
is the way they take to get out of it.”

“I don’t know whether we have done well or not,” said one of Lester’s
friends, when he saw the others moving away. “Now that Enoch has deserted
us, who is there to command the boat?”

“Why, I am to have charge of her,” said Lester, with a look of surprise.
“That was understood from the very first.”

“But you are a fresh-water sailor and don’t know anything about the
coast,” said the boy.

“I know I don’t, and neither does Enoch. But I never yet got a vessel
into a place that I couldn’t get her out of, and if you will trust to me
I will look out for your safety and insure you lots of fun besides,” said
Lester, confidently; and then he wondered what he should do if the boys
took him at his word.

“I must see if I can’t induce Enoch to stand by me,” said he to himself.
“If he refuses, the whole thing is up stump, for I can’t command the
yacht, and I am not foolish enough to try it. I will wait a few days, and
perhaps something will turn up in my favor.”

Lester was not disappointed. When each scholar’s standing for the week
was announced on Friday night, Jones had only fifty marks to his credit,
while Enoch Williams was obliged to be satisfied with thirty.

“I’ve done my level best,” said the former, in a discouraged tone, “and
now I believe I’ll give it up.”

“Never say die,” said Enoch, hopefully. “I have better reason for being
discouraged than you have. I shall try harder than ever from this time
on, and if I can get up as high as ninety next week, and stay there, that
will make my average standing seventy-eight. You _must_ try, old boy, for
I don’t want to go to Hamilton unless you do. Give me your promise.”

Jones gave it, but said he didn’t think anything would come of it.



CHAPTER VII.

A TEST OF COURAGE.


It was by no means a common occurrence for the best of the scholars to
win a hundred credit marks in a week, for in order to do it, it was
necessary that they should be perfect in everything. If their standing
and deportment as students were all they desired them to be, they ran the
risk of falling behind in their record as soldiers. If they handled their
muskets a little too quickly or too slowly while their company was going
through the manual of arms, if they forgot that the guide was left when
marching in platoon front, and allowed themselves to fall half an inch
out of line, or if they turned their heads on dress-parade to watch the
band while it “rounded off,” they were sure to be reported and to lose
some of their hard-earned credit marks.

Don Gordon worked early and late, and his average for the first three
weeks was ninety—Bert following close behind with eighty-eight. Jones
and Enoch Williams did not do as well, and Lester was out of the race
almost before it was begun. Enoch made a gallant struggle, and would have
succeeded in winning the required number of marks if Jones had only let
him alone; but at the end of the third week the latter gave up trying.

“It’s no use, Williams,” said he. “I’ve made a bad showing, thanks to
the partiality of the instructors, who don’t intend to let a fellow win
on his merits. I have made just a hundred and forty altogether, and if I
could make a clean score during the next two weeks, my average would be
sixty-eight—seven points too low. Now what are you going to do?”

“You can’t possibly make seventy-five, can you?” said Enoch, after he had
performed a little problem in mental arithmetic. “Well, if you’ve got to
stay behind, I’ll stay too. How about that picnic? Lester hasn’t been
near me in a long time. He and his crowd seem to hang together pretty
well, and I shouldn’t wonder if they had got their plans all laid.”

“Let’s hunt him up and have a talk with him,” said Jones. “We have made
him mad, and perhaps we shall have hard work to get him good-natured
again.”

“I don’t care if he never gets good-natured again,” answered Enoch.
“I have long been of the opinion that we ought to throw that fellow
overboard. We shall certainly see trouble through him if we do not.”

“We’ll see trouble if we do,” said Jones, earnestly. “I have studied him
pretty closely, and I have found out that there is no honor in him. We’ve
gone too far to drop him now. If we should attempt it, he’d blow on us as
sure as the world.”

Jones struck pretty close to the mark when he said this, for Lester had
already set his wits to work to conjure up some plan to keep the boys who
would not side with him at the academy while he and the rest were off on
their cruise. He had decided that when the proper time came he would make
an effort to induce Enoch to go with him, and if he refused, he (Lester)
would take care to see that he didn’t go at all. He would contrive some
way to let the superintendent know what he and Jones and their crowd
intended to do.

“Brigham is no sailor, and there’s where the trouble is coming in,” said
Enoch.

“I confess that I have often had my fears on that point,” replied Jones;
“but we mustn’t think of leaving him behind. Let him act as leader, if
he can, until we are fairly afloat, and then, if we find he doesn’t know
what he is about, we can easily depose him and put you in his place.”

“I don’t care to be captain,” said Enoch. “I’d just as soon go before the
mast, provided there is somebody on the quarter-deck who understands his
business. These racing boats are cranky things, and sometimes they turn
bottom side up without any provocation at all. There’s Brigham now.”

Lester was delighted to learn that his two old cronies were ready to side
with him, but he did not show it. He appeared to be quite indifferent.

“I listened with all my ears when the last week’s standing was announced,
and I know very well what it was that brought you over to me,” said he,
addressing himself to Jones. “You’re going to fall below seventy-five
in spite of all you can do, and Enoch doesn’t want to go to Hamilton
without you. I’ll have to talk to the boys about it. Perhaps they will
say they don’t want you, because you went back on us once.”

“I say we didn’t go back on you or anybody else,” said Enoch, looking
savagely at Lester. “We are ready to stand by our agreement, and you are
not.”

Jones and Williams, believing that Lester was not very favorably disposed
toward them, thought it would be a good plan to talk to the boys about it
themselves. They found that some were glad to welcome them back, but that
those who wanted to go to Hamilton and who were working hard, and with a
fair prospect of success, to win the required number of marks, met their
advances rather coldly.

“Let the celebration go and come with us,” urged Jones. “I’ll warrant
you’ll see more fun on the bay than you will in marching about the dusty
streets of Hamilton while the mercury is away up in the nineties.”

“Sour grapes!” exclaimed one of the boys. “Look here, Jones. A little
while ago this parade was the grandest thing that ever was thought of,
and you wouldn’t miss it for any amount of money. You tried your best
to win a place in the ranks of your company, but you failed, and now you
want us to fail, too. I can’t see the beauty of that.”

There was more than one who couldn’t see it—boys who spent all their time
with their books and watched themselves closely, in the hope of attaining
to the required standing. Some succeeded and others did not. Those who
failed fell back into the ranks of Lester’s crowd, angry and discouraged,
and ready for anything that would close the doors of that school against
them forever. The fortunate ones, turning a deaf ear to the pleadings of
their companions, but promising to keep a still tongue in their heads
regarding the proposed picnic, went to the city with their company, and
we must hasten on to tell what happened to them while on the way, and
what they did after they got there.

While these things were going on inside of the academy, some stirring
events, in which a few of the students finally became personally
interested, were occurring outside of it. The daily papers, to which
many of the boys were subscribers, began to speak of railroad strikes,
and in every issue there was a column or more of telegrams relating to
“labor troubles.” The boys read them, simply because they wanted to keep
themselves posted, as far as they could, in all that was going on in
the world; but they paid no particular attention to them. The news came
from distant points and did not affect them in any way, because they
were independent of the railroads and would be until September. If the
hands on the Bordentown branch, the road that ran from Oxford through
Bridgeport to Hamilton, wanted to strike for higher wages, they could do
it and welcome. There was no law to prevent them. In fact, the students
hoped they would do it, for then they could shoulder their muskets and
march to the city, as the majority of them wanted to do.

Time passed and things began to assume a more serious aspect. The strike
became general and trouble was feared. The strikers would not work
themselves nor would they allow others to work; and when men came to take
their places they won them over to their side, or assaulted them with
clubs and stones and drove them away. The lawless element of the country,
the “dangerous classes,”—the thieves, loafers, tramps and socialists, who
had everything to make and nothing to lose, joined with the strikers;
and although the latter repudiated and denounced them in strong language,
they did not send them away. The police could do nothing, and finally the
National Guard was called out; but its presence did not seem to have any
effect. The most of the guard were working men, and the strikers did not
believe they would use their weapons even if ordered to do so. At Buffalo
the mob threw aside the bayonets that were crossed in front of the door
of a machine shop, and went in and compelled the men to stop work. Not
satisfied with that they attacked the company that was guarding the shop
and put it to flight. A Chicago paper announced, with much trepidation,
that there were twenty thousand well-armed socialists in that city, who
were threatening to do all sorts of terrible things; a Baltimore mob
stoned and scattered the soldiers who had been sent there to preserve
order; New York was like a seething cauldron, almost ready to boil over;
the strikers and their allies had got beyond control at Pittsburg, and
were destroying the property of the railroad companies; and thus were
ushered in “those dark days in July, 1877, when the whole land was
threatened with anarchy.”

“I tell you, boys, this is becoming interesting,” said Egan, as he and
his particular friends met one morning on the parade ground, each with a
paper in his hand. “Just listen to this despatch from Pittsburg: ‘A large
force of strikers has captured a train, and is running about the country,
picking up arms and ammunition wherever they can be found. A regiment is
expected from Philadelphia this evening.’”

(This regiment didn’t do any good after it arrived. It was whipped at
once, driven out of the city, and every effort was made by the strikers
and their friends to have its commanding officer indicted for murder,
because he defended himself when he was attacked.)

“That’s the worst news I have heard yet,” said Curtis, anxiously. “We’ve
got about four hundred stand of arms and two thousand ball cartridges in
the armory.”

“That’s so!” exclaimed the boys, in concert.

“And if the men who are employed on this railroad should take it into
their heads to come here and get them—eh?” continued Curtis. “It would be
worse than the fight with the Mount Pleasant Indians, wouldn’t it?”

“I should say so,” cried Hopkins, growing alarmed. “But these Bordentown
fellows are all right yet.”

“They’ve struck,” said Don. “My paper says that Hamilton is in an
uproar, that business is virtually suspended, that the mob is growing
bolder every hour, and that the 61st has been ordered to hold itself in
readiness to march at a moment’s notice.”

“I know that,” said Hopkins. “The strikers have stopped all the freights,
but they haven’t yet interfered with the mail trains, nor have they
attempted any violence.”

“If they would only stick to that, they would have a good deal of
sympathy,” said Curtis. “But when they defy the law and trample upon the
rights of other people, they ought to be put down with an iron hand, and
I hope they will be.”

“You may have a chance to assist at it,” said Egan.

“I shouldn’t wonder if he did,” exclaimed Don, when the other boys smiled
incredulously. “Mark my words: There’s going to be trouble in Hamilton.
There are a good many car-shops and founderies there, and one regiment,
which numbers only four hundred and fifty men, can’t be everywhere.

“And of those four hundred and fifty men how many do you suppose there
are who do not sympathize with the strikers?” asked Egan.

“There are at least two companies—the Hamilton Tigers and the Sanford
Guards,” replied Hopkins. “You can depend on them every time.”

“And if the others show a disposition to get up on their ears, there will
be visiting troops enough to handle them without gloves,” observed Curtis.

“I am afraid not,” answered Don. “Rumor says that the most, if not all,
the regiments that were expected to be there, have been ordered, by the
adjutant-generals of their respective States, to stay at home.”

“And some of the firemen have given notice that they will not turn out,”
added Hopkins.

“That knocks the parade higher than a kite,” exclaimed Egan. “Well,
there’s no loss without some gain. The prospect of marching with the
61st, had a good effect on me. It made me study hard and behave myself.
Hallo! what’s the matter with you? Any startling news?”

This question was addressed to Sergeants Gordon and Elmer, who just then
hurried up, bringing with them pale and anxious faces.

“Oh, fellows!” stammered Bert. “We’re going to have trouble right here at
the academy.”

“No!” exclaimed all the boys at once.

“But I say we are,” said Bert; who then went on to tell what had happened
to Elmer and himself just a few minutes before. They had been sent to the
village on business, and in going and coming they were obliged to pass
the railroad depot. They noticed that there were a good many men gathered
on the platform and standing around in little groups, all talking in low
and earnest tones, but no one paid any attention to them until they came
back, and then one of the truck hands, who was dressed in his Sunday
clothes, stepped out and confronted them.

“Arrah, me foine gentlemen,” said he, nodding with his head and winking
his eyes vigorously, “it’s a swate little rod we have in pickle fur yees,
intirely; do yees moind that?”

The boys made no reply. They turned out and tried to go by the man, but
he spread out his arms and stopped them both.

“We’ll have thim foine soldier clothes aff the back of yees the day,”
said he, with a leer.

“Be good enough to let us pass,” said Bert. “We have no desire to talk to
you.”

“Haven’t yees now? Well, _I’ll_ spake to _yees_. Yer foine lookin’ little
b’ys to be takin’ the brid from the mouth of the wurrukin’ mon an’ his
childer, so ye are. I’ve a moind to knock the hids aff yees.”

“Move on there, Mickey,” commanded a policeman.

“Shure I will; but moind this, the hul of yees: We have min enough, an’
there’s more comin’ from Hamilton, to take all the arrums yees have up
there to the school-house beyant, and there’ll not be a soldier nor a
polace lift the night. We’ll trample them into the ground like the dirt
under our feet; an’ so we will do with all the big min who want to grind
down the wurrukin’ mon; ain’t that so, me brave b’ys?”

The “brave boys” who were standing around did not confirm these words,
and neither did they deny them. They looked sullen and savage, and the
two sergeants were glad to hurry on and leave them out of sight.

“He said they were going to clean us out to-night, did he,” exclaimed
Don, when Bert had finished his story. “Well, they will have a good time
of it. Some of the boys are pretty fair shots.”

“Oh, I hope it won’t come to that,” said Sergeant Elmer.

“So do I,” said Don. “But there’s only one way to reason with a mob, and
that is to thrash them soundly.”

“I don’t see why that man should pitch into us,” observed Bert. “If he
would go to work, he would get bread enough for himself and his children.
If the working man is ‘ground down’ we had no hand in it.”

“Of course not,” said Egan. “But you wear a uniform and are supposed to
be strongly in favor of law and order.”

“And we are, too,” said Bert, emphatically.

“Well, that man knew it, and that was the reason he talked to you in the
way he did,” continued Egan. “He and his kind hate a soldier as cordially
as they hate the police, because the soldier is always ready to step in
and help the policeman when the mob gets too strong for him; and when
the boys in blue take a hand in the muss, the rioters generally hear
something drop. Now, Bert, you and Elmer had better go and report to the
superintendent.”

All that day the excitement at the academy was intense, and it was no
wonder that the lessons were bad, that such faithful fellows as Mack,
Egan, Curtis and Bert Gordon came in for the sternest reprimands, or that
the teachers looked worried and anxious—all except Professor Odenheimer.
He was in his element, for he scented the battle from afar. His lectures
were full of fight, and never had his classes listened to them with so
much interest. When night came the excitement increased. It was plain
that the superintendent had received information which led him to believe
that it was best to be prepared for any emergency, for the guards were
doubled, mattresses were issued to the members of the first company who
bunked in the armory, and the boys who went on post were supplied with
ball cartridges.

Another thing that increased the excitement and added to the general
disquiet and alarm, was the rumor that all idea of a parade had been
abandoned, and that the brigade commander had asked the superintendent
what he could do for him, if help were needed at Hamilton. There was
a mob there, and it was having things all its own way. It was growing
stronger and bolder all the while, the police were afraid of it, the
majority of the soldiers sympathized with it, and the only company that
had done anything was the Hamilton Tigers, which had cleared the depot at
the point of the bayonet.

“Didn’t I say there would be trouble in the city before this thing was
settled?” asked Don Gordon of some of his friends whom he met in the
armory when dress parade was over.

“And didn’t I say that the Tigers would do their duty every time?”
answered Hopkins. “But do you suppose the superintendent will order any
of us down there?”

“Why shouldn’t he?” inquired Curtis in his quiet way.

“Because we don’t belong to the National Guard, and there is no precedent
for any such proceeding,” answered Hopkins.

“There’s where you are mistaken,” said Egan. “The students at the
Champaign Agricultural College in Illinois didn’t belong to the National
Guard, but when Chicago was burned some of them were ordered up there to
protect property, and I never heard it said that they didn’t do their
duty as well as men could have done it. It will be no boy’s play, but
I shall hold myself in readiness to volunteer with the company that is
ordered down there.”

“Well, I won’t,” said a voice.

The boys looked around and saw Williams, Jones, Lester Brigham and
several of that crowd standing close by. The faces of the most of
them were very pale, and Lester was trembling visibly. Under ordinary
circumstances they would have been ordered away at once; but class
etiquette was forgotten now. The young soldiers had something else to
think about.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” continued Enoch Williams, “and I won’t do
it, either.”

“How are you going to help yourself?” asked Curtis. “Will you skip over
to Canada? That’s what some of the Hamilton boys have done.”

“No; but I’ll refuse to do duty, and stay here under arrest,” replied
Enoch.

“And be court-martialed for cowardice and disgracefully dismissed the
academy when the trouble is over,” said Egan. “Don’t let the people down
in Maryland hear of it, Enoch. They’ll cut you, sure.”

“I don’t care if they do,” was the defiant response. “I have no desire to
be knocked in the head with a coupling-pin.”

The other boys didn’t want to be treated that way either, but they had no
intention of shirking their duty. They didn’t care to talk with Enoch and
his friends, and so they turned away and left them alone.

There was little sleeping done in the academy that night, and those who
did slumber kept one eye and both ears open, and were ready to jump at
the very first note of alarm. It came shortly after midnight. All on a
sudden the clear blast of a bugle rang through the silent building, being
followed an instant later by the “long roll.” There was a moment’s hush,
and then hasty footsteps sounded in the different halls, and heavy blows
were showered upon the dormitory doors, mingled with loud cries of, “Fall
in! Fall in!”

“The mob has come! Now we’ll know how it seems to engage in a real
battle,” were the words with which each boy encouraged his room-mate, as
he sprang out of bed and pulled on his clothes. “The rioters at Hamilton
number ten thousand men; and if they have all come up here, what can
three hundred boys do with them?”

There were some pale faces among the young soldiers who jerked open their
doors and ran at the top of their speed towards the armory, but not one
of them was seen to falter. Some of them _did_ falter, however, but we
shall see that they did not escape detection.

In a great deal less than the six minutes that were usually allotted for
falling in in the morning, the majority of the boys were in line and
ready for business. And that there was business to be done they did not
doubt, for no sooner had the companies been formed than they were marched
down the stairs in double time and out of the building, which in a few
seconds more was surrounded by a wall of bayonets; but they could neither
see nor hear anything of the mob.

“I say, Hop,” whispered Don to his fat friend who stood next to him in
the ranks, “this is another put-up job. There are no cartridges in my
box.”

“That’s so,” said Hopkins, after he had satisfied himself that his own
box was empty. “The teachers only wanted to test our pluck.”

Just then the big bell in the cupola was struck once—half-past twelve—and
a few seconds later the voice of a sentry rang out on the quiet air.

“No. 1. All’s well!” shouted the guard; and this assurance removed a
heavy burden of anxiety from the mind of more than one boy in the ranks.

The whole thing was out now, and as there was nothing to be gained by
standing there in the dark, the companies were marched back to the armory
and the roll was called. The ranks of the first and second companies
were full, Jones and a few like him were missing from Don’s, and Bert
found, to his great mortification, that fully a dozen of his men had
failed to respond to their names. The reports were made through the
usual channels, and when the result was announced to the superintendent,
he ordered details from the third and fourth companies to hunt up the
delinquents. The rest of the battalion were brought to “parade rest” and
kept there, until the missing boys were brought in. Some of them had been
taken ill as soon as they heard the order to fall in; others had sought
safety and concealment in the attic; and a few had been found in the
cellar and pulled out of the coal-bins. They looked very crestfallen and
ashamed when they found themselves drawn up in line in full view of their
companions, and expected to receive the sternest kind of a reprimand; but
the superintendent did not once look toward them.

“Young gentlemen,” said he, addressing himself to the boys who stood in
the ranks, “I am much pleased with the result of my experiment. I did
not expect so prompt a response from so many of you. The honors belong
to the third company. It was the first to fall in, and Captain Mack was
the first to report himself and his men ready for duty. I shall bear that
company in mind. You can now return to your respective dormitories and
go to sleep with the full assurance that there is no mob here and none
coming. All is quiet in the city. The 61st is under arms, but no trouble
is apprehended. Break ranks!”

“Attention, company! Carry arms! Right face! Arms port! Break ranks,
march!” shouted the several captains; and the boys scattered and
deposited their muskets in their proper places, each one congratulating
himself and his neighbor on the indefinite postponement of the fight
with the mob, which the most of them believed would be sure to take place
sooner or later. The members of Don’s company had reason to be proud
of themselves, but there were some among them who shook their heads
dubiously whenever they recalled the superintendent’s words: “I shall
bear that company in mind.” What did he mean by that?



CHAPTER VIII.

THE FIGHT AS REPORTED.


“It means that if the authorities at Hamilton need help in putting down
that mob, we third company boys will have to give it,” said Egan, in
reply to a question propounded to him by Captain Mack.

“What do you mean by _we_?” inquired the captain. “You don’t belong to my
company.”

“Yes, I do, and so do Hop and Curtis,” answered Egan. “We intend to
report for duty in the morning; and as long as this strike lasts, we are
to stand post and do duty like the rest of the boys. We asked permission
of the superintendent to-day, and he granted it.”

Of course he granted it. Faithful students, like these three boys, were
allowed to do pretty nearly as they pleased. It was the idle and unruly
who were denied privileges.

“I am glad to welcome such fellows as you are into my family,” said
Captain Mack. “But why didn’t you go into the first company where you
belong?”

“We belong wherever it suits us to go,” said Egan, in reply. “And it
suits us to be with you and Don Gordon. Look here, Mack: If worst comes
to worst, and the superintendent calls for volunteers, you be the first
to jump. Do you hear? Good night and pleasant dreams.”

The students hastened back to their rooms, and feeling secure from an
attack by the mob, the most of them slept; but their dreams, like Captain
Mack’s, were none of the pleasantest. More than one of them started up in
alarm, believing that he heard the order to fall in. They all expected
it, and it came the next day about eleven o’clock, but the majority of
the boys did not know it until dinner time; and then Don Gordon, who
had been acting as the superintendent’s orderly that morning, rushed
frantically about the building looking for Egan and the rest.

“The time has come, fellows,” said he, when he found them. “Some of us
will have to face the music now.”

“How do you know?” asked Egan and his friends, in a breath.

“The superintendent received a despatch from the city a short time ago.”

“Do you know what was in it?”

“I do, for I heard him read it to one of the teachers. It ran: ‘Hold
a company, provided with ten rounds per man, ready to move at short
notice.’ The answer that went back was: ‘The company is ready.’”

“Whew!” whistled Curtis, while the others looked at one another in blank
amazement.

“But I don’t see how that company is to get to Hamilton,” said Hopkins,
at length. “There are no trains running to-day. Everything is as quiet as
it is on Sunday.”

“They will go by special train,” said Don. “There are a good many
passengers and a big mail that were left at Munson last night when the
engineer of the lightning express was taken by force from his cab, and
the mob has agreed to let them come on to Hamilton. It was all talked
over in my hearing.”

“And our boys are to go on that train, are they?”

“Yes; if they get marching orders in time.”

“Then there’ll be trouble. Remember what I tell you; there will be the
biggest kind of a fuss down there,” said Curtis, earnestly. “The rioters
didn’t agree to let soldiers into the city, and they won’t do it, either.”

“Did it ever occur to you, that very possibly the wishes of the rabble
will not be consulted?” inquired Hopkins. “I hope that company will go in
if it is needed there, and that the very first man who fires a stone into
its ranks will get hurt.”

Just then the enlivening notes of the dinner-call sounded through the
building, and the students made all haste to respond to it. The different
companies formed in their respective halls, but when they had been
aligned and brought to a right face by their quartermaster-sergeants, the
captains took command, ordered the sergeants to their posts, and marched
their men to the armory instead of to the dining-hall. They all wondered
what was going to happen now, and they were not kept long in suspense.

“Young gentlemen,” said the superintendent, when all the companies had
come into line, “our friends in Hamilton are in need of assistance, and
we, being law-loving and law-abiding men and boys, and utterly opposed to
mob rule, can not refuse to give it to them. It may be—nay, I am sure,
from what I have heard, that it is a mission of danger; and therefore I
shall not ask any of you to go to the city against your will. Those of
you who are in favor of the law, and who have the courage to enforce it
if you are called upon to do so, will step three paces to the front.”

These words, which were spoken so rapidly that those who heard them did
not have time to think twice, fairly stunned the boys. Egan, who stood
next the first sergeant of the third company, was the first to recover
himself. Reaching around behind the sergeant he gave Captain Mack a prod
in the ribs with his fist that fairly knocked him out of his place in the
ranks; but it brought him to his senses, and raising his hand to his cap
the captain said:

“I speak for my company, sir.”

“Your services are accepted,” said the superintendent. “You are too late,
young gentlemen,” he added, addressing himself to the boys in the first
and second companies who moved forward in a body, together with the
majority of the members of Bert’s company. “You ought to have had an old
first-sergeant in your ranks to wake you up.”

This was Greek to some of the students, but Mack understood it and so did
Egan. So did the boys directly behind them, who had seen Egan strike the
captain in the ribs to “wake him up.”

“If your conduct last night is any criterion, I shall have reason to be
proud of you when you return,” continued the superintendent, turning to
the third company boys. “I shall expect you to do your duty regardless
of consequences; and in order that you may work to the best advantage, I
shall make some changes in your _personnel_.”

Here the superintendent paused and looked at the adjutant, who stepped
forward and drew his note-book from his pocket.

“Mack, you’re a brick,” said Egan, in an audible whisper.

“He’s a born fool,” said Jones to the boy who stood next him. “I didn’t
give him authority to speak for me, and I’ll not stir one step. If he
wants to go down there and be pounded to death by that mob, he can go and
welcome; but he shall not drag me along with him.”

“It is not expected that boys who take refuge in the attic or hide in
coal-bins, or who are seized with the pangs of sickness at the very
first notes of a false alarm, would be of any use to you if you should
get into trouble,” added the superintendent. “Consequently those boys
will be permitted to remain at the academy. As fast as their names are
called they will fall out of the ranks and form a squad by themselves
under command of Sergeant Elmer, who will have charge of them until their
company returns.”

Some of those who had behaved with so much timidity the night before,
thought this the severest punishment that could be inflicted upon them.
They were virtually branded as cowards in the presence of the whole
school, and they felt it most keenly; but the others, those who had
determined to be sent down since their parents would not allow them to
leave the academy, as they wanted to do, did not seem to mind it at all.
They were perfectly willing to be disgraced. They fell out of the ranks
as their names were called, and after their places had been supplied by
boys from the first and second companies whom the superintendent knew he
could trust, they were all marched down to the dining-hall.

There was little dinner eaten that day, for their excitement took away
all their appetites. The hum of animated conversation arose above the
clatter of knives and forks from all except the third company boys,
who were already looked upon as heroes by some of their companions.
They were going down to the city to face an infuriated mob, and who can
tell what the result might be? These boys talked only in whispers, and
the all-absorbing question with them was: What teacher would be sent
in command of them? Everybody seemed to think it would be Professor
Odenheimer, who, by his fiery lectures, had now the appellation of
“Fighting Jacob,” which the students transformed into “Viting Yawcop.”
Everybody seemed to think, too, that if he were sent in command, they
would stand a fine chance of getting into a fight, whether the mob forced
it upon them or not.

The study-call was not sounded that afternoon, because the teachers knew
that there would be no studying done. The students gathered in little
groups in the building and about the grounds, and there was an abundance
of talk, argument and speculation. They were all anxious for news, and
it did not take long to raise a crowd. If a teacher, an officer or an
orderly stopped for a moment to exchange a word or two with one of the
students, they were very soon joined by a third, the number was rapidly
augmented, and a large assembly was quickly gathered. The wildest rumors
were freely circulated as facts, and if the third company boys had
believed half they heard, it is hard to tell whether or not their courage
would have stood the test. The excitement arose to fever-heat when a
messenger-boy, who had been passed by the sentry at the gate, ran up the
walk with a brown envelope in his hand.

“What is it? What is it?” cried the students, as he dashed through their
ranks.

“It’s for the superintendent,” was the boy’s reply.

“But what does it say?”

“Don’t know; only there’s the very mischief to pay down at Hamilton. The
special is due in fifteen minutes.”

“Then we’re off, boys,” said Egan; and so it proved. A few minutes after
the messenger-boy vanished through the door, a sergeant appeared on the
steps and cried out: “Fall in, third company!” whereupon all the boys
made a rush for the armory. Don and his comrades made all haste to put on
their belts and epaulets and take their muskets from the racks, while the
rest of the students drew themselves up in line behind the teachers so
that they could see all that was going on.

“Fall in!” commanded the first sergeant. “Left face! Support arms! Listen
to roll-call!”

Each boy in the ranks brought his piece to a “carry” and then to “order
arms,” as his name was called, and when this ceremony was completed the
company was again brought to a “carry,” and ordered to “count fours”;
after which the sergeant proceeded to divide it into platoons. Then he
faced about, saluted his commander and said, with a ring of triumph in
his tones:

“All present, sir.”

There was no one hiding in the attic or coal-bins this time.

“Fix bayonets,” said the captain.

The sergeant gave the order and moved to his place on the right of the
company, leaving the captain in command. His first move was to open
the ranks, and his next to order the quartermaster-sergeant to supply
each man with ten rounds of ammunition. Candor compels us to say that
the sergeant did not strictly obey this order. He was careful to put ten
cartridges, and no more, into each box, but he did not scruple to put
three or four extra ones into the hand that was holding the box open.

By this time the boys had found out who was to be their real commander.
It was Mr. Kellogg, the most popular instructor at the academy. He was
a modest, unassuming gentleman, but he was a soldier all over. He had
served in the army of the Potomac, and had twice been carried to the rear
and laid among the dead. The boys knew he was going with them, for he was
dressed in fatigue uniform and wore a sword by his side.

The cartridges having been distributed and the company brought to close
order, it was marched out of the armory and down the stairs. When the
other students saw it preparing to move, they rushed out in a body, ran
to the gate, and drawing themselves up in line on each side of the walk,
stood ready to give their friends a good “send off.” When the company
marched through their ranks, led by the band which was to accompany it
to the depot, they broke out into deafening cheers, which Captain Mack
and his men answered with a will. Don caught just one glimpse of his
brother’s face as he passed. It was whiter than his own.

The students followed the company as far as the gate, and then ran along
the fence to keep it in view as long as they could; but all they could
see of it were the bayonets, the young soldiers themselves being wholly
concealed by the crowd of citizens who had assembled to see them off. The
men cheered them lustily, the ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and the
girls threw flowers at them until a bend in the road hid them from sight.
Then the boys who were left behind turned away from the fence, and walked
slowly toward the academy.

“I’d much rather be here than with them,” said Jones to his friend
Lester, and the latter did not doubt it, for Jones was one of the boys
who had been found in the cellar. Lester had hidden his head under the
bed-clothes when he heard the bugle, and pleaded sickness when Bert
Gordon and his squad came to pull him out. “I suppose the teachers think
I feel very much disgraced because I was left behind, but I don’t. I
didn’t come here to fight, and when my father hears of this, he will tell
me to start for home at once. But I shan’t go until I get a good ready,
and then I am going in my own way. I am going to do something that will
make these fellows remember me. I said it long ago, and I mean it.”

“It is my opinion that this day’s work will break up this school,”
observed Enoch Williams. “I know my father will not allow me to stay here
after he hears of it.”

“Wouldn’t this be a good time to go off on our cruise?” inquired Lester.

“I am afraid not,” answered Jones. “I should like to go this very night;
but as things look now, I am of the opinion that we shall have to wait
until next month. We don’t want to fail when we make the attempt, for if
we do, we shall be watched closer than we are now.”

“I don’t want to stay here,” said Lester. “Suppose they should need more
help in the city, and that my company should be ordered down there?”

“You need not waste any time in worrying over that,” was the encouraging
reply. “Your company is composed of nothing but raw recruits; and even if
it should be ordered there, _you_ wouldn’t go. You would be told to stay
behind, as I was.”

Lester found some satisfaction in this assurance, but he found
none whatever in being snubbed as he was. Even the boys in his own
company—those who had promptly responded when ordered to fall in the
night before—would not look at him. If two of them were talking and
Lester came up to hear what they were saying, they would turn their backs
upon him without ceremony and walk away. All the boys who had concealed
themselves or played off sick when the false alarm was sounded, were
treated in the same way by their fellows, and all the companionship they
could find was in the society of students who were as timid as they
were. This had at least one good effect, so Lester thought. It brought
many friends to the boys who intended to desert the academy and run away
in the yacht, and before the day was over Lester, Jones and Enoch had
revealed their scheme to half a dozen or more new fellows, who heartily
approved of it and promised to aid them by every means in their power.
But after all they did not take as much interest in, or show as much
enthusiasm for, the scheme, as Lester and the rest thought they ought to.
The strike was the all-absorbing topic of conversation, and the possible
fate of the boys who had gone down to the city to confront the mob, made
many an anxious face.

Although all study was over for the day, everything else was done as
usual, but nothing was done well. The students were thinking of something
beside their duties, and made blunders and received reprimands without
number. As the hours wore on, the excitement gave place to alarm. The
third company ought to have reached Hamilton at eight o’clock, if
everything had gone well with them, and now it was long after ten and not
a despatch had been received.

“I am really afraid something has happened to them, Sam,” said Sergeant
Gordon, as he and Corporal Arkwright paced up and down the walk in front
of the guard-room in which sat the German professor, who was deeply
interested in his paper. These two boys were on duty until midnight, and
they wished they were going to stay on until morning, for they knew they
could not sleep if they tried. “My brother promised to telegraph me just
as soon as he reached the city,” continued Bert, “and he would surely
have done so, if something had not occurred to——”

“Corporal of the guard, No. 1,” shouted the sentry at the gate.

“Zetz auber!” exclaimed the professor, throwing down his paper. “Go out
dere, gorporal. Mebbe dot ish somedings from Meester Gellock.”

The corporal went, and Bert went with him. If there were a messenger-boy
at the gate, his despatch might be from Don instead of Professor Kellogg;
but there was no messenger-boy to be seen. On the opposite side of
the tall, iron gate were a couple of men who peered through the bars
occasionally, and then looked behind and on both sides of them as if to
make sure that there was no one watching their movements.

“These fellows affirm that they are just from the city,” said the sentry,
in a husky and trembling voice. “They have brought bad news. They say
that our boys were cut all to pieces by the rioters.”

Bert’s heart seemed to stop beating. Without waiting to ask the sentry
any questions, he passed on to the gate and waited for the men to speak
to him. He could not have said a word to them to save his life.

“We thought we had better come up here and let you know about it,” said
one of the visitors, at length. “The strikers are awful mad, and declare
they are going to burn the academy.”

“Who are you?” demanded Bert, after he had taken time to recover his
breath.

“We’re strikers, but we’re friends,” was the answer. “We live here in
Bridgeport and had to strike with the rest to escape getting our heads
broken. We saw the fight to-night, but we didn’t take any part in it.”

“The fight?” gasped Bert.

“Yes; and it was a lively one, I tell you. I didn’t know the boys had
so much pluck. But there were three thousand of the mob and only about
eighty of them, and so they had no show.”

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Bert. “What became of our boys?”

“We don’t know, for we lost no time in getting out of that when we found
that there were bullets flying through the air; but some of the strikers
told us that they whipped the cadets, and that those of them who could
get away ran like sheep.”

“Corporal, go into the sentry’s box and get the key,” said Bert. “I shall
have to ask you to make your report to the officer of the guard.”

“All right,” said the man who did the talking. “That’s what we came here
for; but we want to be as sly as we can in getting in and out, for if
we should be seen here, we’d have trouble directly. Bridgeport is in a
tumult of excitement, and there are lots of spies here. We came up from
Town Line on a hand-car with a lot of them. The lads must have got in
some pretty good work before they were whipped, or else the strikers
would not be so mad at them.”

“Was there a fight, sure enough?” said Bert, as the corporal came up with
the key and opened the gate. He was so astounded and terrified that,
although he heard all the man said to him, he did not seem to comprehend
it.

“Well, I should say there was a fight. I tell you, it must have been hot
in that car, and I don’t see how a single boy in it could possibly come
out alive!”

“Then some of our friends must have been hurt?” faltered Bert.

“Of course. I don’t believe a dozen of the whole company came out
uninjured.”

Bert wanted to ask if his informant had heard the names of any of the
wounded, but the words he would have uttered stuck in his throat. While
he was trying to get them out he reached the guard-room, and ushered the
visitors into the presence of Professor Odenheimer.

“These men, sir, desire to make report concerning a fight that took place
between our boys and the mob at Hamilton,” said the sergeant; and then he
backed off and stood ready to hear what they had to say in addition to
what they had already told him.

The excitable Prussian started as if he had been shot. “Our poys did have
a pattle?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, sir, they did,” answered one of the men.

“Donder and blixen! I don’t can pelieve dot.”

“They say they have just come from there, sir,” interposed Bert.

The professor jumped to his feet, dashed his spectacles upon the table,
and broke into a torrent of German ejaculations indicative of the
greatest wonder and excitement. His next question was, not “Were any of
the boys injured?” but—

“Did dem gadets make good fighting? Dot’s vot I vant to know.”

The men replied that they had done wonders.

“Dot’s all right! Dot’s _all_ right,” exclaimed Mr. Odenheimer, rubbing
his hands gleefully together. “Zargeant, you and de gorporal vait oudside
and I will hear de rebort of dese men. So dem gadets make good fighting!
I been glad to hear dot. Seet down in dem chairs and told me all apout
it.”

The non-commissioned officers reluctantly withdrew, and the professor was
left alone with the visitors.



CHAPTER IX.

IN THE HANDS OF THE MOB.


“Dutchy is a hard-hearted old wretch,” said Corporal Arkwright
indignantly. “He never asked if any of our boys were wounded.”

“Of course he didn’t,” replied Bert. “He took it for granted. If the
fight was as desperate as those men say it was, we shall soon have a
sorrowful report from Hamilton. I ought to write to my mother at once,
but I haven’t the courage to do it.”

The boys waited outside, as they were told to do, but they used their
best endeavors to overhear what passed between the professor and his
visitors. They had their trouble for their pains, however. The men
talked in low tones, and beyond an occasional ebullition of wrath from
Mr. Odenheimer, who invariably spoke in German, they could hear nothing.
Presently the door opened, and the three came out and hastened toward the
academy.

“It is fully as serious as we thought, Sam,” said Sergeant Gordon. “They
are going in to tell their story to the superintendent.”

Bert never slept a wink that night. He was at the gate at daylight, and
was the first to purchase a paper when the newsboys came around. As he
opened the sheet with trembling hands, his eye fell upon the following
paragraph:

“WEDNESDAY MORNING, 3 O’CLOCK.—We have delayed the issue of our paper
until this morning, hoping to obtain direct information from Hamilton;
but we have heard nothing but vague rumors, which grew out of all
proportion as they traveled. That the academy boys had a brush with the
strikers is evident. They were met before reaching the city by an immense
mob, and a fight ensued, in which some of our boys were wounded. The
following despatch, taken from last night’s _Town Line Democrat_, despite
some inaccuracies, probably has a few grains of truth in it:

‘This evening, when the Bridgeport Cadets got into Hamilton they were
stopped by striking rioters, who shoved their car upon a side track, and
then commenced stoning and shooting them. The Cadets, after standing the
fusillade for some time, opened fire and delivered volley after volley,
wounding thirty persons and killing many. The rioters finally succeeded
in getting upon the car and overpowering the company, capturing the guns,
and driving the boys out of the city.’

“Nine members of the academy company, having become separated from their
fellows in the _mêlée_, took the back track and are expected home to-day.”

After making himself master of everything in the paper that related
to the fight, Bert went into the academy and handed the sheet to the
orderly, with the request that he would give it to the superintendent as
soon as he got up. It was probable, he thought, that the latter would
want to do something to assist those nine boys who were now on their way
home. When they arrived he might be able to learn something about Don;
and in the mean time he could do nothing but wait.

No study-call was sounded that morning, and the day promised to be a
dark and gloomy one; but about ten o’clock little rays of sunshine began
breaking through the clouds. The first came when the word was passed
for Bert Gordon. He hurried into the superintendent’s office and was
presented with a despatch. He was about to go out with it when the
superintendent said:

“Read it here, sergeant. There may be news in it, and we should like to
know what it is, if you have no objections.”

Bert tore open the envelope and read aloud the following from Don, who
had telegraphed at the very earliest opportunity:

“Got in this morning after a night of trouble. No violence offered in the
city. I am all right, and so is Curtis, but our unlucky friend Hop is
missing, and Egan is wounded.”

Every one present drew a long breath of relief when Bert read these
words. This was the first reliable news they had received, and it removed
a heavy burden of anxiety from their minds.

“So it seems that the company was not cut to pieces after all,” said
the superintendent. “It is probable that the boys were roughly handled,
but that didn’t keep them from going into the city. I feel greatly
encouraged.”

And so did everybody. Bert would have felt quite at his ease if he could
have got over worrying about Hopkins and Egan. He feared the worst.
But then his fat crony was fortunate in some respects even if he were
unlucky in others, and it was possible that he might yet turn up safe and
sound and as jolly as ever, and that Egan’s wound might not be a serious
one.

After that despatches came thick and fast. As soon as they were received
they were read aloud to the students, who made the armory ring with
their yells of delight when one came from Professor Kellogg stating
that Captain Mack and his men had behaved with the utmost gallantry.
Thirty-two of the company were fit for duty, although they had but
seventeen guns among them, eight were slightly wounded, but, having good
care, were doing well, and the rest were missing. They had whipped the
mob twice and carried their wounded off the field.

“I tell you it makes a good deal of difference where the news comes
from—from your own side or from the enemy’s,” said Bert. “Things don’t
look as dark as they did. I wish those nine boys who are now on the way
home would hurry up. I am impatient to talk to them.”

“They will soon be here,” replied one of the students. “I heard the
superintendent say that the citizens have sent carriages after them.”

While those at the academy are waiting for these boys, let us go back
to the third company and see what really happened to them, and how
they acted when they found themselves surrounded by the mob. Of course
they did not know what was in store for them, but the majority made up
their minds that they would be called upon to face something decidedly
unpleasant when they reached Hamilton, for their train had hardly moved
away from the depot before it was whispered from one boy to another that
some one on the platform had been heard to say that they (the students)
were going into a hotter place than they ever dreamed of. Still they
kept up a good heart, although they did not at all like the looks of the
crowds of men and boys who were assembled at every station along the
road. They did not know that two unhanged villains, Michael Lynch, the
fireman of their train, and William Long, the Western Union operator at
Bridgeport, had conspired to make their reception at Hamilton a warmer
one than they had bargained for, by sending a despatch announcing their
departure to an office in the lower part of the city that was in the
hands of the strikers.

For a while it looked as though the ball would be set in motion at Town
Line; for the large depot through which their train passed was literally
packed with strikers and their aids and sympathizers, who had a good deal
to say about the young soldiers and their object in going to the city.
But they went through without any trouble, and when they reached a little
station a few miles beyond, Professor Kellogg telegraphed for orders.
These having been received the train moved on again, and Captain Mack
came and perched himself upon the arm of the seat in which Don and Egan
were sitting.

“I tell you, fellows, this begins to look like war times,” said he.

“Where are we going, and what are we to do when we get there?” inquired
Egan.

“We are not going into the city to-night,” answered the captain. “We are
sent down here simply to act as guards, and if there is any fighting to
be done, the 61st will have to do it. Our orders read in this way: ‘You
will leave the train at Hamilton creek and guard the railroad property
there during the night. Use such cars as you can, and keep all the guards
out that may be necessary.’ There are no signs of a gathering at the
creek, but in order to be on the safe side the professor has ordered the
conductor to let us out at least a quarter of a mile from the bridge. If
a mob appears anywhere along the road, we are to get off and form before
we go up to it.”

There was nothing in these plans with which any military man could have
found fault. They would have met the requirements of the case in every
particular, had it not been for the fact that Professor Kellogg had to
deal with men who were as treacherous as the plains Indians are said to
be. There _was_ a mob at the bridge, and the engineer saw it long before
he reached it. In fact he ran through a part of it, and did not stop his
train until he was right in the midst of it. The first thing the boys
knew their car was standing still, hoarse yells and imprecations which
disturbed their dreams for many a night afterward were arising on all
sides of them, and the rioters were crowding upon the platforms.

“Lave this kyar open; we’re strong,” said a man, in a voice which
proclaimed his nationality; and as he spoke he threw open the rear door
and placed one end of his heavy cane against it, at the same time
drawing himself back out of sight as much as he could.

“Attention!” shouted Captain Mack, prompted by the professor; whereupon
the young soldiers arose and stood in front of their seats. Their
bayonets were fixed, they had loaded their guns when they left the
station at which they had stopped for orders, and if they had been
commanded to act at once, the mob never would have gained a footing in
the car. But Mr. Kellogg did just what he ought not to have done—he stood
in the front door, blocking the way as well as he could, and trying to
reason with the leaders of the rabble, who demanded to know why he had
come down there, and what he was going to do. The professor told them in
reply that he was not going into the city that night, that he had been
ordered to stop at the bridge and guard the railroad property there, and
this seemed to satisfy the mob, who might have dispersed or gone back to
Hamilton, as their leaders promised, had it not been for one unfortunate
occurrence.

The attention of everybody in the car was directed toward the men who
were gathered about the front door, and no one seemed to remember that
there was a rear door at which no guard had been stationed. The rioters
at that end of the car did not at first make themselves very conspicuous,
for they did not like the looks of the muskets the young soldiers held
in their hands; but in a very few minutes they grew bold enough to move
across the platform in little squads, stopping on the way to take a hasty
glance at the interior, and finally some of the reckless ones among them
ventured to come in. These were followed by others, and in less time than
it takes to tell it the aisle was packed with strikers, who even forced
their way into the seats, crowding the boys out of their places. About
this time Mr. Kellogg happened to look behind him, and seeing that he
and his men were at the mercy of the mob—there were more strikers than
soldiers in the car now—he called out to the conductor, who stood on the
front platform, to go ahead with the train.

“I can’t do it,” was the reply. “The strikers are in full possession of
it.”

“Well, then, cut loose from us and go ahead with your passengers,” said
Professor Kellogg. “This is as far as I want to go anyhow.”

“And you couldn’t go any farther if you wanted to,” said a loud-mouthed
striker. “We’ll have the last one of you hung up to the telegraph poles
before morning.”

“Who said that?” exclaimed one of the leaders at the front door. “Knock
that man down, somebody, or make him keep his tongue still.”

“Shove the car on to the switch,” yelled somebody outside.

“Yes; run ’em into the switch!” yelled a whole chorus of hoarse voices.
“Dump ’em over into the creek.”

Some idea of the strength of the mob may be gained from the fact that
the car, heavily loaded as it was, began to move at once, and in a few
minutes it was pushed upon a side-track, and brought to a stand-still on
the edge of a steep bank. While the car was in motion Don, who had grown
tired of being squeezed, sought to obtain an easier position by stepping
into his seat and sitting down on the back of it. As he did so he nearly
lost his balance; whereupon a burly striker, who had stepped into his
place as soon as he vacated it, reached out his hand and caught him, in
the most friendly manner.

“Thanks,” said Don, placing his hand on the striker’s broad shoulder and
steadying himself until he was fairly settled on his perch. “Now, since
you have showed yourself to be so accommodating, perhaps you wouldn’t
mind telling me where those fellows on the outside are shoving us to, and
what they intend to do with us.”

“They are going to throw you into the creek, probably.”

“I don’t see any sense in that,” observed Don. “What’s the meaning of
this demonstration, anyhow?”

“It means bread!” said the man so firmly that Don thought it best to hold
his peace.

There were few in the mob who seemed inclined to talk. They answered all
the questions that were asked them, but gave their entire attention to
what was going on in the forward end of the car. Their recognized leaders
were there, talking with Professor Kellogg, and they were waiting to see
how the conference was going to end. Those who spoke for the strikers
seemed to be intelligent men, fully sensible of the fact that Professor
Kellogg and his company had not come to the city to trample upon the
rights of the workingman, and for a time the prospect for a peaceful
settlement of the points under discussion looked very bright indeed.
But there were some abusive and violent ones in the mob who could not be
controlled, and they always spoke up just at the wrong time.

“Take the bayonets off the guns!” piped a forward youngster, who ought to
have been at home and in bed. “That’s the way we did with the 61st.”

“I’ll tell you how to settle it,” said a shrill voice, that was plainly
audible in spite of the tumult in the car and the continuous yells of the
mob outside. “If they’re friendly toward us, as they say they are, let
them give up their guns. We’ll see that nobody harms them.”

“Yes; that’s the way to settle it,” yelled the mob. “Let them give up
their guns.”

This proposition startled the young soldiers. If they agreed to it they
would be powerless to defend themselves, and what assurance had they that
the strikers would not wreak vengeance upon them? Nothing but the word of
half a dozen men who could not have controlled the turbulent ones among
their followers, even if they had been disposed to try. But fortunately
Mr. Kellogg was not the man they took him for. As soon as the yells of
approval had subsided so that he could make himself heard, his answer
came clear and distinct;

“I shall not disarm my men; you may depend upon that.”

“Let’s run ’em back to Bridgeport, where they belong,” shouted a striker.

“That’s the idea,” shouted the mob. “We don’t want ’em here. Run ’em back
where they came from. We can easy find an engine.”

“I am not going back,” replied the undaunted professor. “I was ordered to
come here, and now that I got here, I am going to stay.”

“Well, you shan’t stay with these guns in your hands,” said the
shrill-voiced man. “All of us who are in favor of disarming them say ‘I.’”

“I! I!” was the almost unanimous response.

If there were any present who were opposed to disarming the boys, they
were not given an opportunity to say so. Encouraged by their overwhelming
numbers, and by the fact that the mass of the soldiers were mere
striplings to be strangled with a finger and thumb, the rioters went to
work to secure the muskets, and then there was a scene to which no pen
could do justice.

The fight, if such it could be called, was a most unequal one. That
portion of the mob which had possession of the car, was composed almost
entirely of rolling-mill hands, and not of “lazy, ragged tramps and
boys,” as a Hamilton paper afterward declared. They were powerful men,
and the young soldiers were like infants in their grasp. But, taken at
every disadvantage as they were, the most of the boys gave a good account
of themselves. A few, terrified by the sight of the revolvers and knives
that were flourished before their eyes, surrendered their weapons on
demand, and even allowed their cartridge-boxes to be cut from their
persons; but the others fought firmly to retain possession of their guns,
and gave them up only when they were torn from their grasp. Among the
latter was Don Gordon.

When the proposition to disarm the boys was put and carried, the man who
was standing in Don’s seat, and who had caught him when he came so near
losing his balance, faced about, seized the boy’s musket, and, in spite
of all Don could do to prevent it, forced it over toward his friends
in the aisle. A dozen hands quickly laid hold of it, but Don would not
give it up. He held to it with all his strength, until one of the mob,
enraged at his determined resistance, gave a sudden jerk, pulling the
weapon out of his hands and compelling Don to turn a somerset over the
back of his seat.

One thing that encouraged Don to make so desperate a struggle for the
possession of his piece, was the heroic conduct of a little pale-faced
fellow, Will Hovey by name, who occupied the seat in front of him. Will
didn’t look as though he had any too much courage, but his actions proved
that he had plenty of it. He was confronted by a ruffian big enough to
eat him up, who was trying to disarm him with one hand, while in the
other he had a formidable looking knife with a blade that was a foot long.

“Give it up, I tell you,” Don heard the striker say.

“I’ll not do it,” was Will’s reply. “I’ll die first.”

The knife descended, and Don expected to see the brave boy killed before
his eyes; but he dodged like a flash, just in the nick of time, and the
glittering steel passed over his shoulder, cutting a great hole in his
coat and letting out the lining. Will lost his gun in the end, but he
wore that coat to the city, and was as proud of that rent as he would
have been of a badge of honor. He was a soldier all over, and proved it
by stealing a gun to replace the one the strikers had taken from him.

When Don was pulled over the back of his seat, he fell under the feet
of a party of struggling men and boys, who stepped upon and knocked him
about in the most unceremonious way, and it was only after repeated
efforts that he succeeded in recovering his perpendicular. No sooner had
he arisen to an upright position than he fell into the clutches of a
striker who seized his waist-belt with one hand and tried to cut it from
him with a knife he held in the other, being under the impression that if
he succeeded, he would gain possession of the boy’s cartridge-box. But
there’s where he missed his guess, for the cartridge-box which hung on
one side and the bayonet scabbard that hung on the other, were supported
by breast belts; and the waist belt was simply intended to hold them
close to the person, so that they would not fly about too much when the
wearer was moving at double time. Don, however, did not want that belt
cut, and he determined that it should not be if he could prevent it.
The striker was larger and much stronger than he was, but Don fought him
with so much spirit that the man finally became enraged, and turned the
knife against him. If he had had any chance whatever to use his weapon,
he would certainly have done some damage; but he and Don were packed in
so tightly among the strikers and the students, who were all mixed up
together now, that neither one of them had an inch of elbow-room. The
struggling crowd was gradually working its way toward the rear door, and
Don saw that he must do something very quickly or be dragged out of the
car into the hands of the outside mob. After trying in vain to disarm his
assailant, and to free himself from his grasp by breaking the belt, he
set to work to unhook it; but he was knocked about so promiscuously by
the combatants on all sides of him, that he couldn’t even do that.

How long the fight over the guns and cartridge-boxes continued no one
knows; and the reports in our possession, which are full and explicit on
all other points, are silent on this. But it took the strikers a long
time to disarm the boys, and even then they had to leave without getting
all the guns.

Up to this time not a shot had been fired or a stone thrown. The mob
outside could not bombard the car for fear of injuring some of their own
men, and the students could not shoot for the same reason. Besides, the
order not to pull a trigger until they were told to do so was peremptory,
and in his report Professor Kellogg takes pains to say that this command
was strictly obeyed. The order to fire on the mob would have been given
before it was but for one thing: The only officer who had the right to
give it was being choked so that he could not utter a sound. The strikers
were quick to see that Professor Kellogg was the head and front of the
company, and believing that if they could work their will on him, they
could easily frighten the boys into submission, they laid hold of him and
tried to drag him out of the car; and failing in that, the door being
blocked by their own men, who were anxious to crowd in and take a hand in
the fracas, they bent the professor backward over the arm of a seat and
throttled him. The students in his immediate vicinity defended him with
the utmost obstinacy and courage, and a sword, and at least one bayonet,
which went into the fight bright and clean, came out stained. At any
rate the rioters did not succeed in killing the professor, as they fully
intended to do, or in dragging him out of the door. After a desperate
struggle he succeeded in freeing himself from their clutches, and as soon
as he could speak, he called out:

“Clear the car! Clear the car!”

This was the order the students were waiting for, and if the order had
not been so long delayed their victory would have been more complete
than it was, for they would have had more guns to use. They went to work
at once, and the way those rioters got out of that car must have been a
surprise to their friends on the outside. Swords, bayonets and the butts
of the muskets were freely used, and when the last rioter had jumped from
the platform, the real business of the night commenced. All on a sudden
the windows on both sides were smashed in, and stones, chunks of coal,
coupling-pins, bullets and buck-shot rattled into the car like hail.

“Come on, me brave lads!” yelled a voice on the outside. “Let’s have the
last one of ’em out of there an’ hang them to the brudge.”

A simultaneous rush was made for both the doors, but the maddened mob
had no sooner appeared than a sheet of flame rolled toward them, and
they retreated with the utmost precipitancy. Forbearance was no longer
a virtue. His own life and the lives of the boys under his charge were
seriously threatened now, and with the greatest reluctance Professor
Kellogg gave the order to fire. It was obeyed, and with the most telling
effect. After repulsing three charges that were made upon the car, the
boys turned their guns out of the windows, and firing as rapidly as they
could reload, they drove the mob over the railroad track and forced them
to take refuge behind the embankment.

Although the students had full possession of the car, their position was
one of extreme danger. They were surrounded by a rabble numbering more
than three thousand men, sixty of whom were armed with their own muskets,
while the students had only seventeen left with which to oppose them;
the rioters were securely hidden behind the embankment, while the car
was brilliantly lighted, and if a boy showed the top of his cap in front
of a window, somebody was sure to see and shoot at it; and worse than
all, some of the mob, being afraid to run the gauntlet of the bullets
which were flying through the air from both sides, had taken refuge under
the car, and were now shooting through the bottom of it. One of the
lieutenants was the first to discover this. He reported it to Captain
Mack, and the latter reported it to the professor.

“That will never do,” said Mr. Kellogg. “We must get out of here.
Attention!”

The boys, who were crouched behind the seats and firing over the backs
and around the sides of them, jumped to their feet and stepped out into
the aisle, while Don opened the door so that they could go out.

“Where’s your gun, Gordon?” demanded the professor.

“It was taken from me, sir,” replied Don. “But I’ll have another before
many minutes.”

Don knew very well that somebody would get hurt when they got out on the
railroad, and if he were not hit himself, he wanted to be ready to take
the gun from the hands of the first boy who _was_ hit, provided that same
boy had a gun. He secured a musket in this way, and he did good service
with it, too.



CHAPTER X.

WELCOME HOME.


Don Gordon’s assailant kept him exceedingly busy in warding off the
thrusts of the knife, and the boy had a lively time of it before he
could escape from his clutches. When the students went to work to clear
the car, Don hoped that the man would become frightened and let go his
hold; but instead of that, he seemed all the more determined to pull
his captive out of the door. In spite of his resistance Don was dragged
as far as the stove, and there he made a desperate and final effort to
escape. Placing his foot against the side of the door he threw his whole
weight upon the belt, jerked it from the man’s grasp and fell in the
aisle all in a heap. When he scrambled to his feet the car was clear
of strikers, his antagonist being the last to jump from the platform.
Don was surprised to see how few there were left of the students. When
they left Bridgeport there were more of them than the seats could
accommodate; but there were only a handful of them remaining, and they
were gathered in the forward end of the car. Where were the others? While
Don stood in the aisle debating this question, two or three boys arose
from their hiding-places under the seats and hurried past him.

“Come on, Gordon,” said one. “The way is clear now.”

“Where are you going?” asked Don.

“Anywhere to get out of the mob. Lots of our fellows have left the car
and taken to their heels. Come on.”

“Don’t go out there,” cried Don. “You will be safer if you stay with the
crowd.”

The boys, who were so badly frightened that they hardly knew what they
were doing, paid no attention to him. They ran out of the car, and a
minute later the rioters made their first charge, and the order was given
to fire. This put life into Don, who lost no time in getting out of the
range of the bullets in his companions’ muskets. Stepping out of the
aisle he made his way toward the forward end of the car, by jumping from
the back of one seat to the back of another. As he was passing a window
a coupling-pin, or some other heavy missile, came crushing through it,
barely missing him and filling his clothing with broken glass. If it had
hit him, it would probably have ended his career as a military student
then and there.

Reaching the forward end of the car in safety the first thing Don saw,
as he dropped to his knee by Egan’s side, was a loaded musket; and the
second was one of the Bridgeport students lying motionless under a seat.
His face was too pale and his wide-open eyes were too void of expression
to belong to a living boy, and Don straightway came to the conclusion
that he was dead.

“Poor fellow,” was his mental comment. “There’ll be a sad home somewhere
when the particulars of this night’s work get into the papers. He doesn’t
need his musket any more, so I will use it in his stead.”

Don secured his musket in time to assist in repulsing every charge the
mob made upon the car, and then, like the others, he began firing from
the windows. While he was thus engaged one of the lieutenants passed
along the aisle, and discovering a student lying prone under a seat, he
bent down and looked at him. Like Don, he thought, at first, that the
boy was dead; but upon closer examination he found that there was plenty
of life in him.

“What are you doing there?” demanded the young officer, indignantly. “Get
up and go to work. Where’s your gun?”

“Gordon’s got it,” was the faint reply.

The lieutenant looked around and saw Don in the act of firing his piece
out of the window. After he made his shot, the officer asked him whose
gun he was using.

“I don’t know,” answered Don. “I found it on the floor, and thought it
might as well take part in this fight as to lie idle there.”

“That’s all right; but it belongs to this man. Hand it over.”

Don was glad to know that his comrade was not injured, but he was
reluctant to surrender the musket into the hands of one who had showed no
disposition to use it when he had it. He gave it up, however, and then
crouched behind a seat and passed out cartridges to Egan and Curtis, who
fired as fast as they could load. Both these boys had won the marksman’s
badge at five hundred yards, and it was not likely that all their shots
were thrown away.

About this time report was made that some of the rioters had taken refuge
under the car and were shooting up through the floor, and the professor
determined to abandon his position. The company was called to attention,
Don Gordon opened the door, as we have recorded, and when the order was
given they left the car on a run, Don being the fourth to touch the
ground. After moving down the track a short distance they came to a halt
and faced toward the rioters, who arose from their places of concealment
and rushed over the embankment in a body, evidently with the intention
of annihilating the students. In fact they told the boys as they came
on that they were going to “wipe the last one of ’em out,” but they did
not do it. The young soldiers were as steady as veterans, and one volley
was enough to scatter the rioters, and send them in confusion to their
hiding-places. But the students did not escape unscathed. As Don stood
there on the track offering a fair target to the rifles of the mob, and
unable to fire a single bullet in response to those that whistled about
his ears, he heard a suppressed exclamation from somebody, and turned
quickly about to see the boy who stood on his left, bent half double and
clasping both his hands around his leg.

“I’ve got it,” said he, as Don sprang to his assistance.

“Well, you take it pretty coolly,” replied the other. “Come down out of
sight. You’ve no business up here now that you are shot.”

After leading his injured comrade to a place of safety behind the
embankment, Don returned to the track just in time to receive in his arms
the boy who stood on his right and who clapped his hand to his breast and
reeled as if he were about to fall. That was the narrowest escape that
Don ever had. If he had been in line, where he belonged, the bullet which
struck this boy’s breast-plate and made an ugly wound in his chest, would
have hit Don squarely in the side.

The wounded boy had a gun, and Don lost no time in taking possession of
it. After seeing that the owner was cared for by some of the unarmed
students, Don went back to his place in line, where he remained just long
enough to fire one round, when the company was ordered off the track
behind the embankment, and an inspection of boxes was held. To their
great astonishment the young soldiers found that they had not more than
two or three cartridges remaining. As it was impossible for them to hold
their ground with so small a supply of ammunition, Mr. Kellogg thought
it best to draw off while he could. The wounded were sent to the rear in
charge of the boys who had lost their guns in the car, after which the
company climbed the fence and struck off through an oat-field toward the
road. Seeing this retrograde movement the mob made another charge, but
one volley sufficed to check it. If the boys were whipped (as a Hamilton
paper, which was cowardly enough to pander to the mob and to extol its
heroism afterward declared they were) they did not know it, and neither
did the rioters, who took pains after that to keep out of sight. They
remained by the car, which they afterward used to carry their wounded to
the city, and the students saw them no more that night.

It was during this short halt that Don Gordon, after firing his single
round, was approached by Curtis and Egan, one of whom held a musket in
each hand, while the other had his fingers tightly clasped around his
wrist. The latter was Egan, and his left hand was covered with blood.

“Have you got a spare handkerchief about you, Gordon?” said he. “I’m hit.”

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Don. “When did you get it?”

“Just now. Curtis had a loud call too,” said Egan, nodding toward his
friend. “His plume was shot out of his cap.”

“Let me look at your hand,” said Don, drawing a couple of handkerchiefs
from his pocket.

“Oh, there’s no artery cut, for the blood comes out in drops and not in
jets,” answered Egan. “But I am afraid my little finger has gone up. I
have bled for my country and you haven’t.”

“And what’s more, I don’t want to,” said Don.

The latter bandaged the wounded hand as well as he could, and the
line moved on across the oat-field. On the way the boy who had been
shot through the leg, gave out and had to be carried. The other held
up bravely, making frequent and clamorous demands for his gun, and
announcing his readiness, severely wounded as he was, to whip the boy
who stole it from him. Don kept a still tongue in his head. He had the
gun, and being in a better condition to use it than the owner was, he
determined to hold fast to it.

When they reached the road they tore a panel or two of the fence to
pieces to make a litter for the boy who had given out, and here they
were joined by ten or a dozen of their comrades who had left the car by
the rear door. By some extraordinary streak of good luck, such as might
not have fallen to them again in a thousand years, they had succeeded in
escaping the mob and finding refuge in a culvert under the railroad. They
brought two wounded boys with them, one of whom had been struck in the
eye with a buck-shot, while the other had had his scalp laid open by a
vicious blow from the butt of a musket as he was jumping from the car.

“When we heard you going across the field we came out,” said one of the
new-comers, who was delighted to find himself among friends once more.
“There were strikers in the culvert, too, but they didn’t bother us, for
they were as badly frightened as we were. If they had known that there
was going to be a fight they wouldn’t have come near the bridge. They
said so.”

“Seen anything of Hop?” asked Don, as soon as he had satisfied himself
that his fat friend was not with the party.

“Not lately,” was the reply, “but I guess he’s all right. The last time I
put eyes on him he was going up the track toward Bridgeport, beating the
time of Maud S. all to pieces. If he kept on he’s at the academy by this
time. I always had an idea that I could outrun Hop, but when he passed me
I thought I was standing still.”

“Were there any strikers after him?”

“There wasn’t one in sight. When you fellows in the car got fairly to
work, you kept such a fusillade that they were afraid to show their
heads.”

By this time the litter was completed, and the wounded boy being placed
upon it, the students resumed their march, stopping at the first house
they came to, which proved to be a little German inn. The hospitable
proprietor gave up his house to them; guards were posted at once; a good
Samaritan, who was also a surgeon, promptly made his appearance; the
wounded were tenderly cared for; and one of the corporals exchanged his
uniform for a citizen’s suit, went into the city, reported the fight,
and in due time returned with orders for the company to march in and
report at the railroad depot.

When morning came the good Samaritan came also, accompanied by a liberal
supply of hot coffee and a substantial breakfast, which were served out
to the boys while they were sitting in the shade of the trees opposite
the inn. The doctor took the wounded home with him to be cared for until
they could be sent back to Bridgeport; and the others, having broken
their fast, shouldered their guns and set out for Hamilton.

Don Gordon afterward said that his courage had never been so severely
tested as it was that morning. On their way to the depot the students
passed through the lower portion of the city and through the coal-yards
in which the hands had just struck. Thousands of tons of coal were piled
on each side of the narrow street, and on the top of these piles stood
the striking workmen, who, outnumbering the boys more than twenty to one,
and having every advantage of them in position, could have annihilated
them in a minute’s time if they had made the attempt. It required all the
nerve Don possessed to march through there with his eyes straight to the
front, and his hair seemed to rise on end whenever he heard one of the
men call out to his comrades:

“Thim’s the fellers, b’ys. Have a bit of coal at thim.”

Some of the men held chunks of coal in their hands, but they did not
throw them. No doubt there were those among them who had been in
the fight the night before, and who knew that the boys would defend
themselves if they were crowded upon. They passed the coal-yards in
safety, and marched into the depot, where they found a portion of the
61st under arms, together with several companies of militia, which had
been sent there from the neighboring towns. When they stacked arms in the
rear of one of the companies which held the left of the line, every boy
drew a long breath of relief, and Don hurried off to find a telegraph
office.

But little duty was imposed upon the students that day, partly because
of their rough experience of the previous night, and partly for the
reason that the mob had threatened vengeance upon them—particularly
upon Professor Kellogg, who conducted the defence, and upon Captain
Mack and the boy with the stained bayonet who had so gallantly defended
their leader when the rioters tried to kill him. As one of the students
afterward remarked, they loafed about like a lot of tramps, eating and
sleeping as they do, and looking quite as dirty. As the hours wore away
the mob began gathering in front of the depot, and once when Don looked
out, he could see nothing but heads as far as his eyes could reach. There
were between eight and ten thousand of them, and opposed to them there
were less than three hundred muskets. They were kept in check by double
lines of sentries which they could have swept away like chaff if they had
possessed the courage to attempt it.

With the night came more excitement. Reinforcements began to arrive.
Squads of men who had been sent off on detached duty came in, followed by
strong delegations from the Grand Army. There were three false alarms,
the last of which created some confusion. Some uneasy sleeper, while
rolling about on his hard bed, managed to kick over a stack of muskets.
One of them, which its careless owner had not left at a half-cock, as
he ought to have done, exploded with a ringing report that brought the
different companies to their feet and into the ranks in short order.
The company that created the confusion was stationed directly in front
of the Bridgeport boys. Some of its members, believing that the mob was
upon them, ran for dear life, deserting their arms and rushing pell-mell
through the ranks of the students, knocking them out of their places as
fast as they could get into them.

This was an opportunity that was too good to be lost. Here were guns,
scattered about over the floor, and no one to use them. To snatch them up
and remove and throw away the slings that belonged to them, thus making
their identification a matter of impossibility, was the work of but a few
seconds. Will Hovey was the one who set the example, others were quick to
follow it, and no one noticed what they were doing. When order had been
restored and the ranks formed, there were eight men in one company who
could not find their weapons, and as many boys in another who held in
their hands muskets that did not belong to them.

“Humph!” said Don to himself. “If our company gets into another tight
place, I hope we shall have somebody besides these men to back us. They
are very pretty fellows, well up in the school of the company, and all
that, but they don’t seem to have much pluck.”

The night passed without further trouble, the forenoon came and went, and
at three o’clock the 49th, of Auburn, came in. The train that brought
them to the city was stopped by the strikers, who refused to allow it to
go any further. The colonel said he didn’t care—that he had just as soon
walk as ride—and ordered his men to disembark.

If the rioters had never before been fully satisfied that their day was
passed, they must have seen it now. Instead of one company there were
several that got out of the cars—four hundred and ninety men, in fact,
who stood there with their bayonets fixed and their pieces loaded, all
ready for a fight if the rioters wanted it. But they didn’t. Having
been so severely handled by only seventeen boys, that they dared not
pursue them when they left the field, it was not likely that they were
anxious for a collision with this splendid body of men, many of whom were
veterans. The leaders held a consultation, and seeing that they could
not help themselves, they finally concluded that the regiment might
proceed.

A short time after it came into the depot, the Bridgeport boys and two
other companies marched out, directing their course toward the Arsenal,
which was located on one of Hamilton’s principal business streets. Now
came another test of their courage. The sound of the drums served as a
signal to the mob, which congregated in immense numbers, and marched with
the troops to their destination. Some of them carried clubs and stones in
their hands, and loud threats were made against the students, who were
repeatedly assured that not one of them would ever leave the city alive.
If they had been alone they would probably have had another fight on
their hands; but they had a hundred and sixty men to back them, and that
number, added to their own, made a larger force than the mob cared to
face in battle.

They took supper at the Arsenal, where they remained until midnight,
when they were ordered to fall in without the least noise. They obeyed,
lost in wonder, leaving the drill-room so silently that the men who
were slumbering on each side of them did not know they were gone until
daylight came to reveal the fact, and when they reached the gate they
found an immense police-van waiting for them. Into this they crowded and
were driven slowly up the street, Professor Kellogg and Captain Mack
going on ahead to see that the way was clear.

“Where are you taking us?” whispered Don to the driver.

“To the Penitentiary,” was the guarded response.

“Going to lock us up there?”

“Yes, sir; the last one of you.”

“What for?”

“To punish you for shooting at the mob last night.”

“They’ll give us plenty to eat, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes; all you want.”

“Do they look for any trouble among the prisoners?”

“I think so; at any rate you are sent up there at the mayor’s request. He
said he wanted men there who were not afraid to shoot, and such men he
wanted well fed.”

This was a compliment to the company, and a decided indorsement of the
manner in which they had conducted themselves during the fight with the
mob. To quote from some of the members, they had a “soft thing” while
they remained at the Penitentiary. There were about four hundred convicts
there, but they knew better than to attempt an outbreak, and all the boys
had to do was to keep themselves clean, eat, sleep, and stand guard.
Having made themselves famous they received many calls during their two
days’ stay at the prison, and these visitors did not come empty-handed.
The stockings, handkerchiefs, collars, lemons and other needful things
they were thoughtful enough to bring with them, were gratefully accepted
by the young soldiers, who begged for papers, and wanted to know all that
was going on outside. They were gratified to learn that the back-bone of
the riot was broken; that the strikers were anxious to go to work; that
trains were running on some of the roads; and that the hour of their
release was close at hand.

It came early on Saturday morning, when they were ordered to draw
cartridges and fall in for a march to the skating-rink, which was now
used as military headquarters, and which they reached without any mishap,
the streets being free from any thing that looked like a mob. As they
marched into the rink a soldier called out: “Three cheers for the
Bridgeport boys!” and the lusty manner in which they were given proved
that their comrades were entirely satisfied with what they had done.

Their departure from Hamilton, which was ordered at eleven o’clock, was
in keeping with the treatment they had received from all the officers and
military during their entire stay. They were escorted to the depot by two
companies, which formed in line and saluted them as they passed by. After
taking leave of many new-made friends they boarded the car which had been
set apart for them (it was guarded at both doors this time, although
there was no necessity for it) and were whirled away toward home, their
journey being enlivened by songs, speeches and cheers for everybody who
had borne his part in the fight. When the whistle sounded for Bridgeport
one of the students thrust his head out of a window, but almost instantly
pulled it back again to exclaim:

“Great Moses! What a crowd!”

But it was one the boys were not afraid of. As soon as the train came to
a stand-still they left the car, and marching in columns of fours, moved
through long lines of firemen and students who had assembled to welcome
them home, the firemen standing with uncovered heads and the students
presenting arms. The cross-roads, as well as the roads leading from the
depot to the village, were crowded with carriages, all filled to their
utmost capacity with ladies and gentlemen, who waved their handkerchiefs
and hats, and greeted them with every demonstration of delight.

“Halt here, captain,” said the marshal of the day, when the boys reached
the head of the line.

“Where’s Professor Kellogg?” asked Mack, looking around.

“I don’t know. Halt here, and come to a left face.”

When the order was obeyed, the spokesman of a committee of reception,
which had been appointed by the citizens, mounted upon a chair and took
off his hat; whereupon Captain Mack brought his men to parade rest to
listen to his speech. It was short but eloquent, and went straight
to the hearts of those to whom it was addressed, with the exception,
perhaps, of Captain Mack. He knew that somebody would be expected to
respond, and while he pretended to be listening with all his ears, he
was looking nervously around to find Mr. Kellogg. But that gentleman
was seated in the superintendent’s carriage a little distance away,
looking serenely on, and Mack was left to his own resources, which, so
far as speech-making was concerned, were few indeed. When the speaker
had complimented them in well-chosen words for the gallantry they had
displayed in the fight, and told them how proud his fellow-citizens were
to say that the company that struck the first blow in defence of law
and order in Hamilton came from their little town, he got down from his
chair, and everybody looked at Captain Mack.

The young officer blushed like a girl as he stepped out of the ranks with
his cap in his hand. He managed to make those of the crowd who could
hear him understand that he and his company were much gratified by their
reception, which was something they had not dreamed of, and delighted
to know that their conduct as soldiers was approved by their friends at
home; and then, not knowing what else to say, he broke out with—

“I can’t make a speech, gentlemen of the committee, but my boys can
holler, and I’ll prove it. Three cheers and a tiger for the gentleman
who has so cordially greeted us, for the other gentlemen composing the
committee, and for every man, woman and _baby_ who has come out to
welcome us home.”

The cheers were given with a will, and the citizens replied with “three
times three.” When the band struck up, the line was formed under
direction of the marshal and moved toward the park. The church bells
were rung, the solitary field-piece of which the village could boast,
and which was brought out only on state occasions, thundered out a
greeting every minute, and the crowds that met them at every turn cheered
themselves hoarse. Mottoes and bunting were lavishly displayed, and
Main-street was spanned by two large flags, to which was attached a white
banner having an inscription that sent a thrill of pride to the breasts
of the boys, who now read it for the first time—

                                “WELCOME!

                  _We honor those who do their duty._”

On arriving at the park the arms were stacked, the ranks broken, and
fifteen minutes were taken for hand-shaking; and cordial as the formal
reception was, it bore no comparison to the hearty personal welcome that
was extended to each and every one of the third company boys, who never
knew until that moment how many warm friends they had in Bridgeport.
Among those who came up to shake hands with Don Gordon and Curtis was a
fellow who was dressed in the academy uniform, who walked with a cane and
wore a slipper on his left foot. It was Courtland Hopkins.



CHAPTER XI.

HOPKINS’S EXPERIENCE.


“Boys, I am delighted to see you home again, safe and sound,” said
Hopkins, putting his cane under his arm and shaking hands with both his
friends at once. “I tell you we have been troubled about you, for some
of us who returned the second day after the fight, heard the rioters say
that you would never leave the city alive.”

“We heard them say so, too,” replied Curtis. “But we’re here all the
same. Hallo, Bert. And there’s Egan. How’s your hand, old fellow? Lost
that little finger yet?”

“No; and I don’t think I’ll have to. Why didn’t you let us know that you
were coming?”

“You did know it, or else you couldn’t have met us at the depot,”
answered Don, after he had returned his brother’s greeting.

“I mean that you ought to have sent us word this morning,” said Egan.
“The ladies would have got up a good supper for you if they had had time
to do it.”

“We should have done full justice to it, for we had an early breakfast
and no dinner,” Curtis remarked. “But you have not yet told us what is
the matter with you, Hop. I hope you were not shot.”

“Oh, no. It is nothing more serious than a sprained ankle,” replied
Hopkins.

“And ‘thereby hangs a tale,’” added Egan. “I’ll tell you all about it
when we get up to the academy. Hop showed himself a hero if he did run
out of the back door.”

“How did you get back to Bridgeport?” inquired Don.

“I went home with the doctor on the morning that you fellows started
for Hamilton, you know,” replied Egan. “Well, as soon as he had dressed
my hand and the wounds of some of the other boys who were able to walk,
we went up the track to the next station, and there we telegraphed for
a carriage. To tell the truth I never expected to get home, for the
rioters were scouring the country in search of us. We heard of them at
every house along the road, and everybody cautioned us to look out for
ourselves.”

During a hurried conversation with their friends, Don and Curtis learned
that the people of Bridgeport knew as much about the fight as they did
themselves. Perhaps they knew more, for they had heard both sides of the
story. The students who came home the day after the fight—the missing
ones had all reported with the exception of three, whose wounds were so
severe that they could not be brought from the city—had given a correct
version of the affair and described the part that every boy took in it.
All those who had done their duty like men were known to the citizens,
and so were those who gave up their guns when the strikers demanded them.
The boys who did the fighting, however, had not a word to say regarding
the behavior of their timid comrades. They had an abundance of charity
for them.

“We don’t blame them for being frightened,” Don and Curtis often said.
“There isn’t a boy in the company who wouldn’t have been glad to get
out of that car if he could. When you have been placed in just such a
situation yourselves, you will know how we felt; until then, you have no
business to sit in judgment upon those who are said to have shown the
white feather.”

The fifteen minutes allotted for hand-shaking having expired, the
students fell in and set out for the academy. As they marched through the
gate the bell in the cupola rung out a joyful greeting, the artillery
saluted them, and the boys in the first, second and fourth companies
presented arms. They moved at once to the armory, and after listening
to a stirring speech from the superintendent the ranks were broken, and
their campaign against the Hamilton rioters was happily ended.

“And I, for one, never want to engage in another,” said Captain Mack, as
he and Don and Curtis set out in search of Egan and Hopkins. “Have you
heard some of the fellows say that they wish they had been there?”

Yes, they and all the returned soldiers had heard a good deal of such
talk from boys who would have died before giving up their guns, and who
were loud in their criticisms of Mr. Kellogg, who ought to have stopped
the train at least half a mile from the mob, and fired upon it the moment
it appeared. What a chance this would have been for Lester Brigham, if he
had only been in a situation to improve it! If he had never known before
that he made a great mistake by feigning illness on the night the false
alarm was sounded, he knew it now. He could not conceal the disgust he
felt whenever he saw a third-company boy surrounded by friends who were
listening eagerly to his description of the fight. Such sights as these
made him all the more determined to get away from the academy where he
had always been kept in the background in spite of his efforts to push
himself to the front. And worse than all, there was Don Gordon, who had
come home with the marks of a rioter’s knife on his coat and belt, who
had behaved with the coolness of a veteran, and showed no more fear than
he would have exhibited if he had been engaged in a game of snow-ball.

“I’ll bet he was under a seat more than half the time, and that nobody
noticed him,” said Lester, spitefully.

“Oh, I guess not,” said Jones. “Gordon isn’t that sort of a fellow. Well,
they have had their fun, and ours is yet to come. There will be a jolly
lot of us sent down at the end of the term. What do you suppose your
governor will say to you?”

“Not a word,” replied Lester, confidently. “He didn’t send me here to
risk life and limb by fighting strikers who have done nothing to me, and
when he gets the letters I have written him, he will tell me to start for
home at once.”

“But you’ll not go?” said Jones.

“Not until we have had our picnic,” replied Lester.

“Perhaps your father won’t care to have Jones and me visit you,” remarked
Enoch.

“Oh, yes he will. He told me particularly to invite a lot of good fellows
home with me, and he will give you a cordial welcome. I haven’t got a
shooting-box, but I own a nice tent, and that will do just as well. I
will show you some duck-shooting that will make you open your eyes.”

“All right,” said Enoch. “I’ll go, according to promise, and you must be
sure and visit me in my Maryland home next year. Both the Gordons and
Curtis will visit Egan at that time, and unless I am much mistaken, we
can make things lively for them.”

“Nothing would suit me better,” returned Lester. “I hate all that crowd.
Don and Bert went back on me as soon as they got me here, and I’ll never
rest easy until I get a chance to square yards with them.”

(Lester learned this from Enoch. He remembered all the nautical
expressions he heard, and used them as often as he could, and sometimes
without the least regard for the fitness of things. He hoped in this way
to make his companions believe that he was a sailor, and competent to
command the yacht during their proposed cruise.)

The conversation just recorded will make it plain to the reader that
Lester and some of his particular friends, following in the lead of Don
and Bert Gordon and _their_ friends, had made arrangements to spend a
portion of their vacation in visiting one another. They carried out their
plans, too, and perhaps we shall see what came of it.

When Mack and the rest found Hopkins and Egan, they went up to the
latter’s room, where they thought they would be allowed to talk in peace;
but some of the students saw them go in there, and in less time than it
takes to write it, the little dormitory was packed until standing-room
was at a premium. The boys were full of questions. What one did not think
of another did, and it was a long time before Don could say a word about
Hopkins’s experience, which Egan related substantially as follows:

To begin with, Hopkins did not leave the car because he wanted to, but
because he couldn’t help himself. When the rioters voted to disarm the
young soldiers, half a dozen pairs of ready hands were laid upon his
musket, but Hopkins wouldn’t give it up. Threats, and the sight of
the revolvers and knives that were brandished before his face, had no
effect upon him; but he could not contend against such overwhelming
odds, with the least hope of success. He was jerked out into the aisle
in spite of all he could do to prevent it, and dragged toward the door.
When the students turned their bayonets and the butts of their pieces
against their assailants, the latter made a frantic rush for the door,
and Hopkins was wedged in so tightly among them, that he could not get
out. His gun was pulled from his grasp, and Hopkins, finding his hands
at liberty, seized the arm of the nearest seat in the hope of holding
himself there until the mob had passed out of the car; but the pressure
from the forward end was too great for his strength. He lost his hold,
was carried out of the door by the rush of the rioters, who, intent
on saving themselves, took no notice of him, and crowded him off the
platform.

“But before I went, I was an eye-witness to a little episode in which
our friend Egan bore a part, and which he seems inclined to omit,”
interrupted Hopkins.

“Now, Hop, I’ve got the floor,” exclaimed Egan, who was lying at his ease
on his room-mate’s bed.

“I don’t care if you have. There’s no gag-law here.”

“Go on, Hop,” shouted the boys.

“It will take me but a moment,” said Hopkins, while Egan settled his
uninjured hand under his head with a sigh of resignation. “When the mob
went to work to disarm us, one big fellow stepped up to Egan and took
hold of his gun. ‘Lave me this; I’m Oirish,’ said he. ‘I’m Irish too,’
said Egan. ‘Take that with me compliments and lave me the gun;’ and he
hit the striker a blow in the face that lifted him from his feet and
would have knocked him out of the front door, if there hadn’t been so
many men and boys in the way. That fellow must have thought he had been
kicked by a mule. At any rate he did not come back after the gun, and
Egan was one of the few who got out of the car as fully armed as he was
when he went in.”

Hopkins could be irresistibly comical when he tried, and his auditors
shouted until the room rang again. They knew that his story was
exaggerated, but it amused them all the same. Egan _did_ say that he was
Irish (Hopkins often told him that if he ever denied his nationality his
name would betray him), and it was equally true that he floored the man
who demanded his gun, and with him one or two of his own company boys who
happened to be in the way; but he said nothing about “compliments” nor
did he imitate the striker’s way of talking. Among those who felt some of
the force of that blow, was Captain Mack.

“That explains how I got knocked down,” said he. “The rioters were trying
to drag the professor out of the car, and we were doing all we could to
protect him, when all at once some heavy body took me in the back, and
the first thing I knew I was sprawling on the floor. I thought I should
be trampled to death before I could get up.”

When Hopkins struck the ground he stood still and waited for some of the
mob to come and knock him on the head; but seeing that they were looking
out for themselves, and that some of his comrades were making good
time up the track in the direction of Bridgeport, he started too, doing
much better running than he did when he stole farmer Hudson’s jar of
buttermilk, and passing several of the company who were in full flight.
The bullets sang about his ears and knocked up the dirt before and behind
him, and Hopkins began looking about for a place of concealment. Seeing
that some of his company ran down from the track and disappeared very
suddenly when they reached a certain point a short distance in advance of
him, Hopkins stopped to investigate. He found that they had sought refuge
in a culvert, which afforded them secure protection from the bullets; but
Hopkins was inclined to believe that in fleeing from one danger they had
run plump into another. There were strikers as well as students in there;
and as he halted at the mouth of the culvert he heard a hoarse voice say:

“You soldier boys had better not stop here. You have made the mob mad,
and as soon as they get through with those fellows in the car, they
are going to spread themselves through the country and make an end of
everybody who wears the academy uniform. I heard some of them say so,
and I am talking for your good.”

“And I will act upon your advice,” said Hopkins to himself. “It is a
dangerous piece of business to go along that railroad-track, but I don’t
see how I am going to help it.”

It proved to be a more dangerous undertaking than the boy thought it
was. Death by the bullets which constantly whistled over the track, was
not the only peril that threatened him now. Believing that the main body
of their forces could keep the professor and his handful of students in
the car until their cartridges were expended, after which it would be an
easy matter to drag them out and hang them as they fully meant to do, the
rioters had sent off a strong detachment to look after the boys who had
escaped from the rear of the car. Hopkins could see them running through
the fields with the intention of getting ahead of the fugitives and
surrounding them.

“That’s a very neat plan, but I don’t think it will work,” said Hopkins,
as he drew himself together and prepared for another foot-race. “I wish I
had known this before I left the culvert so that I could have told—I’ll
go back and tell them if I lose my only chance for escape by it.”

Hopkins turned quickly about, but saw at a glance that there was no need
that he should waste valuable time by going back to the culvert. The boys
were leaving it in a body and making their way across a field. They were
going to join their comrades who had left the car, but Hopkins did not
know it, for he could not see the company, it being concealed from his
view by some thick bushes which grew on that side of the track.

“They’re all right,” said Hopkins, “but it seems to me they are taking
a queer way to get home. I’ll stick to the track, because it leads to
Bridgeport by the most direct route. Now then for a run! Hallo, here!
What’s the matter with you, Stanley?”

While Hopkins was talking in this way to himself, he was flying up the
track at a rate of speed which promised to leave the fleetest of the
flanking party far behind; but before he had run a hundred yards, he came
upon a student who was sitting on the end of one of the ties with his
head resting on his hands. As Hopkins drew nearer he saw that the boy had
bound his handkerchief around his leg just above his knee, and that it
was stained with blood.

“What’s the matter?” repeated Hopkins.

“I’m shot and can’t go any farther,” was the faint reply.

“When did you get it?”

“Just as I jumped from the car.”

“Well, get up and try again. You must go on, for if you stay here you are
done for. Look there,” said Hopkins, directing the boy’s attention to the
rioters who were trying to surround them.

“I can’t help it. I ran till I dropped, and I couldn’t do more, could I?
I am afraid my leg is broken. Take care of yourself.”

“I will, and of you, too,” replied Hopkins. “Get up. Now balance yourself
on one foot, throw your arms over my shoulders and I will carry you.”

The wounded boy, who had given up in despair, began to take heart now. He
did just as Hopkins told him, and the former walked off with him on his
back as if his weight were no incumbrance whatever. He did not run, but
he moved with a long, swinging stride which carried him and his burden
over the ground as fast as most boys would care to walk with no load at
all. The mob followed them until they came to the creek which was too
wide to jump and too deep to ford, and there they abandoned the pursuit.
At all events Hopkins and Stanley saw no more of them that night.

“Look out,” said Stanley, suddenly. “There’s one of them right ahead of
us.”

Hopkins looked up and saw a man standing on the track. The manner of
his appearance seemed to indicate that he had been hidden in the bushes
awaiting their approach.

“You had better put me down and save yourself,” whispered Stanley, as
Hopkins came to a halt wondering what he was going to do now. “If you get
into a fight with him I can’t help you.”

“I didn’t pick you up to drop you again at the first sign of danger,” was
the determined reply. “I wish I had a club or a stone. You don’t see one
anywhere, do you?”

“Say, boss,” said the man, in guarded tones.

“Bully for him; he’s a darkey,” exclaimed Hopkins. “We have nothing to
fear.”

“Say, boss,” said the man again, as he came down the track, “Ise a
friend. Don’t shoot.”

“All right, uncle. Come on.”

“What’s de matter wid you two?”

“There’s nothing the matter with me,” answered Hopkins, “but this boy is
shot. Can you do anything for him?”

“Kin I do sumpin fur de soldiers?” exclaimed the negro. “’Course I kin,
kase didn’t dey do a heap fur me when de wah was here? I reckon mebbe I’d
best take him down to de house whar de women folks is.”

“Handle him carefully,” said Hopkins. “He’s got a bad leg.”

The negro, who was a giant in strength as well as stature, raised the
wounded boy in his arms as easily as if he had been an infant, and
carried him up the track until he came to a road which led back into
the woods where his cabin was situated. Here they found several colored
people of both sexes who had gathered for mutual protection, and who
greeted the boys with loud exclamations of wonder and sympathy.

“Hush yer noise dar,” commanded the giant, who answered to the name of
Robinson. “Don’t yer know dat dem strikers is all fru de country, an’ dat
some of ’em was hyar not mor’n ten minutes ago?”

“Not here at this house?” exclaimed Hopkins, in alarm.

Yes, they had been there at the house, and in it and all over it, so
Robinson said, looking for the boys who had escaped by the rear door.
They might return at any moment, but he (Robinson) would do the best
he could for them. He couldn’t fight the mob, as he would like to, but
perhaps he could keep the boys concealed.

“What do you think they would do with us if they found us?” inquired
Stanley.

Robinson couldn’t say for certain, but the men who came to his house were
angry enough to do almost anything. They were all armed, and some of them
carried ropes in their hands. This proved that their threat to hang the
young soldiers was no idle one.

The first thing Robinson did was to look at Stanley’s wound. A bullet
had plowed a furrow through the back of his leg just below his knee,
and although the artery had not been cut and the bone was uninjured,
everybody saw at a glance that it was impossible for him to go any
farther. Hopkins inquired where he could find a surgeon, but the negro
wouldn’t tell him, declaring that if he set out in search of one he
would never see his friends again.

While Hopkins was trying to make up his mind what he ought to do, he
suddenly became aware that there was something the matter with himself.
One of his boots seemed to be growing tighter, and he limped painfully
when he tried to walk across the floor.

“I declare, I believe I have sprained my ankle,” said he; and an
examination proved that he had. His ankle was badly swollen and inflamed,
and after he took his boot off he could not bear the weight of his foot
upon the floor.

“I reckon you’ns has got to put up at my hotel dis night, bofe of you,”
said Robinson. “You can’t go no furder, dat’s sho’.”

“Perhaps you had better let us lie out in the woods,” said Hopkins. “If
the strikers should return and find us here, they might do you some
injury.”

The negro said he didn’t care for that. Soldiers had more than once
put themselves in danger for him, and it was a pity if he couldn’t do
something for them. At any rate he would take the risk. He bustled about
at a lively rate while he was talking, and in five minutes more the
disabled boys had been carried up the ladder that led to the loft and
stored away there on some hay that had been provided for them. After that
Stanley’s leg was dressed with cold coffee, which Robinson declared to be
the best thing in the world for gunshot wounds. Hopkins’s ankle was bound
up in cloths wet with hot water, a plain but bountiful supper was served
up to them, and they were left to their meditations. Of course they did
not sleep much, for they couldn’t. They suffered a good deal of pain, but
not a word of complaint was heard from either of them. Hopkins acted as
nurse during the night, and shortly after daylight sunk into an uneasy
slumber, from which he was aroused by a gentle push from Stanley, who
shook his finger at him to keep him quiet.

“They’ve come,” whispered his companion.

“They! Who?” said Hopkins, starting up.

“The mob. Don’t you hear them?”

Hopkins listened, and his hair seemed to rise on end when he caught the
low hum of conversation outside, which grew louder and more distinct as a
party of men approached the house. Enjoining silence upon his companion
Hopkins drew himself slowly and painfully over the hay to the end of the
loft, and looked out of a convenient knot hole. Stanley, who watched all
his movements with the keenest interest, trembled all over when Hopkins
held up all his fingers to indicate that there were ten of them. He also
made other motions signifying that the rioters were armed and that they
had brought ropes with them. Just then there was a movement in the room
below, and Robinson opened the door and stepped out to wait the mob.

“Say, nigger,” exclaimed one of the leaders, “where are those boys who
were here last night?”

Robinson replied that he didn’t know where they were. They had been taken
to the city early that morning, and he thought they were in the hospital.

“Were they both hurt?” asked one of the rioters.

“Yes; one had a bullet through his leg, and the other had been shot in
the foot.”

“We wish those bullets had been through their heads,” said the leader.
“It’s well for them that they got away, for we came here on purpose to
hang them.”

“Dat would serve ’em just right,” said Robinson. “Dey ain’t got no call
to come down hyar an’ go to foolin’ wid de workin’ man when he wants his
bread an’ butter. No, sar, dey ain’t.”

The boys in the loft awaited the result of this conference with fear and
trembling. They fully expected that the rioters would search the house
and drag them from their place of concealment, but the negro answered all
their questions so readily and appeared to be so frank and truthful, that
their suspicions were not aroused. When Stanley, who kept a close watch
of his friend, saw him kiss his hand toward the knot-hole, he drew a long
breath of relief, for he knew that the rioters were going away.

This visit satisfied both them and their sable host that they were not
safe there, and Robinson at once sent his oldest boy to the nearest
farm-house to borrow a horse and wagon. When the vehicle arrived the boys
were put into it, and Robinson took the reins and drove away with all the
speed he could induce the horse to put forth.

“How do you suppose those men knew that we were at your house?” said
Hopkins.

“One of dem no account niggers dat was dar las’ night done went an’ tol’
’em,” replied Robinson, angrily. “I’ll jest keep my eye peeled fur dat
feller, an’ when I find him, I’ll make him think he’s done been struck by
lightnin’. I will so.”

Robinson took the boys to the house of the nearest surgeon, who received
and treated them with the greatest kindness and hospitality. As Hopkins
and Stanley were boys who never spent their money foolishly they always
had plenty of it, and consequently they were able to bestow a liberal
reward upon the negro, who volunteered to drive to the nearest station
and sent off a despatch for them. The next day a carriage arrived from
Bridgeport and Hopkins went home in it, but Stanley, much to his regret,
was ordered to remain behind, the surgeon refusing to consent to his
removal; but he could not have been in pleasanter quarters or under
better care.

There were half a dozen other boys in the room who told stories of
escapes that were fully as interesting as this one. They could have
talked all night, but the supper-call sounded, and that broke up the
meeting.



CHAPTER XII.

PLANS AND ARRANGEMENTS.


“I say, fellows,” exclaimed Egan, the next time he found all his friends
together, “there’s something going to happen during this camp that never
happened before. The paymaster is coming here to settle with us.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that we are entitled to a dollar a day for the work our company
did at Hamilton,” replied Egan. “As we were under orders five days we
have five dollars apiece coming to us from the State.”

“Do the wounded come in for that much?” inquired Hopkins.

“They belong to the company, do they not?” demanded Egan. “They are not
to blame for getting hurt, are they? They will get just as much as the
others.”

We may here remark that the Legislature gave them more. Hopkins received
a hundred dollars to pay him for his sprained ankle; the boy who was hit
in the eye with a buck-shot, and who stood a fair chance of going blind
from the effects of it, got eleven hundred; Stanley received six hundred,
and so did each of the boys who were shot at Don Gordon’s side when the
company was ordered out of the car.

“I’ll never spend those five dollars,” said Don.

“Neither will I,” chimed in Hopkins. “If I get the money all in one bill,
I’ll have it framed and hang it up in my room beside a fox-brush which I
won at the risk of my neck.”

“I wonder how mine would look hung around the neck of that white swan
that led me such a race two winters ago,” said Egan. “I think they will
go well together, and every time I look at them, they will remind me of
the most exciting incident of my life. Gordon, you’ll have to make yours
into a rug and spread it on the floor beside the skin of that bear that
came so near making an end of Lester Brigham.”

The boys had only three days more to devote to study during the school
term, and much lost time to make up. The work was hard, they found it
almost impossible to keep their minds upon their books, and everybody,
teachers as well as students, was glad when the first day of August
arrived, and the battalion took up its line of march for its old camping
ground. The students were hardly allowed time to become settled in their
new quarters before their friends began to flock into the camp. A few
fathers and guardians came there with the intention of taking their sons
and wards from the school at once—they did not want them to remain if
they were expected to risk their lives in fighting rioters. Some of the
timid ones were glad to go; but the others, who were full of military
ardor, begged hard to be permitted to complete the course, and pleaded
their cause with so much ability that their fathers relented, and even
took the trouble to hunt up Professor Kellogg and congratulate him on
having “broken the back-bone” of the Hamilton riot.

Lester Brigham’s father and mother were among the visitors, and so were
General Gordon and his wife. The former were very indignant when they
left Rochdale. Mr. Brigham repeatedly declaring that it was a sin and an
outrage for the superintendent to send boys like those under his care
into battle, and after he had told him, in plain language, what he
thought of such a proceeding, he was going to take Lester out of that
school without any delay or ceremony. But when he reached the camp, he
did not feel that way. General Gordon reasoned with him, and when he
shook hands with Lester, he said he was sorry the boy hadn’t been in the
fight, so that he could praise him for his gallant conduct. Mr. Brigham
didn’t know that Lester had hidden his head under the bed-clothes when
the bugle sounded.

“I was afraid you would want me to leave the school,” faltered Lester, as
soon as he had somewhat recovered from his surprise.

“By no means,” said his father, earnestly. “You boys will have full
control of this government some day—did you ever think of that?—and now
is the time for you to learn your duty as citizens. What are you going to
be when this examination comes off? A captain, I hope.”

“I shan’t be anything,” replied Lester, who could scarcely conceal his
rage. “I shall never be an officer, because I can’t see the beauty of
toadying to the teachers. I’ll not stay here to fight strikers, either.”

“I sincerely hope your company will never be called upon to perform any
duty so hazardous,” said Mr. Brigham; “but if it is, I want to hear
that you are in the front rank. If you do not obtain promotion this
examination, I shall think you have wasted your time.”

“I have invited a couple of my friends to go home with me,” said Lester,
who wanted to make sure of a cordial reception for Jones and Williams,
even if he and they were expelled from the academy for misconduct.

“I am glad to hear it,” said Mr. Brigham. “Your mother and I will
endeavor to make their visit so agreeable that they will want to come
again.”

“And Williams has invited me to go home with him next year,” added
Lester. “He lives down in Maryland, a short distance from Egan and
Hopkins. May I go?”

“Certainly. Make all the friends you can, but be sure that they are the
right sort.”

“I’ve got his promise,” said Lester to himself, as he paced his lonely
beat that night, “and he’ll not break it. But I must say he’s a nice
father for any fellow to have. I thought sure he had come here to take
me home with him. He talks very glibly about my risking life and limb in
defence of law and order, but would he take it so easy if he were in my
place? I’ll not stay here another year, and that’s flat.”

Contrary to his expectations Lester Brigham, although he fell far behind
his class in both deportment and studies, had not been left at the
academy under arrest, and now he was glad of it. It was easier to get
out of the camp than it was to leave the academy grounds, and he and his
fellow-conspirators could hold a consultation every day. They began to
exhibit some activity now, and among those who had agreed to accompany
Lester on his “picnic” there was not one who showed any signs of backing
out, or who even thought of it, with the exception of Lester himself.
Three of their number had been taken home by their angry parents, but
those who remained held to their purpose, and urged their leaders to
decide upon a plan of operations. Lester, who had been rendered almost
desperate by the extraordinary behavior of his father, was anxious that
something should be done at once, and he and his two right-hand men had
many an earnest conference, the result of which was the promulgation
of an order to the effect that none of the “band,” as they called
themselves, should ask for a pass until they were told to do so.

“That will keep us together, you know,” said Lester and his lieutenants.
“If one of us asks for a pass to-day and another to-morrow—why, when the
time for action comes those who have already been out will be refused,
and consequently not more than half of us will get away. Williams will
have to go out to do a little scouting so as to ascertain when and where
we can get a boat, but the rest of us must be content to stay in.”

Their first week under canvas was a busy one, as it always was. The
fortifications, which had been thrown up the year before in anticipation
of that fight with the Mount Pleasant Indians, must be repaired and camp
routine established before liberty was granted to anybody. Before this
work was completed many of their visitors took their departure. Among
these were General and Mrs. Gordon, who wished Don and Bert a pleasant
visit with their friend Curtis in his northern home, and Lester’s father
and mother, who did not forget to give the boy a good supply of spending
money before they went, and to assure Jones and Williams that they looked
forward to their visit to Rochdale with many pleasurable anticipations.

“That money is intended for the use of yourself and your friends,” said
Mr. Brigham. “If it is stolen from you, or if the superintendent finds
out that I gave it to you, it will be your own fault. If you will come
home with a strap on your shoulder, I will give you as much more.”

During the second week passes were freely granted, and one of the first
to go out was Enoch Williams, whose duty it was to find a suitable
boat and lay plans for seizing it at a specified time. He was gone all
day, and when he came back he was full of enthusiasm, some of which he
communicated to Jones, who was the first boy he met after reporting his
return. They exchanged a few whispered words, and then hurried off to
find Lester.

“It’s all right, Brigham,” said Jones, gleefully. “Enoch has done his
full duty, and deserves the thanks of every fellow in the band. We’re off
to-morrow night.”

Somehow Lester did not feel as highly elated over this piece of news as
his friends thought he would. He wanted to desert and do something that
would make the academy boys talk about him after he was gone, but he
wished from the bottom of his heart that he had never said a word about
running away in a boat.

“I think myself that I have planned things better than any other boy in
the band could have done it,” said Enoch, with no little satisfaction in
his tones. “I’ve got the boat, and now you must assess every fellow in
the band five dollars.”

“What for?” demanded Lester.

“To pay for her, and to buy our provisions.”

“To pay for her,” echoed Lester. “I thought we were going to steal her.”

“So we are—after a while. Now I will begin at the beginning and tell you
just what I have done: When I got down to the river I found that the
cutter I wanted to take on account of her superior accommodations, had
gone off on a cruise, and that there was only one yacht in port. But
she’s a beauty, and I wouldn’t be afraid to go to Europe in her. She
was anchored out in the stream, and while I was wondering how I could
get aboard of her, her keeper came off in a dory and told me that if I
wanted to take a look at the schooner he would be glad of my company,
for he was alone there. I went, and in less than an hour I had everything
arranged. His owner is going on a cruise with a party of friends next
Monday, and it took but little urging on my part to induce the keeper to
agree to give the band a ride down the river to-morrow night, provided we
would promise to come back when he said the word, so that he could have
the schooner in her berth at daylight.”

“You didn’t promise that, of course,” said Lester, when Enoch paused to
take breath.

“Of course I did,” answered Enoch.

“Well, you’re a good one,” exclaimed Lester, in deep disgust. “I’ll not
go on any such expedition. A night ride on the river! There would be
lots of fun in that, wouldn’t there? When I start on this picnic I don’t
intend to come back to Bridgeport until I have had sport enough to pay me
for the trouble of deserting, or I am captured and brought back.”

“Neither do we,” said Jones, as soon as he saw a chance to crowd a word
in edgewise. “Let Enoch finish his story, and then see if you don’t think
more of his plans.”

“I promised that he could come back with his vessel before daylight, so
that his owner wouldn’t suspect that he had been doing a little cruising
on his own hook,” continued Enoch, “but I didn’t say that we would come
back with him.”

“You might as well have said so,” snapped Lester. “Where are we going to
stay and what are we going to do without a boat to sail about in?”

“Wait until I have had my say, and then you may talk yourself blind for
all I care,” retorted Enoch, who was beginning to get angry.

“Go easy, Williams,” Jones interposed. “We don’t want a row before we get
out of camp. If we go to quarreling among ourselves there’s an end of all
our fun.”

“I don’t want to quarrel,” said Lester, who did not like the way Enoch
glared at him.

“Then wait till I get through before you pass judgment upon the
arrangements I have made,” exclaimed Enoch. “I didn’t promise
Coleman—that’s the boat-keeper’s name—that we would return to Bridgeport
with him, and neither did I say that he could bring the yacht back, for I
don’t intend that he shall do anything of the kind.”

“How are you going to prevent it?” inquired Lester.

“That’s the best part of the plan,” said Jones. “Go on, Enoch.”

“This is the way we will prevent it,” continued the latter. “We’ll go
with him as far as Windsor, and then we will stop and make an excuse to
get him ashore. As soon as we are rid of him we’ll fill away for the bay.
If the wind is at all brisk he can’t catch us.”

“What do you say to that?” demanded Jones.

“I say it looks like business,” answered Lester, who now, for the first
time, began to take some interest in his scheme. “It’s all right, Enoch;
you couldn’t have done better, and I couldn’t have done as well. There’s
my hand.”

“I thought you would like it after you had given me a chance to explain,”
said Enoch, growing good-natured again.

“So did I,” chimed in Jones. “We want to do something daring and
reckless, you know; something that will make the good little boys open
their eyes.”

“There’s only one objection to it,” continued Enoch. “When we send
Coleman ashore we shall lose our small boat, but we can easily stop at
one of the islands in the bay and borrow another.”

“So we can,” exclaimed Lester, with great enthusiasm. “Say, boys, what’s
the use of buying any provisions? Let’s turn pirates and forage on the
farmers for our grub?”

“That’s the very idea,” said Enoch.

“I am in favor of foraging and have been all the while,” said Jones. “But
we must be careful and not try to carry things with too high a hand. If
we get the farmers down on us, they will help our pursuers all they can,
and that will bring our cruise to an end very speedily. We must buy the
most of our provisions and we must speak to the boys about it now, so
that when they ask for a pass they can draw on the superintendent for
five dollars apiece.”

“But how will you get out of the lines, Enoch?” inquired Lester. “The
superintendent will not grant you liberty for two days in succession.”

“I’ll get out; don’t you worry about that,” replied Enoch, confidently.
“Now let’s separate and post the other boys, and see who they want for
treasurer. That’s an official we have never had any use for before.”

“Tell them that I am a candidate,” said Lester, who thought he would be
a little better satisfied if he could keep his five dollars in his own
hands.

“That won’t do at all,” said Jones, quickly.

“Of course not,” chimed in Enoch. “You’ll have enough to do to manage the
yacht. I shall push Jones for the office.”

“By the way, how much did you agree to pay Coleman for giving us a ride
down the river?” asked Lester.

“Twenty-five dollars,” replied Enoch.

“That’s a good deal of money to pay out for nothing. The understanding
was that we were to capture our vessel. If we had held to that, we could
have got her for nothing.”

“And had a tug after us as soon as she could get up steam,” replied
Enoch. “As I said before, this schooner is the only yacht in port. We
couldn’t capture her without getting into a fight with Coleman, and if we
had alarmed anybody, we should have had to run a race with the telegraph
as well as with the tug. Now, remember what I say, Lester: We shall be
in danger as long as we are this side of Oxford. Coleman knows that we
are going to take French leave, and has promised to be as sly as he can
in taking us on board the schooner; but no matter how carefully we cover
up our trail, some sharp fellow like Mack will be sure to find it, and
telegraph the authorities at Oxford to be on the look-out for us.”

“And Coleman himself will raise an outcry just as soon as he finds out
that we have given him the slip,” added Jones.

“To be sure he will. I tell you, Brigham, we’re going to have a time of
it, and you will have a chance to show just how smart you are. After
we get the schooner everything will depend upon you. If you can take
us safely past Oxford and out into the bay, you will be a leader worth
having, and the boys will feel so much confidence in you that they will
do anything you say.”

“And if I fail in my efforts to do that, they will lose what little
confidence they have in me now, and put somebody else in my place,”
said Lester to himself, as he and his friends moved off in different
directions to hunt up the rest of the band and tell them of the plans
that had been determined upon. “What am I to do now?”

There was a time when Don Gordon would have been delighted with such a
prospect as this. The responsibility resting upon the captain of the
schooner, and which was much too heavy a burden for Lester to bear, would
have aroused all the combativeness in his nature, and made him determined
to succeed in spite of every obstacle that could be thrown in his way.
Lester, however, felt like backing out, and he would have done so if he
had received the least encouragement from a single one of the band to
whom he spoke that night. They were all strongly in favor of Enoch’s
plan, and promised to be on hand at the appointed time with their money
in their pockets.

“If you don’t want to go, now is the time to say so,” Lester ventured to
suggest, hoping that some timid boy would take the hint and give him an
excuse for staying behind himself; but the invariable reply was:

“I do want to go. I didn’t agree to this thing just to hear myself talk.
If you fellows are going, I am going too.”

“Whom have you seen, Brigham?” asked Jones, as the two met again just
before the supper call was sounded. “All right. Enoch and I have seen
the rest, and have found them all true blue. There’s not a single
weak-kneed one among them. We mustn’t leave the camp in a body, you
know, for that might excite suspicion; but we’ll see them in Bridgeport
to-morrow afternoon, and tell them to be at Haggert’s dock at dark.”

They were all going, that was evident, and Lester did not see how he
could refuse to accompany them. If he feigned illness or neglected to
ask for a pass, he would surely be found out and accused of cowardice,
and then the boys would have nothing more to do with him. There were few
outside the band who ever took the trouble to speak to him, and if they
deserted him he would be lonely indeed.

“And more than all, Williams and Jones would refuse to go home with me,
and that would knock my visit to Maryland in the head,” said Lester to
himself. “That wouldn’t be at all pleasant. I shall have a harder time at
Rochdale than I ever had before. Don and Bert Gordon will be sure to tell
all the people there how I have acted ever since I came to the academy,
and what a coward I was on the night the false alarm was given, and they
will make it so disagreeable for me that I can’t stay. I must stick to
those boys, for they are the only friends I have. I believe I’ll turn
the command of the yacht over to Enoch. He wants it and I don’t; and if
I give it up to him of my own free will, perhaps it will increase his
friendship for me.”

Lester breathed easier after he made this resolution, and, although he
did not enjoy his sleep that night, he did not look forward with so many
gloomy forebodings. He received his pass and his money when he asked for
them, and in company with Jones set out for Bridgeport. They directed
their course toward Haggert’s dock, and when they reached it Lester
obtained his first view of a sea-going yacht. One glance at her was
enough to satisfy him that he could do nothing with her, and he suddenly
thought of an excuse for saying so.

“Is that the schooner?” he asked, as he and his companion seated
themselves on a spar that was lying on the dock.

“Why, of course she’s a schooner,” exclaimed Jones, looking up in
surprise. “A vessel of that size wouldn’t be square-rigged, would she?
Can’t you see that she is a fore-and-after?”

“Not being blind I can,” replied Lester, loftily. “I inquired if she was
_the_ schooner—the one we are going to take.”

“Oh!” replied Jones. “Yes, I suppose she is, but I can very soon find
out,” he added, as he drew his handkerchief from his pocket. “If that man
who is lounging in the cockpit is Coleman, I can bring him ashore.”

“Having always been used to plenty of sea-room, I am not sure that I can
handle the schooner in this narrow river,” said Lester.

“We are not going to stay in the river, you know,” answered Jones. “We
shall get out of it as soon as we can.”

“I know that; but Enoch said last night that we shall be in danger as
long as we remain this side of Oxford, and the boy who takes us down the
river ought to be one who knows how to handle boats in close places. I
don’t know much about schooners, for, as I told you long ago, my yacht
was a cutter.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Jones.

“There is a good deal of difference the first thing you know,” exclaimed
Lester; and fearing that he might be asked to tell what it was, he
hastened to say: “Williams is a good fellow and a good sailor too, if
I am any judge, and I think I will ask him to take command. Of course
I could manage the schooner, and perhaps I will take her in hand after
Enoch gets her out of the river.”

“All right,” said Jones. “I guess Enoch will take her if you ask him.
That’s Coleman.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he waved his hand in reply to my signal, and is now coming off
in his boat.”

In a few minutes Coleman rowed up to the wharf in his dory. He did not
get out, but stood up in his boat and kept it in its place by holding
fast to a ring-bolt.

“I wanted to make sure that everything is just as it should be,” said
Jones, who saw that the boat-keeper was waiting to hear what he had to
say. “Can we go on our cruise to-night?”

“Are you one of the deserters?” asked Coleman.

“I am; and my friend here, is another. One of our fellows was down here
yesterday and talked the matter over with you. Has anything occurred to
interfere with the arrangements you and he made?”

“Not that I know of. How many of you are there?”

“Just twenty-five,” replied Jones.

“That will be a dollar a piece,” said Coleman. “Can you raise so much
money? Then it’s all right; but there’s one thing I want understood
before we start: I must be back here before daylight.”

“There’s nothing to prevent it,” answered Jones; “that is, if you can
walk back from Windsor by that time,” he added, mentally.

“I am doing this thing without my owner’s knowledge,” continued Coleman.
“If he should come down here early in the morning and find the yacht
gone, I’d lose my situation.”

“We know that. All we ask of you is to take us as far as Windsor, where
we intend to go ashore for an hour or two. You don’t object to that, I
suppose.”

“Oh, no. If you don’t want to go any farther than that, I can easily get
back in time to avoid suspicion. Anything going on at Windsor?”

“A party,” replied Jones.

After a little more conversation the two boys got up and walked away, and
Coleman went back to the schooner.

“There is that much done,” said Jones. “We have paved the way for getting
him ashore. After we get him up in town we will lose him, and then we’ll
have the schooner to ourselves. Now let’s separate and look out for the
rest of the fellows. Tell them about the party that isn’t going to come
off in Windsor, and give them to understand that they may talk about it
as much as they please in Coleman’s hearing. Urge upon them the necessity
of being on the dock at dusk, so as not to run the risk of being left
behind, but caution them against forming a crowd there. We don’t want
anybody to see us off, and consequently we must be careful not to attract
attention. Williams and I will meet you at noon at Cony Ryan’s.”

“Well, don’t bring any other fellows with you,” said Lester, who knew
that this meant pies, pancakes and milk for three, and that he would have
to foot the bill.

Jones said he wouldn’t, and the two boys gave each other a farewell
salute, and set out in different directions in search of the other
members of the band.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE DESERTERS AFLOAT.


If the deserters had had the ordering of things themselves they could
not have made them work more to their satisfaction. There was not a
single hitch anywhere; but there was just enough excitement to put them
on their mettle, and give them an idea of what was before them. In less
than twenty minutes after Lester Brigham parted from his friend Jones, he
ran against Captain Mack and Don Gordon. The latter wore a bayonet by his
side to show that he was on duty. If they had not been so close to him,
Lester would have taken to his heels. Although he had not yet deserted,
and carried a paper in his pocket that would protect him, the sight of
these two boys made him feel guilty and anxious.

“Hallo, Brigham,” exclaimed the young captain, as he returned Lester’s
salute. “If I didn’t know better, I should say that you were out on
French leave.”

“Oh, I am not,” answered Lester, with more earnestness than the
circumstances seemed to warrant. “I have a pass.”

“I know it, for I was in the superintendent’s marquee when it was given
to you,” said the captain. “But I must say that you look rather queer for
an innocent boy. Seen anything of Enoch Williams?”

“No, I haven’t,” replied Lester, who now began to prick up his ears. “Is
he out?”

The captain laughed and said he was.

“Has he got a pass?”

“Of course not. If he had we wouldn’t be looking for him, would we?
He followed Egan’s example and Gordon’s, and ran the guard in broad
daylight. We’ve traced him to the village, and we’re going to catch him
if we have to stay here for a week. The boy who was on post at the time
Enoch went out said he ran like the wind, and if I can get Don after him,
I expect to see a race worth looking at. My men are scattered all over
the village, and if you see Enoch I wish you would post some of them.”

“I will,” answered Lester.

“He won’t,” said Don, as he and the captain moved on.

“I know that very well,” returned Mack. “Brigham is up to something
himself, or else his face belies him.”

“He and Jones and Williams are cronies, you know,” continued Don, “and I
believe that the surest way to find our man is to keep an eye on Lester.”

“I believe so myself,” said the captain, giving his companion a hearty
slap on the back. “That’s a bright idea, Gordon, and we’ll act on it.”

“Mack thinks he’s smart, but he may find out that there are some boys in
the world who are quite as smart as he is,” soliloquized Lester, as he
moved on up the street. “I don’t know whether I want Enoch to command
that schooner after all. His running the guard in daylight shows that he
is inclined to take too many risks.”

Lester began to be alarmed now; the village seemed to be full of
Captain Mack’s men. He met them at nearly every corner, and they, as in
duty bound, asked to see his pass, and made inquiries concerning the
deserter. Every one of them declared that there was something afoot.

“Williams didn’t run the guard in that daring way and come to town for
nothing,” said they. “There’s no circus here, nor is there anything
interesting going on that we can hear of; but there’s a scheme of some
kind in the wind, and we know it.”

Lester’s fears increased every time Captain Mack’s men talked to him in
this way, and he began looking about for Jones. He wanted to know what
the latter thought about it; but he could not find him, nor could he see
any of the band. They had all disappeared very suddenly and mysteriously,
and now the only academy boys he met were those who wore bayonets. Eleven
o’clock came at last, and Lester was on the point of starting for Cony
Ryan’s, when he heard his name pronounced in low and guarded tones, and
looked quickly around to see Jones standing in a dark doorway.

“Don’t come in here,” whispered the latter, as Lester stepped toward the
door. “Stand in front of that window and pretend to be looking at the
pictures, and then I’ll talk to you.”

Lester wonderingly obeyed, and Jones continued:

“We’re suspected already.”

“I know it,” answered Lester, in the same cautious whisper. “Mack’s men
all believe that Enoch had some object in deserting as he did, and one of
them said they wouldn’t go home until they caught him if they had to stay
here a week.”

“That’s just what they said to me,” returned Jones. “The thing is getting
interesting already, isn’t it?”

“Almost too much so. What do you suppose the teachers would do to us if
Mack should hear of our plans?”

“They wouldn’t do anything but stop our liberty,” replied Jones. “Some of
the best fellows in the school make it a point to desert every camp, and
there’s nothing done to them. Stealing the schooner is what is going to
do the business for us. We’ll be sent down for that, and it’s just what
we want.”

“Have you seen anything of Enoch?”

“Yes; he’s all right. He’s gone down to Ryan’s to order dinner for us.”

“Where are the rest of the fellows?”

“Some of them are hiding about the village, and the others have gone down
to Ryan’s. Enoch and I thought it best to tell them, one and all, to keep
out of sight. If Mack and his men should hear of our plan, the fat would
all be in the fire.”

“Would they arrest us?”

“You’re right.”

“Why, we haven’t done anything.”

“No, but we’re going to do something, and if they knew it, it would be
their duty to stop us.”

“Well, why don’t you come out, or why can’t I go in there?” demanded
Lester. “There’s no one, except village people, in sight.”

“There’s where you are mistaken,” replied Jones. “Look across the street.
Do you see that fellow on the opposite sidewalk who appears to be so
deeply interested in something he sees in the window of that dry-goods
store?”

Yes, Lester saw him. He had seen him before, and took him for just what
he appeared to be—a country boy out for a holiday. His tight black
trowsers would not come more than half-way down the legs of his big
cowhide boots; his felt hat was perched on the top of a thick shock
of hair which looked like a small brush-heap; his short coat sleeves
revealed wrists and arms that were as brown as sole-leather; and the
coarse red handkerchief which was tied around his face seemed to indicate
that he was suffering from the toothache. But if he was, it did not
prevent him from thoroughly enjoying his lunch—a cake of ginger-bread
and an apple which he had purchased at a neighboring stand, and which
he devoured with so much eagerness, as he stood there in front of the
window, that everybody who saw him laughed at him.

“I see some gawky over there,” said Lester, after he had taken a glance
at the boy.

“That’s no gawky,” replied Jones. “It’s Don Gordon.”

Lester was profoundly astonished. He faced about and looked again. There
was nothing about that awkward clown, who did not know what to do with
his big feet, that looked like the neat and graceful Don Gordon he had
met a short time before.

“You’re certainly mistaken,” said Lester. “Don’s pride wouldn’t let him
appear in the public street in any such rig as that.”

“It wouldn’t, eh? You don’t know that boy.”

“Besides, Gordon couldn’t look and act so clumsy if he tried,” continued
Lester, who had striven in vain to imitate Don’s soldierly carriage.
“Why, he is making a laughing-stock of himself.”

“I know it, and so does he; and he enjoys it. I don’t know where he
procured his disguise, but if he didn’t borrow it, he bought it. He’s got
more money than he can spend, and he will stick at nothing that will help
him gain his point. Now, can you see Mack anywhere?”

Lester looked up and down the street and replied that he could not.

“Well, he’s somewhere around, and you may be sure of it,” Jones went on.
“He is keeping Don in sight, and Don has disguised himself so that he can
keep _you_ in sight. They have been following you around the streets for
two hours, and this is the first chance I have had to tell you of it.
Have you let anything slip?”

“No,” replied Lester, indignantly.

“You’re spotted, any way; and I can’t, for the life of me, see why you
should be if you have kept a still tongue in your head,” said Jones,
in deep perplexity. “Now, our first hard work must be to shake those
fellows, and then we’ll draw a bee-line for Cony’s. When I say the
word, come into the hall and go up those stairs as if all the wolves in
Mississippi were close at your heels; but don’t make any noise.”

Lester braced himself for a jump and a run, and Jones took up a position
in the hall from which he could observe Don’s movements without being
seen himself. The amateur detective—it really was Don Gordon—having
disposed of his lunch and growing tired of waiting for Lester to make a
move in some direction, shuffled rather than walked over to the other
window, not neglecting, as he made this change, to take a good look at
the boy he had “spotted.” As soon as he was fairly settled before the
other window, Jones whispered “_Now!_” whereupon Lester darted through
the door and went up the stairs three at a jump. Jones lingered a minute
or two and then followed him.

“It’s just as I expected,” said he, hurriedly, when he joined Lester at
the top of the stairs. “Captain Mack was concealed somewhere down the
street. He saw you when you ran through the door and signaled to Don, who
is now coming across the street. Follow me and run on your toes. Stick
to me, and ask no questions.”

So saying Jones broke into a run and led the way through a long hall to
another flight of stairs, which he descended with headlong speed, Lester
keeping close at his heels. On reaching the sidewalk they slackened their
pace to a walk, and Jones suddenly turned into a shoe-store, with the
proprietor of which he was well acquainted.

“Mr. Smith,” said he, addressing the man who stood behind the counter,
“may I go in your back room long enough to take something out of my boot?”

Time was too precious to wait for the reply, which they knew would be a
favorable one, so Jones and Lester kept on to the back-room. When they
got there the former took his foot out of his boot—there was nothing
else in it—while his companion, acting in obedience to some whispered
instructions, concealed himself and kept an eye on those who passed the
store.

“There he goes!” he exclaimed suddenly, as Don Gordon walked rapidly
by, peering sharply through the glass doors as he went. “He must have
followed us through the hall.”

“Of course he did, and consequently there is no need that I should tell
you why I came in here. Now we’ll start for Cony’s.”

As Jones said this he opened a back door which gave entrance into a
narrow alley, and conducted his companion through a long archway that
finally brought them to a cross-street. After making sure that there were
none of Captain Mack’s men in sight, they came out of their concealment
and walked rapidly away toward the big pond. When they reached Cony
Ryan’s house and entered the little parlor which had been the scene of
so many midnight revels, they found it in possession of their friends,
who greeted them in the most boisterous manner and inquired anxiously for
Enoch Williams. A few of them had had opportunity to exchange a word or
two with him, all knew how he had run the guard, but none of them could
tell where he was now.

“He is safe enough,” said Jones, knowingly. “Of course you don’t expect
him to show himself openly, as we can who have passes in our pockets. If
you will be on Haggert’s dock at dark—and those who are not there will
stand a good chance of being left, for when we get ready to start we
shall wait for nobody—you will find him. In the meantime be careful how
you act, and keep out of sight as much as you can. Mack knows that we
haven’t come down here for nothing.”

The boys said they were well aware of that fact, and Jones went on to
tell how closely Don Gordon and Captain Mack had watched Lester in the
hope of finding out what it was that had brought him and his friends to
town that day, and described how he and Lester had managed to elude them.
While the boys were laughing over the success of their stratagem, Jones
disappeared through a back door, but presently returned and beckoned to
Lester, who followed him into the kitchen. Cony Ryan was there, and he
had just placed upon the table two large buckets covered with snow-white
napkins.

“That’s your dinner,” said he, as he shook hands with Lester, who had
put many a dollar into his pocket that term. “They tell me that you are
getting to be a very bad boy, Brigham. You have put the fellows up to
stealing a yacht.”

“It’s a pretty good scheme, isn’t it?” said Jones.

“I never heard of such a thing,” said Cony. “I know every boy who has
been graduated at this academy during the last half century, and although
there were some daring ones among them, there were none who had the
hardihood to do a thing like this. I have about half made up my mind that
if Captain Mack comes here, I will report the last one of you.”

“Well, so long as you don’t wholly make up your mind to it, we don’t
care,” replied Jones, who knew their host too well to be alarmed by any
such threats as this. “I’ll take one basket, Brigham, and you can take
the other. Cony, you keep your eyes open and give us the signal at the
very first sign of danger.”

“Where are you going?” inquired Lester, as Jones, with one of the baskets
on his arm, led the way out of the door toward a grove that stood a
little distance off on the shore of the big pond.

“To find Enoch,” answered Jones. “I know right where he is. I say,
Lester, you did something to be proud of when you got up this scheme.
When Cony Ryan praises a fellow, the praise is well deserved.”

“I am very well satisfied with it,” said Lester, complacently. “You said
something about a signal of danger; what is it?”

“Did you ever hear Cony’s greyhound sing?” asked Jones in reply. “Well,
if Cony sees any of Mack’s men approaching his house, he’ll tell his
hound to ‘sing,’ and the animal will set up the most dismal howling you
ever heard. If Enoch hears that, you will see him dig out for dear life.”

After walking a short distance into the grove, the two boys came to a
little creek, whose banks were thickly lined with bushes. Here Jones
stopped and put down his basket, and hardly had he done so when Enoch
Williams made his appearance. He had been concealed in the bushes,
awaiting their arrival. This was the first time Lester had seen the
deserter that day, and one would have thought by the way he complimented
Enoch, that the latter, when he ran by the guard, had performed an
exploit that no other boy in the academy dare attempt.

“I am glad to see you two,” said Enoch, nodding his head toward the
baskets, “for I am hungry.”

“Any news?” asked Jones, as he spread the lunch on one of the napkins.

“Not a word,” replied the deserter. “I haven’t seen Mack or any of his
squad for a long time.”

“We have,” said Lester. “We’ve just had some fun in getting away from
them.”

Of course Enoch wanted to know all about it, and Jones told the story
while they were eating their lunch. The good things that Cony had put
up for them rapidly disappeared before their attacks, but busy as they
were, they did not neglect to keep their eyes and ears open. They
depended upon Cony and his hound to guard one side of the grove, and upon
themselves to detect the presence of any danger that might threaten them
from other directions; but Mack and his men never came near them. Being
well acquainted with Cony Ryan, they knew it would be a waste of time
to look for a deserter about his premises. The old fellow was a staunch
and trustworthy friend. He could not be bribed, coaxed or flattered into
betraying a boy’s confidence.

It seemed as if the day never would draw to a close. As Enoch did not
think it safe to venture near the house, Jones and Lester kept him
company in the grove, where they rolled about on the grass, consulting
their watches every few minutes and laying out a programme for their
cruise. By this time it was understood that Enoch was to command the
schooner. He was delighted when Lester proposed it, accepted the
responsibility without the least hesitation, and spoke confidently of his
ability to make the cruise a lively one and to give their pursuers a long
chase, if he could only succeed in getting the yacht out into the bay.

The hours wore away, and when six o’clock came the deserter and his
friends finished what was left of their lunch and began to bestir
themselves. Jones and Lester returned to Cony Ryan’s house, which they
found deserted by all save the proprietor and his family, the members of
the band having formed themselves into little squads and strolled off
toward the dock. Having made sure that the coast was clear, Jones went
out on the back porch and gave a shrill whistle, to which the deserter
responded in person.

“Now, Lester,” said Jones, when Enoch entered the house, “you stay here
and act as look-out for Williams, and I will take a scout about the
village and see how things look there. It will be dark by the time I
come back, and then we will make a start.”

Jones was gone a long while, but the report he brought was a favorable
one. The members of the band were all hidden about the dock, awaiting
Enoch’s appearance with much anxiety and impatience, and Coleman was
ready to carry out his part of the contract. The sails were cast loose,
and all they had to do was to slip the anchor, and let the current carry
them down the river. He had seen nothing of Captain Mack or his men, nor
had he been able to find any one who could tell him what had become of
them. He believed they had gone back to camp.

“Mack rather plumes himself on his success in capturing deserters, I
believe,” said Enoch, as he arose from the sofa on which he had been
lounging and put on his cap. “He fails sometimes, doesn’t he?”

“Don’t shout until you are out of the woods,” replied Jones, who knew
that his friend was congratulating himself on his cunning. “The pursuit
has not fairly begun. He may gobble you yet and all the rest of us into
the bargain.”

“Well, it will not cost him anything to try,” said Enoch, confidently.
“I am more at home on the water than I am on land, and the boy who beats
me handling a yacht must get up in the morning.”

“But they will follow us in tugs,” said Lester.

“Then we’ll hide among some of the islands in the bay and let them hunt
for us,” replied Enoch. “I tell you it will be a cold day when we get
left.”

After Lester had paid for the lunch they had eaten in the grove, he and
his companions left Cony Ryan’s hospitable roof and set out for the
dock, neglecting no precautions on the way. Jones and Lester went ahead,
stopping at every corner and looking into every doorway, and Enoch,
who followed a short distance behind them, did not advance until they
notified him, by a peculiar whistle, that he had nothing to fear.

By keeping altogether on the back streets and giving the business
thoroughfares a wide berth, they managed to reach the dock without
meeting anybody. There was no one in sight when they got there, but
Jones’s low whistle was answered from a dozen different hiding places.

“Ahem!” said Enoch, looking toward the schooner.

“Ahem!” came the answer through the darkness. “Who is it?”

“The band,” replied Enoch; and then there came a few minutes of silence
and impatient waiting, during which Coleman got into his dory and shoved
off toward the dock. Another whistle from Jones brought several students
from their places of concealment, and when the dory was filled to its
utmost capacity, it was pulled back to the schooner. Coleman was obliged
to make three trips in order to take them all off, and when Jones, who
was the last to leave the dock, sprang over the schooner’s rail, he
announced that not a single one of the band was missing.

“Keep silence fore and aft,” commanded Coleman, as he made the dory’s
painter fast to the stern and went forward to slip the chain. “Wait until
we get under way before you do any talking.”

The boys were careful to obey. With a single exception they were highly
elated over the success of their plans, and now that the schooner was
moving off with them, they were determined that she should not come back
to her berth again until she had taken them on a good long cruise. That
exception was, of course, Lester Brigham. He became timid when he found
himself at the mercy of the current which was carrying him off through
darkness so intense that he could scarcely see the vessel’s length ahead
of him, and took himself to task for his foolishness in proposing such an
expedition. But when he found that the schooner was seaworthy, and that
Enoch knew how to keep her on top of the water and to get a good deal of
speed out of her besides, these feelings gradually wore away, and he even
told himself that he was seeing lots of fun.

When the current had taken the little vessel so far down the river that
there was no longer any danger to be apprehended, Coleman came up to
Enoch, whom he recognized as one of the leaders of the band, and inquired:

“Are there any among you who know a halliard from a down-haul?”

Enoch replied that there were.

“Then send a couple of them forward to run up the jib, while I take the
wheel,” said Coleman. “I want to throw her head around. No singing, now.”

“What did he mean by that?” asked Lester, speaking before he thought.

“Why, have you never heard sailors sing when they were hoisting the
sails?” exclaimed Enoch. “It makes the work easier, you know, and helps
them pull together.”

“Why, of course it does,” said Lester. “What was I thinking of?”

“I don’t know, I am sure. Come with me and lend a hand at the jib. Jones,
you had better attend to Coleman now.”

“Shall I give him his money?” asked Jones, who, we forgot to say, had
been elected treasurer of the band without one dissenting voice.

“Yes; hand it over, and perhaps he will want to go ashore and spend some
of it. You see,” added Enoch, as he and Lester went forward, “our first
hard work must be to get rid of Coleman without raising any fuss, and
Jones is going to try to induce him to go off with us at Windsor; so keep
away from him and let him talk.”

It was so very dark and there were so many ropes leading down the
foremast that Lester didn’t see how Enoch could find the one he wanted;
but he laid his hand upon it without the least hesitation, and when he
began pulling at it, Lester knew enough to take hold and help him. The
schooner swung around as the wind filled the sail, and when her bow
pointed down the river the fore and main sails were hoisted, and in a few
minutes more she was bowling along right merrily. Enoch superintended the
work, all the boys lending willing but awkward assistance, and Coleman
complimented him by saying that he was quite a sailor.

“And I am the only one on board,” said he, as soon as he found
opportunity to speak to Jones in private. “Brigham is a fraud of the
first water. There are lots of fellows aboard who make no pretensions,
but who know more about a boat in five minutes than he does in a month.”

“His yacht was a cutter, you know,” suggested Jones.

“Oh, get out!” exclaimed Enoch. “He doesn’t know a cutter from a
full-rigged ship.”

Lester, who was painfully aware that his ignorance of all things
pertaining to a yacht had been fully exposed, was leaning against the
weather-rail, heartily wishing himself back at the academy. He then and
there resolved that he would never again attempt to win a reputation
among his fellows by boasting. It is a bad thing to do; and the boy who
indulges in it is sure to bring himself into contempt sooner or later.



CHAPTER XIV.

DON OBTAINS A CLUE.


“How have you succeeded with Coleman?” continued Enoch. “Are we going to
get rid of him as easily as we hoped?”

“Coleman is all right,” was Jones’s encouraging reply. “I laid a neat
little trap for him, and he fell into it just as easy! I told him that we
had been followed nearly all day, and he said he knew it, for he had seen
Mack and some of his squad on the dock. I told him, too, that Mack knew
all about the party at Windsor, and that I was afraid he would go down
there and lie in wait for us; and Coleman offered to go ashore in the
dory and reconnoiter.”

“Good!” exclaimed Enoch. “Just the minute he is out of sight we’ll fill
away for the bay. Now let’s post the other boys, so that they may know
just what is expected of them.”

The deserters did not at all enjoy their ride down the river, for they
were thinking about something else. They were impatient to see the
last of Coleman, and trembling for fear that something would happen to
excite his suspicions. They were strong enough to take the schooner from
him by force, and there were some reckless ones in the band who openly
advocated it; but the majority would not listen to them. They had enough
to answer for already, they said, and they would not countenance any such
high-handed proceeding. While they were talking about it they sighted
Windsor.

“I guess I had better run in and tie up to the wharf,” said Coleman, who
stood at the wheel.

“Don’t do that,” said Enoch, quickly. He wanted to keep the schooner out
in the river so that when the proper time came he could fill away without
the loss of a moment. If she were made fast to the wharf and the sails
were lowered, it would be a work of some difficulty to get under way
again, and if Coleman were the active and quick-witted man they took him
for, he would upset all their plans in an instant.

“That wouldn’t do at all,” chimed in Jones. “How do we know but that Mack
and his men are hidden there on the wharf all ready to board us as soon
as we come alongside?”

“Couldn’t you fight ’em off?” inquired Coleman.

“We might, but we’ll not try it,” said Enoch. “There’s no law that
prevents a deserter from hiding or taking to his heels, but if he should
resist arrest, they’d snatch him bald-headed. We don’t want to fight, for
we’re deep enough in the mud already.”

“What will the superintendent do to you when you go back?” asked Coleman.

“Oh, he’ll court-martial us and stop our liberty,” replied Jones. “But
we don’t care for that, you know. We intend to have so much fun to-night
at the party that we can afford to stay in camp during the rest of the
month.”

Jones did not think it best to tell Coleman that he and his companions
stood a fine chance of being expelled from the academy to pay for this
night’s work. He was afraid that if he did, the man would refuse to
assist them in their scheme, and that he would come about and take them
back to Bridgeport. If he had tried that, there would have been trouble
beyond a doubt, for his passengers were bound to make themselves
famous before they went back. They succeeded beyond their most sanguine
expectations. It is true that they were taken to the academy under
arrest, but they were looked upon as heroes and not as culprits who
were deserving of punishment. They gave the students and everybody else
something to talk about, but not in the way they had anticipated.

“The safest plan you can pursue is to leave the schooner out here in
the river, and go ashore in the dory and see that the way is clear,”
continued Jones.

“I don’t know of but one house in Windsor that is big enough for a party,
and that’s Dr. Norton’s,” said Coleman.

“There’s right where we’re going,” said Enoch, at a venture. “We want you
to go out there and look carefully about his grounds to make sure that
Mack and his men are not in hiding there.”

“Why, it’s a mile from the village!” exclaimed Coleman.

“What of that?”

“It would take me an hour to go there and come back,” replied the man,
“and to tell the truth, I am afraid to trust the yacht in your hands for
that length of time. You might beach her, or a steamer might run her down
in the dark.”

“You needn’t be afraid of that,” replied Jones. “Williams can take care
of her. He owned and sailed a yacht years ago.”

“And here’s another thing,” said Enoch. “You ought to remember that you
are as deeply interested in this matter as we are. If Mack and his men
should capture us now, wouldn’t they find out that you are using your
owner’s yacht without his knowledge, and wouldn’t they get you into
trouble by speaking of it?”

“So they would,” answered Coleman. “I didn’t think of that. I must help
you now whether I want to or not. Well, I’ll go ashore, as I agreed.
Who’s going to manage the schooner while I am gone?”

Enoch answered that he was.

“All right. Take the wheel, and let me see you throw the yacht up into
the wind.”

Enoch complied, and Coleman had no fault to find with the way in which
he executed the maneuver. As soon as the schooner lost her headway, the
man clambered down into the dory and pushed off toward the dock, not
forgetting to tell Enoch that he left the yacht entirely in his hands,
and that he (Enoch) would be responsible for her safety.

“Don’t be uneasy,” was the boy’s reassuring reply. “I know just what
I want to do; and I’m going to do it,” he added, in a lower tone. “Go
for’ard, Jones, and keep an eye on him as long as you can. When you see
him go up the street that leads from the wharf, let me know.”

The impatient boys watched Coleman as he rowed toward the dock, and
presently they saw his head bobbing up and down in front of the lights
in the store windows. As soon as he disappeared up the road that led to
Dr. Norton’s house, Jones carried the news to Enoch, who filled away
and stood down the river again. The deserters were so delighted at the
success of their stratagem that they danced hornpipes, and could with
difficulty restrain themselves from shouting aloud.

“Brigham, tell those fellows to keep still,” commanded the new captain.
“Now, Jones, the next thing is something else. We’ve got the schooner
easy enough, but what shall we do with her?”

“Let’s crack on and get into the bay as soon as we can,” suggested Jones.

“I should like to, for I know we are not safe as long as we are in the
river, but I am afraid to put any more canvas on her. Not being familiar
with the channel I am going it blind, and I don’t want to knock a hole in
her, or run her high and dry on a sand-bar before I know it. I think it
would be safest to stay here for a while, and let our pursuers get ahead
of us, so that we will be in their wake instead of having them in ours.
Perhaps you had better talk it up among the boys and see what they think
of it. While you are about it, find out if there is any one in the band
who knows the river. If there is, send him to me.”

Jones hurried away to obey this order, and presently returned with a boy
who lived in Oxford, and who had often piloted his father’s tugs up and
down the river. The information he gave the captain was contained in a
very few words, but it proved to be of great value to him. The boy told
him that he had better keep as close to the bluff banks as he could, for
there was where the channel was; but when he came to a place where the
banks were low on both sides, he would find the deepest water pretty
near the middle of the river.

“That’s all I want to know about that,” said Enoch. “It is eleven
o’clock, isn’t it, and we are about thirty-five miles from Bridgeport?
Very well. How much farther down the river ought the current and this
wind to take us by daylight?”

“I should think it ought to take us past Mayville, and that is seventy
miles from Bridgeport,” replied the boy.

“Do you know of any little creeks around there that we could hide in
during the day?”

The boy said there were a dozen of them.

“All right,” answered Enoch. “Perhaps you had better stay on deck with me
to-night, and to-morrow we will sleep. Now Jones, divide the crew into
two equal watches, and send one of them below if they are sleepy and want
to go. Then bring up a couple of lanterns and hang them to the catheads.
If we don’t show lights we may get run over.”

Jones proved to be an invaluable assistant, and it is hard to tell how
Enoch would have got on without him. He hung out the lamps, set the
watch, and then he and some of the band went below to take a look at
their floating home. He peeped into all the state-rooms, glanced at the
forecastle, examined all the lockers as well as the galley and pantry,
and was delighted with everything he saw.

“I didn’t know there was so much elbow-room on one of these little
boats,” said he, after he had finished his investigations. “There are
provisions enough in the store-rooms to last us a week, and the owner has
left his trunk and his hunting and fishing traps on board.”

“That must not be touched,” said Enoch, decidedly.

“It wouldn’t do any harm to take out one of those fine breech-loaders and
knock over a mess of squirrels with it,” said Jones.

“Yes, it would. Most men are very particular about their guns and don’t
want strangers to use them. We must return all this property in just as
good order as it was when it came into our hands. We’ve got money enough
to buy our own grub, and I’ll raise a row with the first fellow who dips
into those provisions, I don’t care who he is. We’re not mean, if we did
run away with the schooner.”

Perhaps Egan would have been astonished to have heard such sentiments as
these expressed by the boy whom he believed to be the “meanest fellow
that ever lived.” Enoch could be manly so long as he was good-natured,
and so could Lester Brigham. It was when they got angry that they showed
themselves in their true characters. It may be that the fear of a
rigorous prosecution by the angry owner of the yacht had something to do
with the stand Enoch took in regard to the provisions and hunting outfit.

Of course none of the band wanted to go below, inviting as the berths
looked, and Enoch, who liked company, did not insist upon it. They showed
a desire to sing, but that was something the captain opposed. The noise
they made would be sure to attract the attention of some of the people
living along the banks, and put it in their power to aid Captain Mack and
his men when they came in pursuit. He wanted to cover up their trail so
as to mystify everybody.

“You need not expect to do that,” said one of the band. “Coleman will
blow the whole thing as soon as he gets home.”

“But I don’t think he will go home and face his owner after what he has
done,” said Enoch. “I know I shouldn’t want to do it if I were in his
place. If he keeps away from Bridgeport, so much the better for us. Wait
till we get out of danger, and then you can sing to your hearts’ content.”

Enoch stood at the wheel all night, and the boy who lived in Oxford kept
him company to see that he gave the sand-bars a wide berth. Some of the
band managed to sleep a little, but the majority of the members lounged
about the deck and wondered what they were going to do for excitement
during their cruise.

The schooner passed Mayville shortly after daylight, and the deserters
could not see that there was any one stirring. About half an hour
afterward Enoch’s companion directed his attention to a wide creek which
he said would afford an excellent hiding-place for their vessel during
the day, and the schooner was accordingly turned into it. After she had
run as far up the stream as the wind would carry her, the sails were
hauled down, a dory they found in the creek was manned, a line got out,
and the yacht was towed around the bend out of sight, and made fast to
the bank.

And where were Captain Mack and his men all this time, and did they
succeed in finding the trail of the deserters in spite of all Enoch’s
efforts to cover it up? They spent the night in their quarters, and
struck a hot scent the first thing in the morning. It came about in this
way:

When Lester Brigham, with Jones’s assistance, succeeded in eluding Don
Gordon, the latter became firmly settled in the belief that there was
“something up.” He and Captain Mack used their best endeavors to get on
Lester’s track again, looking in every place except the one in which they
would have been sure to find him. That was at Cony Ryan’s house. As we
said before, they did not go there because they knew it would be time
wasted.

“It’s no use, Gordon,” said Captain Mack, after he and his squad had
searched all the streets and looked into every store in the village.
“They’re safe at Cony’s, and we might as well go home. I hope they will
stay out all night so that we can have another chance to-morrow. I don’t
like to give up beaten.”

Captain Mack knew where to find every one of his men, and in half an
hour’s time they were all marching back to camp. The young officer
reported his return and his failure to capture the boy who had run the
guard, adding that he had a strong suspicion that Enoch, Lester and the
rest had some plan in their heads, and that they did not intend to return
to camp of their own free will.

“Very well,” said the superintendent. “If they do not return to-night,
you had better take a squad and go down to the village in the morning and
make inquiries. If they can get away from you they are pretty smart.”

“Thank you, sir. I will do my best, but I can’t hope for success if I am
to be hampered by orders.”

“No, I suppose not,” said the superintendent, with a laugh. “You would
rather waste your time in running about the country than stay here in
camp and attend to your business.”

“I am ahead of my class, sir,” said Mack.

“I know it. Well, stay out until you learn all about their plans, if they
have any, and capture them if you know where they have gone. I presume
that is the order you want.”

“Yes, sir; that’s the very one,” said Mack, with so much glee in his
tones that the superintendent and all the teachers laughed heartily. “May
I select my own men and take as many as I want?”

“Certainly, provided you leave enough to do camp duty.”

“I will, sir. I’ll take a man for every deserter.”

Captain Mack made his salute and hurried out, laughing all over. His
first care was to go to the officer of the guard and find out just how
many boys there were in Lester’s party (he took it for granted that they
were all together and that they intended to desert and go off somewhere
to have a good time), and his next to make out a list of the boys who
were to comprise his squad. It is hardly necessary to say that the names
of Don and Bert Gordon, Egan, Curtis and Hopkins appeared on that list.
The captain meant to have a good time himself, and he wanted some good
fellows to help him enjoy it.

“I have a roving commission, fellows,” he said to the boys, as fast as he
found them. “If I can find out where those deserters have gone, I shall
not come back without them. Stick a pin there.”

“Good for you, Mack,” was the universal verdict.

“I tell you it pays for a fellow to mind his business,” continued the
delighted captain. “I never would have been allowed so great a privilege
if I hadn’t behaved myself pretty well this term. Say nothing to nobody,
but hold yourselves in readiness to leave camp at daylight. We’ll get
breakfast in the village. If you haven’t plenty of money, perhaps you
had better ask for some; and while you are about it, you might as well
get ten dollars apiece. The superintendent is not very particular about
financial matters during camp, you know.”

That was true, but still he looked surprised when more than twenty boys
came to him that night and asked for ten dollars each. He handed over the
money, however, without asking any questions, and when the last one went
out he said to the teachers who had gathered in his marquee:

“This looks as if Captain Mack were up to something himself. Well, he’s
a good boy, he associates with none but good boys, and we can trust him
with the full assurance that any privileges we grant him will not be
abused.”

Captain Mack and his chosen men did not get much sleep that night.
Although they firmly believed that a large party of students had deserted
the camp they had no positive proof of the fact, and they were in a state
of great uncertainty and suspense. They hoped from the bottom of their
hearts that Lester and the rest would not come in, for if they did, that
was the end of the fun. Some of them ran out of their tents every time a
sentry challenged, and always breathed easier when they found that none
of the suspected parties had returned. At ten o’clock the challenges
ceased, and after that no one came through the lines. Captain Mack went
to the guard tent and found that none of Lester’s crowd had returned, and
then he knew that his scout was an assured thing. The band was gone sure
enough, and the next thing was to find it. All the members of his squad
reported for duty promptly at daylight (not one of them waited to be
called), and in five minutes more they were on their way to the village.

“Now, boys,” said the captain, as he halted the squad in front of the
post-office, “scatter out, and take a look about the streets for half an
hour, and then report for breakfast at the International, which will be
our headquarters as long as we stay here. I will go down there and tell
them that we want something to eat as soon as they can dish it up.”

The boys “scattered out” in obedience to their order, and a short time
afterward Don Gordon drew up at Haggert’s dock, where he found a portly
old gentleman who seemed to be greatly excited about something, for he
was striding back and forth, talking to himself and flourishing his cane
in the air. This was Mr. Packard—the one to whom Don and Bert presented
their letter of introduction on the night they got into trouble with the
guard, and saved Sam Arkwright from being ducked in the big pond by Tom
Fisher and his followers.

“I declare I don’t understand this thing at all,” said Mr. Packard,
shaking his cane at Don, as the latter came up and wished him a hearty
good morning.

“Neither do I,” replied Don, who knew that the angry old gentleman
expected him to say something.

“Now there’s that villain, Coleman,” continued Mr. Packard, bringing the
iron ferrule of his heavy stick down upon the dock to give emphasis to
his words. “I’ve done everything I could for that man. I’ve footed his
doctor bill when he was ill, paid him more wages than he demanded, given
him employment when I didn’t really need him, and now he’s gone and run
off with my boat. I say hanging is too good for such an ingrate. Come up
to the house and take breakfast with me, Don. We haven’t seen you and
Bert there in a long time. What are you doing here at this hour in the
morning? Have you deserted again, you young scamp?”

“No, _sir_,” said Don, emphatically. “I haven’t been in a single scrape
this term.”

“You were in that fight at Hamilton, and I call that something of a
scrape. Everybody says you behaved with the greatest coolness. I am proud
of you, do you hear me?” said Mr. Packard, again shaking his cane at Don.

“Thank you, sir,” was the reply. “What I meant to say was, that I have
broken none of the rules, and don’t mean to, either. Do you see this
bayonet? I am on duty, and consequently, I am obliged, much to my regret,
to decline your kind invitation. I am out after a lot of deserters.”

“I hope you’ll not catch them,” exclaimed Mr. Packard. “Let them enjoy
themselves while they are young, for old age comes all too soon—too soon.
I haven’t forgotten that I was a boy once myself. Come up to the house as
often as you can—you and Bert. We are always glad to see you.”

The old gentleman walked quickly away, and then he as quickly stopped and
shook his cane at the anchor buoy which marked the berth in which his
schooner lay the last time he visited the dock.

“Now there’s that Coleman,” said he. “I’ll give him till dark to bring
that boat back, and if he doesn’t do it, I’ll have the police after him.
I will, for I can’t stand any such nonsense.”

“I have an idea,” said Don; and he also left the dock, performing a
little problem in mental arithmetic as he hurried away. Given a five-knot
breeze and a three-mile current, how far could a vessel like the Sylph
(that was the name of Mr. Packard’s missing yacht) go in a narrow and
crooked channel in nine or ten hours? That was the question he was trying
to solve. While he was working at it, he entered a telegraph office
and found the operator dozing in his chair. He held a few minutes’
consultation with him, which must have resulted in something that was
entirely satisfactory to Don, for when the latter came out of the office
and hurried toward the hotel, his face wore an excited and delighted
look. He found the squad at breakfast, he being the last to report.

“What kept you?” demanded the captain, as Don entered and took his seat
at the table.

“Business,” was the laconic reply. “Have any of you got a clue?”

No, they hadn’t. With all their trying they had not been able to gain
any tidings of the deserters, who had disappeared in some mysterious
way and left no trace behind. Their leader, whoever he was, had shown
considerable skill in conducting their flight so as to baffle pursuit.

“You’re a wise lot,” said Don. “I have a clue.”

A chorus of exclamations arose on all sides, and the captain laid down
his knife and fork and settled back in his chair.

“I know right where they were about the time we left camp this morning,”
continued Don.

“Where were they?” exclaimed all the boys at once.

“A long way from here. I tell you, Mack, the superintendent didn’t dream
of this when he gave you your roving commission. Is it necessary that you
should report to him for further orders?”

“No. He told me to catch those fellows if I could learn where they were,
and that’s the only order I want.”

“All right. What do you say to a sail on the bay?”

The students raised a shout that made the spacious dining-room echo.
“Have they gone that way?” asked the captain.

“They have, and this is the way I found it out,” answered Don, who,
having worked his auditors up to the highest pitch of excitement, went
on to repeat the conversation he had held with Mr. Packard, and wound up
by saying: “Somehow I couldn’t help connecting the deserters with the
disappearance of that yacht; so I dropped into a telegraph office, and
the operator, at my request, spoke to Mayville, who, after taking about
fifteen minutes to gain information, replied that the Sylph had gone down
the river at daylight with a lot of students aboard.”

“Hurrah!” shouted Captain Mack; while his men broke out into a yell,
pounded the table, clapped their hands, and acted altogether so unlike
orderly guests of a first-class hotel, that the proprietor came in to see
what was the matter.

“Break all the dishes,” said he, swinging his arms around his head. “Turn
the house out of doors, if you want to; it’s paid for!”

“We’ll try to stop before we do any damage, Mr. Mortimer,” said Captain
Mack, with a laugh. “Now pitch in everybody, so that we can take the
first train.”

“Where are we going, Mack,” inquired Curtis.

“To Oxford. Egan is a sailor-man, and—you know Mr. Shelby, of course.”

These words enabled the students to see through Mack’s plan at once, and
they made another boisterous demonstration of delight and approval. They
knew Mr. Shelby, who owned the finest and swiftest yacht in Oxford. He
was an academy boy, and had once been famous as a good runner. He was a
soldier as well as a sailor, as full of fun and mischief as any boy in
Mack’s squad, and just the man to help Lester and his band with one hand,
while giving their pursuers a lift with the other. Of course he would
lend them his yacht and take as deep an interest in the race as any
student among them.

Breakfast over, Don asked and obtained permission to run up to Mr.
Packard’s and let him know what had become of the Sylph. To his great
surprise the old gentleman took it as a huge joke, and laughed heartily
over it. He warned Don that the schooner was a hard boat to beat when
Coleman was at the helm, and declared that if the deserters would return
her safe and sound, they might keep her a month and welcome. He would
never make them any trouble on account of it. He was sorry to give up
his cruise, but then his brother had just left Newport in his yacht, and
when he arrived, he (Mr. Packard) would go off somewhere with him. It was
plain that his sympathies were all with the runaways, although he knew
nothing of the great service they were going to render him and others. If
it hadn’t been for those same deserters, Mr. Packard would never again
have seen his brother alive.



CHAPTER XV.

ANOTHER TEST AND THE RESULT.


“Keep her away, Burgess! If the ragged end of that spar hits us it may
send us to the bottom. Slack away the fore-sheet! Stand by, everybody,
and don’t let him go by for your lives! He looks as though he couldn’t
hold on another minute.”

It was Egan who issued these hurried orders. He was standing on the
weather-rail of Mr. Shelby’s yacht, the Idlewild, which was sailing as
near into the wind’s eye as she could be made to go, now and then buoying
her nose in a tremendous billow that broke into a miniature cataract on
her forecastle and deluged her deck with water. He was drenched to the
skin, and so were the boys who were stationed along the rail below him,
trembling all over with excitement, and watching with anxious faces one
of the most thrilling scenes it had ever been their lot to witness.

There had been a terrible storm along the coast. It was over now, the
clouds had disappeared and the sun was shining brightly; but the wind was
still blowing half a gale, there was a heavy sea running, and the waves
seemed to be trying their best to complete the work of destruction that
had been commenced by the storm. Two points off the weather-bow there had
been, a few minutes before, a little water-logged sloop, over which the
waves made a clean breach; but she was gone now. All on a sudden her bow
arose in the air, her stern settled deep in the water, and the yacht,
which had set sail from Newport a few days before with a merry party of
excursionists on board, went down to the bottom of the bay. Broad on
the Idlewild’s beam was the Sylph, the deserters working like beavers
to rescue the crew of the sunken yacht, heedless or ignorant of the
fact that they were in jeopardy themselves, their vessel being so badly
handled by the frightened and inexperienced boy at her wheel, that she
was in imminent danger of broaching to. Tossed about by the waves which
rolled between the Idlewild and the Sylph was a broken spar to which a
student, with a pale but determined face, clung desperately with one
arm, while in the other he supported the inanimate form of a little boy.
The student was Enoch Williams, and the boy was Mr. Packard’s nephew.

The last time we saw the Sylph she was hiding in the creek a short
distance below Mayville. That was a week ago, and her persevering and
determined pursuers had but just come up with her. During the day the
deserters purchased a small supply of provisions from the neighboring
farmers, fished a little, slept a good deal, and when darkness came to
conceal their movements they got under way again, and stood down the
river, taking the stolen dory with them. At daylight they found another
hiding-place, and before dawn the next morning they ran by Oxford, a
bustling little city situated at the mouth of the river. If they were
pursued they did not know it. They made cautious inquiries as often as
they had opportunity, but no one could give them any information, because
Captain Mack and his men had escaped observation by going from Bridgeport
to Oxford on the cars.

When the Sylph ran out into the bay, the deserters began to feel
perfectly safe. They shouted and sung themselves hoarse, and told one
another that they were seeing no end of sport; but in their hearts
they knew better. How was their cruise going to end? was the unwelcome
question that forced itself into their minds every hour in the day, and
none of them could answer it satisfactorily. It might be a daring exploit
to run off with a private yacht, but they didn’t think so now that the
mischief was done, and there was not one among them who did not wish that
he had taken some other way to get out of the academy. Enoch very soon
became disgusted. The wind being brisk he was obliged to be at the wheel
nearly all the time, and he couldn’t see the fun of working so steadily
while the rest of the band were lying around doing nothing.

“I’ll tell you what’s a fact,” said he to Jones, one day. “There’s too
much of a sameness about this thing to suit me. I have the best notion in
the world to desert the yacht the next time we go ashore, and strike a
straight course for home.”

“I have been thinking seriously of the same thing,” answered Jones.

“It’s a cowardly thing to do,” continued Enoch, “but when I fall to
thinking of the settlement that’s coming, I can’t sleep, it troubles me
so. Suppose the man who owns this yacht is one who can’t take a joke! Do
you know that we have rendered ourselves liable to something worse than
expulsion from the academy?”

“I didn’t think of that until it was too late,” said Jones.

“Neither did I; nor did I think to ask myself what my father would say
and do about it. I believe our best plan would be to go back and put the
schooner in her berth. It will take us four or five days to do that, and
during that time each fellow can decide for himself how he will act when
we get to Bridgeport—whether he will go home, or return to the academy
and face the music.”

“That’s a good idea,” exclaimed Jones. “I know what I shall do. I shall
get into camp, if I can, without being caught, and report for duty.
Let’s all do that, and if we return the schooner in as good order as she
was when we found her, we shall escape the disgrace of being sent down,
and at the same time have the satisfaction of knowing that we have done
something that no other crowd ever attempted. After we get home we can
tell our fathers that we don’t want to come back to school, and perhaps
we can induce them to listen to us. That fight with the mob will be in
our favor, for after our folks have had time to think it over calmly,
they’ll not willingly put us in the way of getting into another. That’s
the best plan, and you may depend upon it.”

“I think so myself,” said Enoch. “Call the boys aft and ask them what
they think about it.”

It is hardly necessary to say that the runaways were delighted with the
prospect of escaping the consequences of their folly. Their cruise among
the islands of the bay had been almost entirely devoid of interest. It is
true that they had raided a few melon-patches and corn-fields, and that
a little momentary excitement had been occasioned by the discovery of
suspicious sails behind them; but their foraging had been accomplished
with small difficulty and without detection, and the sails belonged to
coasters which held their course without paying any attention to the
schooner. Without giving Jones, who did the talking, time to enter fully
into an explanation, the deserters broke into cheers, and some of them
urged the captain to turn the schooner’s bow toward Oxford at once.

“I am afraid to do it,” said Enoch, as soon as he could make himself
heard. “Just turn your eyes in that direction for a moment.”

The boys looked, and saw a milk-white cloud, followed by one as black as
midnight, rapidly rising into view above the horizon. Underneath, the sea
was dark and threatening.

“There’s wind in those clouds, and plenty of it, too,” continued the
captain. “If we are caught in it we are gone deserters. Our only chance
for safety is to make the lee of that island you see ahead of us.”

The runaways watched the clouds with a good deal of anxiety. Up to this
time the wind had been fair and the weather all they could have desired;
but now it looked as though the Storm King were about to show them what
he could do when he got into a rage. The clouds came up with startling
rapidity; the lightning began playing around their ragged edges, the
mutterings of distant thunder came to their ears, and their haven of
refuge seemed far away; but fortunately the breeze held out, and just
a few minutes before the wind changed with a roar and a rush, and the
storm burst forth in all its fury, the Sylph dropped her spare anchor in
a sheltered nook under the lee of the island, and with everything made
snug, was prepared to ride it out. The rain fell in torrents, driving
the boys below and keeping them there until long after midnight. The
wind blew as they had never heard it blow before, but the anchor held,
and shortly before daylight the thunder died away in the distance, and
finally the sun arose in unclouded splendor. The runaways were all
hungry, for they had had no supper, and as their provisions were all
exhausted, some of them began to talk of laying violent hands upon those
in the lockers.

“There’s no need of doing that,” said Enoch, after he had taken a look
around. “All hands stand by to get ship under way. It doesn’t blow to
hurt anything, and we’ll take the back track without any delay. After a
glorious spin over these waves, we’ll stop for breakfast at the island
where we robbed our last corn-field. It’s only a few miles away, and it
will make the Sylph laugh to run down there with such a breeze as this.”

The deserters had become accustomed to yield prompt and unquestioning
obedience to Enoch’s orders, but there were some among them who did not
at all like the idea of going out of the cove to face the white caps that
were running in the bay. If there had been any one to propose it and
to direct their movements afterward, a few of them would have refused
duty; but the majority, having confidence in Enoch’s skill and caution,
went to work to get the chain around the little windlass which served
the Sylph in lieu of a capstan, and when they shipped the handspikes,
the timid ones took hold and helped run the vessel up to her anchor. She
was got under way without difficulty, and as long as she remained behind
the island where the wind was light and the sea comparatively smooth,
she made such good weather of it that Lester Brigham and those like
him, began to take courage; and they even struck up: “Here let my home
be, in the waters wide,” to show how happy they were, and how much they
enjoyed the rapid motion. But their song ceased very suddenly when they
rounded the promontory at the foot of the island, and saw what there was
before them. In front, behind and on both sides of them were tumbling,
white-capped billows, whose tops were much higher than the schooner’s
rail, and which came rolling slowly and majestically toward them, but
with dreadful force and power. It seemed as if every one of them were
higher than its predecessor, and that nothing could save the Sylph, which
bounded onward with increased speed.

“This is something like a sail!” shouted Enoch, who was all excitement
now. “This is what puts life into a fellow. I wish some other schooner
would show up, so that we could have a race with her. How she flies!”

“Look out or you’ll tip us over,” whined Lester, who was holding on for
life.

“No fear of that,” replied Enoch. “The Sylph is no ‘skimming-dish.’ She’s
deep as well as wide, and being built for safety instead of speed, I
couldn’t capsize her if I should try.”

“There’s the boat you were wishing for,” said Jones, suddenly. “Now you
can have a race if you want it.”

Enoch looked around, and was surprised as well as startled to see a
handsome little yacht scarcely more than a mile distant from them and
following in their wake. She was carrying an immense spread of canvas,
considering the breeze that was blowing and the sea that was running,
but that her captain was not satisfied with the speed she was making
was evident from the fact that while the deserters looked at her, they
saw a couple of her crew mount to the cross-trees to shake out the
gaff-topsails.

“That’s the most suspicious-looking fellow we have seen yet,” remarked
Enoch, after he had taken a good look at the stranger. “He don’t crack on
in that style for nothing. Hallo! what’s the matter with you?” he added,
as Jones gave a sudden start and came very near dropping the spy-glass
which he had leveled at the yacht.

“They’re after us, as sure as the world,” exclaimed Jones, in great
excitement. “Those fellows who are going aloft are dressed in uniform.”

“Then we’re as good as captured,” said Enoch, spitefully. “There isn’t a
single boy in the band who can go up and loosen the topsails, or whom I
dare trust at the wheel while I do it. If I had as good a crew as he has,
I’d beat him or carry something away; but what can I do with a lot of
haymakers.”

“There’s another boat right ahead of us,” said one of the deserters.

Enoch was not a little astonished as well as frightened by the sight
that met his gaze when he turned his eyes from the pursuing yacht to the
boat in advance of them. He expected to find that she also was full of
students; but instead of that she was a complete wreck. Her mast had gone
by the board and was now dragging alongside, pounding the doomed yacht
with fearful violence every time a wave rose and fell beneath it. There
was no small boat to be seen, and Enoch thought at first that the sloop
had been abandoned; but when she was lifted on the crest of a billow and
he obtained a better view of her, he was horrified to discover that there
were three men and a woman lashed to the rigging. The sight was a most
unexpected one, and for a minute or two Enoch could not speak. He stood
as if he had grown fast to the deck, and then all the manhood there was
in him came to the surface. Those helpless people must be taken off that
wreck at all hazards. He looked at the pursuing yacht, and then he looked
at the sloop. The former was coming up hand over hand, but she was still
far away, and the sloop might go to the bottom at any moment. Probably
she was kept afloat by water-tight compartments. The spar that was
towing alongside would very soon smash them in, and then she would go
down like a piece of lead, being heavily ballasted and having no buoyant
cargo to sustain her.

“Jones,” said Enoch, speaking rapidly but calmly, “you have stood by me
like a good fellow so far, and you mustn’t go back on me now. Come here
and take the wheel. I am going to save that lady or go to the bottom
while trying.”

“Are you going off in the dory?” faltered Jones, as he laid his hands
upon the wheel.

“Of course. There’s nothing else I can do.”

“Then you will go to the bottom, sure enough.”

“I can’t help it if I do,” said Enoch, desperately. “I will throw the
yacht up into the wind before I go, and all you’ve got to do is to hold
the wheel steady and keep her there till I get back—if I ever do. I say,
fellows,” he added, addressing the frightened boys who were gathered
around him, “I am going off in the dory after that lady, and I want one
of you to go with me. Who’ll volunteer?”

The deserters were so astonished that there was no immediate response.
The dory was small, the waves were high, and it looked like certain
death to venture out among them. After a moment’s indecision one of them
stepped forward and prepared himself for the ordeal by discarding his
coat and hat and kicking off his boots. Who do you suppose it was? It was
Lester Brigham. The boy who had hidden his head under the bed-clothes
when he thought that the rioters were coming to attack the academy, now
showed, to the surprise of everybody, that he was not a coward after
all. Enoch could not have picked out an abler assistant. He was a good
oarsman, he could swim like a duck, and, better than all, his courage
never faltered when he found himself in the dory battling with the waves.
His companions, who dared not go on so perilous a mission themselves,
cheered him loudly as he stepped forward, and Enoch shook him warmly by
the hand, saying in a low tone:

“We said we would give the academy boys something to talk about, and now
we’re going to do it.”

The schooner ran on by the wreck, whose crew, seeing that an attempt was
to be made to rescue them, cheered faintly, but made no effort to free
themselves from their lashings. The reason was because they were utterly
exhausted, and they were afraid that if they loosed their bonds, the
first wave that broke over the sloop’s deck would carry them into the sea.

As soon as the Sylph had been thrown up into the wind, Enoch and Lester,
whose faces were white but resolute, scrambled down into the dory, and
the struggle began. The waves tossed their little craft about like an
egg-shell, but they kept manfully on, and in ten minutes more, they
were alongside the wreck. The lady, who was insensible from fright or
exposure, was the first to be released and placed in the boat, and then
the men were taken care of, one after the other. As Enoch approached
the last one, he saw that the man carried in his arms a bundle that was
wrapped up in a blanket. He held fast to it, too, in spite of the boy’s
efforts to take it from him; but as Enoch assisted him toward the dory, a
wave, higher than the rest, knocked them both off their feet, and as the
man was hauled into the boat Enoch missed the frantic grasp he made at a
life-line, and the water rushing across the deck carried him overboard.
Close in front of him was the bundle which had slipped from the grasp
of the rescued man when he lost his footing. As the wave hurried it
across the deck toward an opening in the bulwarks the blanket fell off,
revealing to Enoch’s astonished gaze the handsome features of a little
four-year-old boy, who turned his blue eyes pleadingly toward him for
an instant, and then disappeared over the side. Enoch made a desperate
clutch at the golden curls, and when he arose to the surface, he brought
his prize with him; but he had to go down again the next moment to
escape destruction from the spar, which the next wave brought toward him
broadside on. It had been torn from its fastenings at last, but it had
done its deadly work. There was a great hole in the sloop’s side, and the
water was pouring into it.

“I say, Lester!” shouted Enoch, as he came up on the other side of the
spar, shook the water from his face and held the boy aloft so that he
could breathe. “Get away from there.”

“Oh, my boy!” cried one of the men in the dory, who now discovered that
he had lost the precious burden to which he had so lovingly clung through
long hours of exposure and suffering.

“He’s all right,” shouted Enoch, encouragingly. “I’ve got a good grip on
him. Lester, I tell you to get away from there! Hold the dory head on to
the waves, and she’ll ride them without shipping a drop of water. If the
Sylph doesn’t make stem-way enough to pick you up, the other yacht will
take care of you.”

Not knowing just how much of a swirl the sloop would make when she went
to the bottom, Enoch exerted all his powers as a swimmer to get himself
and his burden out of reach of it. He succeeded in his object, and when
the wreck had sunk out of sight and he thought it safe to do so, he swam
back to the spar and laid hold of it. Then he looked around for the dory.
She had been hauled alongside the Sylph by aid of the line that one of
the crew had been thoughtful enough to throw to her, and the sloop’s crew
were being hoisted over the rail one after the other.

“Hard a starboard! Stand by, everybody,” shouted a voice above him.

The pursuing yacht came gracefully up into the wind, and as the bold
swimmer was lifted on the crest of a wave strong hands grasped his arms,
and he and his prize were lifted out of the water and over the rail to
the Idlewild’s deck.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE ROD AND GUN CLUB.


The first southward bound train that passed through Bridgeport on
the morning that Don Gordon so unexpectedly obtained a clue to the
whereabouts of the deserters, took him and all the rest of Captain Mack’s
men to Oxford. Although the young officer had full authority to act in
this way, he did not omit to drop a note into the post-office, telling
the superintendent where he had gone and what he intended to do.

“He’ll not get it before ten o’clock,” said the captain, gleefully, “and
by that time we shall be so far away that he will not think it worth
while to recall us, or to send a teacher after us.”

“We don’t want any teacher with us,” said Don. “We can do this work
ourselves.”

“Of course we can; and what’s more, we’re going to. Now, keep out of
sight, all of us, and don’t go out on the platform when we stop at
the stations. We don’t want to see any despatches. We’re doing this
ourselves, and having begun it, we want to go through with it.”

The next time the superintendent heard from Captain Mack and his men
they were at Oxford, and ready to continue the pursuit in the Idlewild,
which was lying to in the river when Mack sent the despatch. In fact he
took pains to see that everything was ready for the start before he went
near the telegraph office. He got the yacht, as he knew he would, without
the least trouble (Mr. Shelby laughed heartily when he heard what the
deserters had done, and said he wished he had thought of such a thing
when he was a boy), laid in a stock of provisions and water, and then
turned the management of affairs over to Egan, who selected his crew and
got the yacht under way. When she came abreast of the city (the berth
she usually occupied was about a mile up the river) Mack went ashore in
the dory, and after sending off his despatch, telling the superintendent
where he was and what he intended to do next, he plumed himself on having
done his full duty as a gentleman and an officer.

“He couldn’t stop us now if he wanted to,” said Mack, as he returned
aboard and the Idlewild filled away for the bay, “for there are no
telegraph offices outside, and if we see a tug after us, we’ll hide from
her. But the superintendent can’t say that I didn’t keep him posted, can
he?”

The pursuing vessel had a much better crew than the Sylph—of the
twenty-three boys aboard of her there were an even dozen who could go
aloft and stand their trick at the wheel—and if she had once come in
sight of the deserters, she would have overhauled them in short order;
but the trouble was to get on the track of them. There was a good deal
of territory in the bay—it was about a hundred miles long and half
as wide—and there were many good hiding-places to be found among the
numerous islands that were scattered about in it. For five days they
sailed about from point to point, but could gain no tidings of Enoch and
his crowd. The island farmers, of whom they made inquiries, declared
that Captain Mack and his squad were the only academy boys who had been
seen on the bay that summer. If the deserters had left the corn-fields
and melon-patches alone, their pursuers might not have been able to get
on their track at all; but one irate truck-gardener, whom they had
despoiled of nearly a cart-load of fine watermelons which were in prime
condition for the Oxford market, gave them the needed information, and
after that their work was easy. They traced the Sylph from island to
island, gaining on her every hour, and would have overhauled her before
the close of the day on which the storm came up, had they not been
obliged to seek a safe anchorage from the gale.

During the night of the blow the little vessels were not more than five
miles apart. The Idlewild made the earlier start, and if the Sylph had
remained in the cove an hour longer she would have been captured there,
for it was Egan’s intention to coast along the lee-shore of that very
island. As it was, he did not catch sight of the object of his search
until she rounded the promontory and stood up the bay. Then all was
excitement on the Idlewild’s deck.

“Hold her to it, Burgess,” said Egan to the boy at the wheel. “The
Sylph’s got the weather-gauge of us now, but we can soon gain the wind of
her. At any rate we’ll make her captain show what he’s made of. Go aloft,
a couple of you, and we’ll set the topsails.”

“Are you going to lay us alongside of her?” asked Burgess.

“Not in this sea,” replied Egan. “We’ll keep her company until she gets
into smooth water, and then we’ll bounce her. What do you see, Gordon?”
he added, addressing himself to Bert who was gazing steadily at something
through the glass.

“I never saw a wreck,” replied Bert, handing the glass to Egan, “but if
that isn’t one, tossing about on the waves just ahead of the Sylph, I’d
like to know what it is.”

Egan looked, and an exclamation indicative of the profoundest
astonishment fell from his lips. It was a wreck, sure enough, said all
the boys, as the glass was passed rapidly from hand to hand, and there
were people on it, too. Now what was to be done?

“Stow the topsails and lay down from aloft,” commanded Egan. “We don’t
want any more canvas on her until we have taken care of those castaways.”

Never before had the Idlewild bore so excited a party as Captain Mack
and his men were at that moment, and never had she carried a more
orderly one. There was not the slightest confusion among them. Those
who understood Egan’s hurried orders obeyed them, and those who did
not, kept out of the way. When they saw that the deserters were making
preparations to board the wreck, their admiration found vent in lusty and
long-continued cheers.

“Who are those fellows in the dory?” Egan asked of Don, who had the
glass. “They have good pluck, I must say.”

“One of them is Enoch Williams, and the other is——”

Don was so utterly amazed by the discovery he had made, that he could go
no further. He wiped both ends of the glass with his handkerchief to make
sure that there was nothing on them to obscure his vision, and then he
looked again.

“The other is Lester Brigham,” said he.

His companions could hardly believe it. First one and then another took
the glass, and every one who gazed through it, gave utterance to some
expression of astonishment.

“I’ll never again be in such haste to pass judgment upon a fellow,” said
Egan, after he had satisfied himself that Enoch’s companion was none
other than the boy who had faltered when his courage was first tested. “I
have been badly mistaken in both those boys. You are going to capture the
deserters, Mack, but Enoch and Lester will go back to Bridgeport with a
bigger feather in their caps than you will.”

Captain Mack did not feel at all envious of them on that account. He and
the rest watched all their movements with the keenest solicitude, and
cheered wildly every time one of the sloop’s crew was released from his
lashings and put into the dory. When that big wave came and washed Enoch
overboard, their hearts seemed to stop beating, and every boy anxiously
asked his neighbor whether or not Enoch could swim well enough to keep
himself afloat until they could reach him. Their fears on that score were
speedily set at rest and their astonishment was greatly increased when
Egan, who held the glass, said that he could swim like a cork, that he
held a little child in his arms, and that he knew enough to get beyond
the influence of the whirlpool made by the wreck which was now going to
the bottom.

“He’s a hero!” cried Egan, after he had shouted himself hoarse. “Look out
for that spar, Burgess! Get handspikes, some of you, and stand by to
push her off!”

But the handspikes were not needed. Being skilfully handled the Idlewild
came up into the wind within easy reach of the spar, but never touching
it, and hung there barely a moment—just long enough to give the eager
boys who were stationed along the weather-rail, time to seize the swimmer
and haul him aboard. He was none the worse for his ducking, while his
burden lay so white and motionless in his arms that everybody thought he
was dead; but he was only badly frightened, and utterly bewildered by the
strange and unaccountable things that were going on around him.

“Now, then, what does a fellow do in cases like this?” exclaimed Don, who
was at sea in more respects than one.

“Take the boy below and put him to bed,” commanded Egan. “Pull off those
wet clothes, give him a good rubbing to set his blood in motion, and then
cover him up warmly and let him go to sleep. I suppose his father is
among those whom you and Lester took off the wreck?”

“I think he is, and his mother too,” replied Enoch, who was wringing the
water out of his coat.

“His mother!” cried Egan.

“Yes. The first one we took off was a lady.”

“Who are they, and where did they come from?”

“Haven’t the shadow of an idea. I don’t know the name of their vessel, or
whether or not any of the crew were lost. The lady was insensible, and
the men were not much better off.”

“Then we must run for a doctor!” exclaimed Mack.

“You can’t get to one any too quick,” answered Enoch. “But first, you had
better send somebody off to take charge of that schooner. Jones is at the
wheel, and he can’t handle her in this wind.”

Captain Mack lost no time in acting upon this suggestion. While the
Idlewild was taking up a position on the Sylph’s starboard quarter,
her small boat, which had been housed on deck, was put into the water,
half the squad, six of whom were capable of managing the schooner,
were sent off to take charge of the prize, and the majority of the
deserters were transferred to the Idlewild. Bert Gordon, who was the
only non-commissioned officer in the squad, commanded the Sylph, but
Burgess sailed her. All this work was done as soon as possible, and when
it was completed the two vessels filled away for the nearest village,
the Idlewild leading the way. During the run the deserters fraternized
with their captors, and many interesting and amusing stories of the
cruise were told on both sides. The former were treated as honored guests
instead of prisoners, and Mack and his men praised them without stint.

“We’re all right, fellows,” said Jones, when he had opportunity to
exchange a word with Lester and Enoch in private. “The superintendent
won’t say anything to us. He can’t after what we have done.”

“But we didn’t all do as well as Enoch did,” said Lester.

“I know that. He will receive the lion’s share of the honors, but the
rest of us did the best we could, and if one is let off scot free, the
others must be let off too. Those people would have gone to the bottom
with their yacht if we hadn’t sighted them just as we did; and by
rescuing them we have made ample amends for our misdeeds.”

All the deserters seemed to be of the same opinion, and the boys who, but
a short time before, would have shrunk from meeting the gaze of their
teachers, now looked forward to their return to camp with the liveliest
anticipations of pleasure. There was one thing they all regretted, now
that the fun was over, and that was, that the confiding Coleman had lost
his situation through them. They resolved, if they could gain the ear of
the Sylph’s owner, to make an effort to have him reinstated. Fortunately
for Coleman, this proved to be an easy thing to do.

It was twenty miles to the nearest village, but the fleet little vessels,
aided by the brisk wind that was blowing, covered the distance in quick
time. The moment the Sylph came within jumping distance of the wharf,
one of her crew sprang ashore and started post-haste for a doctor, and
shortly afterward Burgess and another of Bert’s men boarded the Idlewild.

“The lady is coming around all right and wants to see her boy,” said the
former.

The little fellow was fast asleep in one of the bunks, and his clothes
were drying in the galley; so Burgess picked him up, blankets and all,
and carried him off to his mother, while his companion lingered to give
Captain Mack some account of the rescued people who, he said, were able
to talk now, but too weak to sit up. They were from Newport, and they
were all relations of Mr. Packard, the Sylph’s owner. The owner and
captain of the lost sloop was Mr. Packard’s brother, and the little boy
was his nephew. The lady was the captain’s wife. They had been out in
all that storm, and after the men had worked at the pumps until their
strength failed them, they had lashed themselves to the rigging in the
hope that their disabled craft would remain afloat until the waves could
carry her ashore.

“But she wouldn’t have gone ashore,” said Egan. “She would have missed
the island and been carried out to sea if she had stayed above water.”

“They know that,” said the student, “and they know, too, that they owe
their lives to the Sylph, for they would have gone down before the
Idlewild could have reached them. They feel very grateful toward the
dory’s crew, and Mr. Packard says he will never forget the gallant fellow
who saved his boy’s life at the risk of his own.”

These words were very comforting to the deserters. The owner of the
Sylph was one of the prominent men of Bridgeport, and it was not at all
likely that he would neglect to use his influence with the superintendent
in behalf of the boys who had saved his relatives from a watery grave.
Lester Brigham could hardly contain himself. He had won a reputation at
last, and the hated Gordons were nowhere. He believed now that he would
stay at the academy, and Enoch, Jones and the rest of them had about come
to the same conclusion. They all wanted warrants and commissions, and who
could tell but that their recent exploit would give them the favor of the
teachers, who would see that their desires were gratified?

At daylight the next morning Bert Gordon sent word to Captain Mack that
the doctor thought his patients were now able to continue the journey
to Bridgeport. No time was lost in getting under way, and at dark they
were in Oxford. The Idlewild was turned over to her owner in just as good
condition as she was when she left port, and Captain Mack, after seeing
the rescued people to a hotel, at which they intended to remain for a
day or two in order to obtain the rest they so much needed, and sending
despatches to the superintendent and Mr. Packard, took the first train
for Bridgeport with the deserters and the main body of his men, leaving
Bert, Egan, and six others to bring the Sylph up the river. Before she
was hauled into her berth the camp had been broken, the students had
marched back to the academy, and the examination was going on as if
nothing had happened during the term to draw the students’ attention
from their books. Mr. Packard had responded to Captain Mack’s telegram
by going down to Oxford and bringing his relatives back with him, and
the townspeople were almost as highly excited over what the deserters
had done, as they were when they learned that an academy company had put
down the Hamilton riot. There were some among them who declared that
Enoch and Lester ought to be promoted; but the superintendent was of a
different opinion. He admired their courage, but he could not lose sight
of the fact that in stealing a private yacht and running off in her,
they had done something for which they ought to be expelled from the
academy. In fact that was the sentence that was passed upon them by the
court-martial; but the superintendent set it aside, as everybody knew he
would, and commuted their punishment to deprivation of standing and loss
of every credit mark they had earned during the year, thus destroying
their last chance for promotion.

The examination came to a close in due time, and the result astonished
everybody. Don Gordon made the longest jump on record, springing from the
ranks to a position “twelve yards in the rear of the file-closers, and
opposite the centre of the left wing” of the battalion. In other words,
he became major; Bert was made a first-lieutenant, and Sam Arkwright,
the New York boot-black, was promoted to a second-lieutenancy. This
was enough to disgust Lester and Enoch, and not even the satisfaction
they felt at being invited to dinner and made much of at Mr. Packard’s
residence, could make them good-natured again. Forgetting that the
position a boy occupied in that academy was determined by his standing
as a student and a soldier, and not by any acts of heroism he might
perform while on a runaway expedition, they laid Don’s rapid promotion to
favoritism, and threatened him and the teachers accordingly. As for Don,
who had simply tried to behave himself, hoping for no higher round than
a lieutenant’s commission, he was fairly stunned; and as soon as he had
somewhat recovered himself, his first thought was to enjoin secrecy upon
his brother.

“Don’t lisp a word of this in your letters to mother,” said he. “Tell her
that the result of the examination is perfectly satisfactory to both of
us, and let her be content with that until she sees our shoulder-straps.”

Lester Brigham pursued an entirely different course. The papers were
full of the exploit the deserters had performed on the bay, and whenever
he found an article relating to it that was particularly flattering to
his vanity, he cut it out and sent it to his father. He wanted him and
everybody else about Rochdale to know what a brave boy he was.

The examination over, two parties of students left the academy and
started off to enjoy their vacation in their own way, Lester and his
friends heading for Mississippi, and Curtis and _his_ friends striking
for the wilds of Maine. The latter had long ago sent for their guns,
which arrived during their first week in camp. Bert, whose highest
ambition was to bag a brace or two of ruffed grouse, carried his little
fowling-piece; Don, who had an eye on the moose and caribou which,
so Curtis told him, were still to be found on the hunting-grounds he
intended to show them, had sent for his muzzle-loading rifle; while Egan
and Hopkins were armed with the same ponderous weapons with which they
had worked such havoc among the ducks and quails about Diamond Lake. To
these outfits were added fly-rods, reels and baskets which they purchased
in Boston, Curtis making their selections for them. The Southern boys
were astonished when they handled the neat implements that were passed
out for their inspection.

“I don’t want this pole,” said Don, who was holding an elegant
split-bamboo off at arm’s length. “It’s too limber. It isn’t strong
enough to land a minnow.”

“That isn’t a pole; it’s a rod,” said Curtis. “Of course it is very light
and elastic, and you couldn’t throw a fly with it if it were not; but
it’s strong enough to land any fish you are likely to catch in Maine.
I suppose you have been in the habit of yanking your fish out by main
strength, haven’t you? Well, that’s no way to do. You’d better take it
if you want to see fun.”

Don took it accordingly, though not without many misgivings, and the
other boys also paid for the rods that Curtis selected for them, carrying
them out of the store as gingerly as though they had been made of glass.
But there proved to be any amount of strength and durability in those
same frail-looking rods, and their owners caught many a fine string of
trout with them before the season closed.

Their journey from Boston to Dalton, which was the name of the little
town in which Curtis lived, was a pleasant though an uneventful one.
The last fifty miles were made by stage-coach—a new way of traveling to
the Southern boys, who, of course, wanted to ride on the top. About ten
o’clock at night the stage drove into the village, and after stopping at
the post-office to leave the mail, and at the principal hotels to drop
some of its passengers, it kept on to Curtis’s home. Late as the hour
was, they found the house filled with boys who had gathered there to
welcome their friend who had been in a real battle since they last saw
him, and to extend a cordial greeting to the comrades he had brought
with him. They were introduced to the new-comers, one after the other,
as members of _The Rod and Gun Club_, which, according to Curtis’s way
of thinking, could boast of more skillful fishermen, and finer marksmen,
both at the trap and on the range, than any other organization of like
character in the State. There were nearly a score of them in all, and
they seemed to be a jolly lot of fellows. Some of them had performed
feats with the rod and gun that were worth boasting of, and as fast as
Curtis found opportunity to do so, he pointed them out to his guests, and
told what they had done to make themselves famous. That tall, slender,
blue-eyed boy who stood over there in the corner, talking to Mr. Curtis,
had won the club medal by breaking a hundred glass-balls in succession,
when thrown from a revolving trap. He was ready to shoot against any boy
in the country at single or double rises, and Curtis was going to try to
induce Don Gordon to consent to a friendly trial of skill with him. That
fellow over there on the sofa, who looked enough like Hopkins to be his
brother, was the champion fisherman. He had been up in Canada with his
father, and during the sixteen days he was there, he had caught more
than eight hundred pounds of fish with one rod. They were all salmon. One
of them weighed thirty-two pounds, and it took the young fisherman fifty
minutes to bring him within reach of the gaff. The boy who was talking
with Don Gordon was a rifle shot. He could shoot ten balls into the same
hole at forty yards off-hand, and think nothing of it.

“I’ll just tell you what’s a fact,” said Egan, when he and the rest were
getting ready to go to bed,“we’ve fallen among a lot of experts, and if
we intend to keep up the good name of our section of the United States
we’ve got to do some good work.”

The other boys thought so too, but they did not lose any sleep on account
of it.



CHAPTER XVII.

CASTING THE FLY.


“Now, Curtis, bring on your moose.”

“Don’t be in a hurry. You don’t want to crowd all your sport into the
first day, do you?”

“By no means. I expect to get a moose every day.”

“You mustn’t do it. It’s unlawful for one person to kill more than one
moose, two caribou, and three deer in one season.”

“I wouldn’t live in such a stingy State.”

“You may have to some day. Wait until Mississippi has been overrun with
greedy hunters, calling themselves sportsmen, from every part of the
Union, as Maine has, and see if your lawmakers do not wake up to the
necessity of protecting the little game they will leave you. If those
pot-hunters were let alone, there wouldn’t be anything for a fellow to
shoot after a while. Our laws are strict.”

“Are they always obeyed?”

“Of course not. Last winter a party of Indians camped on the headwaters
of the Brokenstraw, and killed nearly a hundred moose. When the
game-constables got after them, they ran over to Canada. But the worst
destroyers of game are the city sportsmen. They shoot at everything that
comes within range of their guns, throw away the trout they can’t eat,
and the money they pay for food and guides doesn’t begin to cover the
damage they do.”

It was a pleasant scene that was spread out before the gaze of Don Gordon
and Walter Curtis on that bright September morning. They stood upon the
brink of a high bluff jutting out into one of the Seven Ponds, which, at
that day, were not as widely known among the class of men whom Walter had
just been denouncing as they are at the present time. There was a hotel
at the lower pond, but it was patronized only by adventurous sportsmen
who, as a rule, lived up to the law, and took no more fish and game than
they could dispose of. The men who are willing to endure almost any
hardship, who brave all sorts of weather and the miseries of “buck-board”
traveling over corduroy roads, for the sake of spending a quiet month in
the woods, are not the ones who boast of the number of fish they catch
or the amount of game they kill. A hard fight with a three-pound trout,
or a single deer brought down after a week’s arduous hunting, affords
them more gratification than they would find in a whole creelful of
“finger-lings,” or a cart-load of venison killed on the runways.

The boys were in the midst of an almost unbroken wilderness. On their
right a noble forest, known only to the hardy lumberman and a few hunters
and trappers, stretched away to the confines of Canada. In front was
the pond (it was larger than Diamond Lake, whose sluggish waters had
once floated a fleet of Union gunboats), and from the glade below them
on their left arose the smoke of the fire over which some of their
companions were cooking a late breakfast. A deep silence brooded over the
woods, broken only by an occasional splash made by a trout as he arose to
the surface of the pond to seize some unwary insect, and snatches of a
plantation melody from Hopkins, who sang as he superintended the frying
of the bacon:

    “Big fish flutter when he done cotch de cricket;
    Bullfrog libely when he singin’ in de thicket;
    Mule get slicker when de plantin’ time ober;
    Colt mighty gaily when you turn him in de clover;
    An’ it come mighty handy to de nigger man nater
    When he soppin’ in de gravy wid a big yam ’tater!”

The Southern boys had spent just three days in Dalton, enjoying as much
sport as could be crowded into that short space of time. Everybody
showed them much attention, and the fathers and mothers of the other
members of the club vied with Mr. and Mrs. Curtis in their offers of
hospitality. The guests were elected honorary members of the club, and
hunting and fishing parties were the order of the day. Don caught his
first brook-trout with the little rod whose strength he so much doubted.
Bert knocked over a brace or two of ruffed grouse, and one of the club,
having heard the visitors say that they didn’t know what a corn-husking
was, found a farmer who had some of last year’s crop on hand, and got
up one for their especial benefit. There was a large party of people,
young and old, assembled in the barn in which the husking was done, and
the Southerners, who were not at all bashful or afraid of pretty girls,
had any amount of fun over the red ears of which there seemed to be
an abundant supply. On Saturday there was glass-ball shooting on the
grounds of the club in the presence of invited guests, and although Don
Gordon did not succeed in beating the champion, he did some shooting with
the rifle that made the club open their eyes. Using Curtis’s Stevens
he broke all the spots out of the eight of clubs in eight consecutive
shots, shooting off-hand at the distance of fifty feet and using the
open sights. This was a feat that no one on the grounds had ever seen
accomplished before. Even Curtis, who was the best marksman in the club,
couldn’t do it, but he declared he would before he went back to the
academy again.

“I tell you plainly that you’ve got a task before you,” said Don. “The
best published record is five spots in five shots, using peep sights.
This is the best use that can be made of playing cards. I always keep a
pack of them on hand, for they are the best kind of targets.”

And that is all they are good for. If every pack of cards in the world
could be shot to pieces as Don’s were, there would be less swindling
going on, and we should not see so much misery around us.

Don and his friends made so many agreeable acquaintances in Dalton and
so thoroughly enjoyed themselves among them, that they would have been
content to pass the whole of their month there; but Curtis would not hear
of it. There were only ten days more in September, he said; it would take
three of them to reach their camping grounds, and if they desired to see
any of the hunting and fishing that were to be found in Maine, they must
start at once, for their fine fly-rods would be useless to them after the
first of October. The day which closed the time for trout-fishing, opened
the season for moose-hunting. If Don had revealed all that was passing in
his mind, he would have said that he didn’t care a snap for hunting or
fishing either. He had seen a pair of blue eyes and some golden ringlets
whose fair owner gazed admiringly at the shoulder-straps he had so
worthily won, and who interested him more than all the trout that ever
swam or any lordly moose that ever roamed the forests. But he started
for the camping-ground when the others did, submitted as patiently as
he could to the jolting he was subjected to on the corduroy roads, and
wondered what the girl he left behind him would think if she could see
him now, dressed in a hunting suit that was decidedly the worse for the
hard service it had seen, and wearing a pair of heavy boots, thickly
coated with grease, and a slouch hat that had once been gray, but which
had been turned to a dingy yellow by the smoke and heat of innumerable
camp fires.

Their party had been increased by the addition of five of the members
of the rod and gun club, but the lodge which Curtis and some of his
friends had erected on the shore of one of the Seven Ponds, and which was
modeled after Don Gordon’s shooting-box, was large enough to accommodate
them all. It took four wagons to transport them and their luggage to
the lodge, at which they arrived on the evening of the third day after
leaving Dalton. They were too tired to do much that night, but they were
up at the first peep of day, and after their luggage had been transferred
from the wagons to the lodge, the beds made up in the bunks, the guns
and fishing-rods hung upon the hooks that had been fastened to the walls
on purpose to receive them, the canoes put into the water (they had
brought three of these handy little crafts with them), a blaze started
in the fire-place, the chest that contained their folding-table and
camp-chairs unpacked—when these things had been done, the little rustic
house, which was a marvel in its way, being constructed of poles instead
of boards, began to assume an air of domesticity. The teamsters who
brought them to the pond took a hasty bite and departed, leaving the club
to themselves. There was no patient, painstaking old cuff with them to
cook their meals and act as camp-keeper, and so the young hunters had
to do their own work. The first morning the lot fell upon Hopkins and
two of the Dalton boys who straightway began preparations for breakfast,
while the rest strolled out to look about them, Don and Curtis bringing
up on the edge of the bluff where we found them at the beginning of this
chapter.

    “Lean hoss nicker when de punkin’-vine spreadin’;
    Rabbit back his ear when de cabbage-stalk bendin’;
    Big owl jolly when de little bird singin’;
    ’Possum’s gwine to climb whar de ripe ’simmons swingin’;
    Nigger mighty happy, ef he aint wuf a dollah,
    When he startin’ out a courtin’ wid a tall standin’ collah!”

sang Hopkins, as he stood in the door of the lodge; and when he shouted
out the last line he shook his head at Don in a way that made the
latter’s face turn as red as a beet. Hopkins evidently knew where Don’s
thoughts were.

“Come down from there, you two,” he exclaimed. “The bacon is done cooked.”

The cool, invigorating morning air, laden as it was with the
health-giving odors of the balsam and the pine, had bestowed upon the
boys an appetite that would not permit them to disregard this invitation.
They hastened down the bluff, and when they entered the lodge, they
found the cooks putting breakfast on the table. They sat down with the
rest, and while they ate, Curtis, who was the acknowledged leader of the
party, laid out a programme for the day. There were three canoes which
would accommodate two boys each (they could be made to carry four, but
with so many in them there would not be much elbow-room for those who
wanted to fish) and two Falstaffs to be provided for. One of them was
Hopkins and the other was Hutton, the boy who caught the big salmon
in Canada. He would have to go, of course, for he knew all the best
places in the pond, and he was certain to bring luck to the boy who went
with him. Curtis thought he and Bert would look well together, while
Hopkins and Farwell—the latter a light-weight Dalton boy and a clever
fly-fisher—would make another good team. Don and Egan could have the
other canoe to themselves.

“But we don’t know where to go or what to do,” said Egan. “You go in my
place, and let me stay behind as one of the camp-keepers.”

“_I_ am laying out this programme,” replied Curtis, speaking in the
pompous tone that Professor Odenheimer always assumed when he wanted to
say something impressive.

“I know it, but I can’t be of any use to them,” continued Egan. “Some
rioter, on the evening of the 23d of last July, put it out of my power to
handle a paddle or a rod for some time to come.”

As Egan said this he held up his bandaged hand. His injuries were by no
means so serious as everybody thought they were going to be, but still
the wounded member was not of much use to him. When he found that he was
to be one of Mack’s squad, he frankly told the young officer that he
could not help him; but Mack would have taken him if he had no hands at
all, for he was fond of his company. He was afterward glad that he did
take him, for no one could have handled the Idlewild during the pursuit
with greater skill than Egan did. If they had had much walking to do
Hopkins’ weak ankle would have given out; but he did full duty as a
foremast hand, and proved to be of as much use as anybody.

“We don’t expect you to do any work,” said Curtis. “Let Don work, and you
sit by and see the fun. Either one of the other boats will lead you to a
good fishing-ground. Then all Don will have to do will be to watch Hutton
or Farwell and do just as he does, and he’ll be sure to get a rise; but
whether or not he will catch a trout I can’t say.”

Breakfast being over the boys paired off as Curtis had instructed,
launched the canoes and paddled away, Bert and his fat mentor, Hutton,
going toward the lower end of the pond, and the others turning toward
the upper end. The fish were breaking water on all sides of them, but
Farwell did not stop until he and Hopkins had run their canoe into a
little cove at the further end of the pond, which was fed by clear cold
streams that came down from the hills.

“In warm weather this is the best fishing-ground I know of,” said he, as
he beckoned Don to come alongside, “and I don’t think it is too late in
the season to have a little fun here now. You see, trout like cold water,
and they find plenty of it here. Now, Gordon, if you will let me see your
fly-book, I will make a selection for you while you are putting your rod
together.”

Don handed over the book which contained about three dozen flies that
Curtis had picked out for him in Boston. He did not know the name of a
single one of them, but Farwell did, and after running his eye over them
he said that Don had a very good assortment.

“As it is broad daylight we want small flies,” Farwell remarked. “The sun
doesn’t shine very brightly, and neither is it entirely obscured by the
clouds—the weather is rather betwixt and between; so we will take a gaudy
fly, like this scarlet ibis, for a stretcher, and a white miller for the
other. Then the trout can take their choice. Now, where’s your leader—a
cream-colored one. Bright and glistening ones are apt to scare the fish,
and they generally fail when the pinch comes. It’s very provoking to have
your leader break just about the time you are ready to slip your dip-net
under a trout you have worked hard for. I hold that two flies on one
line are enough. They are sometimes more than a novice wants to manage,
especially when he catches a weed or a root with one hook and a trout
with the other, or when two heavy fish take his flies at the same instant
and run off in different directions. Three hooks on a line are allowable
only when you are out of grub, and the trout don’t run over fifty to the
pound. But then we don’t catch such fish in these ponds.”

The Southerners listened with all their ears and closely watched Farwell,
who, while he was talking, deftly fastened the flies he had selected
upon the leader, bent the leader on to the line, and was about to pass
the fully equipped rod back to its owner, when a large trout shot out of
the water about fifty feet away, giving them a momentary glimpse of his
gleaming sides before he fell back into his native element. Don withdrew
the hand he had extended for the rod and looked at Farwell.

“Shall I take him for you and show you how it is done?” asked the latter.

“Yes,” answered all the boys, at once.

“Well, in order to do it, I shall have to throw the flies right over that
swirl. What are you going to do with that paddle, Hopkins?”

“I was going to pull the canoe up nearer,” replied the latter.

“I don’t care to go any nearer.”

“Why, you can’t reach him from here,” said Egan.

“And if you hook him he will break the rod into a thousand pieces,”
chimed in Don. “I know I made a mistake when I bought that flimsy little
thing.”

Farwell smiled but said nothing. Grasping the rod in his right hand
above the reel he drew off as much line as he thought he needed, and
then threw the flexible tip smartly upward and backward, causing the
flies to describe a circle around his head. One would have thought from
his actions that he was going to strike the water with the rod, but he
didn’t. When the rod reached a horizontal position it stopped there, but
the flies had received an impetus that carried them onward almost to the
edge of the weeds, and landed them on the water as lightly as a feather
and right in the center of the swirl. It was neatly and gracefully
done; but before Don and his companions could express their delight and
admiration, the scarlet ibis suddenly disappeared, the line was drawn as
tight as a bow-string and the pliant rod was bent almost half double.
Farwell had hooked his fish, and now the fun began.

The trout fought hard but he did not break the rod as Don had predicted,
and neither did the boy with whom he was battling show half as much
excitement as did the others who sat by and watched the contest. They
had never dreamed that there was so much sport in fishing, and there
wasn’t in the way they generally fished, with a heavy pole and a line
strong enough to jerk their prize from the water the moment he was
hooked. Don, as we have said, had caught a few trout in the brooks about
Dalton, but he had not done it in any such scientific way as this. Being
distrustful of his rod he had seized the line and lifted the fish out
by main strength—a most unsportsmanlike thing to do. He closely observed
all Farwell’s movements, and when at last the exhausted trout was dipped
out of the water with the landing-net and deposited in the bottom of the
canoe, he thought he had made himself master of the art of fly-fishing.
But when he came to try casting he found he was mistaken. His flies went
almost everywhere except in the direction he desired to throw them, and
annoyed him by catching in his coat-tail when he tried to throw them over
his head; but after patient and careful practice in making short casts
he finally “got the hang of the thing,” as he expressed it, and after
that he did better. The string of fish he took back to the lodge with him
at noon was not a very large one, but the few he caught afforded him an
abundance of sport, and that was just what he wanted.



CHAPTER XVIII.

CONCLUSION.


Having gained a little insight into the art of casting the fly, Don
and his friends became eager and enthusiastic fishermen. They were on
the pond almost all the time, and as they tried hard to follow the
instructions that were willingly and patiently given them, and would not
allow themselves to become discouraged by their numerous blunders and
failures, they finally became quite expert with their light tackle. They
wound up the season with a glorious catch, and then oiled their rods and
put them into their cases with many sighs of regret.

“Never mind,” said Curtis, soothingly. “There’s no loss without some
gain, and now we will turn our attention to bigger things than speckled
trout. To-night we will try this.”

As he spoke, he took from a chest something that looked like a
dark-lantern with a leather helmet fastened to the bottom of it. And
that was just what it was. When Curtis put the helmet on his head, the
lantern stood straight up on top of it.

“This is a jack,” said he, “and it is used in fire-hunting. As soon as
it grows dark some of us will get into a canoe and paddle quietly around
the pond just outside of the lilies and grass. The fellow who is to do
the shooting will wear this jack on his head. It will be lighted, but
the slide will be turned in front of it, making it dark. When he hears a
splashing in the water close in front of him he will turn on the light by
throwing back the slide, and if he makes no noise about it and is quick
with his gun, he will get a deer, and we shall have venison to take the
place of the trout.”

This was something entirely new to the Southerners, who carefully
examined the jack and listened with much interest while Curtis and his
friends told stories of their experience and exploits in fire-hunting.
Deer were so abundant about Rochdale that those who hunted them were
not obliged to resort to devices of this kind, and in Maryland, where
Hopkins lived, they were followed with hounds and shot on the runways.
Egan had never hunted deer. He devoted all his spare time to canvas-backs
and red-heads. They spent the forenoon in talking of their adventures,
and after dinner Bert and Hutton, who had become inseparable companions,
strolled off with their double-barrels in search of grouse, and Curtis
and Don pushed off in one of the canoes to make a voyage of discovery to
the upper pond; the former, for the first time, taking his rifle with
him. He was afterward glad that he had done so, for he made a shot before
he came back that gave him something to talk about and feel good over all
the rest of the year.

Don and his companion paddled leisurely along until they reached the
upper end of the pond, and then the canoe was turned into the weeds,
through which it was forced into a wide and deep brook communicating with
another pond that lay a few miles deeper in the forest. Curtis said there
was fine trapping along the banks of the brook, adding that if Don and
Bert would stay and take a Thanksgiving dinner with him, as he wanted
them to do, they would put out a “saple line.”

“What’s that?” asked Don.

“Nothing but a lot of traps,” replied Curtis. “When a man starts out to
see what he has caught, he says he is going to make the rounds of his
saple line. There are lots of mink, marten and muskrats about here, and
now and then one can catch a beaver or an otter; but he’s not always sure
of getting him if he does catch him, for it’s an even chance if some
prowling luciver doesn’t happen along and eat him up.”

“What’s a luciver?” inquired Don.

“It’s the meanest animal we have about here, and is as cordially hated by
our local trappers as the wolverine is by the trappers in the west. It’s
a lynx. A full-grown one would scare you if you should happen to come
suddenly upon him in the woods; and after you had killed him and taken
his hide off you would feel ashamed of yourself, for you would find him
to be about half as large as you thought he was. They don’t average over
thirty or forty pounds—one weighing fifty would be a whopper—but they’re
ugly, and would just as soon pitch into a fellow as not. I have heard
some remarkable stories——”

Curtis did not finish the sentence. He stopped suddenly, looked hard at
the bushes ahead of him, listening intently all the while, and finally
he drew his paddle out of the water and gently poked Don in the back
with the blade. When Don faced about to see what he wanted, Curtis laid
his finger upon his lips, at the same time slowly and silently turning
the bow of the canoe toward the nearest bank. Just then Don heard twigs
snapping in front of him, the sound being followed by a slight splashing
in the water as if some heavy animal were walking cautiously through
it. His lips framed the question: “What is it?” and Curtis’s silent but
unmistakable reply was: “Moose!”

For the first and only time in his life Don Gordon had an attack of
the “buck-ague.” His nerves, usually so firm and steady, thrilled with
excitement, and his hand trembled as he laid down his paddle and picked
up his rifle. He had not yet obtained the smallest glimpse of the animal,
but his ears told him pretty nearly where he was.

As soon as he had placed his rifle in position for a shot, Curtis gave
one swift, noiseless stroke with his paddle, sending the canoe away from
the bank again, and up the stream, Don trying hard to peer through
the bushes, and turning his body at all sorts of angles in the hope of
obtaining a view of the quarry; but the alders were thick, and he could
not see a dozen yards in advance of him, until Curtis brought him to a
place where the bank was comparatively clear, and then Don discovered
something through a little opening in the thicket. He raised his hand,
and the canoe stopped.

“That thing can’t be a moose,” thought Don, rubbing his eyes and looking
again. “It’s too big, and besides it’s black.”

In twisting about on his seat to obtain a clearer view of the huge
creature, whatever it was, Don accidentally touched the paddle, the
handle of which slipped off the thwart and fell to the bottom of the
canoe. The effect was magical. In an instant the dark, sleek body at
which Don had been gazing through the opening in the bushes gave place to
an immense head, crowned with enormous ears and wide-spreading palmated
antlers, and a pair of gleaming eyes which seemed to be glaring straight
at him. It was a savage looking head, taken altogether, but Don never
took his gaze from it as his rifle rose slowly to his shoulder. He
looked through the sights for an instant, covering one of the eyes with
the front bead, and pressed the trigger. The rifle cracked and so did the
bushes, as the animal launched itself through them toward the bank with
one convulsive spring. Their tops were violently agitated for a moment,
then all was still, and Don turned about and looked at Curtis.

“You’ve got him,” said the latter, dipping his paddle into the water and
sending the canoe ahead again.

“I’ve got something,” replied Don, “but it can’t be a moose.”

“What is it, then?”

“I think it is an elephant.”

Curtis laughed until the woods echoed.

“I don’t care,” said Don, doggedly. “He’s got an elephant’s ears.”

“Do an elephant’s ears stick straight out from his head, and does he
carry horns?” demanded Curtis, as soon as he could speak. “Elephants
don’t run wild in this country—at least I never heard of any being seen
about here. It’s a moose, easy enough. I saw his horns through the
alders, and I tell you they are beauties. If you were a taxidermist now,
you could provide an ornament for your father’s hall or dining-room that
would be worth looking at.”

It was a moose, sure enough, as the boys found when they paddled around
the bushes and landed on the bank above them. There he lay, shot through
the brain, and looking larger than he did when he was alive. His shape
was clumsy and uncouth, but his agility must have been something
wonderful; his expiring effort certainly was. He lay fully six feet from
the bank, which was about five feet in height. The place where he had
been feeding, which was pointed out to the boys by the muddy water and by
the trampled lilies and pickerel grass, was thirty feet from the foot of
the bank; so the moose, with a ball in his brain, must have cleared at
least thirty-six feet at one jump. His long, slender legs did not look
as though they were strong enough to support so ponderous a body, to say
nothing of sending it through the air in that fashion.

“Do you know that I was afraid of him?” said Don, after he had feasted
his eyes upon his prize and entered in his note-book some measurements he
had made. “When he was staring at me through those bushes, I thought I
had never seen so savage a looking beast in all my life.”

“He was savage, and you had good reason to be afraid of him,” answered
Curtis, quickly. “If you had wounded him he would have trampled us out of
sight in the brook before we knew what hurt us. When his horns are in the
velvet the moose is a timid and retiring animal; but after his antlers
are fully grown, and he has sharpened and polished them by constant
rubbing against the trees, he loses his fear of man and everything else,
and would rather fight than eat. Now you would like to have Bert and the
rest see him, I suppose. Well, if you will stay here and watch him, I
will go down and bring them up. We’ll camp here to-night, for we shall
have to cut the moose up before we can take him away. He’s heavy, and
weighs close to seven or eight hundred pounds.”

Don agreeing to this proposition, Curtis stepped into the canoe and
paddled toward the pond, not forgetting to leave the axe they had brought
with them so that his companion could start a fire and build a shanty
during his absence. But Don was in no hurry to go to work. He was so
highly elated at his success that he could not bring his mind down
to anything. For a long time he sat on the ground beside the moose,
wondering at his gigantic proportions and verifying the measurements he
had taken, and it was not until he heard voices in the brook below him
that he jumped to his feet and caught up the axe. He had a cheerful fire
going when his friends arrived, but there were no signs of a shanty.

“Look here,” shouted Bert, as he drew his canoe broadside to the bank.
“You were good, enough to keep your moose until we could have a look at
him, and so I brought my trophies along. You needn’t think you are the
only one who has gained honors to-day. What do you think of _that_?”

As Bert said this, he and Hutton lifted a queer looking animal from the
bottom of the canoe and threw it upon the bank. It was about as large
as an ordinary dog, rather short and strongly built, with sharp, tufted
ears and feet that were thickly padded with fur. Its claws were long and
sharp, and so were the teeth that could be seen under its upraised lip.
Its back was slightly arched, and as it lay there on the bank it looked
a good deal like an overgrown cat that was about to go into battle. Don
had never seen anything like it before.

“What in the world is it?” he exclaimed.

“That’s just the question I asked myself when I stumbled on him and his
mate a little while ago,” said Bert. “It’s a luciver.”

“Here’s the other,” cried Curtis; and a second lynx, somewhat smaller
than the first, was tossed ashore. “It’s the greatest wonder to me that
they didn’t make mince-meat of Bert, and I believe they would have done
it if he hadn’t been so handy with that pop-gun of his.”

“Well, that pop-gun had proved itself to be a pretty good shooter,”
returned Bert, complacently. “You see, Don, I was beating a coppice in
which Hutton told me I would be likely to flush a grouse or two, and
Hutton himself was on the other side of the ridge. All on a sudden I felt
a thrill run all through me, and there right in front of me, and not more
than ten feet away, was this big lynx. Of course he heard me coming, but
as he was making a meal off a grouse he had just killed, he didn’t want
to leave it. He humped up his back, spread out his claws, showed his
teeth and _spit_ just like a cat; and believing that he was going to
jump at me, I knocked him over, giving him a charge of number eight shot
full in the face. It killed him so dead that he never stirred out of his
tracks, but he looked so ugly that I was afraid to approach him. While I
was thinking about it, I happened to cast my eyes a little to the right,
and there was his mate looking at me over a log. I gave him the other
barrel, and he came for me.”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Don, looking first at his brother’s slender
figure and then at the dead luciver’s strong teeth and claws. Bert was
too frail to make much of a fight against such weapons as those.

“But the luciver didn’t get him,” chimed in Hutton, “although he made
things lively for him for a little while. I heard the rumpus, and knowing
that Bert had got into trouble, I ran over the ridge to take a hand in
it. When I got into the thicket there was Bert, making good time around
trees, over logs and behind stumps, and the luciver was close at his
heels, following him by scent and hearing, as I afterward learned, and
not by sight, for Bert’s shot had blinded him. While I was watching for
a chance to fire at him, Bert, who was trying his best to load his gun as
he ran, managed to shove in a cartridge, and after that the matter was
quickly settled.”

“Don got the moose, but I had the excitement,” added Bert.

The young hunters ate a hearty supper that night, but they slept well
after it, for they did not go to bed till they had cut up the moose,
and hung the quarters out of reach of any prowling lucivu that might
happen to come that way. The habits of this animal and those of the
moose afforded them topics for conversation long after they sought their
blankets, and the sun arose before they did.

Stowing the heavy carcass in their cranky little canoes and transporting
it to the lodge occupied the better portion of the day, but they were
not too tired to await the return of the fire-hunters, who set out at
dark in quest of deer. They returned at midnight and reported that they
had “shone the eyes” of two which they could have shot if they had been
so disposed; but being sportsmen instead of butchers they could not see
any sense in shooting game they could not use. About the time they
began to look for the teamsters, who had been engaged to return on a
certain day and carry them and their luggage back to Dalton, they would
begin fire-hunting in earnest, and procure a supply of venison for the
club-dinner, which was to be eaten before the Southern boys went home.

The days passed rapidly, and every one brought with it some agreeable
occupation. Curtis and the other Dalton boys took care to see that the
time did not hang heavily upon the hands of the guests, and were always
thinking up something new for them. The teamsters came as they promised,
and found four fine deer waiting for them. The next morning the wagons
were loaded, the foremost one being crowned by the antlers of Don’s
moose, to show the people along the road that one of their number had
gained renown while they had been in the woods, and the homeward journey
was begun.

If time would permit we might tell of some interesting incidents that
happened in connection with the club dinner, which came off on the
evening of the last day that Don and his companions spent in Dalton. To
quote from some of the boys who sat down to it, “the spread was fine,”
so were the toasts, speeches and songs, and Don Gordon had abundant
opportunity to talk to the owner of the eyes and the curls that had
haunted him every day of the long month he spent at the lodge. He would
have been glad to stay in Dalton always. He said he was coming back, but
the excuse he gave was that he wanted another trial at glass-balls with
the champion. Perhaps his friends believed that that was his only reason
for desiring to return, and perhaps they didn’t. At any rate they looked
very wise, and exchanged many a significant wink with one another.

“Good by, boys,” said Egan, when the stage-coach drew up in front of Mr.
Curtis’s door the next morning. “We are indebted to you for a splendid
time, and we should like a chance to reciprocate. Curtis is going to
spend a month with me next fall, and I should be delighted to have you
come with him. Don, Bert and Hop will be there too, and we’ll make it as
pleasant as we can for you.”

The Southern boys separated in Boston and took their way toward their
respective homes, Don and Bert stopping in Cincinnati long enough to
purchase a couple of revolving-traps and a supply of glass-balls, and
reaching Rochdale in due time without any mishap. Their shoulder-straps
created all the surprise that Don could have desired, and the latter knew
by the way his mother kissed him that she was entirely satisfied with the
way he had conducted himself during his last year at school. They never
grew weary of talking about the fine times they had enjoyed at the lodge,
and Don gave everybody to understand that he was going back to Dalton
some day on purpose to win that medal from the champion. He had a right
to compete for it now, for he was a member of the club.

“But you will have to win it three times before you can bring it home
with you,” said Bert.

“So much the better,” answered Don, “for then I can see that handsome
little—ah! I mean the lodge, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said Bert, dryly.

“By the way, has anybody heard anything of Lester Brigham and Jones and
Williams?” exclaimed Don, anxious to change the subject.

Yes, everybody had heard of them. Mr. Brigham had been industriously
circulating the articles and papers that Lester had sent him, and had
celebrated his son’s return by giving a big supper and a party. The house
was crowded, and Lester and Enoch were lionized to their hearts’ content.

Don and Bert spent a portion of their next vacation at the homes of Egan
and Hopkins as they had promised, seeing no end of sport and some little
excitement. What they did for amusement, and what Lester and his enemies
did when they returned to Bridgeport in January, shall be narrated in the
third and concluding volume of this series, which will be entitled: “THE
YOUNG WILD-FOWLERS.”


THE END.





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